Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation) Read online

  “I gotta go,” I said, taking my backpack and tossing it over my shoulder.

  “Good luck with that,” Jack said. “Oh, and you’re welcome.”

  Can one—not even real—severed head cause a lump to grow in your throat? There was no way I could look at Miss Information’s unblinking eyes all weekend, so I stowed her in the biggest of my old-timey suitcases. But every time I passed by the foot of my bed and saw the suitcase, my throat started to swell up like the time I had tonsillitis.

  Mom would call it my conscience. More than anything, I just wanted to go back to Wednesday and get a do-over. I would spit-swear to be very, very, very good for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t go back. I had to go forward.

  On Sunday night, I got the courage to open up the suitcase and pull her out. She’d survived all the jostling, except one little patch where her eyelashes had fallen out. I searched the bottom of the suitcase with my spyglass. No eyelashes. Next I searched my backpack—the first place I’d hidden her away. Nope.

  If I put her back like this, Miss Melton-Mowry was sure to know something was up! I needed help and I needed it fast.

  “That smell is disgusting, Magda. You’re not cremating moths in the halogen bulb in there, are you?”

  “Is it that obvious from the hall? Dad will kill me.”

  Dad wasn’t due back from his buying trip until tomorrow, but Magda had learned from experience that the smell of charred remains lingers.

  I went in, pinching my nose. “You’re supposed to put a wet towel in the door crack. Why don’t you ever listen to me? You’re hopeless at being a sneak.”

  Magda opened the window. “I’m burning samples of hair I collected from our carpet. I want to take them with me to Greer College to see if I can still recover DNA. Cass, they have a scanning electron microscope there! Do you have any idea what those things cost? We’re allowed to bring as many samples as we want…. ” Magda stared out the window, no doubt imagining a magnifying lens as big as her bed. “I plan to put that thing to good use.”

  “You’re not going until August.”

  “So? I bought a three-ring binder with ten vinyl sleeves for microscope slides and enough mounting medium to bring seventy-two samples.”

  “You didn’t find any of her hair, did you?” I produced Miss Information’s head from behind my back. “Once I get this back on her shoulders, I don’t want any evidence linking me to her abduction.”

  “You mean its abduction,” Magda corrected me. “I agree with you. We should practice calling her ‘it’ in the event of a court case. No, I didn’t, but when I was looking for my old mounting slides in the basement, I found this.” Magda pulled open her top dresser drawer and handed me a fuzzy black-and-white photo of a woman with a spear in her hand; she was bending over a dead elephant; its tusks had been cut off. The back of the photo read: “Hunting poachers…too late!”

  “Who’s she?” I asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Great-Grandma Reed. The dates fit, and remember she had all that stuff from Africa in her apartment?”

  “Great-Grandma Reed hunted poachers and she sends me to etiquette school! Where’s the sense in that?”

  “Search me.” Magda reached over and pulled out a single strand of Miss Information’s hair. “Maybe that’s why it smells so bad in here. Maybe I did burn some of this hair; inorganic material gives off a stronger smell. Whoa. Wait a minute, Cassidy. Hand me that magnifying lens. I think…this is real hair!”

  “What?”

  “What?” Jack’s voice echoed mine as he pulled himself through Magda’s bedroom window. “Open window. Three heads? Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Miss Information has real hair,” I told him. “They must have scalped somebody for it!”

  Magda had Miss Information’s head wedged under her arm like a football; pulling out one strand at a time, she examined each hair under her lens.

  “They probably just bought someone’s hair, Cassidy.” Magda examined something on her finger before sticking it in my face. “Do you realize that she’s losing eyelashes, too?”

  “That’s what I came in here for. Please don’t tell me those are real, too. Oh, man. I have the worst luck! If I find them, can you glue them back on with your slide stuff?”

  “Mounting gel? No. That won’t hold them permanently. I’d check the bottom of your backpack if I were you.”

  Magda’s one eye behind geek glasses and a magnifying lens stared at me in accusation.

