Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [55]
“So?” my sister says. Even though she’s got her eyes closed, she can hear my footsteps on the loose board in front of the hutch where Mother keeps her fancy dishes displayed. “Whatta ya think of my imitation?”
I study her. “Who’re you supposed to be?”
“Your dead cousin.”
“Troo! For godsakes.”
I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to rattle my cage, but I will not fall for that.
I ask, “How about playin’ Battleship?” She loves that game. She always beats me at it. Because of our mental telepathy, my mind tells her mind where I’ve hidden all my ships, but I don’t understand why it’s never vicey versa. “I’ll go get the paper and pencils. Meet you in the livin’ room.”
I offer my hand to her, but she says, “Scram. I’m busy workin’ on my revenge plan.”
Just like I knew she would be after we walked past Molinaris’ house. This is one of those times in life when it doesn’t feel so great to be right.
“Please, please, don’t do that . . . you gotta leave him to . . .” I almost slip and say, Dave, but bringing his name into this wouldn’t be smart. She’ll batten down her hatches. I gotta try another tactic. “I don’t know why you’d wanna waste your precious time. Greasy Al is probably halfway to . . . to . . .” I can’t think of any place where he’d run that isn’t where Troo is.
“Nice try,” she says. “And for your information, I don’t wanna go after him, I gotta go after him. And not just to settle the score the way you’re thinkin’.”
I look at the picture of Junie. From up in heaven, she knows all about somebody going after somebody.
“Then why?” I ask.
“I need a dummy for my ventriloquist show.”
Is she telling me that after she catches Greasy Al she’s going to ask him to sit on her lap? No, that can’t be right.
“Whatta ya mean?” I ask.
“Mary Lane told me the cops give big rewards for catchin’ wanted people. If I could capture Molinari, I . . . I could use that money to buy a professional dummy like the one Edgar Bergen’s got.”
“Ohhh . . . that kind of dummy. Like what’s his name . . . Charlie McCarthy.”
Troo nods with brimming eyes that I’m never supposed to notice. “They got one for sale called Jerry Mahoney up at the toy store. It’s got a cute suit and a bow tie and . . . it’s crème de la crème, Sal.” Her bottom lip is quivering. “They’re addin’ something new onto the Queen of the Playground competition this year and I gotta be ready.”
“What something new?”
I haven’t heard anything about that. Every year since we’ve been here it’s been just the announcing of the winner and then they go up on the stage to get the tiara placed on their head and we get to stay up late and stuff ourselves with the food the mothers bring and dance to the Do Wops ’til our heels blister.
Troo says, “I told the counselors they should put a talent part in this summer like we had up at camp and Debbie thought that was a fantastic idea. So unless ya can do ventriloquism or sing as good as me or . . .”
She knows that I can’t throw my voice, and songs sound good in my brain, but by the time they come out of my mouth they go flat. I tried tap lessons at Marsha’s Dance and Baton Studio on North Avenue. I loved the shoes with cleats, but I couldn’t get the hang of the shuffle-ball-change. I wasn’t a terrible twirler, but not good enough to stand out from the pack. If I’m going to have a chance to win the tiara this year, I need to make a talent splash. Maybe I could do some magic tricks. Find a book at the library that would teach me how to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or practice some new imitations before the Queen of the Playground party.
“And . . . and I’m gonna win the Fourth of July contest, too,” Troo says. “Just you wait and see.”
I’m having a hard time