How to Get Dirt Read online

  The waitress re-appeared with the check in her hand then laid it on the table. Both Miranda and Mrs. Beazley reached for the check at the same time. Though both of them smiled at each other, Pickles swore she saw a vein throb in Miranda’s temple.

  Before she knew what she was thinking, Pickles said, “I’ll pay for it.”

  Heads turned in her direction.

  “You, Pickles?” Mrs. Beazley raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, I’ll work for it.” Pickles heart raced in her chest as she exhaled a shaky, urgent gasp. “Miranda may have to help me out at first, but I promise I’ll do dishes and whatever else you need me to. Just please stop fighting about whatever it is that you’re fighting about.”

  The tension deflated like a popped balloon. Mrs. Beazley slumped back in her seat with a sigh. A weak laugh eased through Miranda’s lips.

  “I’ll pay half,” Miranda said. “We won’t count it.”

  Mrs. Beazley smiled. “I like that plan. How do you feel about that, Pickles?”

  Pickles nodded, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  Chapter Eleven

  Asking the neighbors questions was going to be difficult. At three-thirty, Miranda drove Pickles home from school. Usually Miranda fixed her a snack and then spent an hour probing her about her day. When David got home at five, he did the same thing. By the time it was six o’clock, dinner was on the table and the family would watch a movie until her eight o’clock bedtime. She didn’t have much time for neighbor sleuthing.

  But then she replayed her conversation with Prudence.

  “How bad do you want to stay with your family?” Prudence asked.

  “More than anything.”

  “Then you are going to have to find something on them.”

  Pickles grimaced then thunked her head on her desk. The teacher, Ms. McDonald, raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored this and went back to fake finishing her homework. Mrs. McDonald’s cell phone rang, causing Pickles to look up again. Mrs. McDonald turned around to leave the classroom. As Pickles watched her, she was struck by a brilliant plan.

  Her homework. Teachers sent them home with big assignments all the time. She could be assigned to ask the neighbors questions. It was perfect. She flipped to the next page of her notebook and devised some questions she thought would be perfect for her to get dirt on her family.

  1) What have you noticed my “parents” do during the day?

  2) Who comes and goes?

  3) How often do you talk to them?

  4) What do you think of them?

  She was just smiling at the list when suddenly her papers were torn away from her by Mary Lou. The pen made a skid mark across the top.

  “What are you writing?” Mary Lou asked. “You were guarding the paper.”

  “Stop it. Give it back.”

  Mary Lou began to read aloud. “‘What have you noticed my’ — eep.”

  A massive shadow appeared and stole away her notebook. It took Pickles a moment to realize it wasn’t a massive shadow at all. It was the girl named Courtney, who always sat at the back of the class. Even at twelve, Courtney must have been almost six feet tall. Blonde, curly hair shot out in all directions on her head, giving her the look of wearing a lion’s mane. “I believe Pickles said to stop it.” Courtney’s voice was low and very masculine for belonging to a girl.

  “What are you going to do about it, Big Foot?” Mary Lou asked, though Pickles thought she sounded nervous.

  “Easy.” A hoarse laugh burst from Courtney’s throat. “This.”

  Courtney picked up Mary Lou’s backpack and dug inside of it with one hand. It took her only a second to dig out a journal covered with fuzzy, pink material. With a smirk, Courtney dropped the bag and held the journal out of Mary Lou’s reach. Then she opened it and read aloud, “‘March 17th. Today this cute guy talked to me. I think I’m going to ask him to—’“

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Mary Lou cried, tears filling her eyes.

  “‘—be my boyfriend.’” Courtney snorted. “‘He is so cute and funny and amazing. It’s hard to imagine somebody so perfect could be in existence. I think Natalie likes him too, but she’s—’“

  The tears tumbled down Mary Lou’s cheeks now as her face grew red. Pickles glanced from Courtney to Mary Lou then stood up.

  “Stop it,” Pickles said. “That’s enough. Please.”

  Courtney lowered the journal. Mary Lou grabbed it and clutched it to her chest. Then she turned, her face crimson, and fled from the room as the class laughed. Pickles was horrified, but she was strangely happy too. She had a feeling Mary Lou wasn’t going to pick on her again.

  A hand extending toward hers caused her to look away from the door.

  “I’m Courtney Woodland,” Courtney said. “Can I sit by you?”

  Pickles nodded and moved over so Courtney could sit by her. Though Lily inched her chair away, Pickles didn’t care.

  ****

  When she got home that day, she was grinning from ear to ear. In her hand, she clutched a phone number. Courtney’s phone number. I feel guilty about Mary Lou, but at the same time, I’m happy she won’t be tormenting me anymore. Her smile widened.

  “You’re in a happy mood today,” Miranda said, looking at her. “Did something good happen?”

  After that fight with Mary Lou, I completely forgot my plan. I have to talk to the neighbors.

  “Yeah,” Pickles said, stopping before heading inside the house. “I’ve got a project, though. I have to ask the neighbors questions. It’s for my English class.”

  Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous? We aren’t exactly close to our neighbors.”

  “It’s for school,” Pickles said.