  “Seriously, Magda? Don’t you think I checked there already?”

  “You could always buy some,” she suggested. “I’m sure they’re fake.”

  “No problem, Mags.” I took the head from my sister. “I’ll just go borrow Mom’s car!”

  “I know who has fake ones,” Jack said. “Bree.”

  Magda nodded. “Jack’s right. She has lots of makeup stuff.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to go knock on her door at eight o’clock at night and say, ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Benson. I have this creepy head with real hair and missing eyelashes and I’m wondering if Bree could loan us some of her fake ones to replace them’?”

  “Not loan,” my sister corrected me. “She’d have to give them to us.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll go through her window. Pass it here.” Jack cupped his hands at his breadbasket, like I was going to toss him a football.

  “You…go through Bree’s window?” If I didn’t like to talk so much, I’d be speechless.

  “Just once. She told me she wanted to learn how to get out in case of a fire. But I think she likes the idea of sneaking out herself.”

  Five minutes later, we were standing outside, looking up at Bree’s window. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t sneaking out of the house net you some bad karma?”

  Jack shrugged. “You know the rules better than I do.” He tossed a couple of pebbles at Bree’s window. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe she’s not home,” I said. “We could use a little of Miss Information’s hair to make our own eyelashes.”

  “She probably has her headphones on.”

  “Well…try this.” I handed Jack a rock the size of an ostrich egg.

  “That might break it.”

  “Gee, you think?” I got some karma amnesia and hurled it up there myself, missing the window by inches.

  The window flew open and Bree’s leg was dangling in midair before Jack could say “We’ll come up!”

  “I need the practice.” I watched Bree lower herself like Catwoman with…was that one of Jack’s Manila climbing ropes?

  “Phew. How’d I do?”

  “Faster than green grass through a goose,” Jack said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “Uh…?”

  “I’m teaching Jack some Southern sayings,” Bree explained. “That one’s my aunt’s favorite. It’s like…faster than greased lightning.”

  How much of a beating can one karma take?

  “Now, how can I help you two?” Bree pulled her long hair out of the back of her shirt, the same thing Jack had taught me to do so hair didn’t get caught in the rope on the way down.

  Jack held out Miss Information’s head.

  “Well, look at this pretty thing. Where’s the rest of her?”

  “In a recycling bin,” Jack said.

  “That’s not…true, is it?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s just cardboard and they don’t pick up until the day after tomorrow. I’ll get her back by then.”

  “We need to know if you’ve got some fake eyelashes. She’s missing a few.”

  “I can do more than that.” Bree turned the head this way and that, admiring it from all angles. “I would love this head to practice my hairstyles. What I can’t figure…” She held Miss Information up so she could see her better in the porch light. “Why would they give blue eye shadow to a blue-eyed lady?”

  “What difference does it make?” I asked Bree. “Can you do it?”

  “Of course I can do it. If yo
u promise to tell me the story of how you got her. I love a good story.”

  “I can’t tell you tonight. My mom will be up to say good night any minute.”

  “Can I fix her up and give her back to you tomorrow?” Bree asked, petting her hair.

  “We have to go early.”

  “You say when and she’ll be ready.”

  “How will you get back up there holding on to her?” Jack wondered. It was the sort of puzzle he liked to figure out.

  “I can still slip in the back door. Mama hasn’t locked up yet.”

  “Deal.” Flicking the rope, Jack made the grappling hook come loose, caught it and started rolling up his rope. “Eight o’clock sharp. Right, Cass?” He handed the rope to Bree. “I owe you one.”

  Putting the rope over her shoulder with the hook at her back, Bree said, “You don’t owe me anything, Jack Taylor. It’s because of you that we’re almost unpacked and settled.”

  After Bree left, I sat down on the ground. “All this for nothing. It’s a not-prank.”

  “Think of it this way,” Jack said, sitting down beside me. “You’re still sharpening your skills. Boy, what a night. Look at the bats in the streetlight.”

