Dairy Queen, Phoenix, Arizona. Aka the main campus of the Academy of Spirits, according to my mother. Apparently, there’s a satellite campus in Canada somewhere. Probably in an igloo.
Gripping the handle till my knuckles go white, I stand at the glass door. I am so not ready for this creepy, freaky, ghostly experience.
I stare into the restaurant. At least DQ’s not too crowded. Just a few construction guys ordering at the counter and a very pregnant woman zoned out in front of a giant Oreo Brownie Earthquake poster. I count to ten to get my courage up, then yank the door open and step in.
An arctic blast from the air-conditioning smacks me in the face. I sniff for coffee to see if my mother’s around. Negative. Nothing but a heavy, syrupy, ice creamy smell.
I round the corner, heading for the famous back booth. I slide in and wait, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
With a sudden gust of coffee scent, Mom says in my ear, “Not this booth. The other back booth.”
I look around in confusion. “What other back booth?”
“Through the door. Follow me.”
“I can’t go there. It says Employees Only.”
“Hurry, Sherry. Mrs. Howard doesn’t tolerate lateness.”
With puffs of wind, she hustles me forward till I’m squished up against the door. I shoulder it open and step across the threshold.
Zap! Zap! Zap!
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”
Zillions of teeny sparks zing and ping me. I’m trapped in some sort of Star Trek force field.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!”
“Keep walking, Sherry,” my mother says.
I stumble out of the portal of pain and slump to the floor. Every inch of my skin tingles and itches. “I’m injured. I’m injured,” I groan.
There’s a feathery fluttering as my mother moves across me, checking me out.
“You’re fine. Your hair’s just a little messy.”
Ack. Eek. Ike.
My hair, if I can still call it that, bounces and springs back against my palm. It’s like a giant bird’s nest after a violent windstorm. I doubt even gallons of pricey salon conditioner will calm it down. I’ll probably end up getting a buzz cut and starting from scratch. And I don’t think Josh dates bald girls. Certainly Candy has hair.
“My—my hair,” I stammer, “my hair.”
“It’s not that bad, Sherry,” my mom says. “Stand up. She’ll be here any minute.”
My mother is not known for her sympathy. With a minimum of moaning, I pull myself to my feet. While reclipping my frizz, I gaze around. I’m in front of a booth identical to the one on the other side of the door. Well, almost identical. A Blizzard sits in the middle of the Formica table.
“It’s for you,” Mom says. The tall cup scoots toward me. “Oreo Cookie.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Oreo Cookie’s my fave.
“It was Mrs. Howard’s idea.”
I scoop up a spoonful. “I thought you said she was mean.”
“Shhh. And I didn’t call her mean. I just said you don’t want to tangle with her.”
The words are no sooner out of her mouth than the booth swells with the smell of cinnamon rolls. Fresh, warm dough, melted sugar, lots of cinnamon. It’s like I’m in the Cinnabon store at the mall. Only yummier.
I raise my shoulders and inhale deeply. Like a cat, I arch into the back of the bench, my spine xylophoning along the slats while the tension of the day slowly drains out of me. I’m totally chill and mellow. Cinnamon rolls do that to me. And Mrs. Howard smells like a cinnamon roll.
Wait a sec! I’m actually smelling a ghost other than my mother. That’s never happened before.
The bench across from me creaks and shifts.
I squint. Wow! I can make out a faint shape. A faint overweight, short, snowballish shape. I can very vaguely see Mrs. Howard. I wonder if it’ll be like that with my mother once she’s advanced through a bunch of Academy levels. What if one day I could actually see my mom? My throat goes all hard-to-swallow.
“Howdy, y’all,” a female voice says, the vowels stretched out and drowsy.
“Hi, Minnie May.” My mom sounds tense, her words crisp and clipped.
“Sherry, honey, I am so glad to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Mrs. Howard.”
Her voice is musical and friendly, full of kindness and hospitality. I can just imagine how in real life, she’d fold me up in a big, squishy, cinnamony hug. She is so not mean. Obviously, my mother is a lousy judge of character.
I smile. “Nice to meet you too.” I scoop up a spoonful of Blizzard. It melts into a tiny ice creamy puddle on my tongue.
“I want to thank you, Sherry, for taking time for us from your school day. Here at the Academy, we all admire your talent for juggling an active teen life and our spiritual business.”
Loving this Mrs. Howard. She so gets me.
“Sherry, honey, here’s a little something to make it easier when you need to summon your mama.”
A ziplock bag drifts lazily down from the ceiling, landing lightly on the table in front of me.
Mrs. Howard says, “Arabica espresso beans. From Costa Rica. Easier to handle than a cup of coffee.”
Coffee is what I use to call my mother. It’s a beverage I can’t stand the taste of.
I have spilled way too many cups of java, ruining way too many cute outfits. So, coffee beans? That’s rocking. “Wow. Very cool. Thanks.”
Mrs. Howard’s fuzzy head nods. “Okay, girls, time for y’all to get serious,” she drawls.
A hologram of a plasma screen appears on the wall. It’s blank for a moment with Halloweenish, bad-guy organ music playing in the background.
Uh-oh. Up on the screen is a head shot of me. I can’t help but notice it was taken on a good hair day. I’m sitting on my bed, smiling and yakking on my cell. The screen splits. On the left half, The Ruler, in an apron, is calling me from the bottom of the stairs. On the right half, I frown but keep talking on the phone. She calls me again. I ignore her again. She calls me again. I still ignore her. She runs into the kitchen, turns off the burner where her spicy tomato sauce is bubbling away, trudges up the stairs and pokes her head into my room. I roll my eyes and snap my cell shut. Your basic teen attitude. But supersized.
My chest is squeezed tight like I’m wearing a rubber band shirt. How embarrassing to have my meanness captured on film.
A couple more scenes of me being rude to The Ruler and the screen goes blank, then disappears. Finally.
The delish Cinnabon smell has been replaced by burnt sugar.
“The Academy’s mission is to watch over and protect humans.” Mrs. Howard’s voice is all sharp and disciplining. “As of this moment, Sherry, the disrespect stops. Or you’ll lose the privilege of helping your mama.”
I gulp in some air. Shallow, fishlike breaths ’cause of the rubber band feeling.
“Now, let me brief you about your next case,” Mrs. Howard continues. “It involves Paula.”
The Ruler? I feel my eyes go round as water polo balls.
“She has a stalker,” Mrs. Howard says. “Y’all’s assignment is to identify the stalker and deliver him or her to the authorities. Do not, I repeat, do not let anything happen to Paula.”
“Is she aware she has a stalker?” Presto. My mother transforms into investigative mode.
“No, she is not,” Mrs. Howard says.
“How do you know it’s a stalker?” I ask. “And not just an annoyed student?” One of many, I think, but keep the thought to myself.
Mrs. Howard turns her blurry balloonish head toward me. “Because I trust the judgment of the Phantom Security Squad, the PSS. They’re a talented, experienced Academy department responsible for investigating misdemeanors against humans. If they’re convinced Paula has a stalker, I’m convinced Paula has a stalker.”
“What else does the PSS say?” Mom asks.
“They believe this to be a run-of-the-mill mystery,” Mrs. Howard replies. “We at the Academy expect that you ladies will be able to solve the case, all the while improving your relationship with Paula.”
Does the fun never end?
“By the way, I’ll personally be checking up on y’all. Making sure your behavior’s aboveboard.” With a loud rustle, like someone gathering up her petticoats, the roundish shape rises. “Because Paula and I are kin. We share a great-great-great granddaddy, which makes me Paula’s great-great-aunt. And we Southerners always look after our own.”