Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking (4 page)

“Richard is looking forward to seeing you,” she said. I rolled my eyes and stared out the window. “You should give him a chance, you know.”

More staring. I’d heard this a zillion times before and I
had
given Richard a chance. Truthfully, he hadn’t become Putrid until this past January. He knew a lot about the historical sites in Boston, which I loved, and he made my mom laugh, which was great. Then he started talking about New Hampshire every time I saw him.

“What’s so great about New Hampshire?” I asked him, when the Granite State talk was new. That question was a huge mistake. I got swept into a forty-minute lecture about how there was no traffic up there, how beautiful and peaceful it was, and how much space there was. Evidently, he thought Boston—my hometown, my favorite place in the world—was dirty and crowded, and traffic-ridden and awful, and he wanted to leave. Putrid.

What if he wanted to bring Mom and me with him?

“Do-over,” Mom said. It’s what we say when our conversations start to fall apart or one of us is in a bad mood. Then
you change the subject. “New shirt?” she tried.

“Yeah.” I tugged on it so Mom could read
The J. Geils Band
scrawled under a white handprint. “I got it from the consignment shop on Centre Street.” I collect vintage Boston band T-shirts to go with my typical uniform: a scruffy denim skirt and crazy tights—which, in my opinion, was far less weather-inappropriate than Ms. Leather Boots and Jacket. Today’s pattern? Oversize green houndstooth.

“Nice.” Mom dresses in suits and very somber outfits for work, but has been known to rock an Aerosmith T-shirt on the weekends. Looks-wise, I’m her carbon copy: same dark wavy hair, round eyes, and wide mouth. We’re also super-tiny—a body type most girls I know would kill for.

“Speaking of clothes,” I said, “we should probably get me measured for the Uniform of Horror sometime soon.”

My mom cocked an eyebrow at me. Although I dreaded wearing the Boston Classics uniform in September, ordering it would be the best test as to Mom and Putrid Richard’s intentions. If we were moving to New Hampshire, she wouldn’t spend the money on it, right?

“Seriously, Moxie? Can’t you wait? You haven’t even graduated yet. And what if you change your mind?”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” I said. “And you heard what the admissions person said: Smaller sizes need to be ordered in advance. I just think it’d be good to get it out of the way.”

Mom sighed and shook her head. Conversation over. Not a good sign.

We pulled into a parking space on Centre Street and entered the restaurant, and just as Mom approached the hostess stand, she did a mini-flail and pocket pat-down.

“I think I left my notebook in the car,” she said. She turned to me, apologetic. “I hate not having it. Would you…?”

I sighed and extended my hand for the keys. Even if she wasn’t list-making or list-checking, she had to have that paper pile with her.

I jingled the keys in my hand as the door closed behind me, and then, a few steps outside, I stopped short.

Someone was peering into our car.

Someone with long, red, not-streaky hair.

I dropped the keys, frozen. The car was less than a half block away, and there weren’t that many people on the street. Adrenaline sizzled my nerves. Had she followed us?

A noisy bus passed, which brought me to my senses. I scooped up the keys, took two giant steps, and crouched behind a mailbox while I tried to catch my breath and slow my heart. Mom would wonder where I was soon, and I needed that notebook or an explanation as to why I didn’t have it.

I peeked out from around the mailbox, hoping that the few people on the street thought I was just a kid playing hide-and-seek.

She was gone.

I pulled back to my hiding place.

I tried to think the situation through logically, like this was a math problem: If
x
, then
y
.

If she was waiting for me, the only thing she could do was
talk to me. It’s not like she could grab me off the street or anything. Right?

If she was hiding and watching, what would she see? Me opening the car door and getting my mom’s notebook.

And…well, it was
our car.
She was the one spying and being freaky-strange! Why was
I
doing the hiding?

Boldly, I stood and stepped out from behind the mailbox. Ms. Redhead was nowhere to be seen. Once I took the first few steps toward the car, the rest were much easier. No one stopped me, no one yelled boo. I even started to breathe once I hit the passenger door.

It was only when I’d unlocked the car, grabbed the notebook, and slammed the door that I noticed the slip of paper wedged under the passenger-side windshield wiper.

Seeing the paper made my skin crawl. I reached out to take it, but paused, hand midair, and scanned the street and buildings to see if someone was watching. Around me, everything looked normal: cars going by, people walking their dogs, waiting for the bus, running into stores.

No redhead in sight.

