I So Don't Do Makeup Page 13

  I head over to the stone saguaro cactus in the middle of the courtyard, where Grandpa’s perched on a thick arm, waiting for me. I suck in a couple of deep breaths, because honestly? Working with Grandpa is überstressful. He’s a major loose cannon. I never really know how he’ll act. No one does. Also, he’s difficult to understand. All in all, I’ve got legit worries that Operation Break and Enter might not go down smoothly.

  It’s up to Grandpa and me to get the scoop on Wacko Will and find out if he’s next in line for a kiosk with a primo location. Josh, Nick, Amber and Lacey are out of commission for this part of the investigation because they can’t know about Grandpa and his secret identity as a wren and the mascot for the Academy of Spirits. Junie could’ve helped but won’t because there’s a Latin club meeting after school. And she’s the president.

  As I edge up close to the statue, Grandpa squawks and flutters straight to my shoulder. I start sweating.

  There are still oodles of students milling around and not one of them has a wren perched on her shoulder. I whisper out of the side of my mouth, “Grandpa, just fly along near me, but not like you’re with me.”

  He squawks again, then zips up in the air, circling overhead.

  Grandpa and I trundle along. A car honks, then another, the drivers pointing up to Grandpa, who’s keeping a distance of a couple of feet above me, but I guess it’s obvious we’re together.

  I do not want this kind of attention. This is not the kind of write-up I want on the ghost Internet. Mrs. Howard would so not be impressed with me or Grandpa.

  The sec there’s a lull in traffic, I say, “Grandpa, people are noticing us. In a ‘that girl looks like a total weirdo’ sort of way.” My arm up high, I wave him forward. “Meet me at the mall entrance.”

  He rasps out a string of unintelligible syllables and zips off.

  By the time I get to the mall, Grandpa’s already perched patiently in the big metal O of “Phoenix” in the Phoenix Mall sign above the entrance. I wave a Ziploc bag of sunflower seeds in his direction, then drop it in my denim purse. I hold the purse wide open.

  He beelines for the opening and dives in, burying his head in the seeds. His ragged tail feathers poke up.

  I gently push his bottom down and lightly hold the purse closed. So far, so good. He’s contained, and I can sneak him into the mall.

  I pull my phone from my jeans pocket, place it on my shoulder, then lean my ear against it. This way, I can talk with Grandpa, let him know the plan, and I’ll just look like a million other people, chatting on a cell in public.

  “Grandpa, ya gotta stay in my purse. You can’t go flying around the mall, and you definitely cannot zip over to the food court for a big munch session. Once we get to the mall manager’s office, I’ll let you out so you can check the files.” I fill in a bunch more details about what he’s looking for and how we’ll handle it if the manager’s actually in the office.

  Grandpa pokes out his little birdy head and says, “Okay.”

  All in all, I’m feeling more confident with each step. I march past Brittani’s Baubles and Movie World and Sequins.

  March. March. March. This can definitely work. I’m all focused on A, then B, then C, totally lost in my detective plan.

  “Sherry!” My little brother barrels into me. Going about one hundred miles per hour.

  I’m careening, losing balance, falling. I grab for a bench. Fingers grasping, clasping around a wooden slat. In the process, my big, heavy, overpacked purse slips off my shoulder, over my elbow, past my wrist.

  It lands with a thump under the bench.

  A balding cactus wren hops out, shakes his feathers and blinks his beady black eyes.

  chapter

  twenty-seven

  Sam blinks back at Grandpa. “Is that John Wayne?” Sam blinks at me. “John Wayne was in your purse?”

  I lean over to grab my bag and whisper out of the side of my mouth to Grandpa, “Meet me at the office.”

  With a raspy, “Okay,” Grandpa flaps off, flying high up by the vaulted ceiling. A mother points him out to her toddler, but for the most part, shoppers are looking at window displays or buying merchandise or talking with their friends. No one really notices him.

