The Prank List

Copyright © 2014 by Anna Staniszewski

Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Regina Flath

Cover image by Michael Heath/Shannon and Associates

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

www.jabberwockykids.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Acknowledgments

A sneak preview of The Gossip File

About the Author

Back Cover

For anyone who’s ever felt like a piece of dirt.

Chapter 1

Rachel, stop holding your spatula like a knife! Chef Ryan yells across the room. How many times do I have to tell you?

I change my grip on the spatula and keep stabbing at the pastries in front of me, imagining they’re Chef Ryan’s face. It’s the first day of class at Ryan’s Bakery, and already the owner hates me. For no reason.

Okay, maybe for a small reason.

I did spill flour all over the floor. Then I accidentally inhaled some of it and had a coughing fit that made me bump into a woman holding a pot of caramel. It splattered on top of the layer of flour, making an even more disgusting mess that stuck to everyone’s shoes. So my first twenty minutes of class were spent mopping the floor while everyone else learned important tips on how to make today’s assignment, tips that I totally missed, and now my batch of caramel squares has turned into a pan of goo on one side and crunchy crystals on the other.

Chef Ryan marches over to check out my sugar-tastrophe and sighs. Then he takes the spatula from me. Watch, he says, separating the squares like he’s done it a million times. See? It’s like cutting a sushi roll.

Since I don’t want to get even more on his bad side, I stop myself from pointing out that I’m half Korean, not Japanese. Instead, I nod and give it another try.

I don’t care if you’re a beginner or an expert! Chef Ryan calls out to everyone as he finally leaves me alone. This class may be called ‘Pastries 101,’ but I expect you all to be pros at learning! He zeroes in on a stooped old man at the next table who seems afraid of his oven mitts.

Maybe one reason Chef Ryan hates me so much is because I’m the youngest person in his class. Not a lot of kids who’ve just finished eighth grade know they want to be pastry chefs one day. Then again, not a lot of kids grow up making their parents read them cookbooks instead of bedtime stories.

Too bad I’m failing miserably at showing Chef Ryan that I know what I’m doing. The more I move the caramel squares around, the more they turn into brown lumps. Gross. A trained hamster could have done better.

I glance over to make sure Chef Ryan isn’t watching, and then I go back to holding the spatula my way. Much better. I might be self-taught, but that doesn’t make me a total idiot in the kitchen.

I give the cookie sheet another stab with the spatula—and the whole thing flies off the counter and shoots across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor. The brown lumps, though, stay stuck to the wall like muddy spitballs.

Crabgrass! I cry, letting loose one of Dad’s goofy fake swear words.

Rachel! Chef Ryan hollers across the kitchen. Funny how of the twelve students in the class, I’m the only one whose name he knows so far.

As I run over to clean up the mess I’ve made—again—the door to the kitchen swings open.

I glance up and almost drop my dish towel at the sight of a boy about my age standing in the doorway. Oh my goldfish. He’s tall and dark and handsome and every other cliché I can think of. (But he’s not nearly as cute as Evan Riley. My Evan Riley.) He’s also wearing a black leather jacket even though it’s the middle of June.

Chef Ryan grimaces like he’s caught a whiff of burned popcorn. Can I help you?

Sorry I’m late, the boy says with a shrug. I’m Whit.

Whit? Chef Ryan glances at his list. I don’t have you on here.

It’s Adam Whitney, but everyone calls me Whit.

Chef Ryan sighs like he’s disappointed not to have an excuse to kick the boy out. Class is more than half over. You can watch for the rest of today and take part next week. And be on time. I know you paid to take this class, but that doesn’t mean I cater to you.

I can’t help letting out a snort-laugh at the word cater, the perfect baking pun. My dad would love it.

Chef Ryan shoots me a dirty look and turns back to Whit. Go help Rachel clean up, he says. Then he walks away to check on other people. As he tests batter consistency and demonstrates proper pan-greasing techniques, I can’t help noticing how much more patient he is with everyone else in the class than he is with me.

Whit hangs his leather jacket on a hook by the door and then pulls an apron on over his T-shirt and jeans. I guess he wants to look the part even though he won’t actually be cooking. I wonder if he’s new in town. Even if he’s a little older than me, I’m sure I’d remember seeing him around.

Suddenly, I realize that I’m not cleaning anymore. In fact, I’m just staring at Whit, watching his every move like he’s the star of a cooking show. Eek! I snap my eyes away and go back to scrubbing the wall.

What happened here? Whit says, coming up beside me.

I clear my throat and manage to choke out: A fatal baking accident.

