I So Don't Do Mysteries Read online

Very gently, my hair lifts off my forehead. “That’s exactly what it is, Sherry. And not many deceased mothers and living daughters get this opportunity.”

  I blink back tears. “I’m glad we have it.”

  “Me too, pumpkin.”

  The back door opens. Dad steps out onto the porch.

  “I’m meeting with the snitch tomorrow night to see if he has any new info,” Mom says. “Let’s touch base again before you leave.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re having the wedding in the backyard?” She’s above me now, and whispering.

  “How’d you know?” I ask her.

  “Sherry? Is that you out here?” Dad calls. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine!” I shout. “Just give me a sec.”

  “I noticed gazebo arches leaning against the side wall.” Mom’s voice is faint. “Tomorrow’s the big day, then? In the afternoon?”

  Dad starts walking toward me, and the motion beam floods the yard.

  I answer, “Yeah.”

  “I’ll try . . .”

  I strain to hear.

  “. . . to attend.”

  “No, no, no,” I say, “bad idea. Bad idea.”

  But she’s already gone.

  It’s just a wedding. It’s just a wedding, I chant over and over in my head.

  I can make it through this afternoon. I will be cool. I will be mature. I will not have a meltdown. Then tomorrow I’ll fly to San Diego and save the rhinos for my mother so that she’ll get to stay in the Academy of Spirits and hang out with me, her wonderfully amazing daughter and favorite child.

  It’s just a wedding. It’s just a wedding.

  I pull at the collar of my dress and scratch. What kind of a bride chooses ugly, striped dresses for her bridesmaids? Honestly, I look like Bert and Ernie’s dorky big sister.

  I sneak a sideways glance at the bridesmaid standing next to me. Ms. Gonzalez, my PE teacher. How weird is all this? First time I’ve seen her out of stretchy shorts and a baggy Arizona State T-shirt. She doesn’t look too great all spiffed up, especially with thick streaks of peach across her cheeks and mouth. Has the woman never heard of blending?

  My own makeup is adorable, if I do say so myself. I went in for the glitter look in a big way. So, while the dress is pitiful, I’m a very sparkly bridesmaid.

  My makeup is the most sophisticated aspect of this wedding. Tacky Wedding was thrown together quickly with a lot of help from Party Rentals. In our backyard, rows of metal fold-up chairs sit in front of a cheesy arch covered with plastic roses. A rectangular table close to the kitchen door holds platters of raw veggies and rolled cold cuts from Costco, and Grandma Baldwin’s home-baked “lifetime harmony” wedding cake.

  It’s just a wedding. It’s just a wedding.

  I’m constantly scanning the yard and sniffing, jumpy-jittery nervous that Mom’ll make an uninvited guest appearance. Knowing she can’t get into our house, I tried to talk Dad and The Ruler into a romantic living-room wedding. But no go. The Ruler wanted outdoors.

  Weirdly, outdoors is the only thing The Ruler insisted on. She didn’t want huge, flashy, pricey. Which is what I’ll insist on. Maybe she was thinking of my dad and how he’s already done the big, first wedding thing. Maybe she was thinking of my mom and how her death wasn’t that long ago. Who knows with The Ruler?

  It’s 1412 military time. The palm fronds aren’t shaking. Nothing is moving in the sandbox. The ornamental-pear branches are still. The area is secure. I’m not even sure what I’ll do if Mom does show, but I’m on the lookout.

  Grandma Baldwin’s been busy setting up the food and plates and stuff. Now, tucking her peasant blouse into her skirt, she’s finally lowering herself into a chair in the front row. She takes a Kleenex out of her burlap bag and dabs at her eyes. She mouths, “You okay?”

  I nod, the chant getting louder. It’s just a wedding. It’s just a wedding.

  Grandma peers over at Sam, where he’s standing with my uncle, the best man. I see her wink at my brother and place her index fingers at the corners of her lips, pushing them up into a smile.

  I crane my head to look at Sam. He’s crying quietly while my uncle squeezes his shoulder.

  It’s just a wedding. It’s just a wedding. The chant roars in my head.

  Scan, scan, scan. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Oh no. I smell coffee. I morph into dog-at-the-park mode. Body rigid, my head moves up, down, right, left. Nose twitching, I sniff some more.