  I stand, narrow my eyes at Sam and catapult into my annoyed-big-sister routine. “Don’t act like you don’t know what’s going on, Sam. I am so not falling for it this time. I don’t know how you got a bird into my purse. I don’t even want to know why you put a bird in my purse. But did you even stop to think for one tiny second what a bird might do in my purse? Think of the windshield of a car. I do not even want to check to see. I should probably just go directly to a trash can and throw out this purse. Which was not cheap.” I continue to rant and rave until his eight-year-old eyes glaze over.

  When I finally stop, he says in a small voice, “Sherry, I didn’t do it.”

  “John Wayne just happened to fly into my purse? I’m being bird-stalked?” I say, all incredulous. “That is creepy.”

  “At least he’s a nice bird,” Sam says. “He never pecks Grandma or anything. And he did seem to like you the other day.”

  “I do not want to be bird-stalked. Ewww.” I stick out my tongue.

  “We don’t even know where he is now. Do you think he’ll be okay?” Sam asks. “He’s Grandma’s favorite bird.”

  “Yeah.” I roll my eyes like there’s no doubt. “He’ll eat dinner at the food court, then fly back to Grandma’s.” I hike up my purse on my shoulder. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  “Paula decided I needed new clothes.” He pulls on the hem of his shorts, which are definitely riding nerdishly high.

  “Where is she?” I’m swiveling my head, looking around.

  “Restroom.” He turns to retrace his steps. “But I’m supposed to wait at that bench for her.” He points.

  “Okay. And remind her that I’m here to help plan the Naked Makeup thing.”

  He nods and races off.

  I head in the opposite direction and hang a left at the Mug Shoppe. Then I stride down an empty hallway. I pass a baby-changing room. The next door is the mall office.

  One thing I can say about Grandpa is that he has an excellent sense of direction. Also, although I have trouble understanding him, he always understands me. So I’m pretty sure he’ll be at the mall office. But my stomach won’t unclench until I see the white of his patchy skin.

  I’m practically at the end of the hallway before I spot him above a door. An orange Cheeto dangles from his beak.

  He squawks when he sees me and the Cheeto falls to the floor.

  I put up a hand like a stop sign, as in, Don’t fly to me. Let me sneakily check out the office to see if the mall manager is in there.

  I poke my head around the corner. A bearded man with glasses and a bald head like an egg is tap-tapping on a keyboard, engrossed in whatever numbers are flashing up on the computer screen.

  I quickly back up, out of his sight. Then I dig in my purse for a package of gum. I’m very grateful Grandpa behaved himself and didn’t leave me any surprises. My fingers finally close on some sugarless peppermint. I pop out a couple of pieces and toss them in my mouth. Then I chomp like a fiend.

  I hide the chewed-up gum inside my fist before waltzing into the office. “Hi! I’m doing a school project on the number of teens hired by malls and which stores they work in and how long they work for and if they usually quit or are fired and what they’re fired for and how much they make and how often they get raises.” I could go on forever. Rambling is one of my specialties.

  But the man’s shaking his head so fast, he’s blurry. “That’s a lot of information you’re asking for. Most of which I don’t have. You could try going from store to store, but some of those details are confidential.” He’s still shaking his head as he turns his attention back to the computer. “What are today’s teachers thinking?”

  “They are so crazy.” My eyes are on him while my fingers press my still-warm-and-pliable gum into t
he doorjamb. “Total waste of our tax money.”

  Back in the hallway, I give a quick thumbs-up to Grandpa, then duck into the diaper-changing room, where I pull out my cell, scroll down through Contacts to where I’ve stored the phone number for this office and press Send.

  “Grant Peabody, Phoenix Mall.”

  In a high-pitched English accent, I say, “This is Victoria from the British Import store. Our rep, Julia Simon, from the London head office—London, England, that is—is visiting and has some questions about mall advertising that only you can answer.” The British Import store is the farthest from the mall office.

  “That’s fine,” Mr. Peabody says, “I’m in the office. Just send her this way.”

  Ack. I lower my voice, like I don’t want Julia Simon to hear. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Ms. Simon has asked if you could come to us. She’s talking about dropping extra advertising money on our location, so…”

  “Extra advertising money?” I hear Mr. Peabody’s chair scrape across the floor. “I’ll be right over.”

