Alana Oakley (6 page)

Alana squeezed her body through the now-half-open door. Her stealthy entrance would have succeeded had Flynn not chosen this very moment to surprise her from behind. “Busted!” he murmured, with a sharp prod in her back.

Clang!
went the canister of oil onto the floor. Alana turned around to scold him, but was shocked into silence by his appearance. The scruff she was used to had disappeared. Flynn's shirt was tucked in, his hair was combed, and his shoes shone. The only nod to his former self was a tie which sat slightly loose at the neck, but it only added to his look of casual chic. He even smelt nice! Alana realised with shame that it was
she
who was the sweaty scruff, yet both of them were Elite Squad. Obviously, while she'd been working on a covert entry, he'd spent that time ‘tidying up' for the special guest.

Flynn stepped forward, full of apologies.
“Bonjour! Mes excuses pour être en retard,”
he said to the astonishment of everyone, not least Alana, whose eyes had fallen out of their sockets.
“Comment magnifique!”
he exclaimed.
“Le muffin aussi …”
he added cheekily.

Alana's eyes narrowed with fury. Alana didn't need much French to know that Flynn had just smooth-talked his way into the chef's good graces. She puffed up like a soufflé, stammering and suddenly breathless. Isabella Thornton smoothed wayward wisps of hair back with trembling fingers, leaving white, floury traces while she giggled into her hand. Flynn's distraction gave Alana time to gather her fallen belongings and slip into a chair without further trouble. Instead of feeling grateful, she felt absurdly mad.

Perhaps it was this pent-up rage which caused Alana's own muffins to emerge from the oven an hour later, blackened and rock-hard. Chef Thornton looked at her attempt with a pitying smile, prodding the unyielding lumps with a delicately painted fingernail. Miller's muffins were just as bad. He'd overdone the food colouring, as evidenced by the garish green of his hands, which he hid behind his back. Isabella Thornton sighed and made a point of avoiding the alien-looking blobs in their warm tray. When she reached Flynn's table, she merely collapsed into a heap of girlish giggles, batted her eyes, and left. Flynn turned and gave Alana an outrageous wink.

Alana felt the familiar
buzz
of the phone, set on silent, vibrate in her pocket. She had a message. She took advantage of the rowdiness in the classroom to check who it was from. James! The picture was of a fluffy kitten tussling with an oversized ball:
Soccer practice this weekend?
James had typed. The photo lifted her mood. She took a quick snap of her burnt muffins with the tag:
Gr8. I'll bring the snax.
In reply he sent a photo of a sumo wrestler's belly:
Cheers, but I already ate.

Chef Thornton's announcement carried over the hubbub of excited voices. “Time for a taste-test, everybody. I'm very excited to see how you've all done. The baker of the plate voted most delicious will get a signed copy of my new book,
Bliss!
and a private, one-on-one lesson with
moi
,” she giggled, shooting a glance in Flynn's direction, “on exciting, exotic spices.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Flynn offered as the chef took a second tray of her own muffins from the oven.

“Why, thank you. If you put them in that basket over there, I'll bring them to the Staff Room later.”

Alana watched Flynn furtively empty
his own baking tray of muffins
into the Staff Basket, and the visiting chef's onto a plate marked “Number Nine” – labelled anonymously in the interests of objectivity and fairness. Flynn was cheating! But before Alana could say anything, Chef Thornton was urging them to eat the samples and vote for their favourite.

It was no surprise that Plate Number Nine attracted the most attention. When Maddie put the tiny wedge of muffin into her mouth, her eyes closed in ecstasy. She chewed slowly, savouring every bite. When she finally opened her eyes, her wide smile resembled a contented cat's. Intrigued by her friend's reaction, Sofia followed suit. Although her father, a successful restaurateur, produced delectable family meals on a nightly basis, Number Nine's muffin was just too delicious for words. “
Mmmm,
” Sofia moaned, cheeks bulging. “You have
got
to try this,” she urged Alana. “It is
so
unbelievably …”

“– good. Yeah, I know.”

“But how can you know if you haven't tried it?”

“Gut feeling,” Alana said.
Like indigestion,
she thought.

