The most incredible thing happened: We have a gas leak at school.

That means no school.

That means it’s eight forty-five on a Wednesday morning and I don’t have anything to do for the next eight hours.

That means it’s a Frankie Day.

I took the truck—and Lou—to school because it’s raining, and Ramona and rain don’t get along. That means I have to bring her home, too. She looks kind of ill, actually, so maybe she needs a day off. My parents, of course, are gone.

Lou disappears into her room and Wicked comes back on. Aside from it being her sad music, Lou thinks she and Elphaba share some characteristics, misguided and shunned creatures that they are. It would be cool if Lou’s skin was green like Elphaba’s. I have to admit that.

Today was supposed to be a college fair, too. Yuck. People at school constantly want to talk about college and all that crap, you’re a junior, Frankie, never too early to start finding schools, have you taken the ACT or SAT, have you thought about your FAFSA, blah blah blah, have you thought about sticking it up your ass? Today I’m going to think about art instead, which is way better than thinking about college. Today I am Miss Vixen, VIP of my own life. And my first act as Miss Vixen is to go upstairs and take a nap next to Donna Russell. Naps are never bad.

One thing I don’t plan to do: dream about Rory. But she’s there, and I can smell her in the dream. She smells like toothpaste and soap, all clean and beautiful, not sexy and spicy like she normally smells. How can a person smell in a dream? I don’t know. Sometimes those kinds of dreams lead to those particular urges, and it’s uncomfortable when you wake up, so you have to fix that situation.

After lunch, it’s monster-painting time. Before I start, Miss Vixen tweets a picture of the corner of the worktable and a tiny bit of Donna Russell at the edge of the photo—just enough to be intriguing. Miss Vixen includes this caption: Workspace of the gods, guardian angel included. More ghoulies to come, more truth to tell. But not today. It doesn’t feel like a ghoulie day, whether I’m Miss Vixen or not.

Sid the Sasquatch is in need of some more paint, and I focus on making him look very chill while I also add villagers who are scared out of their minds. When I check my phone after Sid seems more or less done, I realize it’s four thirty, and work starts at five fifteen. Drag. But it’s been a good day.

I stop in the kitchen to grab a snack to eat on the way to work, and Lou’s sitting at the table. Her face is red and blotchy. It looks like someone’s slapped her.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You sick?”

“No.” Her voice is really small. “Just a bad day.”

“How could it be a bad day? We didn’t have to go to school.”

“Just . . . some dickheads.”

Miss Vixen’s doing her work, I think. “But nobody’s here to bother you.”

“Texts.”

I see the pools of tears in her eyes. “What are they saying?”

“Just . . . you know. Stupid, mean, untrue stuff.”

“So ignore them. Shut your phone off.”

“It’s not that easy!” She looks like someone’s taken away her Wicked cast recording.

“As a matter of fact, it is.” I take a bite of my apple. I’ve had one text all day, from David: We making ghouls today? One text more than I normally have, so that’s cool. I texted back No. I thought about texting Rory, but decided not to. Not after that dream.

She glares at me. “You don’t know how my world works. You can’t just blow people off.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness, for not knowing how the royal kingdom is structured. I thought the queen could do what she wanted.”

“Not when she’s not the queen anymore!” Lou bursts out of her chair and runs toward the stairs, crying like someone died. Worthy of an Oscar, I swear.

SLAM. Someday she’ll slam it off its hinges.

“You’ll get your crown back!” I yell after her. “God knows the monarchy will crumble without you.” I’m guessing the theater kids will all take her back after a while. Or she could branch out and find friends who don’t do stupid things like flash robs.

SLAM. Once more for emphasis.

Just another day in the kingdom of Lou.

Lou had the TV on, and it’s the early local news show on KALT. The news lady talks about Epic’s upcoming show at the Walker while she shows some footage of the sheep in Loring Park, and she says people are excited to see the show and the preview pieces he’s been leaving around the city. Then she slips this in: “However, metro area police forces are concerned that Uncle Epic is behind a string of flash robs—three so far—in various parts of the metro area. Each time, the robbers have been costumed. Though no direct link exists between the robberies and the artist, an all-metro task force has been set up in the hopes of finding Uncle Epic to determine his involvement.”

