The Dirt Diary (10 page)

I spend the next couple days in a fog. Mom and I are barely speaking to each other, especially since she’s been talking to Mr. Hammond for hours on the phone every night. The one good thing is that she’s been less focused on organizing things lately, but I still have to un-alphabetize my books on an almost daily basis.

Meanwhile, all anyone at school can talk about (besides Mr. Hammond’s bathroom habits) is the Spring Dance. I should be thrilled to be going, but I feel totally lost.

Normally, I’d have Marisol help me find a dress, but now that she and Angela are attached at the hip, that isn’t an option. Plus, I can’t afford to buy a dress. I have a boring black-and-white one I wore to my cousin’s wedding that kind of makes me look like a nun. It will have to do. I only hope Andrew isn’t too embarrassed to be seen with me.

I have a week and a half before Mom finds out about the money. Even after we clean Mr. Hammond’s and a couple other houses tonight, I’ll be more than a hundred dollars short. So much is riding on the bake sale competition that thinking about it makes me feel sick, especially since I keep hearing about the top-secret new recipe Angela Bareli will be using this year.

“Are you all right?” Ms. Kennedy asks when I show up in the Home Ec room for the third day in a row during lunchtime. It’s way better than eating at a table by myself. “I don’t mind having you here, of course, but you don’t usually come down so often.”

Since I can’t exactly ask her for cash or to help me fix all the messes I’ve gotten myself into, I just shrug and say, “I’m trying to figure out a recipe for the bake sale.” While this is technically true, Ms. Kennedy doesn’t look convinced. Luckily, she doesn’t pry.

I’m still in a haze at the end of the school day when I’m on my way to catch the bus. So I don’t even notice my mom standing in the school lobby until she starts waving at me.

I know something has to be wrong. My mind is spinning as I hurry over to her. “Is Dad okay?”

Mom blinks at me, clearly confused. “I think so. Why?”

“You never come pick me up.” I don’t add that it’s especially strange given how little she’s been speaking to me recently. Maybe she’s finally forgiven me for yelling at her in front of Mr. Hammond.

“Of course I do,” she says. “My boss didn’t need me this afternoon, so I thought I’d swing by and save you a bus trip home.”

I’m about to press my luck and ask if we can stop to get ice cream on the way when Mom glances past me and smiles. I look over my shoulder in time to see Mr. Hammond coming out of the main office. The minute he catches sight of Mom, a huge grin spreads across his face.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” Mom says before practically prancing over to him. I can’t believe it. Mom isn’t here to pick me up or to make amends. She’s here to see him! Apparently, she couldn’t wait until tonight.

My chest feels like it’s full of lava as Mom throws her head back and laughs at something Mr. Hammond is saying, her hand resting on his arm.

“Oh my god,” someone says from behind me. “Why is my cleaning lady hanging all over my vice principal?”

Of course, it’s Briana. The usual crowd of followers all laugh except for Caitlin who doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

Briana smiles, clearly egged on by her friends’ reactions. “Maybe she likes changing his diapers for him. She is a cleaning lady, after all.” Her eyes swing toward me. “How about it, Rachel? Does your mom have you help her change Mr. Hammond’s diapers?”

I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. “Shut up,” I say, but my voice is so soft, it’s barely a whisper.

“Did you say something?” she says, coming closer. “Or were you just mouth-breathing again?”

I desperately want to stand up to Briana for once, but Caitlin’s voice cuts in before I can say anything else: “Come on, Bree. We’ll miss the bus.”

Briana rolls her eyes. “God, Caitlin. Relax. We’re going.” She gives me a smirk before turning and striding away.

When I scan the lobby to find my mom, I spot Marisol standing nearby. For once, Angela isn’t by her side. Based on the pitying look on Marisol’s face, I can tell she saw the whole humiliating exchange.

I start to rush off in the other direction, but Marisol catches up with me.

“Here,” she says, thrusting a paper bag into my hand with the words “Gray’s Bakery and Catering” printed on the side.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Just open it.”

For a second I wonder if this is Marisol’s way of apologizing for our fight, but her mouth is pressed into a tight line that makes me suspect she still hasn’t forgiven me for lying to her. Curiosity wins out, and I peek into the bag.

“A cookie?” I ask.

“A chocolate peanut-butter cookie,” says Marisol. “Look familiar?”

It takes me less than a second to place it. “Angela’s cookies from last year’s bake sale.”

Marisol nods. “She cheated. Her mom’s friend owns Gray’s Catering. They made the cookies, and Angela took the credit.”