  I count to ten, then exit the diaper-changing area just as a mom and a screaming smelly baby enter.

  His back to me, Mr. Peabody’s rounding the corner into the main part of the mall. He’s clipping a neon yellow walkie-talkie to his belt.

  I hip-push open the office door, which never locked, thanks to my coolio gum-in-the-doorjamb trick.

  Grandpa swoops in.

  I stand guard at the threshold. I so do not want to get caught breaking and entering. If Grandpa gets busted, they’ll shoo him out of the mall. If I get busted, I’ll have to listen to parental lectures until my hair grows gray and I start wearing socks with sandals.

  Grandpa flutters in front of the gunmetal gray file cabinet, then braces his little legs against the second drawer. He huffs. He puffs. He coughs.

  The drawer slowly cracks open. His yellow beak on the handle and his wings working overtime, Grandpa pulls.

  Oh, fine. I can’t take the tension anymore. I nip into the office and tug open the file drawer. I scoot back to my lawful position.

  Grandpa balances on the files, his claws gripping tight and his beak poking and prodding through papers. He’s mumbling a bunch of gibberish, probably the names of the files.

  Suddenly, he squawks a happy squawk, then tugs on a file. His whole little body strained, he tugs and tugs. Finally, a manila file folder swinging from his beak, he starts to lift off.

  Whoosh. The file drifts to the floor, papers coasting through the air and then gliding along the linoleum.

  Crackle. Crackle. The static of a walkie-talkie breaks the silence!

  “I’ll pick it up from my office and take it straight to the south entrance. Over.” It’s Mr. Peabody!

  Footsteps!

  Footsteps getting louder!

  He’s headed this way!

  Ack! Eek! Ike!

  chapter

  twenty-eight

  “Grandpa!” I whisper urgently. “He’s back!”

  Grandpa looks up from the floor, where he’s hopping from paper to paper, scooting them into a pile.

  An open file drawer. Papers spilled all over the floor. A cactus wren.

  Yikes!

  There’s no time to unstick the gum from the doorjamb. I yank the door shut, then raise my fist and knock.

  Mr. Peabody arrives and spots me. He frowns. “Roger. Over and out.” He clips the walkie-talkie back on his belt loop, still frowning.

  He pulls a key ring from his pocket. “Is there something else?” he asks me, in that tone adults use when they’re busy and you’re interrupting and they just want you to disappear. Of course, he did just hike the whole way across the mall to speak to a nonexistent British person named Julia.

  Mr. Peabody’s fumbling through the keys.

  “Uh, do you know how many pounds of potatoes are used each day at the American Potato Company?”

  “I have no idea. What kind of question is that? What’s the name of your school?” He bites off the words with impatience.

  “Donner Middle School.” I name a rival school.

  “What are you doing all the way over here?”

  “I love this mall. Everyone is so friendly. Like yourself.”

  He holds up a key and inserts it in the lock.

  Blood roars in my ears.

  He turns the key.

  I close my eyes.

  Silence. Nothing from Mr. Peabody. Nothing from Grandpa.

  I open my eyes.

  No papers. No Grandpa. No open file drawer.

  I practically crumple to the ground in relief. Instead, I charge into the diaper-changing room. It’s empty. But smelly. With the door cracked, I listen for Mr. Peabody to leave.

  The second he hustles down the hall, I’m back at the office door. Which still opens because of the gum. “Grandpa,” I whisper.

  He backs out from under the desk, dragging the file folder behind him.

  I step into the room and pick up the folder. I open my purse and Grandpa flies in. I peel the gum from the lock, then shut the door.

  And we explode outta there.

  I rocket all the way to the main entrance, where I open my purse and Grandpa skips to the ground.

  “Thanks, Grandpa. I owe you.”

  He shakes his head and shrugs his feathery shoulders. “We’re family.”

  “How’d you ever get everything cleaned up so fast?” I ask. “I was sweating bullets.”

  I don’t understand a syllable of his reply.

  “Tell Mom hi.”

  “Sure,” he says, zooming straight up and away. I plop down on a bench and open the file. It has a blue sticky label: KIOSKS.