Khalilah took her time sampling each plate. She was even brave enough to try Miller's green creations, although she soon regretted doing so. When Khalilah tried the muffin from the now-infamous Plate Number Nine, her eyes rolled back as she took a deep breath, and sighed. It really
was
sublime.

“Uh-uh-uh!” Isabella Thornton wagged a warning finger at one of the students, who was attempting to sneak a second serving from the plate.

Nobody was surprised when the muffin-maker of the most popular plate was declared the winner. “Congratulations, the owner of Plate Number Nine is Flynn Tucker!” Chef Thornton announced triumphantly.

“He can cook, too?” Khalilah exclaimed, with a catch in her throat.

For Alana, it was the last straw. There was a lot more to Flynn Tucker than met the eye, and she was determined to find it
all
out.

CHAPTER 10

Flynn the Phony

Alana thought she was pretty good at tailing people. She had some experience, after all, from following two suspects in last year's Case of the Missing Charm, when Sofia's charm bracelet had disappeared. On that occasion, she'd discovered the identity of the thief after Investigating, Sleuthing and Staking Out behind pot plants which turned out to be too short. Then, with the help of her friends, she had laid some traps. She was sure she could find out more about the mysterious Flynn. She just needed the opportunity to follow him around.

Alana checked her notes on what she knew about him so far.

      1.   Flynn can speak (some) French.

      2.   Flynn can play the saxophone well.

      3.   Flynn doesn't do any homework … unless it's History.

      4.   Flynn likes the TV program, ‘Speedsters'.

      5.   Flynn is a cheat and a liar.

      6.   Flynn does kickboxing, which only the Troubled Teens are allowed to do.

Alana drew an arrow between the last two points. Was there a connection? Was he part of the Troubled Teen program because of cheating or lying? Alana had to find out – if only to prove to her friends he really wasn't worth the amount of time they spent talking about him, which they'd taken to doing … a lot.

Alana had her chance the next day after school. Flynn was walking down King Street, Newtown, just around the corner from Gibson High. His school tie, which he'd taken off, made a slight bulge in his left pocket, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Without an audience, Alana noted, Flynn was back to his usual, slovenly self. King Street was not busy at this time of day, and it was difficult for Alana to follow him without being noticed, so she kept her distance and pretended to admire the art in shop windows. The exhibits were part of the Newtown Art Festival, and every year every shop participated, swapping their usual product displays for local paintings and sculptures.

There were some interesting pieces, some beautiful ones, and others just plain odd, but Alana barely noticed as she stood before the work titled ‘Flying Ducks' – a ceramic wall-hanging by Denise Nolan of three ducks, in graduating size, flying in the same direction. As it flew, the smallest duck covered its eyes, the medium-sized duck covered its ears and the largest duck covered its beak. If Alana had been paying attention, she would have appreciated the humour of the See-No-Evil-Hear-No-Evil-Speak-No-Evil-birds, but she took them in with unseeing eyes, noting instead that Flynn had stepped into a gift shop selling novelty goods. “Probably stocking up on fart bombs and whoopee cushions,” she grumbled to herself. He left ten minutes later. Empty-handed, Alana noted.

His next stop was a book store. Alana paused before entering, again feigning an interest in the shop's window art. This time it was ‘Flying Decks' by the same artist. Three deckchairs, from small to large, flew with tiny wings that looked impossibly undersized for the weight they carried. Alana slipped in and gave the bookshelves a quick glance before choosing a spot far enough away from Flynn so he couldn't see her, but close enough so she could see what kind of books he liked. “Hmmm, so you're into Japanese
Manga,
huh?” Alana muttered, writing this second observation down.

When Alana next looked up, Flynn was gone. Somehow he had slipped past her. She left the shop quickly and looked up and down the street. At first she didn't see him. All she could see were the usual hippy pedestrians, bodybuilders and Goths wandering in and out of shops and cafés, but then she spied his lanky frame fifty metres away. Hands in pockets, slouched, school backpack flung casually over one shoulder. Alana hurried to catch up, and did so just before he strolled into his third store, a button shop.
A button shop?
Alana gazed after him in surprise but didn't dare get closer. The button shop sold only buttons. Hundreds of them. In all shapes and colours. But for all its variety, it was very small and impossible to hide in without being seen, so Alana looked at more window art. It was ‘Flying Docs' this time – same artist. Three doctors from the sci-fi TV series,
Doctor Who
, headed west looking almost puppet-like, with their extra-large heads and angelic wings. On this occasion Alana took the time to laugh.

