I So Don't Do Famous (24 page)
Read I So Don't Do Famous Online
Authors: Barrie Summy
Then why is my heart throwing itself against my rib cage? I press the cold soda can against my forehead and close my eyes. I think about all the Dear Elle columns I've read. I think about my essay where I said sweaty hands and a pounding heart are signs of true love and shouldn't be ignored. Is it even true? I suck in a deep calming breath.
I speed-dial Josh.
He picks up fast. “Hi, Sherry!”
“Hey, Josh.” I get the words out between heartbeats. “You called?”
“Yeah, uh. So, how's the trip?”
“Good.” With each sentence, I'm less nervous.
“Nick told me you found a mystery. Is it working out okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” And now that I'm not so nervous, something really weird is going on. I'm getting mad.
“I've been playing lots of water polo. With extra-tough practices. Like eggbeater while holding up a five-gallon jug filled with water.”
Eggbeater? Oh yeah, some sort of strenuous leg-kicking move. “Sounds tiring.” Of course, solving a mystery and keeping it secret from your ghost mom and juggling your corny dad and making sure your best friend and your new ghost friend get along? That's no walk in the park.
“Coach is working us hard, trying to train us so we'll make it all the way to league championships.”
“So, Brianna saw you at the mall.” The words just pop out. Unplanned. But, now that I've said them, it seems right. I mean, pretending it didn't happen is mean to me and to the other girl.
Junie slaps a hand over her mouth.
“I know,” Josh says. “I'm sorry.”
I wait to see what else he'll say.
Junie's leaning toward me, anxious.
“Listen.” Josh clears his throat. “It was nothing. Really. I barely know Olivia.”
Olivia? So the high school girl in the expensive denim skirt has a name. “You were holding hands,” I say flatly. “And swinging your arms.”
Junie's head drops to her chest.
“I gotta go,” I say. “Junie's waiting for me. And you know how impatient she can get.”
“Hey,” Junie says.
Josh and I say quick goodbyes and click off.
Her head tilted to one side, Junie stares at me. “Somehow I don't think that's how Dear Elle would've handled the phone call.”
“Here's the deal, Junie,” I say. “I don't think Dear Elle is such an outstanding love expert.”
Junie watches me carefully.
“I could've gotten better advice from my grandpa. He's been with my grandma forever. He obviously knows something.”
Junie's still watching me.
“Anyway, I have a ton on my plate right now.” I pop open the soda and sip. “Like what am I supposed to do if Stef texts me for the heist right when I'm sightseeing with my dad? I can't just say, âExcuse me, Dad. Please drive me back to the hotel, where I'll catch a ride with a teen burglary ring. I'm part of the sting operation to take them down.' And what if the heist happens tomorrow evening during the Marilyn Monroe event?”
Junie's tongue pokes out between her lips. After a few minutes of intense concentration, she says, “There's no point worrying whether the heist is planned for tomorrow evening. If it is, it is. And we'll
figure out at that time how you can sneak away from Mrs. Howard and your mom.” Junie sits next to me on the bed and we lean against each other, shoulder to shoulder.
“But handling your dad?” She snaps her fingers. “Leave it to me.”
thirty-three
T
he next morning my dad is up bright and early like a bird. He knocks on the adjoining door.
Junie cracks the door. “Shhh. Sherry's feeling under the weather.”
“What? Sherry's sick?” My dad peers in. “Is she still in bed?”
We purposely left the lights off, and our room is dim.
“She's on the couch,” Junie says in a low voice. “For the day.”
“For the day?” My dad shoulders open the door. “We'll call Paula. She'll know exactly what to do.” He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. “She's amazing that way. Even long-distance.”
“Paula can't fix this,” Junie says. “Sherry talked to Josh last night. They're, well, not getting along.”
“Of course they're not getting along. They've broken up.” He rubs his forehead. “Isn't that the definition of âbroken up'? Not getting along?”
“She needs a day to own the heartache and process it.”
“A whole day?” Dad's so out of his league. “I want to take you girls shopping on Rodeo Drive.”
I groan. I'm giving up shopping on Rodeo Drive!
Dad comes over. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”
“I'll be fine,” I say hoarsely.
“Would food help?” he asks. “A breakfast burrito from across the street?”
“Definitely.” I sit straight up.
“Sherry?” Junie rubs my back. Her eyes are wide, sending me a settle-down-be-less-enthusiastic message. “Maybe some food in an hour or so?”
“Tell me what to do,” Dad says. “I can't leave you in here for hours. Ginger ale? A thermometer? Read out loud to you?”
“No, no, Dad. Don't give up touristy fun in Southern California. Just because I need a day of depression.” I wipe under my eyes where tears would pool, if there were tears. “I'll only feel worse if I rob you of a day too.”
“Seriously, Mr. Baldwin, go do something cool.
Otherwise, Sherry'll end up taking two days of depression,” Junie says. “I'll stay with her and catch up on my writing for the school paper.”
“Really?” My poor dad looks completely confused, like he's a gerbil trapped in a maze.
Junie opens the adjoining door. “Did you know the Comedy Store is offering stand-up classes? Sherry would feel better if you did something like that.”
“I would,” I say.
“Really?” He shuffles through to his room. “I'll leave my cell on loud. And I'll call you every few hours.”