My blood pressure goes from zero to a million within five seconds.

It’s a good time to leave the house. If Lou and her idiot theater buddies put Uncle Epic in danger and ruin what I have with him, I will lose my wig.

When I’m on my break, I check Twitter to see if Miss Vixen’s hiding place got any retweets or favorites. The picture got retweeted three times—not horrible—and favorited ten times. Miss Vixen also got a few photos in return—one’s a table covered in fabric and yarn with the caption My lair, full of fabric. No guardian angel. One’s a sculpture of an angel made out of fabric plastered onto a wire dress form like Donna’s. The caption says My guardian angel.

What really blows me out? Miss Vixen has 217 followers. I don’t think I know 217 people in real life. Miss Vixen has more friends than I do. And for some reason, that seems appropriate.

One last tweet comes in before my break is done, from someone named @drseussisgod, and it’s the wall at the Kwiky Pik. Monster Matt is gone, which makes my stomach sink like a rock. The caption says, Ghoulies become ghosts. Thanks for the bodies.

I tweet back: Stop stealing my shit!

Nothing in return.

I look at @drseussisgod’s photo of the Kwiky Pik again. The glow-stick necklace is draped over one glittery shoe. The glow is gone. Monster Matt’s face is next to Ghoulie Carter’s, on the wall.

The KALT lady’s comments echo in my ear. Police involvement. Epic. Flash robs. The worker guy: Are you Uncle Epic? The newspaper article: suspicious art activity.

Oh my god. What if the cops are watching the ghoulies? They wouldn’t care about amateur monster sculptures in a parking lot—would they? What if @drseussisgod is really the police? Cops don’t tweet, do they?

I drive by on my way home and take one more picture and tweet it from Miss Vixen: Plz stop stealing my stuff. Borrowed the mannequin parts cuz truth telling is expensive. Thanks. The heads on the wall are still cool—even without bodies, the ghoulies are art, I guess.

Before I’m even out of the parking lot, there’s a reply from @drseussisgod: Tough shit.

@ArtistMissVixen: Why do you have to be an asshole? You a cop?

@drseussisgod: Not an asshole. Just an artist. Not a cop.

@ArtistMissVixen: Artists don’t have to be jerks.

Who does this guy think he is, Kanye West?

Maybe he’s not a guy. Who does this chick think she is?

@ArtistMissVixen: Just bring them back, plz. Costs $ to replace them.

Nothing after that.

Epic is going to see this photo and never let me do art with him again. Or Lou’s stupid asshole flash rob friends will actually get Epic caught before his show, and there won’t be any more art. Both of those scenarios are unacceptable.

When I get home, my dad and Lou are in the living room. Lou’s curled up in the crook of his arm, sobbing.

My dad looks up when he hears me. “Lou got kicked out of the Macbeth scene.”

“Why?” This is weird.

“The other two girls in the scene refused to work with her. And Ted couldn’t talk them into it. They wouldn’t say why.”

“Oh.” Clear and persuasive evidence that Miss Vixen is getting her job done.

“Be kind, all right?” He gives me his stern face. I must not be looking properly respectful of the tragedy. “This is important to her.”

“Yeah. Um, sure.” Lou is still sobbing. I don’t even know if she knows I’m in the room.

He goes back to holding and patting her, rocking her like she was six instead of fifteen. It sounds like Lou’s heart has shattered into a million tiny pieces.

Do the crime, do the time, right? And if her buddies destroy Epic in the process, then Miss Vixen is even more justified. It is unacceptable—I’ll say it again—for Uncle Epic to be brought down by dumbshit high school kids. But one tiny corner of my stomach still feels sick, listening to her sob.

I get them a box of Kleenex, then go up to my room and shut the door. Quieter that way.