Alice in Wonderland High Read online

  “Did you get it?” he yelled. He was dressed in head-to-toe black. Naturally. Though unnaturally, he wore a black beanie secured over his raised hoodie. I guess this guy was taking the extra effort to make sure hats—or head coverings in general—came back in style. The shadows concealed his face so I couldn’t identify him.

  “Change of plans.” Whitney threw her backpack at him. “I’m. Late.” She enunciated each word. Like it was a secret code.

  The guy glanced around. “Anything I need to take care of?” He cracked his knuckles on his free hand. I didn’t move a muscle.

  “Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.”

  I swallowed hard. She wanted this mysterious guy to take care of . . . me? Great. Somehow I’d evolved from pathetic to psychotic stalker in a single day. Even Rome couldn’t beat that. I shifted into the shadows, preparing to run at the slightest hint this guy had the mind to go from ecotaging a rundown building to sabotaging something crucial. Like my ability to breathe.

  Whitney spun on her heels and pushed through a set of willow trees, disappearing around the back of the building. The guy dropped the potted plant and strode in my direction, eyes searching along the perimeter. If I ran now, no doubt he’d see me and catch me before I could make it ten feet. I crouched low to the ground and backed up at a tortoise pace that would earn me a victory against a hare. An empty jar of orange marmalade rested at my feet, so I gripped it in my shaking hands, brandishing it like a weapon. Too bad people never discarded working stun guns.

  He stepped closer, only a few feet away now. His eyes roamed to the spot right above where I crouched. My beating heart—usually such a good idea when its only purpose was to keep me alive—now seemed like a hazard, as though it had switched allegiances, making every effort to get me caught as it thundered in my chest.

  I braced myself, deciding the best I could do was aim for his sacred boy parts with my new weapon. Hopefully my track record of throwing like a girl ended today.

  Before his eyes dropped to my position, a low, humming vibration startled us both. The guy lifted a cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Crap,” he muttered as he pressed it to his ear. “What? I don’t have time for . . . ” He listened for a moment. “Hold on, you’re cutting out.” He turned his back to me and headed toward the warehouse at a fast clip. Breath seeped from my mouth. I set the marmalade jar back on the ground.

  The guy stood on the front steps of the warehouse, one finger jammed into his open ear. I didn’t know how long his conversation would last before he returned. I knew the smart thing to do: go back in the direction I’d come from and return my death wish to the genie. I generally gave myself good advice—though I rarely followed it. Now I felt stupid. Whitney was scared of me—me!—and I didn’t want her to think I was a threat. I had to put a stop to that nonsense and explain. Before the guy could finish his phone call, I darted across the road toward the tree line. The trees rattled when I brushed past them.

  “Who’s there?” the guy called behind me.

  I kept going, wiping the sweat from my face. I steadied my sprint, following a trail of footsteps through another dense copse of trees. The woods spilled out onto a chipper street with perky houses lining the road. I paused, my heart still raving to its own techno beat. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Whitney sauntering up a driveway into the only house that broke from the cookie-cutter model, to put it mildly. Her house was decorated in swirls of tie-dyed paint, as if someone had turned the exterior into a canvas because he ran out of easels. Ceramic bunnies lined the lawn in descending-size order.

  Weird. At least her house matched her personality.

  I crossed the street as Whitney swung open her front door, revealing another entryway and another door, this one painted yellow. She stepped inside and unearthed a second key from her bag. When she unlocked that one, she stepped into the next entryway and started opening a blue door. Maybe I’d ingested too many pesticide fumes at the Garden Center, because this couldn’t be normal. She certainly had a thing for grand entrances. She fiddled around for the next key and repeated the process through two more doors before finally entering her house. She didn’t bother to close any of them, which I took, rather liberally, as an invitation.

  I strolled to the front door and peered down the long tunnel of entrances. When I tried to step through the first, it slammed in my face. Even opportunity wouldn’t let me knock.