“Bye, Dad. Love you.” I raise a hand and wave weakly. “Thanks for understanding about this day of depression.”
I loll around for about an hour while Junie's hunched over her keyboard.
“Junie, I'm bored out of my mind,” I say. “Let's go hang out at the pool and get something to eat.”
“Sure. If you're over your depression.” She giggles.
We change into our bikinis. I grab the nail polish supplies. We manage to snag chaise longues again. We relax in the sun and do each other's nails.
My mom breezes in. “Where's your dad?”
“Taking stand-up comedy classes.” I roll over on my back.
“Excellent!” my mom says. “He has such a great sense of humor.”
“Uh, Mom”âI frownâ“have you forgotten all his lame jokes?”
She sighs. “No, Sherry, your dad's humor is something I always appreciated about him.”
Parents!
After my mom takes off, Junie and I trek across the street to the Mexican place. I branch out and order a California burrito. It's überdelicious with carne asada, cheese and fries.
After lunch, Leah joins us. We order a comedy movie to the room, which she watches and actually laughs at. After she leaves, Junie and I nap and text back and forth with Brianna. All in all, it's a mucho enjoyable day.
Finally, I'm dozing off for a second nap around three o'clock, when my phone pings with a text from Stef.
It's on.
thirty-four
I
call Detective Garcia. “They want me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes.”
“Be careful,” she says tersely.
I change into a cute dog-walking outfit: denim shorts, patterned red-and-blue T-shirt with scoop neck, sandals.
I toss my phone back in my purse, redo my mascara, then open the hotel room door. I stick my nose out into the hall, sniffing like an anteater. No root beer gloss.
Junie and I stride to the elevator. Everything about me is alert. I'm like an appliance, plugged in, always on, with a low buzz.
Downstairs, we separate. Junie goes to the sitting
area in the lobby. I push open the glass doors to the parking lot and step into the hot sun and an undercover sting.
A shiny gray van pulls up. A magnet sign on the passenger door reads
BEVERLY HILLS POOL SERVICE
. The side door slides open. I enter.
I briefly think about how my dad would kill me if he knew I was getting into this van. But at least Detective Garcia has my back.
Alone at the front, David's got the wheel. “Grab a seat and buckle up.”
Lorraine and Stef sit on the middle bench. A small black poodle lies at their feet.
I plunk down in the back, next to Taylor. She hooks a strand of purple hair behind her ear, gives me the briefest of nods and stares out the window.
“Hi, Sherry,” Lorraine says. “Adorable shirt.”
“Thanks.” She and Stef are in jeans, two layers of tank tops, and sneakers. They must coordinate their outfits every day. Taylor is also wearing jeans, but with a solid black crew-neck T-shirt.
We take off from the parking lot at a normal speed. Everything about this operation is normal. It's all about not sticking out and calling attention to ourselves: a clean pool-company van keeping to the speed limit with non-scruffy passengers seat-belted in. These guys are pros.
The poodle rubs against my legs. “What's your name?” I lean over and scratch her neck.
“Dorothy,” Taylor answers in a monotone, still gazing out the window.
Dorothy jumps up beside me and lies down. Obviously, she's attracted to noncriminals.
In Beverly Hills, I recognize a few of the streets and houses from the tour. We approach the hill leading up to Kira Cornish's house. My hand grips the edge of the seat. This is it.
David clicks on his signal. And turns in the opposite direction!
“Excuse me,” I call out. “You just missed the turn to Kira Cornish's.”
“Kira's at home,” Lorraine says. “Word is she's got the stomach flu.”
“More like cosmetic surgery,” Taylor mutters.
“We're hitting Sarah Sutherland's instead,” Stef says.
Ack! Eek! Ike! I'm trapped in a van with David and his teen thieves! And Detective Garcia is headed to the wrong location!
I take a deep breath. I'll call the detective when I'm walking Dorothy. Everything will be fine. Everything is still on track. So why is my heart pounding?
David cuts the engine by the curb of a large two-story white stucco house. It has fat round columns and a couple of armless statues in front.
He turns around. “Pass me your cells, girls.”
Lorraine, Stef and Taylor act like this is no big deal, just your run-of-the-mill procedure for heist day.
“Sherry, your cell.” David holds out his hand.
“But I need mine,” I say, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “Remember? I'm the dog walker. I have to call you if I see something suspicious.”
David unzips his backpack, tosses in the girls' phones and pulls out three walkie-talkies.
“Give me your phone, Sherry,” he says in a no-nonsense voice. Negotiations are obviously not his strong suit.
I have zero choice. I pass the phone to Stef, who passes it to David. My phone, which has Detective Garcia's name and number in it. Plus, she was my last call.
“No cells because I don't want anyone taking photos in the house. Next thing I know, they'll be plastered all over the Internet,” David says. “Here's a walkie-talkie for inside the house.” He tosses one to Stef. “A walkie-talkie for the van.” He places one on the dash. “And a walkie-talkie for the dog walker.” He tosses the last one to Taylor.
Ack! Eek! Ike! “But
I'm
the dog walker,” I say.
David gestures with his shoulder to Stef. “Tell her to shut up.”
“Taylor convinced David it's her turn to walk the
dog.” Stef's large round eyes tell me to quit making comments.
