When I walk to my first class on Monday morning, three things catch my eye. The first is Ronson Reimer, standing outside the chem lab, with a combination lock in his ear. Ronson normally has huge gauges in his ears, so the hole is there already, but a combination lock? His earlobe is pulled so long he looks like a basset hound. Ow. And he’s totally mellow about the fact that some girl is spinning the lock dial, trying to get it to open while she’s chatting him up.

“Ronson, why?” We’re in at least two classes with each other every semester, so we know each other’s names.

“I got inspired.” He grins. “I think it’s art.”

The second thing I notice is that Ronson’s wearing a skirt. It’s closer to a utilikilt than one of Lou’s tulle creations.

“The skirt is part of your art? Where’d you get it?”

“Some online shop of skirts for guys. I think it’s called Represent.”

I laugh. David must be advertising. “Pretty cool.”

He nods and goes back to talking to the girl who’s trying to open the lock.

The third thing I notice is how many people are pointing to their phones. Not just looking at them, pointing at them. I walk close to a group of girls to see what they’re pointing at. One girl’s showing the rest of her crowd a photo of the ghoulies outside of the Kwiky Pik and one girl’s got a picture of the skirts, the one that David tweeted. They’re deep in conversation, talking about who each ghoulie might be.

Good job, Miss Vixen.

I catch a glimpse of Lou when I’m going to lunch and she’s going to class. She’s wearing an old U of M sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes—no skirt, no ballet slippers—and looking down, like she’s going to get smacked by someone if she stops long enough. She skitters by Allison Lawson, who was also at the flash rob, and Lou’s face lights up when she sees her. Allison turns her head away from Lou and rushes the other way. Complete burn. Lou’s face clouds over as quickly as it lit up.

The almost-pain rockets through me again. Obviously I’m losing my cred as a rebel. You’re not supposed to feel sorry for the object of your vendetta, are you? I need to get my vicious back.

Spanish class. Rory’s sitting in front of me again, which is crappy. When Andie Braswell comes in, she rolls her eyes and flops next to me, back in the seat where Rory’s been sitting. I shrug at her, since I don’t know what’s going on. She glares and opens her book.

Rory starts texting the minute Señor Gonzalez starts lecturing.

Still pissed you didn’t text me. Frowny face.

My bad. Frowny face in return. Did you have a nice weekend? I want to reach into my phone and take it back a nanosecond after I send it. What a dumbass thing to say.

Lonely. Frowny face. Want to repeat that last move sometime soon.

Not gonna say no. Smiley face. And then I want to reach in my phone again—the smiley face was over the top.

We need you on Wednesday night at E’s. Can I meet you at Pizza Vendetta?

Yup. I have to work anyway. See you around 9? Geno never makes me close on weeknights.

She turns around and gives me a look that’s best described as steamy, glossy lips slightly apart, with one eyebrow raised and arched, like what you’d see in some dumb magazine ad.

Andie Braswell laughs.

“Señorita Carlson! Turn around and focus on me.” Señor Gonzalez is not happy.

“Sí, señor.” She winks and turns back to him. I close my eyes and will my boner to go away before the class is over.

When I’m stopped at the stoplight, waiting my turn in the rush hour that is after-school madness, the passenger side door opens. A body flings itself into the truck.

“Hey! Who the frak do you think—” Then I realize it’s Lou. “Oh.”

“Who were you expecting? The Easter Bunny?” She buckles her seat belt. “It’s a family truck, butthead.” She’s breathing hard, like she ran to catch me. “Someday I’ll get to drive it, too.”

“Over my dead body.” The light is green, so I proceed like the turtle I have to be through the intersection. People drive like fools after school.

“Shut up, dick.” Her breathing is starting to slow down. “I don’t need any more attitude.”

“Why are you getting shit?” Let’s see what she’ll tell me.

“I’m not telling, because all you’d do is make fun of me.”

“No I won’t.” I put on my best I’m-a-good-brother face.

“Yes, you would, because you’re an annoying poseur who thinks he’s above it all.” She’s getting pissed.

“You’re a dilettante who thinks the entire world revolves around her.”

“You’re an asshole!” She’s shouting now.

I shout back, “Suck it up!”

Then she’s sobbing into her hands, weeping and wailing.

Instantly, shame sweeps over me. Lou carries on until we get to our house. Her big bushy hair covers her face, and her shoulders tremble like someone’s shaking her. I try very, very hard not to listen. When we get home, she flings open the truck door and runs for the house. I grab her book bag from the floor and pitch it on the couch once I make it inside.

I may have pushed it too far.

After a ham sandwich, a Coke, and some yogurt, it’s homework time under the watchful gaze of Donna Russell. But there’s something rattling in my brain, something I can’t quite grab. Then it hits me.

I go down and knock on Lou’s door.

“Go away. I don’t care who you are.” She still sounds sniffly.

“I have a question for you.”

“Ask it from there.” A loud sniff.

“Why can’t you just stop being friends with the people who are jerks to you?”

“None of your business!”

What. The. Fuck.

“Don’t move.” I look at Lou, who’s curled up on her bed with a very blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. Of course she’s barefoot. She always is, unless she’s wearing ballet slippers. “Get some flip-flops now.”

The fright is deep in her eyes, down to her core, but she’s trying not to show me that. She hops off her bed and makes a wide circle around the glass to the garbage can underneath her desk, which she kicks to me because it’s empty. “You don’t have to help me clean this up.”

“I know. Just get some shoes.” She digs in her closet while I start putting the biggest chunks of glass into the garbage. I look out the window, too, to see if anyone’s still out there. Of course they’re not.

