Thursday after school, and there are cops in the parking lot, talking to people. Nobody from the flash rob, though—at least not that I saw—just random people. How could they tell the robbers were kids? People had on masks. But I guess you might as well check, since kids can be serious shitheads, and it’s probably smart to begin with the school closest to the Kwiky Pik—which is ours. It will take them a while if they go student by student. Henderson has a thousand people.

Glad I didn’t drive today. A white delivery truck might stick out in a parking lot of regular cars.

Nobody’s home when I get there at three thirty. Lou has to walk, of course, since I rode Ramona, so it takes her a while. I think she has drama club and Macbeth planning, too. I have to restock my parents’ truck when they get home, but they’re not home for at least two more hours. There’s time for vendetta planning.

The first thing I need is a yearbook, which Lou has, so I grab it out of her room. Then it’s time to think about clothes. In the ballroom, there’s a closet, and inside that closet is all the fabric my mom used when she sewed, any kind of fabric a person could want. She used to make costumes for a children’s theater group, so there’s fancy stuff and plain stuff. And tulle. That’s what I really want.

I take the yearbook to CopyNow and make ten copies of each flash robber’s face, including Lou’s, making them bigger and bigger each time. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a stack of paper a mile high that cost thirty dollars, but I’ve got lips, noses, and eyes galore, in a bunch of different sizes.

Then I drive over to Epic’s garage, which is only about fifteen minutes from CopyNow. I knock on the people-sized door on the side of the building, but nobody answers. When I try the doorknob, it opens. For all I know, Epic’s got the door rigged and I’ll get slammed on the head by a sandbag, but I go in anyway.

I find three male torsos and three female ones, which is what I need, plus a bunch of arms and legs. Lucky for me there are mannequin stands in the jumble, too.

Before I haul out my last load, I write a note to Epic: Thank you for allowing me to use your mannequins and stands. I will take good care of them. I will also be over to use your sewing machine later today. You are a god and I am not worthy. Humble thanks again, Frankie Neumann. Anybody who talks back to the crappy parts of culture the way he does deserves god status.

Because I don’t want them to get banged up, I load all my mannequin parts into a net so they don’t rattle around in the back of the truck. Netted body parts look almost creepier than a pile of body parts.

When I get home, I lug the net up the stairs to the ballroom, careful not to bang the parts around as I go. Donna Russell is waiting for me, looking surprised that I’m bringing her all these scraps of humanity.

Of course there’s tulle involved—every mannequin will get a skirt, and underneath the skirt will be tulle. For the fabric of the skirt itself, I try to choose something I know they’d hate. For Carter, he gets roses that look like they’d be more appropriate on someone’s grandma’s dining room chairs. But I also cut a bunch of footballs out of this ugly brown fabric that looks like it belongs in a barn. I draw the laces on with a marker.

Carter gets footballs because he’s the kicker for the Henderson High football team. He’s not your regular drama geek. I’m sure he did the flash rob because he wanted to hang out with Sarah Taylor, who’s definitely a drama regular. She held the gun more than once.

The footballs get pinned onto an ugly tunic thing I cut out of this circus stripe stuff that looks like it came straight from the seventies, and then I’m ready to go back to Epic’s and sew. I stuff it all into a garbage bag, just in case anybody’s home downstairs, but nobody is. The house is still quiet, which is a miracle, because it’s six and usually everyone’s home by now. I make sure Lou’s yearbook gets back in its exact spot.

Just as I’m pulling out, my parents are pulling up, Magic Wizards that they are, in their stupid purple truck with stars on it. My mom waves at me and I roll down the window.

“Where are you going? You know you have to restock the truck.” No Hi, how was your day? or Gee, Frankie, you’re the coolest son ever, just directions and orders.

“I’m going to Pizza Vendetta for a little bit. Geno needs help with moving the back room around.”

“Be home soon.” Dad nods. “You’re a good guy to help Geno when it’s not your day to work.”

“Yeah.” I wave and try not to gun my engine when I leave the driveway.

When I get back to Epic’s, I knock on the door. No answer. But when I open the door, there’s a sewing machine set up in the middle of a cleared space, all plugged in with a long extension cord.

Guess it’s OK to use it. Except that I have no freaking idea how to sew.

What I do instead could not be considered sewing, it’s so ugly, but I manage to close the seams of the shirt, sew the footballs on with one line of stitching for each football, then bind the skirt pieces together and stitch them onto a long piece of elastic. Nobody’s ever going to ask me to be on Project Runway, but that’s OK.

