Prank List (8 page)

Right before class starts on Saturday, I remember that Marisol insisted I measure all the students for the fashion show. I sigh and reluctantly pull her hot-pink measuring tape out of my bag.

“Um, Whit?” I say, deciding to get the worst over with first. “Can I, um, measure you?”

He looks surprised for a second. Then he grins. “You want to see how big my muscles are, don't you?” He flexes his arms like a bodybuilder. It makes me want to smack him.

“It's for the fashion show! My friend is making aprons for everyone. Cherie told us about it, remember?”

He chuckles, clearly loving seeing me all flustered. I grit my teeth and tell him to get into the position Marisol showed me. Then I measure him as fast as possible as he keeps grinning the whole time, like I'm secretly enjoying every second of it. Yeah, right.

I write down the measurements and then quickly go through the other people in the class, trying not to die from embarrassment at having to touch them.

Finally, I get to Mr. Leroy. When I explain what I need, he shakes his head. “Oh, I don't think I'll be going to the Bake-Off.”

“What? But you have to! Everyone else is going. We'll have music and stuff. It'll be fun.”

“I'm sure it will,” he says. “But it's the anniversary of my wife's passing. I think I'll spend the day thinking about her, instead.”

I suck in a breath. “Oh.” Suddenly, I feel terrible. Of course he wouldn't want to spend the day doing something like that when he still misses his wife like crazy.

“It's all right,” he says, patting my hand. “You kids have fun. I'm sure you'll win the whole thing.” He gives me a big wink.

“Thanks,” I say.

As I go back over to my table, I groan inwardly as I see that Whit's set up shop next to me. Even though we get to work alone today, I bet he'll still be criticizing everything I do.

When class starts, I'm looking over the recipe for today's chocolate-dipped cannolis when Whit leans over and says, “So how did your plan to thwart the Ladybugs go?”

I shrug like it's none of his business and start measuring out ingredients. Who even uses words like “thwart,” anyway?

“Okay, fine,” Whit says after a minute. “I promise not to look over your shoulder while we're making the cannolis if you tell me what happened. Deal?” I don't know why Whit is so interested in this whole saga—maybe it's better than listening to my nonsensical nervous babbling—but I'm willing to milk it for all it's worth.

“Deal,” I say. As we get our materials ready, I tell him about how we succeeded at planting evidence in Angela's room and how the Ladybugs got back at us with the flyers. I don't mention “stealing” Angela's shirt since that feels more like Marisol's secret than mine.

As I talk, my voice shakes with anger. I've never seen my mom so sad for so long, not even after my dad left. I keep expecting her to go back to psychotically organizing things like she does when she's stressed out, but ever since the flyer incident, mostly she's been moping around the house and sighing a lot.

“How do you know it was someone from the other cleaning business who messed up the flyers?” Whit says.

“Who else would go to all that trouble?”

He shrugs. “I guess that's true. So what are you going to do?”

“Well, I already did one thing the other night.” I tell him about the bad reviews I posted.

“Doesn't that seem kind of extreme?”

“No! We haven't gotten a single response to our flyers, not one! After I spent all that time making them and hanging them up everywhere. Not only are the Ladybugs taking our business away, but they're keeping us from finding any new clients. I'm just returning the favor.”

“Rachel!” Chef Ryan calls across the kitchen. “Less talking. More cooking!”

My cheeks go instantly hot. I don't think I've ever been scolded for talking too much. At school, my teachers are always telling me to talk more.

I focus on filling my cannolis while Whit starts dipping his in chocolate.

“Well, if you think of another way to get back at them and you need some help,” he says after a minute, “let me know.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say softly. Maybe Whit isn't that bad of a guy after all.

He steps back and looks at one of his finished pastries. “This looks pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.”

Scratch that. He's still as full of himself as ever.

“By the way,” he says, “I was at Moo Pies with one of my nephews last week. I thought I saw you there.”

My cheeks go hot again. “Um, yeah, I was there. I guess I didn't see you.”

“Was that guy you were with your boyfriend?”

I stare down at my cannolis. “I–I don't know. We haven't exactly talked about that, um, yet.” Why am I telling Whit this? It isn't any of his business. Why does he even care, anyway?

