"Emily Fields?" cracked a voice over the Rosewood Day PA system on Monday afternoon. "Can you come to the office?"
Emily looked up from the English quiz on the themes of A Farewell to Arms. A couple of kids swiveled around and stared at her curiously.
"You can go after you're finished with your quiz," Mrs. Quentin, the English teacher, said. She was sitting at her desk reading a tattered copy of To the Lighthouse, her glasses perched low on her nose.
"Actually, I'm done." Emily rose from the desk and dropped the quiz in the wire box at the front of the room. She had no idea why she was being called to the office, and a nervous pit formed in her stomach. Had someone found out she'd set off fireworks at the party last night? Could she get in trouble at school for that?
Every footstep on the marble floor sounded like a bomb exploding in Emily's head. Her vision was slightly blurry, as it often was when she hadn't gotten enough sleep. Perhaps that was because of how she'd tossed and turned until almost 5 A.M., trying to make sense of why Cassie and the elves had been so welcoming one moment and so cold the next. We'll see about that? What was that supposed to mean?
The Rosewood Day hall was empty of students. A bunch of posters for a holiday dance from three weeks ago still hung on the wall, and a cracked glass ornament lay on its side next to the door to the girls' bathroom. Through classroom door windows, Emily could see harried-looking teachers trying to keep their students on task. There was a jovial, let's-not-do-any-more-work mood in the air—the two-week break was only four days away.
She passed through the lobby, where a memorial to Ali's death still hung near the auditorium. It was a huge collage of photographs, old drawings, and memories from students, the words We Will Miss You in silver lettering around the perimeter. Emily was in quite a few of the pictures in the collage, her elbow linked with Ali's, her head resting on Ali's shoulder, the two of them laughing loudly in the auditorium.
She touched the display case with the tips of her fingers, her own ghostly reflection blinking back at her. Ali's school picture from fifth grade was in the middle of the montage; for a moment, it looked like she was making eye contact with Emily from inside the glass. Suddenly, a second reflection behind her caught her eye. She whipped around fast, sure she was going to discover someone standing in the lobby, watching her, but the lobby was empty. The front door eased shut slowly, though, as if someone had just run away.
The principal's office was on the other side of the lobby. Emily slipped inside and stood there silently until Mrs. Albert, the woman at the front desk, looked up. "Oh, Emily." She shuffled a few papers. "Your mother's in there." She pointed to a small office the guidance counselors normally used.
Emily's heart started to hammer. Her mom was here? Her mind scattered in all kinds of terrifying directions. Something had happened to one of her siblings. Her grandmother's melanoma had come back. Ian was on a killing spree.
Emily burst into the room and found her mother sitting calmly at the round table, sorting through the clipped coupons she always toted around in a little canvas pouch. "What's going on?"
Mrs. Fields gave her a placid smile. "Hey, honey. I was wondering if you wanted to skip eighth period and get a manicure before your shift at Santa Land today—I received a few coupons from the Welcome Wagon committee as a Christmas gift. If you don't have anything too important going on in eighth, of course." Her gaze shifted to the front desk and she smiled mischievously. "I told Mrs. Albert that you had a doctor's appointment," she said in a stage-whisper.
Emily gaped at her. Her mother pulling her out of school—something that never happened, not even the time Beth had been sent to the hospital for double pneumonia—was shocking enough, but girly spa days weren't something they did together. Emily had always wanted Mrs. Fields to be that kind of mom, but Mrs. Fields saw spas as frivolous indulgences. She even balked at her daughters getting their hair professionally done for school dances, insisting that they could do it themselves with enough Bobby pins, flat irons, and hair spray.
"That would be nice," she blurted. "I have history eighth period, but we'll probably watch a video." They'd been watching videos for the past week now as Mrs. Weir, the teacher, sat at the back and Christmas-shopped on her iPad.
"Great." Mrs. Fields stood and slipped the coupon pouch back into her Vera Bradley quilted bag. "Let's go, then."