  Mrs. Lucas, our next-door neighbor, is taking a seat in a chair on the lawn. Next to Junie, who gives me a little wave. Mrs. Lucas places something under her chair.

  I squint. Yikety yikes. It’s a cardboard cup from Starbucks.

  I dash across the yard, snatch up the cup and charge into the kitchen. I quickly dump the coffee down the sink drain.

  Grandma follows right on my heels. “What are you doing, Sherry?”

  “Coffee.” I’m panting. My mind’s blank. I can’t think of a single explanation for why I’d get rid of Mrs. Lucas’s coffee.

  Grandma looks at the empty cup and at the last of the tan liquid swirling down the drain. Her face softens, and she starts rubbing my back. “I understand, dear. I tear up whenever I smell coffee.” She rubs under her nose. “Reminds me of your mother.”

  Wow.

  “You should’ve seen me boohooing in here when I set up the percolator.”

  Sure enough, now that she’s mentioned it, I hear a telltale burp-burping. There it is on the counter next to the toaster—a big aluminum forty-cup transmitter to the next world. Forty potential cups of Mom-calling java that wedding guests can carry around the backyard.

  I yank on the cord, then slide the urn across the tile counter until it reaches the lip of the sink. Ouch. Can you say hot?

  “Sherry. Stop. Right. Now,” Grandma orders.

  “I. Can’t.” I pop up the lever that opens the spigot, and as the coffee spills into the sink, tears spill down my cheeks. I can’t let Mom show up in the middle of all this wedding hoopla. I can’t.

  “Young lady—” Grandma grips my shoulders and turns me to face her. One look at me, and her tone changes. “Oh, honey. I had no idea you were this upset.” She wraps her arms around me.

  I sob. So much for the cool-mature-no-meltdown thing. And think of how I’m ruining my makeup.

  Grandma follows me to the bathroom. She waits quietly while I fix my mascara and eye shadow, then presses a smooth stone into the palm of my hand. “A crystal. Hang on to this. It’ll get you through the afternoon. Balances you. In fact, take it to San Diego to keep you safe. I’m uneasy about that trip.”

  The clear stone fits easily in my palm. I run my thumb along the surface. It’s a teardrop shape with a sharp point. Sharp enough to be a weapon, which is weird since my grandmother is Mrs. Spread-the-Peace. “Thanks, Grandma.”

  She pulls me against her narrow chest, enveloping me in some health-food store’s rosemaryish brand of perfume. “Let’s go, girl. You can do this.”

  Hand in hand, we head to the backyard, out into the blazing Arizona sun. With a wide grin at us, my dad pushes the button on our iPod, cueing the bride’s entrance music.

  The ceremony pretty much goes by in a blur.

  I close my eyes and rub my index finger over the crystal at the “you may kiss the bride” part, and let the chant take over in my head at the “I now present Mr. and Mrs. Robert Baldwin” part.

  On to the reception. I can handle that. It’s like the last leg in a relay race. So I lost it earlier in the kitchen? Now I’m coming in for the gold.

  Grandma’s over at the buffet table, setting up a punch bowl of lemonade.

  Lips frozen in a fake-o smile, I eyeball the backyard for signs of my mother. Still nada.

  Junie wanders over to me. “What’s with your neck? And your chin?”

  I reach up and feel trillions of tiny bumps. Itchy bumps. My shoulders are itchy too. And my chest. I’m turning into one big hive.

  “I wonder if you’re
allergic to something in the dress,” Junie says.

  “I’m definitely allergic to its ugliness,” I say. “Come with me while I change.”

  “Pictures,” my dad calls out. “Bridal party over by the ornamental pear tree.”

  Pictures. Yikes. Like I want to be caught on celluloid all rashed out like this.

  “Keep your chin down,” Junie advises.

  “Stay with me,” I plead. “Let me know if the rash is showing.” We head over to the tree and try to find a spot where I can hide in the shadows.

  “Daughter of the groom?” the photographer asks.

  Where did we find him? He looks like an army general. Very GI Joe, with a buzz and incredibly straight posture. He must be related to The Ruler.

  “Yes,” I mumble, chin pointing south.

  He stretches out an arm, no bend at the elbow. “Roy March. The bride’s cousin.”

  I knew it. I shake his hand.

