by Greg Howard
Anything Middle School Legal Services
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Law Stuff Expert
Mr. Grayson grabs Mom’s smashed iPhone from his desk and holds it up. “Was the fight over this, Pruitt?”
“No, sir,” I say, shaking my head like there’s no tomorrow. “That’s my mom’s phone. I just dropped it and then . . .”
I glance over at Tommy. He shoots me a warning glare that would make Voldemort pee himself.
“Then, um—uh,” I stammer, trying to avoid Tommy’s hard gaze. “I guess I accidentally stepped on it during the fight.”
Tommy gives a little nod. I feel about two inches tall telling that lie—especially to save Tommy Jenrette’s butt just because I don’t want him to pound my face in. Julian doesn’t say anything because he didn’t see anything. He was too busy trying to breathe under a pile of boys to catch Tommy smashing the iPhone with his foot.
“Well,” Mr. Grayson says.“I’m sure your mom will be anxious to hear about the condition of her phone. Why don’t we give her a call right now? I’m sure we have a home phone number here somewhere.”
“No,” I say a little too quickly. “She’s at work. She teaches at North Charleston High.”
“I’ll send her an email, then,” Mr. Grayson says, like he’s disappointed he can’t call Mom right now and rat me out.
“What about him?” Julian says, pointing at Tommy again with a whole load of Miss Coco sass in his voice.
As a future lawyer, I would advise him to keep his mouth shut right now. There must be something seriously wrong with Julian the way he keeps pointing the finger at Tommy. It’s like he’s not scared of Tommy at all. Does he not know who he’s dealing with here? The psycho dude who duct-taped Stanley Rogers inside a trash can behind the school and left him there for three hours before the janitor found him? The same guy who gave Ty Erickson such a legendary wedgie in the locker room that the kid walked like an overweight duck for a week? Maybe Julian hit his head too hard on the ground when he was tackled. Maybe he doesn’t remember all that. I sure as heck do.
Mr. Grayson sighs, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Colton Sanford said he didn’t see who pushed him. And Jenrette is the only one sitting here with a bloody nose. So, Vasquez, you’re suspended for one day.”
Julian’s eyes widen, and he looks like his whole head is going the explode. “What the—”
“Watch it, son,” Mr. Grayson says, pointing a finger at Julian before he curses. “One more word and you’ll be suspended for two days. I’m going easy on you because I don’t have all the details.”
Julian clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes are yelling at the top of his lungs.
Mr. Grayson eyes me and Tommy. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, though. I know he doesn’t want to suspend his star basketball player.
“You two,” he says. “Detention today after school. Right here in my office.”
Tommy huffs, but he doesn’t say anything, which is probably smart. That might force Mr. Grayson to do something worse to him.
I raise my hand. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m afraid if I speak out of turn, I’ll get more than just detention.
Mr. Grayson rolls his eyes. It’s very unprofessional. “What, Pruitt?”
“Sir, what exactly am I getting detention for?” I say as politely as I can. “I mean, I have to understand my punishment so I can explain it to my parents.”
Mr. Grayson’s eyes plow into mine. I get the feeling he thinks I’m sassing him, but I’m not. Okay. Maybe I am, just a little. I break his hard gaze and stare down at his basketball of a belly.
“Um, never mind,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “Now, all of you, back to class. Mrs. Taylor will give you a note.”
Tommy is the first one out the door, huffing all the way. Julian and I take our time. I feel so bad for him. He doesn’t deserve suspension. Tommy had it coming. He started the whole thing. The middle school justice system is super-crazy unfair. It’s not until we’re in the outer office waiting at the counter for Mrs. Taylor to give us a note that I finally get a good look at Julian’s eyes. They’re dark and maybe a little wet. The Miss Coco sparkle, sass, and pizzazz are gone.
I touch his arm to get his attention. “Hey. Are you okay?”
Julian looks at me like he’s in a trance. He shakes his head slowly. “My dad is going to kill me.”
