Project: Pepper Rose & the Cuckoo Conspiracy

                                                                                                  

 

May 20th, 7:30 a.m., To Breakfast or Not to Breakfast

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   That was the question my sleepy brain pondered as the smell of bacon tickled my nose and taunted my taste buds. I threw back the covers of my bed and rushed down the stairs in my bare feet, passing a dusty crucifix that hung on the wall. I considered pulling one of the cobwebs like pulling a loose thread on a sweater, but the moment was gone as I raced by my mind fixated on food.

      When I burst into the kitchen a moment later, it was empty. Not a crispy plank of salty goodness to be found. I was alone, surrounded by faded brown and orange flowered wallpaper. We inherited the house from my dad’s mom, Grandma Helen. The ‘flowered’ wallpaper wasn’t all that was from Good Housekeeping circa a million years ago (I should know, I found a pile of them in a Potter closet beneath the stairs along with a magazine called Cat Fancy), the fridge was puke green and so were the countertops. I wasn’t sure what the color of the floor was, but ugly squares of burnt s’mores came to mind.

      I told my mom the place needed to be updated ASAP. She said as soon as I could afford to do the renovations and to be her guest. Until then, she didn’t want to hear a thing more about it. If she wanted to live in a time capsule, who was I to begrudge her that? Unfortunately, it left me with a bedroom with mustard yellow carpeting that looked like a clown’s wig, and an adjoining bathroom with a bubblegum pink toilet. I hate pink, it made me think of Pepto Bismol and being sick. My brother, William, on the other hand, lucked out. His room had a hardwood floor and a balcony overlooking the front yard. A balcony!     

       Thinking about how unfair it was that I had the old relic of a bedroom made me realize my brother was missing, too. I should be grateful he wasn’t at the kitchen table making slurping sounds with his milk, and instead, be worried about phantom smells like bacon when there wasn’t any bacon to be had.

      Was that even normal, smelling imaginary smells? Or should I be worried if I hear phantom sounds like my brother slurping his sugary sweet cereal? Either way, it was weird he wasn’t around. It wasn’t Saturday, was it? Naw, it couldn’t be because yesterday, I had a nightmare about a test in Mr. Fitzsimmon’s Geography class.

      On Friday, he paced the classroom wagging his crooked fingers and reminding everybody about how there was to be a test on Wednesday, so no Wednesday map games. Which was fine, I could never tell which map he was pointing at anyway.                                                                                                        

      I pondered the possibility of delirium-induced trauma by an obnoxiously loud alarm clock when another thought occurred to me, Did Mom forget she had to take us to school? Again. She blamed it on getting old. I blamed it on how she had to work two jobs. I told her, I, Pepper Marie Rose, could walk to school just like Molly who lived a few houses away from us. She gave me the look. I haven’t brought it up since. Brownie points, one and two, for being considerate and thoughtful.                                                              

      I finished a quick breakfast of burnt toast and ran upstairs to my bedroom. It was five to eight. I still had time. Grabbing a purple hoodie with the words: ‘I Hate the Color Purple’ embroidered on the front, I scrubbed my teeth and pulled my hair into a frizzy ponytail. I wish I could say “curly,” but it so wasn’t.

      Most girls in my class loved anything to do with le fashion, especially Jenna Lynn, who would whine to anyone within earshot about not having a thing to wear or how her mom refused to take her to Deluxe & Co or *gasp* checkout from the website. I don’t even have my own computer, thank you very much.

      What’s worse was that her locker was right next to mine. I couldn’t escape the haze of perfume that followed her like a chem trail. It reminded me of when my mom had a thing for Yankee Candles and would spend hours looking for just the right one. My head hurts just thinking about it. My mom had it even worse, though. Guess who her boss was? Yep, Mr. Lynn, Jenna Lynn’s father. Can you imagine? I’d call in sick. Every. Single. Day.

      Hooking my leg over the railing at the top of the stairs, I slid it down to the bottom just like my mom told me not to do and thought about giving myself brownie points three and four for a smooth landing but changed my mind. It was almost too easy. Plus, nobody was around to witness my dismount, so what’s the point if I couldn’t brag?

      Luckily, I was on a roll and skidded into the living room making a giant accordion ripple in the area rug just as my dad’s cuckoo clock struck eight. Or, at least, it was supposed to, but nothing happened, not even a soft, “cuckoo,” Nothing and when I say ‘nothing,’ I meant the cuckoo clock was gone!

I stood staring at a faded spot on the wall where my dad’s cuckoo clock had been last night. I swear. Now it was nowhere in sight. Was this one of my brother’s tricks? Balling my hands into fists, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “William? Where’s my cuckoo clock?”

      I glanced around the room, which was dim, dusty, and filled with old junk. The wallpaper wasn’t as bad as the kitchen’s but instead of funky flowers, it was fake wood paneling.

      Mom said it was cozy and that her mom and dad had similar paneling when she was growing up. I took her word for it. I dropped to my knees and began a frantic search, but all I found was a family of dust bunnies living under Grandma Helen’s China cabinet.   

       Grinding my teeth, I stomped back upstairs. William was probably hiding in his closet thinking this was the best joke he ever pulled. I wasn’t laughing. If he nicked one scratch in Dad’s clock, I would never forgive him!

      “William?” I called down the hall, “Where are you, toad face?”

      I pushed open the door to his bedroom and made a beeline for his closet. With a loud “A-ha!” I stood pointing down at the bare floor. Huh? Where was he?

      Oh, no, what if he did break Dad’s cuckoo-coo clock and buried the evidence in the backyard?

      Jumping down the stairs, I defied gravity and raced through the kitchen to the back door which was locked. Bolted from the inside. No way he could be in the backyard if the door was still locked. Could he? Not unless he went through the front door, walked around the house, and jumped over the fence. He wouldn’t go to all that trouble, would he? Wait. Of course, he would. This was William. Grade A brat.  

       Twisting around I almost tripped over my backpack just as the front door was opening inward.

      “Mom,” I stopped mid-leap stumbling to a standstill when I saw her stepping through the front door, William directly behind her. “Daddy’s cuckoo clock is missing!”

      “Slow down, Pepper…”

      “Mom! You don’t understand, the cuckoo clock is gone.”

      “It’s not missing; William and I took it to Mr. O’Leary’s Antique and Pawn Shop. He agreed to meet with me before he opened the store this morning.” She handed me a sack and some change, “I thought we would be back before you woke up.”

      “Oh.” Don’t get me wrong. I am super glad the cuckoo was in one piece, but it also meant my brother wasn’t guilty of anything. Yet.

“Why?”    

      “No time to explain,” She gestured to the sack in my hand, “I bought you a couple of donuts from Holes Café. Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

      My brother peeked from behind my mother’s back and stuck his tongue out at me. He was such a little brat. I bet he did break Daddy’s cuckoo clock. That’s why Mom had to rush it to Mr. O’Leary’s shop. My brother’s hair was swept up into twin points on both sides of his head for a reason, and nothing mom did could make them lie flat.