"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was.
"Is there a skunk outside?"

"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen.
"You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."

---

 
9. Fumes
 

After Mallory said that thing about Susan having "highest level of intelligence of any girl in the school," Susan walked on air the rest of that day.

And her attitude toward Mallory did a complete turnaround. Yesterday — this morning, even! — she didn't just not like Mallory. I think she actively despised the girl. But now, she couldn't do enough for Mallory. She held the door for her, offered helpful remarks, paid her compliments, and so on. She even began repeating Mallory's quips to me as if they were jewels of comic wisdom.

Don't ask me why it made me angry. I don't know why. But I steamed and sputtered all the way home.

How on earth could Susan be so easily taken in? And why did Mallory have to make me part of the deception? Well... the second question was easier to answer. Mallory wanted an audience.

I didn't want to admit it, but it was a clever move on Mallory's part. She didn't flatter Susan directly — Susan would have seen right through that. Instead, Mallory attributed the flattery to Miss Overmore, knowing that Susan would never dare check with the pretended source.

Also, the flattery was as good as true. I mean, Miss Overmore could easily have said something just like that. And Susan probably did have the "highest level of intelligence" of any girl in the school. She was brilliant, hardworking, and thorough. When it came to unraveling mysteries, she was a regular Sherlock Holmes.

Which is exactly why she shouldn't have been fooled by Mallory! She was too smart for that!

I felt so frustrated — and disgusted — that I actually balled up my fists and growled. Out loud, there on the sidewalk! Then I realized how stupid I must look... but after a quick glance around, I was relieved to see that I was alone. No one could have heard or seen me.

And as I looked around, I realized that once again I hadn't been paying attention to where I was going! I was just about to turn the wrong way again, toward work — or toward the street where I'd been hit.

I sighed and kicked a little stone out of the path. It danced across someone's lawn and disappeared under a bush. Then I turned and walked the other way, toward home.
 

---

 

The minute I walked into the house... well... I want to say I could smell it, but my nose was still packed with gauze and other medical junk. And yet, I could tell that something was in the air... something nasty. I could feel it in my throat, and it made me gag.

"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was. "Is there a skunk outside?"

"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen. "You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."

"So there is a skunk? I mean a stink?"

"No," she said. "It's flowers. Lilies. They do have a strong scent. Some people don't like them, but I find the fragrance invigorating."

I grimaced.

"You'll change your mind when you know why they're here," she told me, with a coy smile that said I know a secret!

"Did somebody die?" I asked.

Mom rolled her eyes. "Really, Marcie!" she objected. "No. Of course nobody died. Someone brought flowers for you!"

"For me? Why? And who?" And I didn't say it out loud, but in my head I asked, And why did they bring such horrid-smelling ones?

Mom led me into the dining room, and there, in an enormous vase, were a dozen lilies. Each flower was at least six inches across. They looked nice; in fact, they were beautiful. The flowers were wide open, curving out in stiff sweeping bells. The petals were intensely red in the center, fading to bright white edges, and freckled with dark red spots.

"A picture would have been better," I groused, and then the scent caught me hard in the throat. Gack! Gack! I coughed. I couldn't stop. My eyes were bulging, and I was gasping for air. At last Mom took my arm and led me away to the kitchen. She had a expression of long-suffering resignation on her face.

"Honestly, Marcie, you've got to be putting it on," she said as she poured me a glass of water.

I gaped at her in surprise. "Mom!" I cried, "that smell is—" But before I could say another syllable, the doorbell rang.

"That's probably for you," she said. "When the boy brought the flowers, he didn't want to leave a note or a message. So I told him when you'd be home."

I went to the door, very puzzled. If it was a guy who liked me, he was definitely starting on the wrong foot. And if it wasn't that, what on earth could it be?

I got my answer the moment I opened the door. "You!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, me," the boy said, wringing his hands and looking at my feet. He let out a loud, heavy sigh. He had the air of a wanted criminal who'd turned himself in. He was expecting to have the book thrown at him.

Did you guess who it was? It was the boy who hit me in the face.

"I came to apologize," he said. "I never hit a girl before. Never. I'm ashamed of myself. I wasn't raised that way. I know it's wrong, and I'm very very VERY sorry."

As he spoke, I glanced down toward the street. I pretended not to notice the car and the woman sitting inside it. I had no doubt that she was the boy's mother, and she was there to make sure that he delivered his message.

The boy was in agony. I had the feeling his mother had given him hell.

"Don't beat yourself up over it," I told him. "I know you didn't hit me on purpose."

When I said that, I paused for just a second. I wasn't done talking, but he thought I was.

The boy relaxed and even smiled, and was just about to turn and run off. So I quickly told him, "Wait!" He froze and turned back to me, looking a little sullen. "Now what?" he asked.