20
THE MURDERY DETENTION
After school, Tommy and I sit in Mr. Grayson’s office quietly serving out our detention sentence. Tommy hasn’t said a word and he hasn’t looked at me, either, which is all just fine by me. I do worry a little bit that he might be sitting over there plotting to murder me. Mr. Grayson left a while ago, and I hope he comes back soon. The door is open so Mrs. Taylor can keep an eye on us and hopefully come to my rescue when Tommy decides it’s time for my life to be over.
With his chair pulled up close to the corner of Mr. Grayson’s desk, he’s hunched over a notebook, drawing something with one of Mr. Grayson’s blue pens, but I can’t see what it is. His thick dark hair hangs down, hiding his brown eyes from me. His nose is a little pointy, but not in a bad way, and his lips are full and round. Actually Tommy would be a good-looking guy if he weren’t such a jerk. But the jerk part kind of ruins his whole look.
I pretend like I’m reading Wonder, but I’ve already finished it. It was just the only book I had in my backpack. I’ll bet Tommy hasn’t ever read it. It’s all about being kind to one another. That doesn’t sound like something he would be too interested in.
But I can’t take the silence anymore. Besides, maybe if I get him talking, he’ll stop thinking of all the ways he can murder me. Who knows, maybe I can get him to confess to starting the fight. I wish I had a phone to secretly record our conversation for evidence.
“What are you drawing?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light but steady. Like it’s no big deal that we’re in here alone together.
It’s the only thing I can think of to say and at first I don’t even know if he hears me. Finally he glances over and sighs. He holds up the notebook and—OMG!—it’s the coolest drawing of Hogwarts I’ve ever seen. It looks just like it does in the movies, except it’s all done in blue ink.
“That’s pretty good,” I say, and I’m not even lying.
I’m no art critic, but I could probably be one if I wanted to. I bet art critics don’t make much money, though, so I probably wouldn’t start a whole new division of Anything, Inc., just to go around looking at people’s drawings and saying what I like and don’t like about them. I can do that for free. Like charity work.
Tommy gazes at the drawing for a second, and then looks back at me. “You think so?”
I nod and sit up a little straighter. “It looks like a scene from one of the movies—maybe Deathly Hallows: Part 1. And I like the way you have Hedwig sitting in that window.” I point to the Hedwig spot. “That was a nice touch.”
“Thanks,” Tommy says, his face twisted like he thinks I’m pulling his leg. Or maybe he’s just not used to saying the word thanks and it tastes nasty on his tongue. He dives back into his sketch, but at least now he looks a little less murdery to me.
“I guess you like to draw, huh?” I say. Lame question. Duh.
He doesn’t respond, but keeps drawing with his left hand. I never noticed before that Tommy is left-handed.
“You’re talented,” I say, leaning back in the chair. “And I should know because I’m a talent agent in real life.”
In real life? That was a pretty dumb thing to say. Of course, in real life.
Tommy scratches his head with the cap end of the pen. “You mean that little freak-show thing you were having in your garage the other day? I thought you guys were just
playing around.”
“Technically, it’s a carport, not a garage,” I say, slumping down in my chair. “And why do you have to be so mean all the time?”
I meant to just think the question, but the words tumbled right out of my mouth before I could stop them. That happens to me a lot. I wonder if there are support groups for that. Like Speakaholics Anonymous. I’ll have to google that later.
Tommy leans back in his chair, staring blankly at me. “I’m not mean. I just like having fun.”
I slip my book inside my backpack and cross my arms. “Well, news flash, being mean to people isn’t very fun for the people you’re being mean to.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he keeps staring at me. Finally he goes back to his drawing. “Whatever, Gay Mikey.”
“And why do you keep calling me that?” I ask with a little huff.
“It’s just a name,” he says. “And you are gay, right?”
I glance down at the floor, hoping it will open up and swallow me whole. I think about all the different responses I could throw out.
Why, yes, Tommy Jenrette, I’m a proud gay kid. I’m here and I’m queer. Get used to it.