  “Can’t.” I covered my eyes. I couldn’t think about anything but getting that head back on its shoulders. “Now I have to convince Magda to go in early with me. I’ll have to promise her something.”

  “You want me to help you find a dead squirrel?”

  “No. She’s got three in the garage freezer. Maybe a cracked bird’s egg. She likes stuff that really stinks.”

  —

  The next morning, after I promised Magda three DO NOT DISTURB cards, a cracked egg and a dead baby bird, she said to Mom, “Hey, Mom. I’ve got these burning questions about the right way to sign the emails I’m sending my camp professors. I never know whether I should say ‘sincerely,’ or ‘best wishes,’ or even…‘in gratitude.’ Do you think we could go early to Cassidy’s class so I can ask Miss Melton-Mopey?”

  “It’s Melton-Mowry,” I corrected her.

  “I thought you called her Melton-Mopey.”

  “Not to her face,” I whispered, hoping my enormous cereal pour would cover the sound of my voice. For the record, Magda is the worst liar in the history of…well, pretty much recorded history.

  “I had no idea you were struggling with this, Magda. Hmmm…” Mom consulted the calendar. “And I guess your sister can’t help you because in week two it seems you are still practicing your table manners.”

  Even though Mom was talking to Magda, she looked straight at me after she’d finished with the calendar.

  Time to get dense as iridium.

  “Well…” She put her hand on my forehead. Mom swears she can tell by my temperature when I’ve been up to no good. “I guess Miss Melton-Mowry wouldn’t mind a quick question, and I do need a new cell-phone battery. Okay. How about we leave in fifteen minutes?”

  I looked down at my bowl, imagining all that mush in my stomach. “I better go find my backpack,” I said. “We have to take a lot of notes in etiquette class.”

  I shouldn’t have added the part about the notes because I’m not really known for caring about those. But I was getting all fluttery inside! This was starting to feel like one of those bank jobs on TV where the cops are waiting for the robbers in an empty vault.

  Slipping out the back door, I ran over to Bree’s, where I found her sitting on the porch with the head in her lap.

  Instead of just shoving the head in my backpack, Bree held it up for the whole neighborhood to see. “Take out these pin curlers right before you put her head back on. And tuck a few strands of hair behind her left ear. That’s her best side.”

  “Thanks, Bree.” I reached out for Miss Information, but Bree took the backpack instead, unzipped it completely and laid the head inside like it was a present.

  “Hold it like this,” she instructed me, cradling the backpack like a baby. “And no jostling. I used cement glue. It needs a full twenty-four hours to cure.”

  Whatever.

  “That’s a powerful amount of paper you need to take notes with,” Mom said as I got into the car. Mom really should have gone into police work. She knew I’d done something already. Once, I heard her say to Dad that the only way to get me to straighten up and fly right was to let me suffer the consequences of my actions.

  Delton was right about this being a prank in a death spiral. “Anybody got a paper bag?” I asked.

  “Feeling sick, dear?”

  When we arrived at the School of Poise and Purpose, we said good-bye to Mom and waited for her to pull out of the parking lot before hightailing it around to the back alley.

  “Quick, get the rest of her out of there.” I found the empty milk crate for Magda.

  “It, remember. Get the rest of it.”

  “This is no time for a grammar lesson, Magda. Fish her out.”

  Magda lifted up the lid. “Oooh, it stinks in here.”

  I think I have provided sufficient evidence to demonstrate that when Magda says it stinks, it really, really stinks.

  “It was perfectly clean last Wednesday.”

  “Well, it is a recycling bin! I told you leaving her in here for so long was risky. There’s been a big dump of something…get me a stick.”

  I found a broom wedged between the recycling bin and the trash bin and handed it to Magda.

  As Magda stirred up the boxes with the handle of the broom, she added, “And when will you learn, Cassidy? There is no such thing as ‘perfectly clean.’ There’s always residue. Boost me up, will you? I can’t see.” Holding Magda’s foot in my hand, I tried to stay steady as she rooted through the bin.