Emily trotted behind her mom through the double doors in the lobby. A stiff wind kicked up, knocking the tree branches together and blowing a silver gum wrapper across the parking lot. She looked around, thinking about the figure she'd sworn she'd seen behind her in the lobby, but the parking lot was empty. It must have been a trick of her imagination.
"What's this on your arms?" The manicurist at Fermata Spa grabbed Emily's wrists and turned her forearms over. Tiny red bumps speckled her skin.
Emily stared at them in alarm. Mrs. Fields looked over and clucked her tongue. "Oh dear. I washed your sheets in new detergent yesterday. I bet it's from that."
Emily groaned. Her mother was always buying different detergents based on whatever was on sale. Her sensitive skin couldn't keep up with all the changes. It looked like she had some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.
She sat back in the manicure chair and tried to relax. The foot-soaking baths bubbled peacefully. The air smelled soothing and fresh, like sandalwood mixed with fresh oranges. Aestheticians in black lab coats drifted past quietly, shooting Emily and her mother placid smiles. The only downer was that "Blue Christmas" was playing on the stereo, probably the most depressing holiday song ever written.
Emily's mother sat next to her, flinching as the manicurist clipped her cuticles. Emily suspected this was the first manicure she'd ever gotten—she'd puzzled for ages at the wall of Essie polishes before finally selecting an almost-clear pink. "So," Mrs. Fields murmured. "Tell me all about the part last night."
Emily had wondered when her mother was going to pump her for information about the elves.
"It was pretty good," she answered as the manicurist buffed her nails. "The elves opened up to me a little. One of the girls, Sophie, is flunking out of Yale. She kind of reminds me of Spencer—under way too much pressure. Heather seems to be having family problems—I don't think her parents get along. Lola's going through some stuff as well—I think her brother is in rehab. I don't know much about Cassie yet, only that the party was at her house and her parents definitely weren't home. It seems like they all have to fend for themselves. Maybe they're pulling pranks to get attention."
"Yes, but what did you find out about the pranks themselves?" Mrs. Fields asked. "Are they planning anything big soon? Did they make any references to the baby Jesus?"
Emily chewed on her bottom lip. "They didn't mention any firm plans," she admitted. "And actually, when I pushed about hanging out again, they got sort of weird. I haven't even gotten real confirmation they are the pranksters. It's not like they've talked about it."
Mrs. Fields pressed her lips together until the skin around them wrinkled. "Of course they're the pranksters—we know that. You've got to try harder. This is very important."
"i know it's important," Emily said petulantly. "But I can only go as fast as I can. I don't think they trust me yet."
"Well, earn their trust." Mrs. Fields wrenched her hands from the manicurist, riffled in her purse, and plunked a small box on Emily's lap. "All of us at the church pulled together to get you this so you could catch them in the act."
Emily picked up the box. It was a brand-new iPhone.
"It has video capabilities," Mrs. Fields explained.
"You want me to videotape them?" Emily asked, stunned.
"How else do you expect to document what they're doing for the police?" Mrs. Fields spread out her fingers again, and the manicurist brushed them with polish. The chemical smell filled the air.
Jingle bells sounded as a group of women sauntered into the salon. Elvis continued to croon miserably about how his baby had left him for Christmas. Emily lowered her eyes to her lap. She thought about how Cassie had pulled up a lawn chair for her at the party. How they'd all cheered when she set off the firework.
"Look, I know you don't want to do this," Mrs. Fields murmured as if reading Emily's mind. "But I'll come clean with you. The baby Jesus they stole is worth a lot of money. I was thinking of selling it and using it for Christmas gifts since your dad' bonus wasn't what we expected." She sniffed. "I just want the holiday to be special this year."
"I understand," Emily said quietly. "But what if I can't get the baby Jesus back?"
"You can," Mrs. Fields urged. "You have to earn their trust. Win them over. Do whatever it takes."
She spread out her finished nails on the table. Emily shifted her feet, an uneasy pain growing in her stomach. But like the good girl she'd always been, she nodded and said she'd do as she was told. The problem was, Emily still had no idea how to infiltrate Cassie's clique. If she didn't come up with something fast, though, it would be a blue, blue Christmas for everyone.