  Turning back around, my knee bumped into a small, three-legged table made of solid glass, stationed on her front porch. Raindrop remnants dotted its surface. A small, golden key, much like the one Chester had handed over in the Garden Center, rested on top of it. Smiling, I snatched it up and tried it in the first door. Locked.

  I jumped down a step at the sound of a car speeding along the street. Had the guy from the warehouse followed me here? I darted behind the largest rabbit statue. Good thing, because an evergreen car wobbled into Whitney’s driveway. Rock music blasted from the open windows. I crouched as low as possible and tried to balance. I’d have aching thigh muscles tomorrow, but maybe shapely legs would give me an excuse to go for the superhero spandex.

  The driver got out of the car and kicked the door shut with his foot, then doubled back to lock it with a key. Chester Katz. He’d shed his green apron and wore a black-and-white-striped sweater that looked like some kind of weird homage to The Hamburglar. At least it wasn’t the guy from the abandoned warehouse.

  I expected him to go straight to the front door, but he disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Something was definitely going on here. I sprang from my hiding place and followed him. I was getting really good at spying. Not that that was a skill I could put on my college applications.

  A door slammed somewhere around the corner. I amped my pace, then came to a halt at the place I would have expected a back entrance to be. Instead, a small, red curtain billowed in the wind by my feet. Chester was nowhere to be seen. I pushed aside the curtain and uncovered a small door about the size of a notebook wedged into the side of the house.

  “These people are totally weird,” I muttered, thinking about the rabbits, the ecotage, the doors, and now this tiny, red door. I inserted the golden key. It fit perfectly. “Curiouser and curiouser.” Well, a door that size was one way to keep out intruders and stalkers. Like me. I was petite but—thankfully—not doll-size. And neither was Chester—where had he disappeared?

  I pressed my eye to the tiny peephole. Flowers bloomed in every variety and color, as if Whitney took sole responsibility for protecting the nation’s rainforests. It wasn’t a basement; it was a greenhouse.

  “It’s not pot,” a deep voice beside me said. Chester slipped outside through a door in the aluminum siding that hadn’t existed a moment ago.

  I jumped so hard I knocked my head into the wall, causing me to fall butt-first onto the ground. At least hitting my head might explain everything I’d witnessed tonight. Rubbing the spot with my palm, I looked up to see a tower of boy blocking the moon. He carried a clay mug of green liquid. Foam and smoke billowed out of it, reminding me of mad-scientist experiments in movies. A bump was already popping out of my forehead. If I could move the swelling from my face to my chest, I’d really be on to something.

  “I—I didn’t think—” I rose until I was eye-level with his ribcage.

  “You didn’t think of a good excuse for your spying?” Chester shut the door behind him, sealing it back into the exterior. Now that I knew what to look for, I spotted faint cracks in the aluminum siding outlining the door. No knob, so it must only open from the inside. “Wow, we just met and I’m already finishing your sentences,” he said.

  I shot him my most angelic smile. “Then what am I going to say next?”

  “You’re going to ask my name. It’s Chess.”

  I didn’t want to acknowledge I knew more about him than he probably did about me. So I stayed vague. “I go to Wonderland High.”

  �
��Alice Liddell, right?” His lips curled into the kind of killer smile orthodontists and girls like me could appreciate. “Your picture’s on the honor-roll board. Every time I pass by it . . . ” His smile faded, and I immediately mourned the loss. “Never mind.”

  “What?” I waited, wondering if he could see right through me to my secrets, like maybe transparency was a side effect of courage. Aside from a few kids who still remembered my parents’ tree-hugging slip-up or my lame petition fiasco, most people at school only knew about me if they cheated off me. Luckily, teenagers and goldfish had about the same memory span. New gossip erased old mistakes daily, the circle of strife.

  “Nothing, it’s—” He tilted his head to the side and his voice grew more confident with each word. “It’s cheesy. I’m embarrassed I even thought it.” He stared into his cup, then peered at me from under his eyelashes. “But you can guess if you want.”

