“Garlic!” I yelled as I fumbled with the cap of my spice bottle. “Get the garlic!”
Faster than a gunslinger, Remi drew his spice bottle from his pocket, uncapped it, and shook it furiously over his hand. Nothing came out.
“It’s clumping!” he yelled.
“My cap’s stuck.”
“Turn the other way.”
I spun on my toes to the left. “This way?”
“No. Turn the cap the other way,” he said.
Finally, the cap popped open. All the garlic powder spilled out, leaving only a dash of zombie protection.
“I’m out,” I said.
“You had the full bottle.”
“The powder’s on the ground.”
“Scoop it up!”
I dropped to the ground, sweeping the grass for garlic but finding only dirt.
“It’s blown away,” I yelled. “Run!”
Instead, my friend waved his clogged bottle of oregano/garlic in the air and advanced toward the tombstone: “Get back, creature of the undead!”
“Don’t use it like that,” I ordered. “Throw it like a grenade!”
Remi nodded and lobbed the bottle high in the air.
Trina Brewster stood up from behind the tombstone and caught the bottle like an outfielder snagging a pop fly.
“Just what are you two doing?” she asked, examining the bottle.
“Trina?” I said.
“You guys said something about garlic and grenades?”
“I just farted,” I lied.
“Yeah, gas grenade,” Remi said. “Silent but deadly.”
“Smelled like garlic,” I added.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Don’t tell me. Marty, you’re helping Remi find a tombstone for his sister to read.”
I stammered for an answer. “Well . . . it’s like . . . Remi . . . he . . . I . . . ”
“You wanted to cook something?” Trina waved the spice bottle.
“Why are you here?” Remi went on the attack. “Are you following Marty again?”
“Hel-lo,” she said snarkily. “I’m visiting my grandmother’s grave.”
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Over there,” Trina waved to the other side of the cemetery.
“Show us,” I said.
She scratched at her arm nervously and stuttered, “I-i-it’s over there somewhere. M-my mom is the one who always brings me here. I-I never paid attention. I think I’m lost. All the tombstones look alike.”
Sure that she was lying, I cornered her. “Maybe we can help you look.”
She glared at me. “I don’t need your help. If you don’t mind, I have to pay my respects.”
She spun around and walked away. The back of her hair was covered with tiny yellow leaves — the same ones from the prickly bushes.
“Wait a minute,” I cried out. “You have leaves in your hair.”
She brushed her head and shook out her hair. “So what?”
“Were you hiding in the bushes by the fence?”
“No.” She fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, looking like she had something to hide.
I decided to lay out a trap. “Well, that’s a good thing, because they’re poison ivy.”
Remi tried to correct me, “No, they’re not . . . ”
I elbowed him. “He meant they’re not regular poison ivy. They’re cemetery poison ivy.”
I cracked my neck to the left and right, then yawned, covering my mouth with both hands.
“Marty’s right.” He picked up on our signal. “It’s the deadliest poison ivy.”
Trina shook her head. “I never heard of it.”
“You didn’t read about it?” Remi asked. “Marty did.”
I nodded. “Cemetery ivy is a hundred times worse than regular ivy. The first thing that happens is that the person gets itchy all over.”
She looked down at her hands.
Remi added, “It starts in the hand.”
“Then it moves through the whole body in less than five minutes. In fact, doesn’t Trina’s face look red?”
I could see my friend trying to keep from grinning. “A little bit,” he said.
“That’s a very bad sign,” I clucked.
“Why?” Trina demanded.
“It means the infection has gone to your face,” I said.
She started to reach for her cheeks but stopped herself.
“I bet it feels like ants crawling up your face,” he said.
“I’m not itchy,” she claimed, but her nose twitched.
“Do you know what the worst thing about cemetery poison ivy is?” I asked. “It’s what happens if you don’t scratch.”
“What happens?” Trina leaned forward.
“You’ll grow a beard of leaves,” I said. “Scratching stops the ivy from taking root.”
Remi shuddered. “You’ll have a face of dandelions. Not the pretty yellow ones, but the ugly ones with fuzzy white heads.”
