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 period, 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’d 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 just 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 party 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 that 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 away 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.