  “Um . . . ” Strange. Why would he want me to guess an answer he was embarrassed about? Maybe he was trying to stall me before the police arrived. I took a step backward. I knew I should probably make a quick excuse and flee, but he studied me with such intensity, as though he was holding his breath for my answer. So I gave him one. “Every time you pass by the honor-roll board . . . you remember a test you haven’t studied for? You wish you had a marker to draw devil horns on my head?”

  “That’s a good one. Let’s go with that.” He grinned.

  His grin was contagious. Yesterday, his reputation would have scared me off. But now? I was intrigued.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Want some?” Chess held out the foaming, green liquid to me as we stood in front of the strange, red curtain hiding the secret garden.

  I stood on my tiptoes and peered over the rim. “What is it?”

  “It’s what we give intruders,” he said. “Less abrasive than tying them up.”

  I bit my lip. I was hoping he would forget I didn’t belong here. “Too bad. Being tied up does sound tempting.” My brain caught up with my words. “Wait, that came out wrong.”

  He let out a raspy laugh. “Wrong is one interpretation. But seriously, it’s Whitney’s specialty.” He waved the drink in front of me, some of the foam spilling over his fingertips. “Organic. Has a bit of a bite, though.”

  “By ‘bite’ do you mean ‘poison’?” After all, I hadn’t seen him sip it himself. “Intruders can’t break in if they’re immobilized.”

  “Poison? Well, if you’re going down, I am, too.” Chess tipped it to his mouth and chugged a good portion of it. He wiped the green mustache off his lips. “You could wait and see if I’m going to keel over, or try it yourself.”

  “Excellent, waiting sounds better than my pre-calc homework. How long does it take to kick in?” I checked my watch in a dramatic show, mostly to stall. I had no desire to ingest his little concoction. I’d learned the hard way about drinking unknown things: they usually disagreed with you sooner or later. A night of puking and embarrassing pictures of me passed out were my souvenirs for that educational experience. Come to think of it, maybe he was trying to get me drunk. The curious part of me didn’t think that would be so bad, getting drunk with a cute guy at the house of the object of my platonic affection. Alcohol might cure my cautious brain.

  But I’d already used up my embarrassing-moment quota for the day.

  He tilted the mug to the side, waving it back and forth. “Drink me, drink me,” he sang.

  “If only I could remember that tagline they taught us to combat peer pressure in middle school.”

  Chess snapped his fingers. “Oh! I remember that. I think it was, ‘Peer pressure, the best way to make new friends besides bribing them.’”

  “Something seems off about that quote, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “You’re right. ‘Bribing’ isn’t right. It was ‘kidnapping.’” He smiled. “This stuff’s good for you, I promise. Totally harmless. I was only offering to be nice.” He pulled the mug back and his mouth stretched into a thin line. “I really didn’t mean to pressure you.”

  I grabbed the mug from Chess’s hands and brought it to my nose. I didn’t want him to think I was lame, not when he might be one of the only people who cared about the same things I did. Well, I doubted he cared about the thing currently occupying my brain: his lips.

  A potpourri scent drifted from the mug. The liquid slid down my throat, thick and syrupy. I coughed to get it all down.

  “Told ya it had bite.”

  The drink tasted like opportunity. And also like a mixture of cherry Pop-Tarts, ice cream, pineapple, roast turkey, hot chocolate, and buttered toast. Things that wouldn’t normally go together but somehow did.

  “You have a warped idea of how to carry out orders, Chess.”

  I shifted to see Whitney leaning against the side of the house, blowing her hair out of her face with a battery-operated fan. So she wanted me gone. I tried to keep the disappointment off my face.

  “I was getting to that.” He turned to me. “You shouldn’t be here.” His smile didn’t intimidate me like Whitney’s icy blue–eyed glare.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I—”

  “Scare me?” She laughed. “So, what, do you have some sort of girl-crush on me or something? Because just so you know, I’m taken.”