  “Stand over there.” He points to a very sunny spot, a spot sure to highlight my bumpy skin. Terrific.

  The rest of the wedding party shows up. The Ruler jokes and laughs and beams. Even my dad is swept up in her festive mood. Sam too, who looks like a mini Dad in his tux. The photographer snaps an impromptu father-son shot where Dad and Sam are high-fiving.

  Next, GI Joe lines us up, touching our shoulders and positioning our heads. He struts back to his camera and barks orders at us from behind the viewfinder.

  Junie stands behind him and directs me with hand gestures, helping me find poses to hide my ravaged neck and chin.

  The photographer yells for, like, the millionth time, “Sherry, look up! Eyes off your shoes.”

  Junie shakes her head, index finger pointing to the ground.

  I bob my head up marginally, then back down.

  Dad gives an exasperated “For Pete’s sake, Sherry, can’t you follow simple directions?”

  Even The Ruler is no longer bubbling like champagne.

  GI Joe strides over, grasps my chin in one hand and my forehead in the other and angles them up. He frowns at my skin. “I’ll have to do touch-ups.”

  I snap.

  “No more pictures!” I scream over my shoulder as I fly into the house and lock myself in the upstairs bathroom. Forget about not losing control. At least I manage to hold back the tears until after the door lock clicks into place.

  What has happened to me? I’ve turned into a geyser with all this crying. I’m probably dehydrated.

  I slurp some water from a paper cup, ignoring the science info printed on the side. Thanks to The Ruler, even brushing our teeth is an educational experience. Then I peel off the ugly bridesmaid dress and stuff it in the wicker trash basket.

  Standing back from the mirror over the sink, I gaze at all the angry red bumps. From the waist up, I look like a lizard alien from Planet Grotesque. The rash is getting worse. It’s up to the circles under my eyes.

  Knock, knock.

  I don’t answer. Lizard aliens from Planet Grotesque don’t talk. They do listen, though, and I press my ear to the door. It’s Junie and The Ruler.

  “Maybe it’d be better if you talked to her,” The Ruler says. She actually sounds concerned.

  “Okay,” Junie says.

  “Let her know she’s not needed for any more pictures.”

  Like that was going to happen, anyway.

  The Ruler adds, “Her uncle’s picking up some topical cream and Benadryl from the pharmacy.”

  There’s silence for a moment. I guess Junie’s waiting for The Ruler to leave. Junie’s a great friend, the perfect friend. I couldn’t have picked a better best friend.

  Knock, knock.

  “It’s me,” Junie says.

  “Can you grab me some clothes?” I unlock and crack the door.

  Within minutes, she’s in the bathroom, shorts and a T-shirt draped over her arm. Her eyes widen. “You’re a mess.”

  “Tell me about it.” I slip on my outfit, then drop the lid on the toilet seat and sink down. “Everything about my life is a mess, a big, ginormous, awful disaster.”

  Junie puts a hand on my shoulder.

  And I think maybe it’s her hand, that physical connection with my best friend, that tips me over the edge. Junie, the one person who can help me out of the overwhelming craziness and scariness of ghost mother + mystery challenge + wedding + rash + Josh.

  Whatever the exact reason, it’s like I can’t help myself. Before I realize it, my mouth is open. And the words are tumbling out, pushing and elbowing each other in their rush to exit. I blurt out the whole entire story of my mother and the rhino mystery at the Wild Animal Park.

  Junie’s jaw drops. “Your mother’s a ghost?”

  I nod.

  She crosses her arms. “And you have to help her solve a mystery?”

  I nod again. “This is the biggest, most important challenge of my life. I can’t do it without you. You have to help me.”

  “Oh, Sherry.” Junie’s face is long with concern. “Oh, Sherry.” She shakes her head. “Oh, Sherry.”

  All the guests have left. I’m sitting on the landing at the top of the stairs, listening to the normal sounds below. Sam’s playing Wii Sports, probably now changed into his fave Diamondback T-shirt. Dad and The Ruler are in the kitchen, their voices so faint I can’t decipher what they’re saying.

  I’m not feeling so normal inside. I’m feeling queasy, like I rode the jerky, spinning Scrambler ride one too many times. I just broke a huge Academy rule. And what if Junie doesn’t believe me? Now what’s going to happen to me and my mother?