I stare down at the perfectly round pastry, remembering how crushed I was to lose to Angela. I was sure that my dessert would win. And now it turns out that Angela’s victory was all a lie.

“Why are you telling me this?” I say. “I thought you and Angela were friends now.”

“Because I know she’s planning to cheat again. You should have won last year, and you deserve to win this time.”

I close the paper bag and let it hang at my side. My first instinct is to run over to Mr. Hammond and tell him all about Angela cheating. Maybe he’ll even take away her cash prize from last year and give it to me.

But then I realize something: last year, my recipe almost beat Angela’s, and her cookies were made by a
professional
. That means if I make my brownies perfect this year, maybe I can actually win, even if Angela cheats. If my recipe can beat a professional’s, then I’ll know I really am meant to be a pastry chef one day.

“So are you going to turn her in?” Marisol says.

“I won’t need to. I’m going to beat Angela no matter what.”

“But that’s crazy. If you won’t turn her in, then I will. It’s not right for—”

“No,” I say. “Just leave it alone. I don’t need your help.”

Marisol’s face falls, and I instantly feel bad. I didn’t mean to snap at her. I know she’s just trying to help, but why can’t she have more faith in me? She’s always said how amazing my desserts are. Maybe she hasn’t been that honest, after all.

“Fine,” she says. “Suit yourself.” Then, before I can tell her I’m sorry, she snatches the bag out of my hand and walks away.

•••

For the rest of the week, I spend hours trying to find the perfect brownie recipe, but nothing works. I even manage to burn two batches of mint brownies, which makes the whole house smell like smoky toothpaste. Between the bake sale and the fact that I still don’t have enough money to put back into my college fund, it feels like my whole life has turned into one big looming deadline. By Friday night, I’m starting to panic.

As I flip through my journal, I come to the latest entry in the Dirt Diary: details about what I found stashed in the Singh twins’ closet. Apparently, they like to hide adult magazines behind their winter clothes. I almost screamed when I saw the magazines, and I couldn’t stuff them back into their hiding place fast enough. That’s the last time the twins’ closet is getting a full cleaning, at least by me.

I’m about to shut the notebook when an idea zips through my head: I could use this information.

If I go to the twins and tell them what I found in their closet, who knows how much they’d pay me to keep quiet. Then I wouldn’t have to stress about the bake-sale money. I’d have enough to put back in my bank account and maybe some extra to spare.

Holy candied apricots.

What is wrong with me? Am I really considering blackmailing a couple of seventh-graders? It’s exactly what Marisol accused me of planning to do.

I shove the notebook away from me, wondering if I need to hide it behind
my
winter clothes. Just because I have all this dirt on people doesn’t mean I should use it. No matter how desperate I am.

When we get to the Rileys’ house on Saturday, I pray that Evan will be the one to open the door for us. I don’t think I can handle dealing with Briana or Mrs. Riley. For once, my prayers are answered.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at the sight of us. “Come on in.”

“Thank you!” Mom chirps as we lug in our cleaning supplies. Evan quickly comes to help, and the three of us make our way into the kitchen. I can’t help grinning at Evan as I remember our easy-flowing conversation outside of Marisol’s house. He smiles back at me, which makes my stomach tingle like I’ve swallowed a handful of snowflakes.

“Rachel,” Mom says, looking over the list Mrs. Riley left us. “We’re supposed to wipe down some of the deck furniture. Do you mind cleaning in here while I go out and do that?” It’s the most she’s said to me in days.

“Sure.” I have to admit I’m secretly glad that I get to stay inside with Evan.

After Mom goes through the sliding glass doors, Evan comes up beside me. “Do you want some help?” he asks.

It would be nice to have him do some of the work, but I’m the one getting paid. “Nah, that’s okay. But you can keep me company if you want.”

He smiles. “Absolutely.”

It’s amazing how relaxed I feel around Evan now. As I scrub and wipe, he follows me from room to room, and we chat about all kinds of things. He tells me about baseball and school and guitar lessons.

“I’m not all that good yet,” he says, crunching on another peppermint candy. “But I’m hoping to start a band this summer.”

I can just imagine how perfect he’d look on stage with a guitar. The image is so vivid in my head that it actually takes my breath away.

“Of course, my parents want me to spend less time playing and more time studying,” he goes on.

“That sounds like my mom. She thinks cooking is a waste of time, even though it’s what I want to do.”

Evan nods. “My parents think there’s no way I can be an architect unless I have perfect grades. I guess I shouldn’t complain. They’re even harder on Briana.”

“Really?”