He doesn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he grabs a rag and starts de-gunking the wall along with me. Even though this mess is my doing, I don’t object to having some help. There’s only half an hour of class left, and at this rate, I’ll be doing more scrubbing than cooking. I didn’t talk my mom into letting me out of cleaning houses on Saturday mornings for the next few weeks so I could spend the time cleaning anyway.

Okay! Chef Ryan calls out. Let’s move on to making a chocolate glaze to serve with your caramel squares.

Chocolate glaze? I know how to make that. I’ve made it a dozen times. Finally, this is my chance to prove to Chef Ryan that I’m not a moron. I start scrubbing furiously, but that just makes the rag shoot out of my hand.

What is wrong with me? Do I have springs in my fingers today?

Whit gives me a pitying look, like I’m a sick poodle that can’t help being pathetic.

As I go to the window to grab the rag off the floor, I notice a red and black van driving by with the words Ladybug Cleaners painted on the side. Directly behind it are another and another, like a swarm of ladybug minivans leaving their nest.

What the Shrek?

Mom and I have run into other cleaning businesses in the area, but none have looked so professional. And none have reminded me of a horde of insects about to take over the whole town.

Suddenly, the chocolate glaze doesn’t seem important anymore. I tell myself I’m being crazy-face. It’s only one competitor. There’s plenty of room for all of us. But ever since Dad left, the cleaning business has been the only reason Mom and I have been able to stay in our house.

My family already imploded over the past year. I cannot deal with anything else changing.

Chapter 2

How was class? Mom asks as I hop into her dented minivan. I’m supposed to help her with the rest of the day’s cleaning jobs, so we head to one of the fancy housing developments on the other side of town, the kind with mansions so big that they make our house look like a stick of gum.

Good. I force myself to smile. After how excited I was about this class, I don’t want to let on what a disappointment the first day was. Not when Mom is finally starting to accept that my love of baking is more than a hobby that distracts me from my schoolwork. We made caramel squares.

Yum! she says. Did you get to bring any home?

Um, no. I cringe as I remember the awful feeling of having to dump the whole batch in the trash. I bet even the garbage can was grossed out by my handiwork. Maybe next time.

I’m determined to practice all week so that I can make a better impression on Chef Ryan next Saturday. I miss Ms. Kennedy, my middle-school home ec teacher. She’s always been so encouraging about my baking. I’ve never had to prove myself to her. But clearly not all food people are like that. Chef Ryan might hate me now, but I have six weeks to change his mind.

By the way, we have one less stop this afternoon, Mom says as we pull up to Andrew Ivanoff’s house. Mr. Jacobs said he’ll be out of town on business for the summer, so he’s closing up the house.

I’m barely listening as I glance down the street toward where Marisol lives. My best friend is probably in her room right now, surrounded by pieces of fabric, creating some amazing new outfit. It’s totally bizarro that, meanwhile, I’m about to go clean her boyfriend’s house. Not that I’ll actually see him. Andrew is off at film camp for the whole summer, which you’d think would make Marisol upset, but she says being apart will give her more time to be creative. She’s a much stronger person than I am. If Evan left for the summer, I’d probably be moping around the whole time.

Rachel? Mom says.

I blink, realizing I’m standing outside the Ivanoffs’ house with a broom under one arm and furniture polish under the other. Whenever I start thinking about Evan, time seems to ooze by.

Once my brain starts working normally again, we zip through the Ivanoffs’ house and clean our way across the neighborhood, battling dirty underwear, scummy bathtubs, and mysterious clumps of smelliness that make me wish I owned a gas mask. Just think, then I could be the Gas-Masked Crusader (aka the worst superhero ever).

When we get back into the car, I’m sweating like crazy. Most of the houses we clean have central air, but scrubbing toilets during the summer is still gross. I’m panting in front of the car air vent and wiping my face with a paper towel when I notice it: a Ladybug Cleaners van sitting outside Mr. Jacobs’ house.

Two women in red and black aprons pile out of the van and start bustling around, bringing supplies inside. They look like efficient cleaning robots. No dropping mops or tripping over vacuum cleaner cords like I’m always doing. Why haven’t I seen them around town before? How could a whole cleaning service appear out of nowhere?

Mom, didn’t you say that Mr. Jacobs was out of town?

Yes, why? She must not have noticed the van as we drove by.

No reason, I say, but my pulse is fluttering. This can’t be good.

All right, Mom says, pulling onto Main Street, off to our last stop.

I try to shake the uneasy feeling in my chest. We have lots of loyal clients. Even if we lose one or two to the Ladybugs, we’ll be fine. There’s no need to tell Mom about it. She’s got enough permanent worry lines on her face as it is.

Our last stop of the day, Caitlin Schubert’s house, is nothing like the fancy monstrosities we usually clean. It’s a normal ranch-style house with a normal lawn. No moat or anything. I used