When Flynn stepped out (again empty-handed) Alana was prepared. She hid by facing the other way, patting a silky terrier tied to a post. She counted to five slowly before glancing over her shoulder. If he was there, she could always pretend it was a coincidence and use the dog as an excuse. But Flynn was not there. He was crossing the road, making his way swiftly towards the florist, looking neither left nor right. Not that it would have mattered: Alana was careful to keep her back to him as he made his way back up the street. She gave the dog's soft coat one final stroke before following.

It was almost March. Summer was ending, and the flowers on display reflected the change of season. Alana liked flowers, especially gerberas for their bright reds, oranges and yellows. They always looked so
happy
. She made a mental note to come back and take photos of them another time. James had taught her some new techniques using a macro lens, and she had yet to try them out.

“Why are you following me?” A voice said suddenly from behind.

Alana gave a start of surprise, turned and stared at Flynn. “Following you? I'm not following you! Who says I'm following you? That's ridiculous. I'm just looking at the art,” she blustered.

Flynn didn't look convinced. “So you like Nolan's work, then?”

Alana looked at the display. ‘Denise Nolan', the card said in neat writing. She read the title of the work aloud. “‘Flying Dacks'. Oh yes. Big fan.
Huge
fan of Nolan's work,” she said, her confusion obvious.

“Hmmm. That's interesting. Very interesting,” Flynn said thoughtfully. Against her will, Alana's gaze was dragged back to the work of the artist she was supposed to be an admirer of. Three pairs of men's full-brief underwear hung in the window. The kind her
grandfather
wore. One small. One medium. And one large. With wings.
Flying dacks
. Alana could feel herself blushing to the roots of her hair, and hurriedly averted her gaze. “It's funny, you know. I wouldn't have guessed you to be into Nolan's sculptures.” Flynn's eyes, which were now the colour of warm, flecked marble, sparkled with mischief. “But then they
do
say it's always the quiet ones you have to look out for.
Au revoir
! See you round school,” Flynn said as he gave a wink and a little nod, and walked away. Before he had gone too far though, he called out, “And next time you follow me and don't want me to notice, you might want to change your hat.”

Alana pushed back her mum's Mexican
sombrero
from her head and yelled, “I AM NOT FOLLOWING YOU!” so loudly that several passersby turned to stare. Flynn merely shrugged. It was a shrug which said, “Yeah right. That's what all the girls who follow me say.” It was a shrug which said, “
C'est la vie
. I get followed all the time.” It was a shrug which left Alana fuming.
So much for sleuthing incognito!

Alana read what she'd added about Flynn to her list.

      7.   Flynn likes novelty gear, Japanese Manga and buttons.

She crossed out ‘buttons', which was most likely to have been a red herring. She took great satisfaction in adding one more point.

      8.   Flynn is arrogant and conceited.

She underlined the sentence three times, and wrote so hard that the tip of her pen made a hole through the paper.

Alana wandered back up King Street, still fuming, until she reached the futon shop where she'd parked her bike. A small crowd stood in front of the window's display. Many of them were pointing and laughing.

“Not more Nolan art!” Alana grumbled, wondering what it could be this time. She ran through the alphabetical options and winced. Alana glanced across and saw a large sign which read ‘Sleeping Beauty' in curly, intricate writing. But it was what was beyond the sign which caught Alana's attention and made her catch her breath in surprise.

What was her mum up to now?

…

Rehabilitating the “Second-Chancers” was much harder than Emma thought it would be. So far they'd touched on the subject of ‘Job Seeking', which had revealed the urgent need for ‘Communication Skills'. While this was a work in progress (and would continue to be throughout their lives, she imagined) Emma had turned her attention to ‘Team Building' on Dr Gray's advice. He suggested that working together on a project that used their unique skills would boost their self-esteem.