It Isn't Easy Being Queen

6. Who's Gonna be the Corpse?

I'd been trying to ignore Tyra this whole time because even her breathing made me want to strangle her with my purple yoga strap. Honestly, it would look so good around her neck! But looking into the mirror, I caught her reflection. Not only did I see the "other Tyra face" flash for a second, but her princess dress was also one hundred percent dry. Not a trace of dirty bucket water. But that was impossible.

"Why is your mouth hanging open like a hungry toad?" Tyra scoffed.

"Your dress," I blurted.

"What about it?"

"It's dry."

"Why wouldn't it be? I don't bathe at school. That's not a thing, right?"

She doesn't know that people don't bathe at school? Girl must've been royally home-schooled. "You're gaslighting me."

"Am not."

"Ladies, please sit on your mats cross-legged, hands on your knees facing up, and breathe."

"But ..." I tried to explain how the laws of physics somehow didn't apply to Tyra, and Ms. Piltz, of all people, should have a healthy respect for science. But she silenced me with a "librarian finger to the mouth" shushing gesture.

"Breathe," she said.

I breathed.

Fire.

I hated being hushed.

Ms. Piltz flipped a switch on the boom box, and the room filled with birdsong and crashing ocean waves and babbling creeks rushing over stones. It all made me want to scream. And pee.

"Ommmm," chanted Ms. Piltz, then nodded at us. "You, too."

"Ommmm," Tyra and I chanted along, me horribly out of tune; Tyra, like an angel singing from on high.

After about twelve hours of chanting, Ms. Piltz stood. "Now, let's begin with a Sun Salutation. Remember to be mindful of your breaths and keep silencing those thoughts."

As if! No way could I do that. Never. But especially not now with the whole bloody ransom note, catnapping thing going on. I had to think! The Candygram burned in my back pocket, a constant reminder of what lay ahead.

We followed along with one pose after another. Tyra, as graceful and coordinated as an Olympic figure skater, me as clumsy as a camel in ice skates navigating a frozen pond. I used the time to strategize about the catnapping and not focus on breathing because let's face it. Breathing didn't need thought. It was automatic. Like, well, breathing.

Here's what I knew as fact:

1. Someone had catnapped Cal.

2. The catnapper had access to the Candygram box at some point before AP Comp Sci.

3. The catnapper had a cruel sense of humor delivering a ransom note in a Candygram of all things. I preferred kidnappers who delivered their ransom notes in traceable emails or in envelopes with a return address.

4. The catnapper was clearly insane, because, ick. Using blood as the ink was psycho.

5. The catnapper knew how much I loved Cal (even if he was a thieving, mischievous, flea-ridden demon. He was my thieving, mischievous, flea-ridden demon, and I wouldn't allow anyone to hurt him).

6. The catnapper had focused their plan on me, even though Cal was a neighborhood cat. Perhaps, they didn't want Cal at all. Maybe the actual target was me. Getting me alone in a desolate pet cemetery. But why? What did I have that a conniving miscreant would want?

"Breathe," Ms. Piltz said. "Rowen, are you breathing?"

"Honestly, I'm trying not to. It smells like boy socks, boy sweat, and the bitter tang of defeat." (Coffin Ridge High had the worst win record in Calaveras County.)