I can’t say Tuesdays are my favorite days, but any day a ghoulie goes to the Kwiky Pik is always a good day. It’s noon, and there are easily three hundred people in the cafeteria. At least half of them are talking about Carter and Matt—the ghoulies, not the real guys. I’ve caught a couple people staring outright at Matt, the real guy, and whispering behind their hands. Maybe I should have been more subtle than using test tubes.

In one corner, there are dudes—possible Art Club dudes—studying someone’s laptop that seems to have a revolving slide show of all of Uncle Epic’s pieces. I sit down kind of close to them, just to hear what they’re saying, and it sounds like they’re coming up with a plan to lure Uncle Epic to TCF Bank Stadium—the football stadium at the University of Minnesota, which everybody calls the Bank. They’re planning to make a banner on a bedsheet that says UNCLE EPIC, PLEASE BANK HERE. When they’re not discussing how to get Epic to make a piece for them, they critique the works on the slide show. They don’t like the capitol eyes. Too average, they say. Not epic.

It’s hard for me not to lean in and say, So what have you done that’s epic? How hard have you worked on your street art? How many times have you called out your state government? I get busy digging my lunch out of my bag so I don’t say anything.

David sits down across from me. His skirt today is a plaid schoolgirl uniform thing—very pleated.

“Is that a kilt or a schoolgirl skirt?”

“They’re kind of interchangeable, not that you’d know.” He smooths his hair into its swoop. “I wanted to find you.” David leans closer. “Who exactly are the creatures? Is all the gossip right?”

“It’s not obvious?” I take a bite of my sandwich. “Footballs and test tubes? Remember who’s in the video.”

“It’s not like I studied it.” David looks around. “Obviously you did?”

“Gotta know the players when you’re constructing a plot.” My ham and cheese sandwich is about as terrible as it gets, but I keep chewing. I never eat school food. Gross.

“True.” David rubs his hands together like a mad scientist. “What’s your sister think about all this? Where is she?”

“In class somewhere. She eats third lunch.” I choke down the rest of my sandwich. The Know-It-All Street Art Boys have now moved on to discussing the piece where Epic spray-painted FASCIST PLAYPEN on a piece of the Berlin Wall. He got in major trouble in the press for that one, since they’re all protected memorials now, and it was pretty much the last time he used spray paint.

David’s listening to them discuss Epic’s work now, too. He looks amused, like he wants to go over and show them his Penny from Heaven and make them wet their pants, but he turns back to me. “So what do you call your monster project?”

“A vendetta.” I gather my trash. “A finger-pointing, ghoulie-making, crazy-ass vendetta that may or may not embarrass the shit out of her but I don’t care. I get to make art that’s fun and wicked cool, and says what I want to say, which is mostly just ‘screw you, Lou.’”

“Can I help? Seriously. Those ghoulies are so awesome, and I can make them even better. Please, can I help?” He looks at me like I’m going to conjure a puppy out of thin air.

“But you’re . . .” I almost say, You’re way too weird for the rest of the world, just like my family, and I need a different kind of friend, but I don’t. “Aren’t vendettas carried out by individuals?”

“No artist works by himself. Come on. All good artists have a crew. Epic has people all around the world. PLEEEEEEEASE let me help you.” He gets up, comes around to my side of the table, and gets ready to kneel. His hands are clasped in front of him like he’s praying to a god. Like I would pray to Epic, if I prayed. This is bizarre.

“Your skirt’s too short for you to get down on the floor, and you look like an asshole.” I yank him up by his shoulder as I stand up, too. He can’t make a scene, because then people will stare at both of us, and I don’t need staring. “You can help if you knock it off. There’s a few more ghoulies to go, plus a couple of props to make.” It’s never bad to have a helper.

“Thank you!” David flings his arms around me in a huge hug. The pleats of his skirt fly out from his body.

“Dude. Get off.” I move him away as kindly but as quickly as I can. People are, of course, staring at us.

“OK, sorry, yeah. Sorry.” He pats his skirt down and checks his hair swoop. “Thanks. When are you doing the next one?”

