The Karma Club (10 page)

She unscrews the top and squeezes about half of the tube into the Tupperware bowl. “The Crisco alone is not smooth enough.
The conditioner will also help mask the smell of the shortening.” She mixes expertly with her plastic spoon as she speaks. I can tell she’s enjoying this immensely. Probably more than I am.

When she’s satisfied with her concoction, she carefully lays the spoon inside the Tupperware bowl and replaces the plastic lid with a firm pat. Then she reaches out and hands the container to me. “You know what you’re supposed to do now, right, Maddy?”

I bite my lip and take the container from her. “Yes.” But my voice wavers a bit more than I planned.

Angie catches on to my uneasiness and removes a folded-up piece of paper from the shopping bag. With an impatient sigh, she unfolds it and spreads it out on the counter. “Okay, let’s look at the map again.”

I lean forward and study the multicolored diagram that Angie has sketched of the first floor of Heather Campbell’s house. Angie turns the page around so that the little mahogany-colored rectangle labeled “Front Door” is closest to me. “Here’s where we park.” She points to a circular driveway in front of the house. “If you pull the car to this far side of the circle, it will be unseen from the front door.”

With eyes wide, I nod compliantly.

Angie traces a line with her finger around the side of the house and stops at a smaller violet-colored square at the back that has been marked with a large gold asterisk. “And here is Heather’s bathroom window. It’s fairly low to the ground, so you should have no trouble climbing through.”

Because Angie and Heather used to be best friends, Angie had practically grown up in the Campbell house and knew the layout almost as well as her own. Ever since the start of this particular
mission, I’ve had a feeling that Angie’s motives for getting revenge on Heather Campbell might be even stronger than mine. Although she claims that Heather is not worth the saliva it takes to gossip about her,
I’m
not the one who sketched out a detailed blueprint of her house using what looks like, judging by the diversity of color, at least a sixty-four-count crayon set. So I’m not exactly sure whose payback initiative this really is. Not that it matters. I’m sure Heather Campbell has a
long
list of outstanding Karmic retribution that extends far beyond our little circle.

“Do you want to take the map with you?” Angie asks, folding it back up and handing it to me.

I shake my head. “No. I think I got it.”

Seemingly satisfied, Angie tosses the map back into the shopping bag. “Okay, then. I guess it’s showtime.”

By the time the three of us pile into my car and drive the two miles to Heather Campbell’s, the sun has completely set and darkness has almost entirely settled in. The butterflies in my stomach are already starting to take flight, beating their wings softly at first but with the promise of a much more tumultuous journey ahead. The Tupperware bowl filled with our secret weapon is resting safely in my lap as I steer the car into the Campbells’ driveway and Angie directs me to our predetermined parking place. We know from overhearing a conversation in the hallway that Heather is at Jenna’s house tonight, we hope commiserating over her looming breakup with Mason.

Angie starts to instruct me as she unbuckles her seat belt. “Once we’re through the door, count to one hundred and then sneak around the back to the bathroom window.”

I nod again. “Got it.”

Angie pulls a clipboard out of her backpack and hands it to Jade in the backseat. “Ready?”

Jade grins as she takes the clipboard and swings the car door open. “Absolutely.”

I fidget nervously in my seat as I watch them walk up to the front door and ring the bell. I can feel my pulse quicken when I see Mrs. Campbell appear and welcome her unexpected visitors. From inside the car, I can’t hear what’s being said, but I can see Jade pointing at the clipboard in her hand. If they’re following the script we wrote the other night, she’s most likely describing the survey they’re conducting for an economics class project on spending habits. And then they’ll explain how helpful it would be if Mrs. Campbell could answer some simple questions about her everyday purchases.

I watch as Mrs. Campbell smiles obligingly, and I can actually read her lips as she says, “Of course,” and swings the door open wider, allowing Angie and Jade to enter the house.

I take a deep breath and slowly count to one hundred before quietly opening the car door and stepping out on the driveway. I’m suddenly very appreciative of the hideous black sneakers Jade insisted I wear, because the rubber soles seem to absorb the sound of my feet making contact with the pavement.

