Bad Kitty

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “And put it on speakerphone so we can all hear,” Roxy added.

  I had to talk to three people before I could get transferred to Mr. Curtis’s cell phone. It sounded like he was chewing when he finally answered. “What can I do for you now, young lady?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I just got a note that made me nervous.”

  “A threatening note? What did it say?”

  I read it to him. He chuckled. “Do you always consider it a threat when a boy asks you out, Miss Callihan?”

  Wow. Mr. Curtis had different ideas about dating etiquette than I did. “No,” I said, “but I got a note earlier today that said I should mind my own business, and it was in the same writing.”

  “Can you read me that one?” Mr. Curtis said. I was pleased to notice he sounded more interested now and less like he was snacking. When I was done sharing my most intimate correspondence with him, he said, “I’ll tell you how it sounds to me. There’s a boy who spotted you at the pool and liked you. Today he finds you, talks to you, and has to leave for some reason. Now he’s trying to make it up to you, romantically. Make it seem exciting.”

  “You think I am overreacting.”

  “Miss Callihan, you seem to have a very active imagination. Go and have fun with this young man. You’re only young once.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Roxy and Tom and Polly and I stared at the phone speaker for a few seconds after I’d hung it up.

  “He said you are only young once,” Tom repeated, dazed.

  Polly looked at me piteously. “You’ve been punished enough, so I’m not even going to say I told you so. But we have our work—” She interrupted herself when she saw what I was doing. “Wait! Stop it! You can’t use a blush brush with eye makeup! Haven’t I taught you anything? And where do you think you’re going with that green eye shadow? I haven’t even decided what you’re wearing yet.”

  “I’m dusting the letter for prints,” I told her. “I tried to do things the responsible way. Now we’re doing things my way.”

  Roxy said, “Does that mean we’re investigating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hurrah! Hot dog! Dyn-o-mite!”12

  Tom was leaning over the paper on the other side of the desk. “You really think you can find something?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “but they disappear fast, especially on paper. If there are any, my only chance to find them is to try it now.”

  “Couldn’t you at least use blush? You know, so the brush isn’t ruined?” Polly asked.

  “This is long-wearing eye shadow. It works by adhering to the oil in the skin. Since fingerprints are oily deposits left on paper, it adheres to them and shows up better than blush does.”

  “Been practicing behind the Thwarter’s back, haven’t you?” Tom asked.

  “A little.”

  I dipped the brush in the eye shadow and started twisting it over the paper as lightly as possible. Too hard, and you could see there was a print there, but the ridges would be destroyed. Too soft, and you wouldn’t even make them come up.

  “I guess you can get another brush at Sephora,” Polly said with a sigh after a little while. “But if you do find prints, what will they tell you?”

  Which was a really good question. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe they will be useful later. When we have something to match them to.”

  “You’re just trying to stay busy and keep your mind off Jack,” Polly told me in a voice that showed she knew she was right. “Which is okay. But make it snappy. We’ve only got three hours until you’re supposed to meet him and you don’t have a thing to wear.”

  “I brought half my wardrobe to Vegas.”

  “Yes, I see that. Maybe next time you can bring the half that goes together. Jas, can you look at me for a second?”

  I turned toward her, expecting a talking-to. Instead I got a Bioré pore strip across the nose. “Don’t touch it,” Polly said. “You go on about your business, we’ll take care of the rest.”

  Which was comforting until I saw her heading toward my French Kitty T-shirt with her pinking shears.

  I knew the sound of my wardrobe screaming out in pain would be a distraction, so I put on my headphones, turned up my iPod, and focused on my work. Two hours later, I had clean pores, two partial prints from the back of the note, and a new outfit. Polly described it as “assignation chic,” which meant my transformed (and much cuter, I had to admit) T-shirt with a skirt and a pink ribbon belt. Or so it appeared. “You can use the belt to tie him up if you need to,” Polly explained. “And I made a pocket in the shirt for this.” She held out a square foil packet that said PIZZA HUT on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Hot red peppers. Throw them in his eyes if you need to create a diversion. Here’s your watch,” she went on, handing me an object I’d never seen before, which I knew did not belong to me. “My father brought it back from Japan. Push the top button.”