“Probably this weekend. Strike while the iron’s hot, all that. Do you think people are curious?”

“Oh hell yes!” He holds out a fist.

I bump it, then walk toward the trash can with my lunch garbage. “I’ll text you.”

“Yeah! OK. See ya.” David waves the goofiest wave ever seen in this cafeteria and hurries away. I have no idea why this is so exciting for him, but I’m starting to like the idea of having an assistant. Maybe he can sew.

David screeches to a stop before he gets to the edge of the caf and comes rushing back to me. “Did you hear about the other flash robs? At the Best Buy in Golden Valley and over in Wayzata at another Kwiky Pik? The Best Buy was ninjas, and the other Kwiky Pik was hippies.” He laughs. “Like hippies ever robbed anything.”

I frown. “Does anybody know if it’s Lou’s theater friends? Or somebody else?”

“No idea. See ya!” He gives me another Muppet wave as he runs off, pleats blooming out as he goes.

The art critic guys are gone, but there’s a newspaper where they were, folded to an article about Uncle Epic. I scan it—it’s the Pioneer Press, and it’s about the Loring Park piece. There’s a tiny mention of how the police are keeping their eyes open, following up on “any suspicious art activity in the Twin Cities.” I imagine some kid drawing on his sidewalk and the cops pulling up: Hey, son, can we have a look at your art? Are you hiding Uncle Epic in your house?

It can go in the scrapbook.

On my way to history, I pass a group of Lou’s friends, and they’re talking about skirts. Specifically, Ghoulie Carter and Monster Matt’s skirts. I love being a voyeur to Miss Vixen’s work.

“Did you see the tulle?” Random Girl #1.

“How could you miss it? Was she there that night?” Lou’s friend Amanda.

“I don’t know for sure. Do you think she’d tell? Do you think she already has?” Random Girl #2. “She’s horrible if she actually rats them out.”

“She’s not a bitch. If she was there, she wouldn’t tell.” Amanda.

“Maybe it’s not her. But who else would it be?” Random Girl #1.

“It could be Shannon Johnson. She’s always pissed at Lou for something. And seriously, it is a big deal. Someone should tell. That clerk guy almost died. I think he’s still in the hospital.” Lou’s friend Betsy, and she’s right. Mom said he’ll be out in a couple days.

“Why would someone go to the trouble of making those weird monsters?” Random Girl #1. “Too much work just to out some robbers.”

“Who knows?” Random Girl #2.

Amanda nods. And they wander away toward their next class.

If Miss Vixen were a real person, I’d shake her hand.

Last class of the day: Spanish. Rory. La señorita de la bueno smells. Why haven’t we learned the word for smell yet?

She’s knitting again, something green and blanket-like.

“What is that?” I slide into the chair next to hers.

“Long story. You can find out later, if you want to help me.”

“I could probably help you.”

“I thought you might.” She turns and gives me a smile that makes my heart jumpy. “When do you work next?”

“Um . . .” My brain isn’t processing. “Friday.”

“Friday night, then. I’ll be there after work.” She’s smiling like she means it. “It’ll be great.”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

We’re still close together, and she plants a kiss on my cheek. The sad, barren desert of my heart has been watered.

I have no idea what happens after that. All I know is that I missed telling Señor Gonzalez what the Spanish word for homework is (la tarea, duh) and I have extra homework.

When class is over, she packs up her knitting and gives me one more smile. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” I stay far away, and let her leave the room in front of me, to minimize my chances of blushing, stuttering, or doing anything else obscenely dumb.

• • •

“See you at home.” I wave as I glide by Lou.

“Frankie, you fartface!” She starts running, trying to catch up. “Wait for me!”

“No room for two on here.” And I leave her. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s standing at the street corner I just flew through, looking pissed and hurt and sad.

That was mean, not to wait for her. And I feel a tiny bit guilty. But not enough to stop.

After supper and mandatory family bonding time—so gross—I do my extra Spanish homework and all the other stuff that falls out of my backpack. Donna Russell watches over me, calmly making sure I’m safe and loved.