But then I realize for the first time that I’m not all that proud of it. Even though I’m definitely the other two things—gay and a kid. I guess I don’t have any business joining the Pride Club, after all. Maybe Trey was right about me being the worst gay ever.
I could say, What the heck are you talking about, Tommy Jenrette? Why would you say something like that? Of course I’m not gay. Gay people suck. I like girls. Girls rock. I want to, like, kiss them and everything. There’s nobody not gayer than me.
But being a coward and saying nasty things about other people like you seems a lot worse than just not being proud of who you are. I guess I could just say, I don’t know if I’m gay or not, Tommy Jenrette. And it’s none of your business, anyway, so thank you very much and have a nice day.
Even though I do know. “Who told you?” I say, which was not even in the running for my possible responses.
Tommy puts the pen down and holds up his drawing, inspecting it like he’s trying to decide if he thinks he might be a talented artist or not. And he seriously is, as much as I hate to admit it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already thought of ways I could promote him as an artist if he was one of my clients. And, you know, a nice person and all.
“You just did,” he says. “I was guessing because I never see you with any girls.” Crap. Tommy Jenrette has better gaydar than I do. That doesn’t seem fair at all. I shift in my seat and the chair creaks. These metal chairs make your butt go numb fast. I think that’s why Mr. Grayson has them in his office. So kids’ butts will go numb and they’ll be super-crazy uncomfortable.
“I guess there’s no use in asking you not to tell anyone,” I say.
He kind of half chuckles. “If you keep hanging around that fat Mexican kid, trust me, everyone will figure it out.”
My neck goes hot. “Don’t call him that.”
Tommy looks over at me. “What? Fat or Mexican? ’Cause last time I checked, he was both.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Julian is Mexican, and he even called himself fat. And there isn’t anything wrong with either of those things. But the way Tommy says it makes it sound like there is. But I don’t say anything and that feels wrong and not like something a friend would do. Which makes me wonder—Are Julian and I friends?
Tommy holds up the drawing to me again. “You seriously think I have talent?”
“Sure,” I say, shifting my numb butt in the seat again. “Everyone has some kind of talent. You have two kinds—playing basketball and drawing. Maybe you should spend more time working on those and less time shoving kids like Colton around. Or calling people freaks, losers, and he/she. Or saying gay like it’s a bad word.”
I figure if Tommy’s going to murder me anyway, I might as well say what I want to him first. But he doesn’t murder me. Not yet. He just shoots me a blank stare, without saying a word. Like he might actually be thinking about what I just said. But I guess that’s not very likely.
“You should take an art class in high school next year,” I say.
Tommy sighs like talking to me is draining all his energy. “My dad would never let me do that. He says I have to focus all my time on basketball.”
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you loved playing basketball.”
Tommy closes his notebook and puts Mr. Grayson’s pen back into the pencil cup on the desk. “I like it okay. But I’d rather draw.”
Just then I realize that this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Tommy Jenrette. Actually it’s the only time we’ve ever been alone, which is probably why he’s talking to me at all. Trace and Colby aren’t around for him to try to impress—if you can call being a jerk impressive. But I’ve learned at least two things I didn’t know about Tommy—he’s a crazy-good artist and he’d rather draw than play basketball but his dad won’t let him. Oh, and he’s left-handed and he thinks being mean is having fun, which makes no sense at all.
Mr. Grayson sails in through the door. He’s changed into navy shorts and a white polo shirt and a whistle hangs from his neck. “Okay, gentlemen. That’ll be all. Jenrette, get to the gym. You’re late for practice. Pruitt, your mom is here to pick you up.”
Great. Punishment—round two.
Tommy pops up out of his chair with a sudden burst of energy. He rushes out the door before I can tell him that he left his notebook with the Hogwarts drawing on the vice principal’s desk. Mr. Grayson doesn’t notice it, either. So, as I pack up the rest of my stuff, I grab the notebook, slip it inside my backpack, and hurry out the door.
21
THE TRAITOR
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #366: Don’t get grounded for destroying your mom’s brand-new iPhone when one of your clients has a big audition at the Petcare store out by Northwoods Mall.