  Way to go, Grandpa!

  The papers in the file are all wild and crazy out of order. I just start flipping through them. And stop when I hit pay dirt.

  Contacts Form: William Barley.

  May 5: William Barley signs six-month contract for Kiosk #17.

  May 7: Complaint from WB that kiosks are not secure enough at night. Presence of mall security at night does not calm him down.

  May 9: Complaint from WB about kiosk storage space.

  May 10: WB complains because two stores across from his kiosk are going out of business. He feels this will negatively impact his kiosk sales.

  May 11: Complaint from WB that not enough foot traffic goes by his kiosk. He is actively counting foot traffic at other kiosk locations.

  May 12: Based on his observations, WB wants a kiosk closer to the food court, specifically the location currently occupied by Naked Makeup.

  May 13: WB insistent on knowing how quickly he can procure food-court kiosk location.

  Wow. Wacko Will seriously wants Lacey’s kiosk! As in seriously. And what a pain-in-the-neck kiosk renter. He started grumbling right from the start and he gripes more and more frequently as time goes on. I thumb through a bunch more papers.

  Until my fingers land on it—a sheet with a title in big fat uppercase letters. KIOSK LOCATIONS: WAITING LIST.

  Will’s in the first position!

  Which means Will is poised to take over the next available kiosk. Which gives him a very strong motive for forcing Lacey out of hers. Forcing her out by tainting her makeup with extra papaya acid, hot pepper juice and cactus spines.

  Wacko Will Barley, I am so on to you!

  I shove the papers back in the file folder. I’ll show Junie, Amber and Lacey the evidence. Then, when the coast is clear, I’ll scoot the file under the office door. Grandpa and I can’t risk breaking in again. Mr. Peabody will always wonder how his file folder hopped out of the cabinet and came to relax on the floor of his office.

  My phone vibrates. I tuck the file under my arm and check the text. It’s Junie. She’s walking into the mall. I text back to let her know I’m headed to Naked Makeup.

  We arrive from opposite directions. I’m only a few seconds ahead of her.

  The kiosk is a hubbub of activity.

  I stand back for a minute and jus
t watch.

  An iPod hooked up to cute little speakers blasts out a catchy upbeat tune.

  Hips swinging in time to the music, Lacey’s placing teal flyers along the counter. Amber twirls in, shoulders shaking, and presses perfume-scented sticker samples on the bottom of each page.

  They’re laughing and dancing and singing and smacking hands when they pass close to each other. Even in high heels they don’t miss a step. There isn’t a customer in sight, but Amber and Lacey don’t look worried. They look happy and busy. Because they have a plan.

  Lacey waves to us. “Sherry! Junie! You’re part of this. Come on.” We start singing along and moving closer to Amber and Lacey. We all bump hips. Amber even smiles at us.

  We start planning Fantabulous You! Lacey has a binder with dividers and lined notepaper where she’s jotting down all the details.

  I’m reading the list of products she wants to use for the classes, when someone covers my eyes. It’s Josh! He’s here with Nick, both of them ready to talk security.

  I open the file and pull out the two incriminating papers. Everyone is really impressed with my gum-in-the-lock trick and my Victoria-the-British-store-keeper phone call. I even demo my English accent for them. Of course, I leave out Grandpa’s part in the story. Only Junie knows he was with me.

  “Unfortunately, it’s only circumstantial evidence,” I say.

  “I don’t get it,” Lacey says.

  “Meaning it’s not actual proof,” Nick says.

  “We’re just assuming it’s Will because we’re putting two and two together,” Junie says, “and coming up with four.”

  “We need hard proof,” I say. “And I’ve got an idea for how to get it. It involves Josh and Nick and tricking Will on Revealing Phoenix.”

  “I think I know where you’re going, Sherry,” Nick says, his eyes all squinty and concentrating. “While we’re taping, we accidentally-on-purpose let slip some information about where a new shipment of makeup is or something like that. Then we lie in wait to tape when he goes to tamper with it.”

  My jaw drops. Never in a million bajillion years did I think Nick and I would be on the exact same wavelength.