“Yes, and you’ll have to shave every day,” I added.
Trina scrubbed her face. “Ew. Gross! Get it off! Get a doctor. I’m going to have weed face!”
As she danced around the tombstones, scrubbing her cheeks, I smirked. This was great revenge for all the times she picked on me, but when she didn’t stop screeching, I started to feel a weird flutter in my chest. I felt like I was listening to a baby cry; I had to make her stop.
“Relax,” I said. “There’s no such thing as cemetery poison ivy.”
“He’s lying,” Remi said. He whispered to me, “Don’t let the monkey butt off the hook.”
She stopped scratching. “What do you mean?”
“I made up the ivy story to prove you were hiding in the bushes,” I said.
“You’re no fun,” he said, elbowing me in the ribs.
Trina glared at us, “You won’t find it so funny when I tell everyone I caught the two of you Crossing The Line.”
“No one’s Crossed The Line,” I said. “It’s just a coincidence that we’re here at the same time.”
“Hel-lo. I know you’re friends. I’ve been following you everywhere. The library. The hardware store. And now here. I know you’ve been trying to catch this Graffiti Ghoul. Except, you’re on the wrong track. It’s not one ghoul; it’s a bunch of them.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
Trina took off her backpack, unzipped it and reached in. She pulled out a piece of wood, the broken piece from the shed door. One side was blank, but the other side had a spray-painted “s”.
“I found this near the shed. It fits at the end of ‘Ghoul’,” she said, smugly trumping our investigation with her evidence. “The real message was ‘Ghouls Rule’.”
More than one “Ghoul.” Why hadn’t I figured out that the “s” might have been missing from the word “Ghoul”? Did this confirm my theory that the Gangstas were responsible for the graffiti? If Trina had the “s”, what other clues did we miss and she find? Was she a better detective than Remi and me?
“What else do you know?” I asked, pretending not to be interested.
“That’s none of your business,” Trina said.
“Why do you even care about this case? You think you’re Nancy Drew?” Remi said.
She shot back, “You two think you’re the Hardy Boys.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Hardy Boys,” I said.
“There’s nothing wrong with Nancy Drew.”
“She’s a girl,” Remi said. “Like you.”
“Well, this girl is taking over the graffiti case.”
“Says who?” I said.
“Hel-lo. I’m Litter Patrol Leader,” Trina said. “Graffiti is litter, and this is my jurisdiction.”
“Who’s Jerry Dixon?” Remi asked. “Is he related to Franklin Dixon, the guy who wrote the Hardy Boys?”
I could figure out the meaning of hard words by listening for the smaller words that made up the big word. “Juris” reminded me of Jurassic, the dinosaur age. “Dick” was old-time slang for a private detective, and “shun” meant to stay clear of, or avoid. Putting them all together, I figured “jurisdiction” meant that Trina thought we were extinct dinosaur detectives and wanted us out of her way.
“She’s telling us to drop the case,” I explained.
“Forget it,” he said.
I agreed with my best friend. “We found the graffiti first. We found the can of spray paint. And we’re going to find the criminal. We don’t need another partner.”
“I’m not going to be your partner. I’m going to be your boss, and you’re going to be . . . my Nancies.” She grinned wickedly.
“Nancies?!” Remi blurted. “No way.”
“You can’t make us do anything,” I said.
“Sure I can. I’m using my authority as Litter Patrol Leader to make you my Nancies. And now I’m going to delegate you your assignments.”
“What’s that mean?” he whispered.
“It’s when I tell other people to do work and I get the credit when the job is done,” said Trina.
“You can’t make us work for you,” I said.
“I can make your lives miserable,” she threatened.
“You gonna tell everyone we Crossed The Line?” Remi asked, sneering.
“There’re worse things than ninety-nine nurples.” Her cold voice sent shivers up my spine. What was worse than ninety-nine nurples? She turned and started to walk away.
I whispered to Remi, “Don’t get her mad.”
He whispered, “She’s bluffing. Besides, we’ll crack this case before she can do anything to us.”
I hoped my friend was right, because I was pretty sure that no amount of garlic could ever stop Trina.