  With a frown, Miranda shuffled her feet. She bit her bottom lip in concern.

  “Please, Miranda.” Pickles gripped her backpack strap tight. “I’m used to talking to people I don’t know. I’ve spent a lifetime in foster homes, remember?”

  Face going pale, Miranda shook her head. “Well, all right. You go and ask your questions. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your homework. If someone does something strange — anything at all — I want you to come back inside. I’ll make up some excuse for the teacher, understand?”

  Shocked, Pickles nodded. Miranda turned around and went inside, leaving the door open a crack. It took Pickles a moment to realize she had done this on purpose.

  Mrs. Jones never did that. When I lived with her, I was at Susie’s house more than home. She found it odd that someone like Miranda could distrust the neighbors so much. Shrugging her shoulders, Pickles headed toward the house directly to the right of hers. The house was tall — three stories — and had a nice, ivy trim. She moved to the front door with her heart pounding in her ears then knocked. After a few loud thuds came from within the house, an elderly woman opened the door.

  “Kim, is that you?” the woman asked.

  Pickles stared. Who was Kim?

  “No, ma’am.” She shook her head. “I’m your next-door neighbor.”

  “Don’t think you can fool me. We don’t have any neighbors. We live in the country.”

  The door slammed shut with a bang. Pickles stared at the door, eyebrows raised. What on earth had just happened? Well, if she had seen anything, she probably wouldn’t remember it anyway.

  Turning around, she headed for the townhouse directly across from her own. It was also small, but it had a crimson door instead of a green one. A dead plant drooped over the cracked terra cotta planter in front of it. Pickles knocked on the door. The sound of yelling filtered through the door, followed by thumping. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as her heart played fear’s song on her rib cage. Her palms grew balmy as she sucked in air in an attempt to calm herself.

  The door creaked open, and a painfully thin woman stood in the threshold with a baby on her hip. Pickles recognized her. It was the woman from the park who had told her the time. Through the crack in the door, Pickles saw many other peo
ple inside, lounging on the couch. Cigarette smoke billowed. How many people lived there? She was strongly reminded of her old foster home where she had been forced to share space with a lot of other people.

  “Do you need something?” the woman asked, re-capturing her attention. The baby on the woman’s hip began to cry, but she ignored it. “Are you selling cookies?”

  “Um, no, I’m not selling cookies,” Pickles said. “I have some questions, if that’s okay.”

  “I suppose I don’t have anything else better to do.” The woman shrugged, as the baby on her hip cried harder. “Fire away.”

  “Well, I live at the house across the street from you. The Harrises.” Pickles set down her book bag so she could pull out her notebook. “I was wondering whether you have seen anyone odd coming or going from their house.”

  “What do you mean?” the woman asked, her eyes darting from side to side, nervously.

  “Have you seen anyone?” Pickles repeated.

  “They put you up to this, didn’t they?” the woman asked. She turned around and deposited the baby on the floor behind her. “Okay, okay it was me. I did it.”

  Pickles eyes widened in confusion. What was this woman talking about? Maybe something fishy really was going on at the Harris home. A part of her had hoped she wouldn’t find anything.

  The woman disappeared from behind the door for a second, and a moment later, she came back with a wooden decoration. Pickles realized it was the one that had been on Miranda’s door the day she had moved in. The woman shoved the welcome sign into Pickels’s arms as she frowned in confusion.

  “I’m sorry I took it,” the woman said. “You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you? It’s just my boyfriend doesn’t buy me things like that, and I loved the colors. It’s not like my roommates have much mind for decorations either.”

  The woman’s face was scarlet. Pickles felt bad for her and shook her head.

  “Oh, bless you.” The woman patted her head. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Pickles.”

  “Pickles,” the woman said. “That’s a new one, and I’ve worked at some strange places. I’m Nancy. Thanks for being so nice.”

  Before Pickles could ask any more questions, Nancy shut the door with a bang. Pickles stared at it, confused. First the crazy old lady next-door and now this. She scooped up the door decoration, her notebook, and then her backpack. She turned around and went to the house beside Miranda’s, feeling much more nervous now. She knocked at the door several times then waited. Nobody came.

  A low window by the door drew her gaze, so she walked over to it to look through the pane. Inside, a couch rested against one wall and next to that stood a lamp. Packages of ramen noodles lay scattered across the kitchen counter. It appeared somebody lived there but they weren’t home now. Just as she got even closer, steaming up the window, a pale skeleton face appeared on the other side of it. She shrieked and ran back home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Several days later, Pickles sat in her room still feeling nervous about what she had seen from the neighbors — a skeleton, a thief, and an old woman with a bad memory. How odd. No wonder Miranda had acted so anxious when she wanted to talk to the neighbors.

  Pickles stared down at her list, frowning. She had erased item number one. Now she had to check on Miranda’s cell phone. Pickles knew just how she was going to do it, too. This should at least be easier than scoping out the neighbors. Or so she hoped.

  Hopping off the bed, Pickles padded out of the room and went down the stairs. Miranda was at the kitchen table working. Several sheets of numbers which made no sense to Pickles were spread out beside her. Miranda drank a cup of coffee while glaring at the screen as if it had done something to harm her. When Pickles came up behind her, she turned around with a forced smile on her face.