On the front of the shirt, I also tack on a sign that says HAVE YOU SEEN ME? I DID IT. It’s just printed on a white piece of fabric with a black marker. To the bottom of the skirt, I sew another, smaller sign that says ORIGINAL FAKE BY MISS VIXEN. I decided on “Miss Vixen” for a name because it seems Lou-ish, and the letter V is kind of stuck in my consciousness, thanks to Pizza Vendetta and its damn pepperoni fun agenda. But I know if she were choosing aliases for a secret project, she’d adore it. Then I draw a zip-up banana bus, very small, in the corner.

This is the first piece of art I’ve signed since that damn banana bus poster.

Once I check everything over and make sure I’m done, I shut off the machine and shout, “Thank you, Uncle Epic,” into the air.

The lights blink on and off, and I almost jump out of my skin. He’s been here watching the whole time. I think back, trying to remember if I farted or did something gross because I thought I was alone.

“You’re the best street artist in the world.” I can’t help myself. The lights blink on and off again.

“I’m your slave for life, except for the sheep thing. I’m not looking forward to that.” A laugh comes from somewhere back by the wall, and the lights blink on and off three times.

“Thanks again. You’re amazing.” I sound like a chucklehead. One last blink. I let myself out the same door I came in.

When I get home, it’s seven fifteen. Lou is doing homework at the dining room table, and my mom is making a salad to go with a lasagna that’s just out of the oven. Dad and I load the truck up with more bottles of spray cleaner and containers of Ajax, plus enough paper towels to turn all of us into mummies. Lasagna takes forever to cool.

Finally, when supper is over and I’ve coughed out the fact that I’m thankful for my longboard, I can sneak out to my truck, then visit Donna Russell’s lair and see how everything looks on Carter. I get his clothes on, and they actually stay where I put them. I was afraid they’d be too big. I try and give him kind of an Elvis pompadour for his hair, but it sags into a David-like swoop. Yarn doesn’t stay where you put it. I also shape a bunch of fabric into a football-looking thing, then cover it all in the brown yarn, so Ghoulie Carter has a football to hold. Then the look is complete. He’s draped on the mannequin stand like a rag doll, but a rag doll with attitude. It’s completely freaky and very, very cool.

I have no idea if a tulle underskirt will be enough to help people guess who Miss Vixen is, but I hope so.

Around one, the house is quiet. Once I’ve checked on everybody to make sure they’re asleep, I carry Carter down the ballroom stairs. When I get him out the front door, I put him in the passenger seat of the truck and belt him in. He looks like a drunk. The mannequin stand goes in the back, bungeed to the wall so it doesn’t rattle around.

It’s taken me a long time to figure out where I want Carter to go, and where I’ll put his companions once they’re made, but why not be obvious? The Kwiky Pik is the best choice. Carter’s mannequin looks like he’s being casual, talking to someone invisible on the bench. He’s a Big Zombie Ghoulie Man on Campus.

A woman parks at Ghoulie Carter’s end of the building while I get him situated, and she gives me a weird look. Hopefully she’ll be the only one who sees me. There are no windows over here, and people walking in the front can’t see me around the corner. The only thing here is a park bench and a butt-holder for cigarettes. It’s shadowy, too—all the lights are in the front of the building. Perfect.

A drunk guy comes around the corner, sits down on the bench and says, “Hey, man, long night, huh?” He nudges Ghoulie Carter and laughs in his face, like he’s a real guy, completely ignoring me. The dude’s fumes give me a contact high. He smokes a quick butt and leaves, but not until after he’s punched Ghoulie Carter in the arm, which almost knocks both of them over.

I make a Twitter profile for Miss Vixen: Street artist. Careful observer. Dedicated truth-teller. I follow a bunch of popular people at school, then all of Lou’s theater friends, and then a bunch of random people from a few other schools. You never know how social media will work, so it’s good to spread out. A couple people follow back right away—even in the middle of the night.

The Kwiky Pik is two blocks from Henderson High. Enough kids go over and get coffee, muffins, and whatever that word will spread fast.

As long as nobody steals him between now and eight a.m., things are set.

When I get to school in the morning, tired as hell, Ghoulie Carter has already done his job. I hear people buzzing about who they think it is and asking who people think Miss Vixen is, and wow, wasn’t that thing cool and ugly. I can’t stop smiling. Literally can’t stop. In the space of a week, I’ve gone from a nobody pizza maker to a tiny-bit-famous ghoulie maker. I’m not as epic as Epic, but it’s enough for now. No place to go but up.