  I focused on Chess, suddenly understanding, but he gave her a quizzical look. “By who?” he asked.

  “Note to self,” she said. “Next time, do not make Chess head of security. He sucks.”

  Chess ducked his head under his elbow and gave me a shy smile.

  “What you did at school. With the paper and the message. And the warehouse? I think it’s awesome.”

  “That wasn’t me.” Whitney crossed her arms.

  “You were probably seeing things,” Chess added unnecessarily. “We had nothing to do with the school.”

  We. Well, at least that explained how Whitney had managed to do all that alone in one night. She hadn’t done it alone.

  “Besides, recycling the paper wouldn’t have done anything,” Whitney said. “This did.”

  “I know.” I nodded. “I want to help.” My eyes decided to go big and puppy-dog-like. Probably not the best facial expression for trying to convince people I wanted to do mischief. I forced my eyelids to close in an intimidating squint. Or at least I hoped it looked like that and not sleep-deprived. “I won’t say anything.”

  “No, you will say something.” Chess nodded at me. “Blackmail’s the best way to get ahead.”

  They were being nonsensical.

  Whitney strode forward, her white-blonde hair swinging behind her. “I’m not worried. It’s blackfail when you don’t have proof.”

  “Your garden,” I said in a desperate voice, jutting my chin toward the red curtain. “Why did you leave me the key?”

  “I didn’t leave it for you.”

  Oh. As if to confirm, Chess held out his hand. I didn’t want to part with it, but I dropped it into his palm, my fingers brushing against his skin for a beat too long. “Why . . . ” I blinked to clear the fog in my brain. Boys: the leading cause of temporary amnesia. “Why are you growing something like that if you’re not using the plants for . . . ?” I met her eyes. “Ecotage.”

  She smirked. “Pot . . . tentially I could tell you.” On the first syllable, her lips popped. I mouthed the words, trying to sound it out. She sighed and added, “Weedn’t want you to find out.”

  “Marijuana?”

  “Or maybe some delicious oregano. An Italian blend. Coveted by restaurants and girls who like their food seasoned.”

  “Whitney . . . ” Chess shook his head at her.

  I eyed him. “But Chess said it wasn’t . . . ” Was that what was in the drink? Pot was organic, wasn’t it?

  Oh God, I better not be high. Wait, that was a paranoid statement. Crap. I darted my eyes back and forth between them.

  At the same time, they each pointed to the other. He said, “She’s ly
ing,” while she said, “He’s lying.”

  “Whitney . . . ” Chess hissed. I stumbled backward from the sharpness in his voice. “She’s already snooping,” he continued.

  “It’s a test, Chess.” She pointed the fan at me. “Since she’s so good at them in school. She calls the cops, we have our answer.”

  Answer to what question?

  They exchanged meaningful glances and nodded, then turned to me like I was supposed to whip out my cell and call for backup right there.

  “There wasn’t . . . marijuana in that drink?” I asked.

  Whitney burst out laughing. Chess held up his hands in a police surrender. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’re usually supposed to drink pot.”

  I decided to believe them. “What did that message you wrote on the desks mean?”

  “That’s confidential. Right now, you don’t even make the short list.” Whitney blew her white-blonde hair out of her eyes. “The riddles were handouts. You want info, you have to earn it—and not by tailing me.”

  My face flushed.

  Whitney checked her watch. “We’re. Late.” She emphasized the phrase again. “Kingston’s waiting. Alice, nice to have you stalking me, but I’m afraid it ends here.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait,” I said. Whitney turned around. “My friends, they don’t get it. No one else cares that I have things—missions I need to accomplish. If I don’t do it, no one will.” My voice cracked. “I can’t forgive myself if I fail.”

  She stepped forward, her electric-blue eyes piercing mine with a look that could turn me to stone. Then her lips curved in the slightest of smiles.

  “Damn,” she said. “Once the floodgates open, things will grow.”

  “What does that mean?” I wore desperation like a scarlet letter.