  “Sorry,” Pickles said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. You look busy.”

  “Being a mathematician can be difficult sometimes,” Miranda said.

  “Is what you do?”

  Miranda shrugged. “I take numbers and compile them for companies. They pay me for it. It’s nice because I can do it anywhere and not have to work forty hours a week.”

  “Does sound nice.” Pickles smiled. “Though I don’t like numbers.”

  As Miranda focused on the computer screen again, Pickles searched around for the cell phone. Where was it? Normally, Miranda laid the cell phone beside her when she was working.

  “Did you need something, Pickles?” Miranda asked. “You normally read during this time.”

  “I was wondering if I could play with the games on your cell phone. A girl in my class showed me how, so I was hoping I could borrow yours.”

  When Pickles said “a girl in my class,” Miranda gazed at her again with glowing eyes. She dug around in her jeans, pulled out her cell phone, and handed it over.

  “It’s so nice you’re making friends,” Miranda said. “Have fun.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  With a pounding heart, Pickles left the room and went up the flight of stairs to return to her bedroom. She turned on the cell phone and scrolled through Miranda’s contacts. Miranda had a lot of contacts. Probably at least a hundred. Suddenly, Pickles felt queasy. She couldn’t call all of these people.

  I can’t call them, but I can send them a text. Her eyes brightened. Mrs. Beazley had let her borrow her cell phone before. She knew how to do this.

  Pickles selected the message button. It took her a long time to find each letter, but she eventually managed to write, Who are you? She then selected every person on Miranda’s contact list and then hit the send button. A picture of a message with wings appeared on the screen, making her grin.

  Within five seconds, the phone began to vibrate spastically as message after message from Miranda’s many contacts came pouring through. At first she was excited to see what she would find, but then she realized she had made a mistake as she read the responses.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miranda, did your phone get stolen?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m your client. You should know who this is. We talked yesterday.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny, Miranda.”

  Soon the answers came pouring in faster than she could even read them. As she scrolled down the replies, some funny and some not, she realized not one single person had told her who they were besides Miranda’s clients. That’s because Miranda isn’t doing anything. She’s not like Prudence’s old foster parent. She’s special. With a sigh, she gazed at the phone in her hand. She was going to have to learn how to delete these messages before Miranda figured out what she had done.

  ****

  David came home that afternoon with a big box full of donuts. Pickles jumped with excitement when she saw them, her mouth watering at the thought of the sugary jelly.

  “You like donuts?” David asked, grinning at her.

  “I love donuts,” Pickles said.

  Miranda struggled to her feet and shut her computer, grinning. “I don’t think a person alive doesn’t like donuts.”

  As Miranda rifled through the box to select one, David put his wallet down on the counter. Pickles watched him, waiting for him to put a cell phone down as well. He has to have one. Almost all the adults I’ve met do.

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?” Pickles blurted out, before she could stop herself.

  “What is it with you and cell phones today?” Miranda asked, shaking her head. A smear of raspberry jelly decorated one cheek. “She spent all afternoon on mine.”

  Pickles just smiled, fighting down her nervousness.

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” David said. “I’m against them.”

  “No cell phone?” Pickles felt her stomach sink.

  “Here we go,” Miranda said, leaning against the counter while grinning. “He’s about to rant. Grab a donut and run, Pickles.”

  David scowled but kept on going.
/>   “You see, cell phones are ending face-to-face conversation,” David said. “I don’t like that. I think it’s ruining our old town values and standards.”

  Miranda held out a donut to Pickles. Pickles grabbed it with a grin for Miranda. Miranda winked at her, took another bite of her own donut, and stared at David with a glazed expression on her face. Pickles felt guilt wash over her but turned to watch David finish his rant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. Suggestions one and two have both failed. Pickles rubbed her hands together, nervously. She stared down at her list. A part of her thought she would find nothing on Miranda and David. They were just two nice people who took her in. She couldn’t imagine David kissing another woman or Miranda stealing money from somebody.

  She frowned at the list and was just about to erase number two from the page when her door creaked open. She shut the notebook, turned around, and saw Miranda was at her door. Miranda had a bright smile on her face, but Pickles thought something was odd about her expression. Her eyes didn’t sparkle the way they normally did.

  “Pickles, it’s time for lights out,” Miranda said, walking over to her.

  “All right, Miranda.”

  Pickles got up then hopped into bed and slid between the covers. Miranda tucked her in, smoothing the sides of the blanket out. Miranda then leaned forward to peck her on her forehead. Pickles shut her eyes and smelled her comforting fruity scent. Home. She truly felt like this place was home now. A new sense of desperation filled her. She wanted to stay here for forever. Even if it meant finishing the list, she was willing to do anything to do that…

  “Pickles,” Miranda said, drawing Pickles out of her thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know I love you, right?” Miranda asked.

  Joy and guilt mingled together as one. Miranda had never told her she loved her before. In fact, no foster parent had. The only person she had ever heard those words from was Mrs. Beazley.