"It was good that you came to apologize," I told him. "Even if it was an accident, it still hurt, and I hate going around with these stupid bandages and stuff."

"I said I was sorry," he said, a little resentfully.

"I know," I said. "But there's something I want to know. Did you apologize to the boy?"

His expression changed to a bewildered frown. "To the boy?" he repeated. "What boy? Do you mean me? Why would I apologize to myself?"

"No, I don't mean you! I'm talking about the boy you were beating up."

He frowned. He looked genuinely perplexed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"You know that boy you were beating up? That little boy?"

"Yeah," he said in a distainful tone, as if the question was stupid and the answer was obvious.

"Did you apologize to him, too?"

The boy scoffed. "For what?"

"For beating him up!" I said. "For being a bully."

"I'm not a bully!" he replied, sounding offended.

"You were beating up a kid who's half your size! Do you think it's wrong to hit a girl, but okay to hit a boy?"

He looked at me like I was crazy, like he couldn't believe I'd asked such a thing. From then until he left, he kept his eyes on me as if I were some unpredictable loon. "Yes," he said, as if explaining something simple to a not-very-bright child, "It's okay for boys to fight. Boys are supposed to fight. It's how we get strong. It's natural."

"Oh, no no no," I told him. "It isn't natural and it isn't right. It's not right to beat up anybody. Especially someone who can't defend themself."

He continued to keep his eyes on my face, and he turned a little, ready to run. He told me, "You only think that because you're a girl. You don't understand."

I was beginning to get upset. I could feel the blood pounding around my eyes and nose. It was beginning to hurt. I needed to calm down, or I was in for a lot of head-splitting pain.

"Okay," I said. "Forget it."

"Can I go now?" he asked, without missing a beat.
 

---

 

The next day at school, Susan and Mallory were so happy being best friends that they were downright giddy. I hadn't seen Susan smile so much in a long time. The two of them really seemed to have clicked in a way that Susan and I didn't, and honestly I felt left out. Still, I had to be glad for Susan: Even if Mallory had started things off with a lie (or a half-lie) it was clear that she sincerely liked Susan, and the two were having fun together.

They disappeared right after lunch, without saying where they were going.

... which me alone with Blair.

And Blair — who was already weird on a good day — was moody.

She wasn't talking. Blair never did talk much... in fact, it was easy to forget she was there. Still, I felt obliged to get her talking, to make her feel welcome. But it was heavy going. I was getting tired of wracking my brain for something to say. I kept tossing her the conversational ball, but she'd reply with a "yes" or "no" or some some other short answer. She killed every topic I raised.

Just when I'd had enough and was about to give up and leave, Blair's eyes abruptly narrowed, and her lips pressed into a tight straight line. I turned my head to see who on earth she was looking at. To my surprise, she was focused like a laser of hate on the artist, Mr. Theo. I gave her a quizzical look.

"I don't like that man," Blair told me. "I don't like him at all. I don't trust him."

"Why not?" I asked her. "He seems nice enough to me."

"He's very creepy," she said. "He shouldn't be allowed to wander around the school."

I turned and watched him chat with one of the nuns and a few of the students. I searched his face, his manner for some trace of the creepiness Blair mentioned. But I just couldn't see it. All I could see was a likeable, kind of boring, harmless adult. After straining to see what didn't seem to be there, I turned back.

"I don't see it, Blair."

"I did," she replied. "I did and I do. I saw it right away. When he spoke to me, the hackles when up all over me. That night, I told my parents to sign the sheet so he would leave me alone."

"Really?" I asked, very much surprised. "But did he *do* anything to you, or say anything suggestive or bad?"

"No," she said. "It's just a feeling I have."
 

---

 

After school I went straight to the tea shop. We were very busy, maybe the busiest we've been since I started working there.

I was glad. It was good to be busy. It kept my mind off all the things that were bugging me. I even forgot about my stupid nose.

The customers just kept coming. For the first time, we had people waiting for tables. It didn't let up until dinner time, and then the place emptied out. Jordan's father went into the back room, and Jordan and I were left alone.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.

I laughed.

"No, really," she repeated. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!" I replied, "I thought you were joking, because—"

"Yeah, I know," she said, smiling for once. "We say it a hundred times a day."

I took a table near the counter, and she brought over two cups and a pot of lemon tea. Then she set down a dish with four little cookies called madeleines. I love them. They look like little yellow scallop shells.

I bit right into mine, but Jordan broke off a piece and dipped it in her tea.

I suddenly remembered that I had something important to tell her.

"Oh, Jordan!" I said. "I didn't have a chance to tell you this, but..." and then I explained (as well as I could) what I'd heard from Maisie and Susan about Ponzi schemes.

I fumbled quite a bit, and as I talked, I realized that I'd forgotten a lot, and it didn't make as much sense as when Maisie or Susan explained it.