Thank god Mom and Dad aren’t home. They’d lose their minds. Thank god Lou’s window is at the back of the house so they won’t see it. I wonder how much it costs to get a window replaced. Mannequins and windows. Good thing I never spend my Pizza Vendetta money.

Whoever sent the note with the cut-out letters isn’t kidding. They know where she lives.

Once Lou’s got some flip-flops, she approaches the mess. “What is this?” She picks up the chunk of sparkly gun and turns it over in her hands. It’s only the grip and a tiny piece of the barrel.

“Good question.” My face is probably the same color as the valentine on her bulletin board. “Go find me a broom.”

I get most of the big chunks up with my hands. She brings back a full-size broom and a little whisk broom, plus two dustpans, which aren’t entirely effective on carpet. Her garbage can is full of glass when we’re done.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad.” She’s pulling the loose shards out of the window, so it’s one big gaping hole without any jagged edges.

“Why? We should tell them. Who would do this?” I hope my face is as innocent as I try to make my voice.

“I have an idea.” She drops a last piece of glass into the garbage can, and it shatters. “And no, we can’t tell them. Just . . . no.”

I relax a little bit. If she thought it was me, she’d be kicking my ass around the room right now. “What are you going to say happened to your window?”

She shrugs. “I kicked it, accidentally. Doing the choreography from some show because I was bored. They’ll buy that. We’ll tell them we went outside and picked up the glass in the yard. They’ll believe us.”

Of course they will. “Good plan. But we should tell them. What if these people hurt you?”

Snitches aren’t popular people. Her fellow robbers might actually do something. I’m more than slightly freaked.

She grabs the garbage can and heads toward her door, but not before she’s given me a death stare. “No. Don’t say another word. Thanks for helping me.” And she’s gone, walking slowly down the stairs so she doesn’t spill the glass.

The last ghoulie is a bad idea. I can’t do it. Officer Nelson could be there. And what if they hurt her?

After supper I tell my folks I’m going to Pizza Vendetta, but I really go to the Kwiky Pik, to see how the girl ghoulies are doing. Amazingly, they’re still there. I glance across the street to see if there’s a car where Officer Nelson’s car was. Nothing.

Someone’s brought a few more candles and shoes for each girl—old and shitty Doc Martens for Ghoulie Sarah and football cleats for Ghoulie Brooklyn—plus each one now has a stuffed teddy bear peeking out of the top of her shirt. Someone’s put makeup on their faces, too.

Miss Vixen tweets a photo of the newly added accessories: Love that you love these ghoulies! In the background of the photo, Monster Matt and Ghoulie Carter’s faces float nearby, like guardians.

My heart is busting out of my chest with pride and love. The ghoulies are the coolest pieces I’ve ever done, except for Donna Russell. But Lou could be hurt. Like badly. And the cops could come back. A million billion thoughts swirl through me.

I can’t finish them. It’s too risky. I can’t risk Epic’s safety. Or Lou’s.

I have to finish them. Have to. They matter.

Monsters or people: What are we? What am I?

A thought forms out of the swirl: They won’t really hurt her, because they can’t risk her actually going to the cops and ratting them out. They just want to scare her.

Someone please tell me I’m right about that.

Another thought forms out of the swirl: Epic is a grown man. He’s done this forever. He knows the risks. He can take care of himself. If David is right and the cop believed us, then we’re still OK.

@drseussisgod tweets back a photo of Monster Matt and Ghoulie Carter’s bodies, with the crappy clothes I made still on them. Soon I’ll have two more.

@ArtistMissVixen: Stop harassing my ghouls, jerkwad!

@drseussisgod: Chill out.

Now I’m just pissed, and I’m tempted to sleep in the parking lot, just to keep them safe, but I’m on truck restriction and I have a curfew, and I can’t have the cops showing up again. I take one last photo of the ghoulies, far back so you can see the building and a little bit of the parking lot.

@ArtistMissVixen: Leave them alone. They’re happy.

@drseussisgod: Yes they are. You’re a genius, @ArtistMissVixen.

@ArtistMissVixen: Stay away. Seriously.

Miss Vixen better not ever find out who @drseussisgod is. It would not be pretty.

When I get back home, my folks are in the living room, watching some black-and-white musical from the forties. My mom’s mending something big and fluffy in her lap. Something full of tulle. “Homework all done?”

“Yup.” She’s asked me that question maybe five times in the history of my high school career.

“Thank you for being home before your curfew.” My dad smiles at me.

I try to smile back. “Yup.”

When I pass Lou’s room, I hear her yelling into her phone.

“Who the fuck threw a sparkly piece of wood through my window? If you know, you’d better tell me!” She’s furious—her voice is two octaves above its normal pitch, and she’s so loud I’m surprised my folks don’t come ask what’s wrong. There’s a pause, then another Lou rant: “I am not Miss Vixen! I swear to you on a stack of scripts, I am not Miss Vixen. When I find out who is, I’m gonna lose my shit on their head.”

What’s she going to do, stomp on their foot and shake her hair at them? It’s all I can do not to bust out laughing in the hallway. I’d kind of like to see her lose her shit at me. But my parents would be standing right behind her, waiting to lose their shit on my head if she finds out it’s me. That part would be uncool.

One more ghoulie, and Miss Vixen retires, at least from outing flash robbers. She might still make some art. She’s pretty good.

Then the stomach acid churns up in my throat.

What if they really do hurt Lou?

What if she’s really in danger?

What if the cops take me in, and they make me confess to knowing Epic? Or at least knowing where his garage is?

I grab my pillow, then go up to sleep with Donna Russell. She doesn’t care when I get home. She’s just happy to see me.

She doesn’t even think I’m an asshole, even when the possibility is pretty real.

I have to finish my piece. It’s my art. I have to.

Don’t I?