“Oh,” says Whit. “Well, I hope—”

Before he can finish, Chef Ryan calls out that our time is up. He has us line up like we're in the army so he can inspect our cannolis. Mine look a little lopsided, but I think they taste okay. Hopefully, Chef Ryan will finally see that I'm not a total failure.

Mr. Leroy is first, and Chef Ryan lifts what looks like a charred lump off his shaking plate. I expect him to yell at Mr. Leroy the way he'd yell at me if those were my cannolis, but he only shakes his head and continues down the line.

Whit, of course, gets high praise from Chef Ryan. I can practically see his head swelling.

Then Chef Ryan stops in front of me and inspects my cannolis for a long time. “Let's hope they taste better than they look,” he says finally.

He breaks off a corner and pops it in his mouth. Then he cringes and makes a big show of spitting the bite into a napkin.

I can't believe he just spit out my food!

“Rachel, did you not hear me say that you should drain any excess water out of the ricotta?”

I gulp. “Um, no. I heard you.”

“But you didn't do it.”

“Well, no. I–I was afraid it would make the filling too dry. The last time I made these at home, that happened, so I—”

“So you decided to ignore the instructions.” Chef Ryan cocks his head to the side. “Tell me, Rachel. If you already know how to make everything, why are you taking this class?”

My mouth drops open. I don't even know what to say.

“You know what would happen if you were a professional chef and you ignored the instructions because you were stubborn and wanted to do things your own way?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“You'd get fired.” He marches away, leaving me staring at the tile floor, desperately trying not to cry.

When Mom picks me up after class, I'm still shaken by what Chef Ryan said. I can't believe he thinks I'm such a failure. Maybe I was kidding myself about becoming a pastry chef one day.

Usually, the minute I'm upset, Mom can sense it like she's got a mood-o-meter in her brain. But today, she's as grumpy as I am, probably because yet another one of our clients called this morning to “let us go.” Every week, we have fewer houses to clean.

I shudder as I imagine the day when we have no clients at all.

“No.” There is no way I'm going to let that happen.

“What?” Mom says, glancing over at me.

Oops. I hadn't realized I'd said it out loud.

“I just, um, hope business picks up again soon.”

Mom sighs. “I wish we could do some more advertising, but it's too expensive. And making more flyers seems like a waste of time.”

“Do you think maybe Mr. Hammond would help?” I ask, realizing that might be a solution to at least some of our problems. Now that he and Mom are officially a couple, he'd probably be happy to pitch in.

Mom's lips pull into a tight line. “I can't ask him to do that.”

“But he's your boyfriend now. Isn't that kind of what boyfriends do? Help you out if you need it?”

She shakes her head. “I will not allow Robert to solve my problems. I made that mistake once, and I will not do it again.”

It takes me a second to realize what she means. “You're talking about Dad, aren't you?”

She sighs. I feel like more and more, she's been starting every sentence with a sigh. “Your father wasn't a mistake. I don't mean it that way. I only mean that I put my faith in someone who disappointed me. Both of us. I can't do that again. From now on, I'm going to depend only on myself.”

“And on me, right?” I ask.

Mom actually smiles and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “And you. Honestly, Rachel, I don't know what I would have done all these months without you.”

I wonder if this is why Mom hasn't been spending as much time with Mr. Hammond recently. Maybe she wants to prove to him, and to herself, that she can do things on her own.

As we pull up to our first house of the day, I keep thinking about what Dad said about maybe coming back home. What if he asks me about it again? Or if he finally brings it up with Mom? How will he react when he finds out that she is never really going to let him back into our lives?

•••

When I get home, the last thing I feel like doing is baking, but I promised Evan that I'd make something for the party, so I try to quiet Chef Ryan's voice in my head and get to work.

But he won't shut up. I can hear him criticizing every move I make. I try to slam cupboards and pans around to drown him out, but Chef Ryan just talks louder in my head. Great. I'm totally losing my mind.

“What are you making?” Mom finally asks from the living room. “Percussion pie?” She laughs weakly at her terrible joke, but I can hear the strain in her voice.

“Butterscotch macadamia cookies,” I say.

“Can you try making the quiet version?”

Maybe it's a good thing I'm leaving the house later. Having the two of us under one roof can't be safe. We might set the place on fire with our extreme crabbiness.