  I pushed and the opening bars of that old *NSYNC song “Bye Bye Bye” started to play.

  “It stops if you push it again,” Polly said, and I did. Fast. “That’s so you can attract attention if you need to.”

  “‘Bye Bye Bye’ is universally regarded as the most annoying song in history,” Roxy explained. “It is bound to get you noticed.”

  “Plus, it only plays the first twenty seconds,” Tom said. “Over and over.”

  I was moved. And a little frightened. “Thanks, you guys. This is really…super.”

  “That’s not all,” Roxy said.

  “We modified this ring,” Polly explained, slipping a big plastic flower on my finger, “so the petals are sharp. If anyone ties your hands up behind you, you can use it to cut through the ropes.”

  “It’s a trick I learned from reading about the Russian Mafia,” Roxy explained.

  How quaint. “Ouch,” I said, cutting myself on one of the handy, sharpened petals. “I think this is dangerous.”

  “That is the point, precious,” Polly said.

  “Is there anything else I should know about? Any other way my clothes might try to attack me?”

  “Forget it,” Polly said. “If you’re going to be that way—”

  Roxy shook a finger at me, then turned to Polly. “Come on, P, show her the boots.”

  “Boots? You did something to my cowboy boots?”

  “Just a little alteration, calm down,” Polly said. “Plus, it was to the blue ones with the birds on them, which aren’t even your favorites. Look.” She slid her finger to the side of my left boot and reached into an incision between two layers of leather, pulling out a thin tube.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Bobby pins dipped in spider venom?”

  “Close,” Polly said. “Cyanide pills.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.” Ha ha. “It’s lip gloss, for touch-ups. In case Jack turns out to be one of the good guys.”

  Which was thoughtful and made me feel kind of bad for thinking mean thoughts. “Thank you,” I said. I felt around the same place on the other boot and pulled out a different tube. “And this?”

  Polly shrugged. “Designer Imposters perfume. In case he’s not. It’s completely debilitating if sprayed near the face.”

  “Obsession,” Roxy filled in. “The Russian Mafia uses it to disorient their prey.”

  “It works, too,” Tom said. “Roxy sprayed some on me during the drive here and I still can’t smell out of one side of my nose.”

  Roxy nodded. “I can’t either. And sometimes I feel my eye twitching.”

  “That’s really super,” I said, making a mental note to get rid of it as soon as possible. I just knew I would try to apply it instead of the lip gloss and end up with oozing sores where my lips were supposed to be. And also probably unable to taste food.

  Polly looked me over from head to toe to head again, then smiled. “I think you’re ready.”

  I wished I felt ready. On my
way out, I stopped at the door and gave the two partial green fingerprints one last glance. They didn’t look like a kidnapper’s fingerprints. Really.

  Little Life Lesson 22: Ha!

  Fifteen

  In seventh-grade Ancient History, we learned that the Greeks and Romans believed strongly in portents and omens. Like if a blackbird flew overhead, they took that as a bad sign and called off their mission, went home, got cozy by the fire, and settled in to read a good wax tablet or scroll or something.

  They had the right idea. We were innocently walking through the lobby on our way to Madame Tussauds when I saw Alyson and Veronique coming toward us. At that moment, I should have turned on my heel and picked up the first wax tablet I could lay my hands on. What worse omen could there be but the Evil Henches? Especially Evil Henches who were wearing bright orange Ultrasuede tops about the size of my palm (not counting the single shoulder strap on Alyson’s or the halter ties on Veronique’s), miniskirts that were only slightly larger, and matching boots with fringes and beads. Yes, BEADS. Both of them. Because you wouldn’t want to be out on the town like that alone.

  Although if I’d left, I would have missed Roxy saying, “But what is Pocahontas wearing if they have all her clothes?”

  And Tom saying, “No one told me Thing One and Thing Two were going to be here.”