But Jordan was able to fill in the gaps, and she got it. She really got it. And it made her angry.

"I knew it!" she said. "I knew that woman was bad news! I knew it!" She jumped up from her seat and ran into the back room to tell her father.

At that moment, I knew I'd made a big mistake. It was as if I'd been working hard to get a fire lit, only to see, once I got the flame going, that I was burning somebody's house down.

I don't know why I didn't see it before, but right now I was sure that Mr. Fisby wasn't going to be happy. He wasn't going to like this at all.

Nervously, I stood up and cleared away the tea things, and just as I'd finished tidying up, Mr. Fisby burst from the back room, his eyes aflame.

"Marcie," he said, "I am so upset that I can barely contain it!" Jordan stood behind him. She looked angry, too, but for a different reason.

Mr. Fisby put his face so close to mine that our noses nearly touched. He wasn't shouting, but he spoke with such intensity and anger that it made me more than a little afraid. "Who do you think you are? WHO do you think you are? What makes you think you — at fourteen... fifteen years old — can stick your nose in MY business? Are you an expert on investments, Marcie?" When I didn't answer, he said, "Tell me: ARE you?"

"No," I answered in a small voice.

"Do you know anything at all about money? about managing money? Can you tell me the best ways to invest?"

"No," I said.

"And yet, you come here, causing trouble, filling Jordan's head with lies and misinformation—"

"They're not lies!" Jordan shouted. "She's right!"

Mr. Fisby turned to her and said, "You and I will talk later. For now, I don't want to hear a word from you. Do you understand me? NOT ONE WORD!"

"You've filled her head with lies and misinformation and NONSENSE about things you don't understand at all! Where do you get off? And where did you get all this crap that you fed her? Don't tell me that you made it up; I won't believe you. You must have gotten this idiotic trash from somebody else. You've been telling somebody about my business, haven't you!"

Oh, my God. If there was ever a time for a lie, it was now. "No," I said.

He softened a little at that. "Well, that's something, anyway," he said. "Please continue to NOT discuss my business. With ANYONE."

Then he looked at the empty tea room. He looked back at me.

"I hope you understand why I'm upset," he said. I nodded. "So... tell me, then: Where did you get all that foolishness you told Jordan? Did you get it off the internet?"

"Yes," I said. "The internet."

"Hmmph," he scoffed. "I hope you know you can't believe everything you read there."

"Am I fired?" I asked him.

He thought about it, but then he shook his head. "No," he said. "You're not fired." He smiled grimly. "You're a terrible investment advisor, but you're a good waitress. And I need a good waitress. Just don't ever do this again. Do not get into my business, Marcie. Do not discuss my business. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, sir."

He sighed, then looked over his shoulder at Jordan, who was sulking in the back room. "Why don't you go home now, Marcie. I'm going to need to go through this mess you've made with Jordan. I might as well close up early."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fisby," I told him.

"All right," he said. "Just don't do it again."
 

---

 

When I got home, I made the mistake of telling my mother what happened. She was shocked. And angry. Maybe even angrier than Mr. Fisby.

"Marcella Antoinette Donner!" she exclaimed, "Who on earth do you think you are?" And then she launched into a long form of the scolding Mr. Fisby had already given me.

"I'm just amazed!" she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe he didn't fire you on the spot!"

"I guess I'm a good worker," I said.

"Oh, Marcie," Mom said, "when will you ever learn?"

Learn what? I thought. But I knew better than to say it.

Then, unexpectedly, Mom abruptly changed gears. She tousled my hair and hugged me. "But still," she said as she squeezed the life out of me, "I'd rather have you doing this than shooting murderers."

"Oh, Mom!" I said. "What melodrama!"

"Be that as it may," she said, releasing me and looking at my face. "How's your nose doing?"

"It's okay," I said. "I feel like the bandages ought to come off."

"Oh, good!" she said. "But you might be glad they're in this weekend."

"Why?" I asked. "Are you getting more lilies?"

"No, silly! I have a little job for you."

Uh oh! "What is it?" I asked in a suspicious tone.

"Painting," she said. "We need to paint the nursery, and you're the one to do it."

I groaned. "Painting?" I whined. "Why me? Why can't you?"

"I'm pregnant," she said. "The fumes could hurt the babies."

I growled in frustration.

"That sounds like a yes to me," Mom said, laughing.

I almost asked whether Dad could do it, but I knew that he was busy. Mom was right: it had to be me.

"Oooh, look at you," Mom teased, pushing my hair back. "I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears. But don't worry: *your* fumes won't hurt the twins.

I stomped off to my room and threw myself on my bed.

Fuming? Yes, I was fuming. Everything seemed to be going wrong. Something had to change. Something had to change SOON!

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way