“Ew, what’s that?”
Cooper pulls away. “What? I thought you liked it when I kiss your neck.” He looks insulted. And a little hurt.
I chuckle. “No, I love it. I’m talking about that.” Pointing to the window, I get up to take a closer look.
The clear streaks are thick and goopy, and sort of look like someone’s slathered a handful of hair gel across the glass. But that’s ridiculous because, for one, who the heck would do that? And two, it’s on the exterior side of the pane. Besides, since Cooper doesn’t use gel, I doubt there’s even a tube of the stuff in the house.
Cooper steps beside me and squints at the splotches on his window. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just dirty. I’ll ask your dad to zap it with the power washer.”
My scalp prickles, but unlike a few moments ago when Cooper’s touch made my flesh sizzle, the feeling moves way beyond tickling to almost burning. Though my fingers itch to soothe the fiery sensation, I’ve done this long enough to know it’s got nothing to do with the skin on my head. I’m supposed to take note of this stuff.
“No, I think it’s something else.” I unhinge the lock and release the side buttons to allow the frame to tilt inside. The humid air gushes in, warming his air-conditioned room and carrying the luscious scent of the pink magnolia beside the house.
Bending down, I peer at the smudge. A whiff of something sharp and bitter slams my nostrils, making me pull away. Nausea swells and my mouth floods with sour saliva. “Ugh, gross!” Covering my mouth with my palm, I gag.
I’ve smelled something similar once before. Last summer, while Jack and I were down south and my mom was on her dig at the sandstone cliff buildings in Petra, our freezer broke down. When we got back just before school started, the mildewed and rotting food was a biohazard of epic proportions. Even after we got rid of it, the stench lingered in our apartment for almost a week. This smell, the one coming from the residue on Cooper’s window, reminds me of the funk that hovered in our kitchen those last few days.
Cooper scoops his head to sniff, then looks up at me, quirking his brow. “It’s a little nasty, but it’s not that bad.”
“Seriously?” I cough, my throat burning. “It’s putrid.”
“I guess I must be stuffed up or something.” Reaching over, he stretches his fingers toward the slime.
A jolt of pain shoots down my arm, zapping my hand. I don’t know what it means except Cooper isn’t supposed to touch that stuff.
“Don’t!” I yank his wrist away.
But it’s too late. The gel coats his middle and index fingers. My heart jumps into overdrive, galloping in my chest.
“What’s the matter?” His eyes stretch as wide as half-dollars.
The skin on my hand radiates heat. “You can’t touch it.”
“Why?” He laughs, tapping his tacky fingers against his thumb. The glycerin-like substance is wet and stretchy. “It’s sap or something. Gross, but nothing dangerous. Really. See?” He pushes his fingers toward my face. The scent stings my eyes.
Tugging my T-shirt over my nose, I take a giant step back and trip onto Cooper’s bed. “Get it away from me! I mean it.” My voice is laden with desperation.
Jack sweeps open the door to Cooper’s bedroom, a rolled paper bag in his hand. “Do you know your stepmonster’s going crazy again downstairs?” When he notices me cringing on the bed, he laughs. “What’s going on in here?” He’s way too amused by my obvious discomfort.
“Emma’s afraid of the slime on my window. Seems your sister has inherited your dad’s neat-freak gene.” He walks to his hamper, flips open the lid, and wipes his hand on a towel at the top of the pile. “As for Missy, there’s a reason this was closed.” Hooking his toe around the edge of the door, he pushes it shut again.
My mind is still stuck on the neat-freak quip. Is he serious? Hasn’t he noticed the charcoal pastels caked under my fingernails, or the oil paint that occasionally frosts my hair? I’m nothing like my disinfectant-obsessed father. Still hypersensitive about being a guest in the caretaker’s cottage, Dad takes spotless to a whole new level.
I right myself on the mattress. “It’s not that. I just don’t want that nasty stuff on me. I don’t know how you can stand the stink.”
Jack sniffs the air. “What stink?”
“You too?” I inhale through my cotton shirt, dragging the fresh scent of fabric softener up my nose. It’s almost enough to eradicate the stench now wafting from the still-open clothes hamper.
Setting the bag on Cooper’s desk, he steps toward the pane, then leans over and sniffs. “Marginally foul.” Shrugging, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at Cooper. “It’s way worse than the neat-freak gene. It’s an emo attack.” He winks at me, knowing his favorite insult is bound to trip my nerves.
Mission accomplished.
My lids narrow. “Don’t be an idiot.” I get up and slam the hamper shut.
Tilting his head, he smirks. “Look, I’m not the one spazzing over a few slug trails. Which, by the way you’ve seen a million times all over this plantation.” He tilts the frame upward, clicking the pane in place, then shuts the window and relocks the latch.
Slug trails? My pulse drops to a trot. Okay, maybe I overreacted. A little. I didn’t even consider the gooey little shell-less snails could have left behind that glistening, mucous-y film. Though I don’t ever remember seeing one suction itself to the second level of the Big House, much less three. But even if I did go a bit overboard, that goop really does reek.
“It’s still vile.” I shudder, keeping my breath shallow to avoid the dissipating but still lingering odor.
“I just hope Coop and I didn’t miss out on sailing for an equally nondisaster disaster.” Jack snatches the bag, unrolls the top, and pulls out the dagger we liberated from the museum. The same one I used to slice my palm and then Jack’s to bind our blood and break The Creep. The one we were supposed to hide somewhere in the museum to confuse the officials into thinking it was merely misplaced and not, in fact, stolen along with the mortar. “So what’s up? And why did I need to get this?” The silver blade shines in the steaming sunlight.
“Trust me, we’ve got a problem.” Sinking into the desk chair, I quickly fill them in on my interaction with Claude at Miss Delia’s, telling them everything Claude said and how he linked Miss Delia’s donation with the engraving on the knife’s wooden handle. And, to ice this particular bad-news cupcake, I add in the part about how I inadvertently implicated myself, at least in finding the treasure.
Midway through my story, Jack and Cooper slump on his bed. By the time I’m done, Cooper’s pinching the bridge of his nose and Jack’s shaking his head.
“Crap.” Jack looks as miserable as someone forced to walk the plank over a shark-infested lagoon. “We could be totally screwed.” He grips the knife’s handle.
Cooper nods. “Yeah, but what were we supposed to do? Between adding that ramp to Miss Delia’s porch and widening her doorways we didn’t have time to make another trip to the museum.”
“I suppose it’s too late to do it now,” Jack says.
I sigh. “Now that’s Claude’s on the case, the museum is off-limits.”
Cooper’s eyes light up with hopeful possibility. “This Claude guy said he could get Taneea a job there, right? Maybe we could ask her to stick it in some storeroom or something.”
Jack and I stare at him, our foreheads etched with identical creases. I love Cooper’s optimism, but he’s seriously overestimated her trustworthiness.
“Dude, you’d rely on someone who hitchhikes with strangers and got kicked out of school for something this important? Are you nuts?” Jack asks, conveying my sentiments exactly, albeit way more rudely.