  And Polly saying, “Ack! I think I just went blind!” Which, all taken together, wasn’t just MasterCard. It was MasterCard Platinum.

  You see why I love my friends.

  Except for this one tiny problem: Tom is like crack cocaine to Alyson and Veronique. They can’t get enough of him. One glimpse and they go crazy.

  He makes them so high that they almost forget they hate me on general principle, hate Roxy for being prettier than them, and especially hate Polly, because even to the Henched Ones, it’s clear that Tom entertains a special tender feeling for her. Almost makes them forget, but not quite. Still, they go out of their way to be nice to Roxy, because they think it will make Tom like them. Polly and me they largely ignore.

  Veronique started waving frantically at us, as if we could have missed the love children of Pocahontas and Destiny’s Child parading through a casino, and they were breathless when they reached us.

  “OmygodTommyTomTom hi!” Veronique screeched, throwing her arms around him.

  Alyson took a more sophisticated approach. She blew one of her world-class bubbles—bright orange. Thank God she’d coordinated her gum with her outfit—and said, “Hi, Tomás. When did you blow in?” Alyson believes that since Tom and Roxy’s parents are from Mexico, his name must have some kind of accent in it, which she alone, of all people on the planet, pronounces correctly. This, it turns out, is totally not true. But it is fun to watch her do it, so none of us corrects her.

  Then she turned her bubble prowess on Roxy. “Hi, Roxána,” she said, massacring yet another name. “Wow, I really like your necklace-slash-choker.”

  “Thanks,” Roxy said, fingering the purple dog collar. “My mother brought it back from Paris-slash-France. Everyone there is wearing them this year.”

  “For real?” Veronique asked. “What does that tag mean? Bubba?”

  “It’s the brand. The best kind.” Roxy likes to lie and, unlike Tom, is super good at it. Some might think this is a vice, but I think it’s a real talent when used on the right people.

  “Hi, Allie. Hi, Vera,” Polly said, calling them by their least favorite nicknames.

  Alyson turned toward Polly and squinted. “Oh, um, Polly. Hi. I didn’t notice you there. You just, like, blend in with the decor.”

  Little Life Lesson 23: Before making a snide comment about someone else’s outfit, check to see if you’re wearing knee boots with fringe. If you answer yes, drop it. Just do.

  Unaware of this important lesson, Alyson felt she’d scored big and refocused her attention on her main man. “How long are you hanging around, Tomás?”

  “Yeah, do you need a room?” Veronique asked. “We’ve got some extra space in our bed. It’d be totally Visa,” she added with a wink.13

  Tom swallowed hard, thanked the Evil Henches, and quickly explained that he and Roxy had gotten a suite, and also that we were on our way to Madame Tussauds, but he’d look out for them later.

  Ah, what a dreamer, that Tom. Veronique said, “Right on! See you later, TomTomgator.” But Alyson jumped all over going to Madame Tussauds as if it were an extra-credit paper she could use to raise her grade point average above mine (never happen, short girl), saying, “Check it: Veronique and I were just saying we wanted to go there! We’ll slide along!”

  “Totally!” Veronique said, and they flanked Tom on either side and dragged him up the escalator.

  “Check it?” Roxy repeated as we followed behind them.

  “Totally,” Polly said. “Let’s slide.”

  I think the Evil Hench Trolls must have been pummeling Tom’s shapely calves with their fringe beads all the way to Madame Tussauds, because when we caught up with them at the entrance, his face was looking pained. Or maybe it was just their company.

  It was five o’clock, half an hour before my assignation. Our plan was for everyone else to go in ahead of me, scout the place, and assume reconnaissance positions. Then I would enter as though I was alone, and head to Mohammad Ali.

  Saying “I’ll see you inside,” I turned toward the moving walkway that led to Sephora. I needed a new blush brush, obviously, and Polly had given me a list of things to buy that might compensate for my “absurd packing notions.”14

  “Aren’t you coming in with us, Jas?” Veronique wanted to know.

  Polly said, “She’s meeting someone.”

  Alyson frowned in the middle of the bubble she was blowing. “You have a date? With what?”