At approximately this moment, Angie will be asking Mrs. Campbell if she can use the bathroom. Then she’ll slip out of the kitchen, make her way to Heather’s bathroom, and open the window for me to climb through.

Because of my less-than-pleasant recent history with Mason and Heather, it was unanimously decided that I should not, under any circumstances, be seen by anyone in that house. If Heather’s
mom just happened to say something to her daughter about me stopping by (regardless of whatever bogus school-project-related reason we managed to come up with), suspicions would automatically be raised and everything could fall apart. Therefore, it was decided that I would enter the premises through
alternate
means.

I make my way around the side of the house, holding tightly to the Tupperware container and being careful to duck under the ground-floor windows. As I slink under the one that the diagram labeled as the kitchen, I can hear Jade’s voice saying, “Yes, Honey Nut Cheerios seems to be a popular choice for families. Seven out of the ten houses we’ve been to so far have had at least some variety of Cheerios in their pantries. Now, if you could show me what kind of dish soap you use.”

As was expected, with her impeccable acting skills, Jade is pulling off the charade flawlessly.

It takes me a little while to reach the back of the house. Partly because I’m moving at a very cautious pace, so as to not make any unnecessary noise, but mostly because of the sheer size of this place.

I’m just rounding the corner of the house and can see the gold-asterisked window from the map when I’m suddenly struck with a very disturbing thought. I stop and warily glance around me. Just as Angie’s diagram illustrated, the house backs up to a small forest. This means that, fortunately, there are no neighboring houses to serve as potential witnesses to what I’m about to do. Although that was a comforting thought back when the mission was designed, now that I’m actually here, with my hand physically
touching
the stucco exterior of the house, I can’t help but feel a giant rock forming in the pit of my stomach. As if the million
butterflies that were fluttering around suddenly decided to stop dead in their tracks and bunch together into one giant, burdening lump of mass.

What if I get caught?

What if my “night camouflage” isn’t enough and someone actually
sees
me? Could I actually go to
jail
for something like this?

No!
I hear a voice argue back indignantly.
That’s ridiculous.
Mrs. Campbell would never allow that. Obviously, I would just have to make up some lame excuse as to why I happened to be climbing through her daughter’s bathroom window . . . dressed entirely in black. Surely there has to be a believable explanation for that.

But my mind is completely blank. Because the truth is, there is no plausible excuse for something like that. At least not one that doesn’t make me sound like a crazy psychopath stalker.

Maybe Angie and Jade will send me care packages in prison. Ones with real soap and yummy-smelling lotions to counteract the stench of my dirty orange jumpsuit. Maybe my little sister, Emily, will be a pal and slip a metal spoon into the bottom of a gift basket so I can dig my way out of my cell over the course of the next five years.

In my mind, I’m just starting to rehearse what I’ll say to my family when they come visit me in prison when I see the window in front of me slide open and Angie’s head pops into view. She waves hastily and beckons me closer. I quickly blink out of my trance and remind myself that we don’t have time for this kind of paranoia. I diligently push the fears from my mind and scurry toward the open window. I hand the Tupperware bowl to Angie and then hoist myself up onto the ledge. Headfirst and slightly less gracefully than I envisioned, I heave the top half of my body
through the open window. Momentarily suspended in the air with my feet outside the house and my torso inside, I’m even more grateful for the fact that there are no houses behind me. At least no one can see my big black butt hanging uncoordinatedly out of Heather’s bathroom window.

Angie grabs both of my hands and pulls the rest of my body through as I slide awkwardly onto a soft and fluffy white bath mat that seems to be strategically placed there just for me . . . like a very chic landing pad.

Once fully inside and back on my feet, I take a moment to glance at my surroundings. The walls are painted a velvety shade of sky blue accented with dark wooden cabinets and mirror frame. There are several tea light candles in shallow wooden cups lining the countertop and plush white towels hanging from the rack.

Even Heather Campbell’s
bathroom
is perfect,
I think.

“C’mon,” Angie hisses impatiently, snapping me back to reality. “What are you waiting for? Help me look for it!”