He chuckles. “I know she can be a nightmare, but my parents have always pushed her really hard. She’s naturally competitive, and they expect her to be perfect at everything she does. It kind of fuels the fire, you know?”

I think of the way Briana does everything to the extreme. I guess having parents who expect you to be the best at everything would be pretty rough. Not that it excuses how cruel Briana has been to me, but at least I understand her a little bit more. Until now, I pretty much thought of her as a movie villain.

“If they want her to be the best at everything, why doesn’t she go to the same school as you?” I ask. Everyone knows Evan’s academy is the best in the area.

Evan opens his mouth and then closes it again, like he isn’t sure what to say.

“Wait,” I say. “Don’t tell me she didn’t get in.”

Evan’s silence is all the answer I need. “Don’t mention anything about it, okay?” he asks. “She’s still pretty sensitive about the whole thing.”

“Okay.” I can’t believe it. No wonder Evan is the only person Briana listens to. He’s the only one who’s ever outdone her at anything.

I finish wiping the coffee table but stay put, not wanting our conversation to end. “So is that what you want to be, an architect?” I ask.

Evan shrugs. “Maybe. It’s definitely something I’m interested in. But ‘maybe’ isn’t good enough for my parents. They want me to have it all planned out now.”

“Well, I think you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks.” His green eyes sparkle at me like…green sparkles. Yup, I’m so caught up in them that I can barely think.

I want to keep talking to Evan, but I know Mom will come back inside soon, and I still have the bedrooms to do. Who knows what nightmare is waiting for me in Briana’s room?

“Listen,” I say, “I have to vacuum down here. But thanks for hanging out.”

“Sure,” he says. “Anytime.” Then he heads upstairs, and I have to take deep breaths to keep my heart from pushing its way up into my throat. Why is he so nice to me? And why does he have to have a girlfriend? And since when do I go all gaga over a guy who isn’t Steve Mueller?

I’m still in a weird dream state when I open the door to Briana’s room, but all my warm fuzzy feelings drain away as I realize the floor is covered with thumbtacks. All with their little points sticking up. All waiting for me to clean them up. Perfect.

Andrew is filming a zombie scene when I go up to his room. Since his parents aren’t home and my mom went to meet with another possible cleaning client down the street, the house is silent. Somehow that makes Andrew’s zombie figurines look even creepier.

He’s so focused on his work that it takes him a good five minutes to notice me lurking in the hallway. Apparently “stop-motion animation” means moving the figurines about one millimeter, taking a picture, moving them another millimeter, and so on. I can’t imagine anything more maddening, but Andrew seems totally in his element. I guess it’s like me and baking.

“Rachel!” Andrew says, clearly surprised to see me standing in his doorway.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“How are the costumes coming along?”

I swallow. “Fine.” In truth, I only managed to take the seams out of the Barbie clothes he gave me. I have yet to figure out how to put the fabric back together in a way that doesn’t look awful.

“Will you have them done by next weekend?” he asks eagerly.

“Um, sure. I mean, I’ll try.”

“I really appreciate all your help, Rachel. It’s so difficult doing this all on my own. I only hope—”

Bang!

Andrew and I both jump as something hits the window.

I whirl around and almost scream at the sight of blood oozing down the outside of the glass. Meanwhile, Andrew runs over to the window, throws it open, and yells: “I’m calling the police!”

I hurry over in time to see three boys zipping away on their bikes. I only recognize one of them, but I would know that spiky hair anywhere.

Steve Mueller.

I stare after the three figures until they disappear. What I thought was blood smells a lot like ketchup.

“I finally got them on film,” Andrew says, smiling in triumph. “Now we can see who it is.”

“It’s Steve Mueller,” I say, still feeling dazed.

Andrew looks at me. “Steve? Are you sure?”

I nod. “There were a couple others, but I only recognized him.”

“Hopefully you can see all their faces on the video,” he says, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “Then the police will have all the proof they need.”

The police. How can Steve Mueller be involved with something like this? Even if he wasn’t the one actually throwing things at Andrew’s window, how could he stand by and let it happen? Maybe Marisol’s right. Maybe I don’t know Steve Mueller at all. Still, I can’t let him get in trouble.

“Wait,” I say. “Can you do me a favor and not go to the police yet?”

Andrew frowns. “Why?”

“I want to talk to Steve first. His friends must have put him up to it. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Just give me a few days, okay? After that, you can do whatever you want with that video.”

“All right,” says Andrew with a shrug. “But you’re wasting your time. Steve Mueller is just like the rest of them.”