  Suddenly I can hear voices. It’s Dad and The Ruler, standing at the bottom of the staircase.

  “I’ll check on her,” The Ruler says.

  No, no, no. Leave me alone, evil straight-spined woman.

  “Are you sure, Paula?” my dad asks. “You know how prickly she can be.”

  Moi? Prickly?

  “I’m sure.” The bottom stair creaks. “I want to see how her rash is doing.”

  Yeah, yeah. She wants to laugh at my freakish skin. Unlike my naive dad, I’m not taken in by her phony-baloney niceness act.

  “And I haven’t given her the bridesmaid gift yet,” she says.

  A gift? Oooooh. Things are looking up. I scoot back to my room, hop on the bed and open my book.

  At my door, The Ruler smiles. “It’s upside down.”

  I scowl and drop the book on the carpet.

  She looks around, nodding. It’s the first time she’s been in here and, therefore, the first time she’s been exposed to its dazzling decor. “Very innovative.”

  I can’t help but agree. At Home Depot, I whipped up a special batch of paint for the walls and created a gorgeous, rich color I call “turquoise + sea green.” Then I tossed in a few handfuls of glitter. The stunning result is shimmering, sparkling walls. Miracle of all miracles, I found the perfect bedspread, with waves of blues and greens, onto which I sewed different-shaped sequins. Next I glued colored glass that looks like gemstones around the door frame and across the windowsills. It’s like living in a pirate’s treasure chest.

  Sadly, though, I’ve been unable to locate turquoise + sea-green gravel for my aquarium. I am hugely into my fish, all named after fairy-tale characters, and always coordinate their space with mine. We’re happiest when our environments match and mesh.

  The Ruler sets a wrapped box on the dresser and walks toward me with a tube of ointment. “Let’s take a peek.”

  I tip my head back so that she can see my neck where the rash is the worst. Her fingers feel cool on my hot skin. This is the most relaxed I’ve felt all day. Weird.

  “Good. It’s going down.” The Ruler hands me the ointment. “This is stronger than the one I brought up before. Don’t use it on your face.”

  “How will I look tomorrow?”

  “Good enough to get on a plane.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Have you ever had this kind of reaction to stress before?”
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  “Stress? No, no, no. I’m allergic to the bridesmaid dress.”

  “I don’t think it was the dress,” she says.

  Well, I am überly stressed. What with my mom, the Academy, the wedding. I mean, who wouldn’t be stressed to the max?

  The Ruler goes into the bathroom.

  Yikes. I hope she doesn’t spot my bridesmaid dress in the trash.

  She returns with a science Dixie cup and a pink pill. No mention of the dress. She gives me the cup and pill. “More Benadryl.”

  While I’m swallowing the pill, she says, “I think it’s time you started calling me Paula.” With a small grin, she adds, “Of course, you can still refer to me as The Ruler at school.”

  She walks to the dresser for the gift. “Let’s trade.”

  “You’re not getting much of a deal,” I say, crumpling the cup as I hand it to her.

  “Oh, I think I am.”

  I sense there’s a hidden message in her words but am not getting sucked into an “I’m looking forward to being your stepmother” conversation. I don’t need a stepmother. I have a mother. A real one. Well, a real, dead one.

  I bound out of bed way early the next morning. Our flight isn’t until two, but I gotta get hold of my mother.

  First thing I do is grab my brand-new cell phone off my nightstand. The Ruler, Paula, definitely knows how to choose a gift. I’ve wanted a cell forever. And this one is teeny and tiny and cute and shiny with perfect little buttons and a few video games.

  Second thing I do is elbow on the bathroom light. I scream. The Ruler, Paula, whoever, was so wrong. I don’t look cured enough to get on a plane. I look like I need to be abandoned on a desert island, where I can’t freak out small children and pets.

  I grab a half-dried-up concealer stick. The whole time I’m coloring my face and neck, I’m thinking Mom thoughts. Scary Mom thoughts. Like, what’s she going to say when she finds out I broke a major Academy rule by blabbing to Junie? Color. Worry. Color. Worry.

  All of a sudden, a brilliant idea zaps me like static shock. I won’t tell Mom that I told Junie. I’m sure the Academy will never figure it out, because, with all their important ghostly responsibilities, how much are they gonna stay on top of one lousy ghost, one little mystery and me?