I spend Saturday morning in my office at the world headquarters of Anything, Incorporated, waiting for my junior talent coordinator to get back and give me a full report on how the Amazing Sadie and Fifi did at Petcare. There’s only one more week of school and it’s going to be super-crazy busy, so I’m making notes on my legal pad while I wait for Lyla:
Monday—talent-show tryouts!
Tuesday—Julian death-drop rehearsal with Manny.
I make a mental note to google kid life-insurance policies. Then I write down:
Wednesday—math final exam.
I’ll get Dinesh to help me study for that. He loves math. Weird.
Thursday—language-arts final essay due?
I put a big old question mark by that one because I don’t even know what I want to write about. But Mr. Crowder said it could be on anything we want, because he’s cool that way.
Friday—The Big Show!!!!!!
Then I remember something else important and write it down:
Next Saturday—the Super Kid of Many Faces world premiere at Chandler Martin’s b-day party.
Stuart is so excited about his upcoming gig, you’d think he was getting paid a thousand dollars, which is what I told him I was going to ask for. I forgot to tell him that Mrs. Martin only agreed to pay twenty bucks.
I add one more thing to my list:
Figure out a way to get Tommy’s super-crazy-good drawings back to him without getting punched in the face.
I’m getting nervous about the talent-show tryouts on Monday because Mr. Arnold, the drama teacher who heads up the show every year, has high standards. He’s almost like a real-live show-business professional. He’s usually the star of all the Lowcountry Community Theater shows and he does interpretive dance with his troupe every year at the Spoleto Festival. I saw him dance one year at the festival. The dancing was weird, but Mr. Arnold was pretty good. But I, like, never need
to see him in tights ever again—No, thank you very much, Mr. Arnold, and have a nice day!
I hope all my clients have been practicing because Mr. Arnold doesn’t let just anyone go through to the big show. He’s kind of like Simon Cowell that way. He’s even made kids and parents cry before. But I think that’s just part of being a professional in show business. I’ll probably need to learn how to make people cry if I’m going to be a good talent agent. Maybe Mr. Arnold can teach me.
Dad and Lyla have been gone a long time, so I hope nothing went wrong with Sadie and Fifi’s audition at Petcare. I should’ve been there. It’s very unprofessional that I missed the whole thing. It was my idea, after all. But Lyla jumped at the chance to go in my place when Dad offered to take her. It’s not fair that I was grounded for the weekend, just because Tommy Jenrette smashed Mom’s phone yesterday. Like I had anything to do with that. But Mom is all about taking responsibility for our actions, and I guess my action of taking Mom’s iPhone to school came with the responsibility of getting it safely back home. Although I didn’t sign anything that explained all that, so the grounding is probably not even legal. I pointed that out to Mom, but the look she gave me told me I should probably just let it go.
Forbes lies at my feet, staring up at me with his time-to-close-up-shop-go-outside-and-play-ball look.
“Sorry, Forbesy,” I say, reaching down to give him a scratch on the head. “I have to work today. I’m waiting on an important email, buddy.”
He rests his furry head on the concrete floor with a prolonged whiny grumble. Poor Forbes.
Thankfully Brady’s sizzle reel didn’t die with Mom’s phone. Dad found it hiding somewhere in the cloud and downloaded it onto my laptop. I edited in the stuff that Brady sent me and sent the final video link to Miss Allie Rosen at Later Tonight with Billy Shannon twenty whole minutes ago and I still haven’t gotten a response. I mean, I know it’s a Saturday, even in New York, but I think it’s unprofessional of Miss Rosen not to at least let me know that she got the email. I mean, if you work for someone as important as Mr. Billy Shannon, weekends must be just as busy as weekdays. I’ll bet his staff works every single day of the week and they probably think he’s a jerk to make them do it. But I think he’s just a smart businessman. I mean, it’s Saturday here in North Charleston, South Carolina, too, and you don’t see me out in the backyard playing ball with my dog, do you?