When Rory sits down next to me in Spanish, she studies my face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Why?” I should tell her, but I can’t yet. I want to keep it to myself for just a while longer. She’ll guess, I’m sure. The mannequin parts will give it away.

She frowns. “Something’s different about you. I can’t figure it out.”

I wave my fingers in front of her face. “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

She turns away and focuses on Señor Gonzalez. But there are lots of sideways looks.

I can smell her again. It’s grapefruit, I think, and flowers, and something sort of spicy. She always smells different, but it’s always phenomenal. I try to smell my pencil instead so I’m not distracted by her. Then she catches me smelling my pencil and rolls her eyes.

At the end of class, she turns to me to say something, then her eyes get big. “I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“You’re smiling!”

I’m both embarrassed that I don’t smile and annoyed that it took her so long to figure out the emotion on my face. “Am I really that grouchy-looking?”

“Not grouchy, but serious. This is so much nicer!” Her voice tells me she’s not kidding. “It’s a good look for you.” Her smile in return is sweet and slightly do-me-now, all at the same time.

“Um . . . thanks, I guess.” Is it bad or good that I’m so serious all the time? Maybe it’s just realistic, or maybe I’m a crabby asshole.

Rory’s out the door as soon as the bell rings. I don’t get a chance to practice my smile on her again.

In the hallway, I hear, “Who do you think Miss Vixen is?” and “That is one weird-ass face on that creature.” Now there’s a chance to practice. I can feel the breeze on my teeth, I’m smiling so big.

Then I hear, “Did you hear there was a flash rob at the Best Buy on Golden Valley Boulevard?” That one makes me pause, and I slow down in the hall to eavesdrop. Evidently it was a bunch of people dressed as ninjas. The video’s on YouTube again. Lou’s group started a trend, it looks like. Or maybe they did it again. Two felonies for Lou. Nice.

After school, I check Twitter, and Miss Vixen has been followed by a hundred people, which isn’t much in the real world, but it’s fantastic for an imaginary person. A couple people tweeted back pics of Ghoulie Carter—in the first photo he’s got shoes, beat-up old brown wing tips, almost exactly like Donna Russell’s, down at the bottom of his mannequin stand. Someone wrapped a scarf around his neck, too. In the second photo, he’s got a cup of coffee in his hand along with the new shoes and scarf.

There’s also a tweet from someone named @reallytrulyepic: Great creature. Or do you call them creatures?

@ArtistMissVixen: I call them ghoulies.

This can’t really be Uncle Epic, can it? It’s just someone with “epic” in their Twitter handle. How would he find Miss Vixen?

@reallytrulyepic: Fantastic work. Body parts went to a worthy cause.

Oh holy shit. It really is him. I practice my teeth-in-the-breeze smile again.

I glide by the Kwiky Pik on my way home, and Ghoulie Carter’s still there, cup of coffee in hand, though it’s kind of falling out, since his hand doesn’t bend in the way it needs to. The shoes and scarf make him look a little like a GQ model, just with a skirt. The football is down by his feet, forgotten in his quest to look fancy.

Friday night again, and I don’t have to work, which is rare. Mom’s performing, Dad’s performing. I’m in my room and there’s a knock.

“Yeah?”

Lou sticks her head in the door. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“That zombie guy by the Kwiky Pik. Did you see him?”

“Yeah.” I’m relaxed. Mellow.

“Who do you think Miss Vixen is?” She’s giving me a look like I should know something.

“Who’s Miss Vixen?” I am the picture of straight-faced innocence.

“She’s the one who made the monster dude. A street artist. She’s got a Twitter account and everything.” Lou makes it sound like the only thing a person needs to be legit is a Twitter account.

“I have no idea. I’m doing homework here, you know?” I point at the book on my desk, which is a history of street art, but she doesn’t know that. I’m on the chapter about Space Invader, and the chapter about Uncle Epic is coming up.

“You’re not doing homework on a Friday night, and I think it’s Allison Lawson. She’s the one who asked me to be a part of it in the first place. I think she’s trying to get back at people for—” She clamps her hand over her mouth.

“For what?” I’m interested.

“Forget it.” Lou glares. There’s a buzz, and she pulls her phone out of her pocket. Her eyes get wide, and she frowns. “Just forget I ever said anything.”

She slams the door and disappears. Something isn’t right in Lou Land.

Ha.