I tear my eyes away from the miniature banana tree in the corner of the room and notice that Angie has already started frantically searching through cabinets and drawers. I quickly join in, scouring the contents under the sink for something that resembles the picture in the brochure.

“Got it!” I hear Angie’s hoarse whisper come from above my head. I see her pull the familiar-looking white and purple plastic jar from the medicine cabinet and place it on the counter. She wastes no time uncapping the Tupperware container.

“Okay,” she whispers excitedly. “Let’s make the switch and get the heck out of here.”

The butterflies are now back and flitting happily around in my stomach as I remove the lid of the Myzaclin jar.

This is really happening!
I think to myself.
It’s actually going to work!

But when I look into the open jar, my breath suddenly catches in my throat, and my whole body turns cold.

Angie is standing poised next to me, plastic spoon in hand, prepared to scoop out the contents of the jar, wash it down the drain, and replace it with our improved concoction.

“Uh . . . Angie?” I manage to say weakly, without making eye contact. “There’s a
slight
problem.”

Angie cocks her head to the side and glares at me with an impatient look. “What?”

I hold out the open jar for her to look inside and see what I see. “It’s green,” I tell her apologetically.

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “Green? What the . . .” Then she violently rips the jar from my hands and holds it closer to her face, tilting it at different angles. As if the light reflection might actually cause it to change color. But of course, it doesn’t.
“I don’t understand, how could it be green?”
she shrieks loudly. Much
too
loudly.

In a panic, I reach out and put my hand over her mouth. “Shhh!”

“I don’t understand,” she whines, much quieter. “All the pictures in the brochure show
white
cream!”

I take the jar from her and study it. Something immediately catches my eye, and I point toward a small line of text on the label. “Now with soothing cucumber extract,” I read aloud. “That’s probably where the green is coming from.”

Angie grabs it back from me once again and reads the label for herself. “Crap!” she yells softly. “This must be some new variation or something. What the heck are we supposed to do now? We can’t replace green face cream with white face cream!”

At this moment, it’s almost as if Angie and I have entered some kind of strange parallel role-reversal universe. Because for the first time in the history of our friendship, she’s the one who’s totally freaking out while I seem to be struck with an unusual air of calmness.

“Well,” I say with a deep breath. “I guess we’ll just have to find some green food coloring.”

Forty-five seconds later, Angie and I have hastily laid out a very rushed but seemingly feasible plan of action. When she rejoins Jade—who I’m sure is quickly running out of bogus questions to ask Heather’s mom in the kitchen—I listen quietly at the bathroom door for my cue.

After a few moments of muted small talk coming from the end of the hallway, I hear Angie say loudly (for my benefit), “Um, wait a minute. Jade, you forgot to ask Mrs. Campbell about her laundry detergent.”

There’s a short silence, in which Jade is most likely shooting Angie a puzzled look and Angie is probably trying desperately to convince her with her eyes to just go with it. I’m assuming it worked, because I soon hear Jade play along with “Oh, right. I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Do you mind if we visit the laundry room now?”

I duck my head out of the bathroom and see Mrs. Campbell,
Jade, and Angie step into another room. Then Angie’s arm shoots back into the hallway as if it is no longer attached to her body and her hand motions quickly to me before closing the door behind her.

I dart quietly into the kitchen and immediately start opening cabinets around the oven, next to the sink, and over the dishwasher. It certainly doesn’t help that the kitchen is large enough to cook for an entire army despite the fact that the Campbell family is made up of a humble three people.

Okay, think,
I sternly command myself.
Where does my mom keep the food coloring?

For some reason, I can picture it in the pantry, on the shelf with the baking items. I close my eyes momentarily and try to see it in front of me. Baking powder, baking soda, salt . . . food coloring. Yes! I’m sure of it.

As soon as I open my eyes again, they land on a pair of white doors on the far side of the kitchen. I race across the tile floor, careful not to squeak in my rubber-soled black sneakers, and swing the double doors open. In one glance, I know I’ve located the pantry. I quickly skim the shelves, row by row, until I come across the familiar labels and brand names of popular baking ingredients. And then, there it is: food coloring in assorted colors. I breathe a loud sigh of relief as I reach for the green box and hightail it out of the kitchen.