  “Nope. Sorry, Cass. She’s not in there.”

  “But it says right here…no pickup until—”

  “They didn’t pick up. The boxes are still there. I guess…somebody must have found her.”

  “It, Magda. It! You’re the one who keeps telling me!” I sat down on the ground. “Who steals a dummy with no head from a recycling bin?”

  “We better go in and tell your teacher,” Magda said. “Before Mom gets back.”

  I would have followed Magda, but I had to sit down and feel my stomach to make sure my organs were still in the right place. Being responsible for the disappearance of the teacher’s special mannequin seemed certain to earn me a failing grade in etiquette school.

  Not to mention the criminal charges.

  Spending time in jail would be good experience for an aspiring hobo like me; but would I still have to take etiquette lessons upon my release? Would Mom and Dad get a refund for the class to apply toward my bail? Would Great-Grandma Reed turn over in her grave? I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly—but somehow I knew that, if at all possible, the old bat would haunt me.

  “Cassidy?” Bending over, Magda put her hand on my knee.

  “I shouldn’t always assume the worst, should I, Magda? Janae says we create our own reality. Maybe we can find Miss Information’s body around here somewhere.”

  “Cassidy, I found her. You better come look.”

  We stood behind a big cement pillar, staring into the School of Poise and Purpose. There sat a headless Miss Information. Her skirt was torn and there were red smudges on her blouse. She looked a little worse for wear, as they say.

  Across from her sat a police officer!

  “Magda, is there a shipwreck worse than the Titanic?”

  “No, Cassidy, there isn’t.”

  “The jig’s up, then. Time to take my punishment.”

  I walked through the door and placed my backpack at the officer’s feet. “Let’s get this over with,” I said, holding out my arms.

  The officer looked at my hands. “It’s the right one,” he said. “You shake with the right.”

  “Aren’t you going to clink the cuffs on me? I’ve got the head in this bag.”

  I guess they don’t make police officers as smart as they used to; all he did was rub his chin and
look up at me. “That doesn’t seem very polite…especially right before class.”

  Miss Melton-Mowry came out of her office. “Sounds like someone has a confession to make.” She crossed her arms and waited. I resisted the urge to say it was all Delton’s fault and looked at my shoes while I figured out my next move.

  The officer reached into the backpack.

  “Hold it.” Stepping in, Magda took the head from him and unclipped the curlers. “Which ear?” she asked me.

  “Left. It’s her best side,” I explained to Miss Melton-Mowry as Magda fitted the head back on the mannequin and spun it around a time or two until it was tight enough to stay on, even if a little crooked.

  It was time for me to say something. “If you want the whole truth and nothing but, I have to tell you, it isn’t pretty, Miss Melton-Mowry. The fact of the matter is this was all Delton’s idea.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’m Cassidy.” I shook hands with the police officer, nice and firm. “Uh, sorry. Miss Corcoran.”

  “And I’m Officer Weston.”

  I kept on shaking, hoping Miss Melton-Mowry was taking note of how good I was at introducing myself. “And that’s my sister, Mag—Miss Corcoran, the second.”

  Magda didn’t answer because she was hyperfocused on Miss Information’s blouse, using her library card to scrape some of the red stuff into her palm.

  “That’s not”—I broke off for dramatic effect and pressed the back of my hand to my mouth—“blood, is it?”

  Magda sniffed her fingers. “Pizza sauce, I think.”

  Officer Weston took a finger full and sniffed it, too. “Yep. When I hauled her out, she was covered in pizza boxes.”

  “But you’re not allowed to recycle pizza boxes in Grand River!”

  “There’s been a rash of illegal dumping since the city started charging for trash by the pound,” Officer Weston added.

  “None of this explains how she got there in the first place, Miss Corcoran, and obfuscation is not the way to handle this issue.”

  Miss Melton-Mowry’s body language—crossed arms, narrowed eyes, one tapping foot, frown—was looking suspiciously like Corcoran-family sign language for “cut the crap and move it along.”