  Ooh, good one. Too bad about the FRINGE BOOTS.

  Polly answered for me. “Jas has an admirer.”

  “Probably some geek.” Alyson reasserted her grasp on Tom’s arm, said, “Well, we don’t have to wait,” and clickity-clacked on her Hench claws into the museum. Okay, she didn’t, because she was wearing boots, but she could have.

  “Check y’all later, homies,” I said to Roxy and Polly, and then bolted down the moving walkway before they could make faces at me. I could hear Polly saying, “Oh no you di-in’t just say that, girlfriend,” behind me as I went.

  Sephora is a really good place to kill time, but it is more fun when Polly is there bossing me around, so I got back to the museum early, went through the Rat Pack room and the Hollywood Celebrity room and was standing in front of Mohammad Ali by 5:20. I know it’s not right to show up for a date too early and look all eager, but I couldn’t stop myself. And it wasn’t just that I missed Polly’s shopping assistance.

  It was that I wanted to know exactly what part Jack played in all of this. Badly. Because I was really hoping it wasn’t the villain.

  That’s what I was thinking about when all the lights went off and the shooting started.

  Sixteen

  I guess I had always known it would happen but now it was official: I had died and gone to hell. I knew I was dead because as I threw myself to the floor to escape the shots, my life flashed before my eyes. (Little Life/Death Lesson 25: Live large or else you, like me, will be forced to fall back on second-rate memories like kissing Jimmy Drabber on the floor of the Beverly Center Cineplex in eighth grade.) And I knew I was in hell because I could smell two distinct odors: sulfur, which, according to Paradise Lost, is what hell smells like; and Bubble Yum, the signature scent of evil in my world.

  After my mom died, I listened in on a lot of conversations between grown-ups I wasn’t supposed to understand, and what I remembered the most was my mom’s sister, Aunt Jean, saying that when you died, you walked toward a bright light and God was waiting for you there to mete out your punishment. Which is why I wasn’t that surprised when, opening my eyes, I found myself blinded by a light.

  I was a little surprised when the first thing God said to me was
, “Get your ass out from under there. How many times do I have to tell you kids—no messing around in the Sports Stars room?” because I hadn’t expected that God would use words like “ass.”

  Or, for that matter, that God would be a middle-aged woman with big platinum-blonde hair dressed in a museum security uniform. If I were God, I’m not sure that is what I would choose to wear. I think I’d go for one of Cher’s old show costumes or at least some cool platform boots. But maybe those are too hard to maneuver in. Because God had some moves. For example, the Grab-Jas-by-the-Hair-from-Under-the-Fighting-Ring-Where-She’d-Thrown-Herself-to-Avoid-Being-Shot-and-Drag-Her-Out-Toward-You move. Which was a doozy. And came with its own backup band singing “Bye Bye Bye.”

  Which got me started thinking that maybe I wasn’t dead.

  The fact that God was sporting a name tag that said SGT. DARLEEN SMITH, PATROL, also helped. Oh, and that the lights had come back on.

  Sgt. Darleen gave me a powerfully disapproving eye as I stood up. “Can you make that thing stop?” she said, glaring at the watch.

  “Sorry.”

  I pushed the button and Sgt. Darleen studied me in silence for a moment. “You should have run away like your friend did. Now I will have to make a report.”

  “What friend?”

  “Your little boyfriend. Don’t play stupid with me. You were up to hanky-panky. Oh, yes, I know why you kids all come in here—”

  “What? Hanky-panky?” I interrupted. “In case you didn’t notice, someone SHOT at me.”

  But Sgt. Darleen kept right on like I hadn’t said a word. “—you girls like to do the necking under the ring. Disgusting, that’s what it is. I know you all think Vegas is a playground, but we are decent, family-loving people here, and we don’t look kindly—”

  Wow. I’d never been mistaken for a slut before, especially one who liked to do the necking. It was kind of…novel. But I didn’t have time to enjoy it. I was still registering the fact that Jack had tried to kill me.

  I had been so stupid. A guy like him would never go for a girl like me for real. Never in a million years.