I'm barely paying attention as I grab the rest of the ingredients. I want these cookies to be done so I can stop hearing Chef Ryan saying, “You'd be fired,” over and over again.

As I go to grab the baking soda, my phone rings. It's Dad.

I can't deal with talking to him right now, not when he might tell me that he was only kidding about moving back up here, and not when he might ask me about my class and accidentally make me burst into tears over what happened today. So I let it ring and ring as I scoop some baking soda out of the box and dump it into the batter.

“Are you going to answer that?” Mom asks after the fifth ring.

“My hands are dirty,” I say, which is only sort of a lie.

I shove the phone farther down the counter with my elbow and breathe a sigh of relief when it finally falls silent. Then I slide the cookies into the oven, slam the oven door closed, and go to get ready for my “date” at Evan's house.

When I ring Evan's doorbell, I'm shaking all the way to my toes. Even the plate of cookies in my hands is wobbling. I was too scared to try the cookies after I made them, thanks to Chef Ryan's voice in my head.

Right as I'm about to dump the cookies in a nearby bush and make a run for it, Evan opens the door.

“Hey,” he says, his face lighting up at the sight of me. “We were just going to start watching.”

He steps in to hug me, but I kind of duck out of the way and shove the plate of cookies into his hands instead. I'm still so upset that I can't deal with anyone touching me. There's too high of a chance I'll burst into tears.

Evan frowns but doesn't say anything. Instead, he walks me down the hallway into the living room.

“Hey, everybody,” he says to the three guys sitting on the couch. “This is Rachel.” He goes down the line and does introductions, but I forget everyone's names almost the second I hear them. The first guy is tall and stick-figure skinny, the second has the biggest and blondest afro I've ever seen, and the third is small and toadlike in a way that's actually kind of cute.

“Hi!” I whisper, trying to wave but only managing to smack the side of my own head. Classy.

“Rachel made cookies,” says Evan. He unwraps them and makes a big deal about how good they look. I get fixated on my shoes and don't look up as the guys crowd around the cookies and dig in. Normally I love watching people enjoy my baked goods, but not today.

And then the coughing starts.

First Blond Afro starts making weird phlegmy sounds. Then Stick Figure grabs his soda and chugs it like he's trying to wash down the cookie before it kills him. And finally, Toady spits part of the cookie back into a napkin, making me flash back to Chef Ryan spitting out my cannolis in front of everyone.

“Are they that bad?” I whisper.

Evan's the only one who hasn't taken a bite yet. He picks up a cookie and takes a nibble.

“They taste like…” He's obviously having a hard time swallowing. “Like…”

“Soap,” Blond Afro chimes in. The others nod.

I stare at them. Soap? How is that possible? And then I remember my phone ringing while I was making cookies, me angrily dumping white powder into the batter, barely paying attention to what I was doing. Is it possible that somehow I'd used dishwasher detergent instead of baking soda? As crazy as that sounds, the two boxes were right next to each other on the counter. And I was really distracted.

Oh my goldfish.

“I'm so sorry!” I cry.

Evan laughs like it's no big deal. “You can't poison us that easily, Rachel Lee!”

I can tell he's trying to make me feel better, but it doesn't work. I can feel my face burning. I've been in Evan's house for all of three minutes, and already I've practically killed his friends. Luckily, they all look fine now—I don't think any of them got more than a bite—but I still feel horrible.

I can't believe this. Is Chef Ryan right? Should I just quit? I used to think I was a great pastry chef, but in the past few weeks I've done nothing but mess up in one major way after another. And now I've started almost poisoning people!

“Okay, let's watch some
Pastry
Wars
,” Evan announces.

But I'm already making my exit. “I can't. Sorry. I have to go.”

“What? But you just got here.”

“I know,” I say as I push past him into the hallway. “I'm sorry.”

Evan doesn't give up that easily. He stops me before I get to the front door and says in a low voice, “Don't worry about the cookies. Trust me, it's not a big deal. Those guys will eat anything.”

“No, it's not just that.”

“Then what?”

The way he looks at me makes me want to tell him about what happened in pastry class today, but I can't open my mouth. If I do, I'll start sobbing, and I can't do that, not in front of Evan, not when his best friends are in the next room.

“Sorry,” I say before darting out of the house.

“Rachel!” I hear him call after me, but I don't turn back.