I tugged the slip out from under the wiper, expecting it to feel electrified or hot or somehow strange, but it was just regular paper. I stuffed it deep in my skirt pocket, dying to read it but also not wanting her to see me do so—why give Ms. Inappropriate Weather Dresser the satisfaction?—and walked two speeds faster than normal back to the restaurant, eyes on the sidewalk.

Opening the door, I glanced into the mirror behind the hostess stand to make sure my face looked okay, not like I’d just been skulking around Centre Street, and prepared myself for the annoying dinner that was to follow. When I found Mom’s table, though, I don’t think she would have noticed if The Redhead had come in wearing my clothes—her face
was a knot of aggravation and she was snapping her patented One-Syllable Angry Responses into her phone:

“Yup.” A pause. I slid the notebook over to her.

“Sure.” Another pause while she listened. She stuffed the notebook into her purse without even glancing at me.

“Fine.” She clicked off the call and slapped the phone onto the table. I knew better than to say anything—speaking to her before she was ready would cause her to redirect her irritation at me. No, thank you.

Finally, she sighed and leaned back in her seat.

“Do-over. We’re eating alone,” she said. A pause, during which relief poured through me. “Richard has to cover for that idiot Sammy again.”

“Okay,” I said, not sure why she was so over-the-top about Richard having to work late—she certainly had her fair share of bizarre hours at the funeral home—but happy to have been spared his presence. I was so happy, I almost forgot about the slip of paper in my pocket, which all of a sudden felt like it weighed four pounds.

And once I almost-but-didn’t forget about it, I couldn’t
not
think about it. A few times I almost went into the bathroom to read it, but I chickened out. What if it said something awful? But, on the other hand, what if we were in danger if I
didn’t
read it?

Finally, Mom went to the bathroom. I’d barely touched my burger and fries, and as soon as she turned the corner, I slid my plate away and pulled the slip out of my pocket. For some reason, reading it at the table—in front of all the other
people having dinner—felt safer than reading it locked in a bathroom stall.

Surprisingly, the handwriting was bubbly, like those girls’ in fifth grade who heart and star their
i
’s. And all that was written was one word:

Liar.

My heart locked up in my chest, and for about two very long seconds I was afraid that it would never start again. I stared at the note.

It wasn’t for my mom, that much was clear. The Redhead had totally planted this for me. But what did she think I was lying about? Who was home? Where Grumps was—

Oh.

“Sweet chocolate bunnies,”
I hissed. I was a complete idiot.

The Redhead had followed me to Alton Rivers.

Mom came back to the table a minute or so later, and by that time I’d stuffed the note into my pocket, was breathing regularly, and was seething mad—at both myself and my annoying psycho stalker—and nearly vibrating with anxiety about Grumps. Was he okay? Should I tell my mom? When Mom asked if I was ready, it took me a second to figure out what she meant.

“Sure,” I said. And then…

“Hey,” I added, “it’s still early. Would you mind dropping me off at the Arboretum? Ollie wanted me to meet him.” Maybe his parents would still let him out, and hanging with him would help me figure out what to do—and
there would be no Mom around, so I could panic in private.

“Okay.” She sighed. “But call him now so I know that he’ll be there.”

I grinned and whipped out my cell, grateful that I’d remembered to bring it. No phone would’ve been the deal breaker.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She left me and my bike at the Water Street entrance and made me promise to be home no later than eight. The Arboretum, or the Arbs, as a lot of people call it, is a huge park just at the edge of our neighborhood. There are all these paths and trees and flowers, and people go there for picnics and festivals and just to hang out. Rumor is that older kids sneak in after dark to party and make out. Based on the number of beer bottles we’ve seen while looking for caches, I guessed the rumors were true.

For Ollie, the Arbs is like Treasure Island. Geocachers love the park because there are so many cool hiding places.

He was waiting for me at the bottom of Hemlock Hill. I spotted him from the top—short, spiky black hair, gray hoodie, jeans—facing the opposite way, perfect for sneaking up on. I rolled down on my bike as quietly as possible, avoiding rocks and sticks. He never turned around.

When I was about ten feet away, I yelled, “Put your hands in the air!”

Ollie jumped, arms straight over his head. I cracked up, and he turned.

“Gotcha!” I grinned.

“This time. But I’ll get you back.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I teased.

“Just wait,” he said. He pulled his portable GPS device from a cargo pocket. “So, according to the coordinates, we should be able to…”

I followed him down the hill, locking my bike against one of the gates as we went. Even though I’d asked my mom to drop me off, now that I was here, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I should tell Ollie what was going on. And I wasn’t one hundred percent sure this was where I should
be.
Was Grumps okay?