Then I get a call from Geno, asking if I’ll come in and make some pepperoni Zambonis, and I say sure. I leave a note on the table, since nobody else seems to be around, and I head to Pizza Vendetta. Dad and Lou are probably being witches.

Zambonis get made. Dough gets made. Geno gets happy. I get hours. Money gets made to replace Uncle Epic’s mannequin parts.

When I’m done, I swing by the Kwiky Pik, just to see what’s going on. Monster Matt is still there, and someone brought him a glow-stick necklace, which looks pretty kick-ass with the test tubes on his shirt. He’s got a pair of shoes, too, but they’re silver sparkly drag queen high heels. Someone also brought him a purse.

Miss Vixen goes to work documenting the scene and she tweets her thanks to her fans: Glow-stick necklace is phenomenal. <3 u, ravers. Shoes are RuPaul amazing, too. Ghoulie Carter frowns down from his wall, and Monster Matt is poised to take over the Kwiky Pik parking lot with his fabulousness. Somebody lit the candle that’s in Ghoulie Carter’s wing tip, but I blow it out. Are there flammable chemicals around here? I may want Lou to feel bad, but I sure as frak don’t want to blow up the Kwiky Pik.

When I get home, everything is still and dark. It’s only ten thirty, but you’d think it was three a.m., given how quiet the place is. My dad is reading in the living room. The pool of radiance from his table lamp is the only light in the house.

“Where were you?” He doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t you see my note?”

“Yes, but I was just checking.” Dad flips through his magazine like he’s looking for something specific.

“Checking on what?”

“On whether or not you were being honest. If you weren’t, you would have answered me in a different way.” He looks up and gives me a very fatherish stare, which fits with what he’s got on—jeans and a T-shirt. It’s kind of a relief when he looks like other kids’ dads.

“I would have?” I have no idea where he’s going with this.

“Your behavior’s been a little questionable lately, with all the late nights. We just need to be able to trust you again.”

“Oh.” Great. I brace for a lecture.

He shows the magazine to me. “Do you want to do this? Just us guys? Right after school gets out in June.”

He’s actually reading a big fat brochure for outdoor adventures and he shows me a kayak trip in the Boundary Waters, lodges and kayaks and food included. All we bring are hiking boots and bug spray. All four of us used to camp up there when Lou and I were little, and those were crazy trips—tents and battery-powered boom boxes with Broadway show CDs, everybody but me dancing and singing, plus lots of roasting marshmallows—but this is the first time he’s wanted to do something that’s just us.

“Um . . . why do you ask?”

“I thought it might be fun.” I can see in his eyes that he’s going to be hurt if I say no, but I have no desire to tramp through the woods and swat the huge-ass mosquitoes.

“Can I think about it? Won’t you have to work? Why don’t you ask Lou?”

“Your mom can always hold down the fort for a little while, and I can tell the theater I can’t be there for a weekend. And I don’t want to go with Lou—I want it to be just us. C’mon. You’d have fun, even with your dad.” He gives me a bright smile, trying to show me that it’s true, we really would have fun.

“Sure. I’ll get back to you.” And I might.

He calls after me as I leave the room. “We can stop at Betty’s in Two Harbors for pie.”

“Sure, Dad.” I go upstairs.

Lou’s door is closed and I hear music from Wicked inside her room. That’s the show she listens to when she’s sad. Or maybe she’s amping herself up to be the Macbeth witch, I don’t know.

The next set of stairs leads to Donna Russell and I pull a couple blankets next to her for a bed, then find a couple more to pile on top of me. I’m not sure why I like sleeping up here, but I do. Donna is my queen. She can watch over me all night and keep me safe from the idea of giant mosquitoes nibbling on me while show tunes play in the pine-scented air.

About three a.m. I realize I have to pee, and I’m really stiff from lying on the floor, so I go downstairs to the bathroom, then to my room. Wicked is still drifting from underneath Lou’s door. She must be extra sad if it’s been on for this long. Or she’s asleep.

I don’t knock and find out. Something zings through my head, something like a guilt twinge, but I’m too tired to care.