I Am Fartacus

by Mark Maciejewski

  I give them instructions not to scare away the mystery note writer, and then one of the triplets slowly opens the door to the bathroom and slips inside. A moment later he returns and signals the all clear. The three of them stand watch by the door as I go inside.

  The bathroom appears empty. The only light in the room comes through the high window on the far side. My steps echo off the tile walls. If the anonymous note writer is in here, he’s in one of the stalls. The doors of the first two are open. The third stall is empty too except for a ten-pound mud weasel someone forgot to flush. I think of Moby disappearing earlier, then sliding into homeroom after the bell. I slam the door before the weasel comes to life and attacks me.

  The fourth stall has no door. It’s under repairs, and has been forever, which leaves the one against the far wall.

  I stand outside the door. “Ahem!”

  A fake, high voice replies. “Occupied.”

  What now? I try again. “AHEM!”

  “Can you pass me some paper?” says the voice.

  I’m getting annoyed. Why wouldn’t you check to make sure there’s paper before you sit down? That’s a lesson you learn the first time you have to poop at school.

  I pull out the note to make sure I read it properly. Yep, definitely the right place at the right time.

  “Any piece of paper will work.”

  I look at the note and realize what the bad Kermit the Frog impersonator is asking. I fold it back up and flick it under the stall.

  Apparently, it does the trick, because a second later the door creaks open.

  It is a trap! Julius Jackson steps out of the stall. How could I have been so stupid?

  He stands more than a full head taller than me, and he’s so wide he fills up the stall’s doorway. When you think of Alanmoore track, you think of Julius Jackson—or at least you did, until the Arch joined the team. Everyone calls him Sizzler, partly because he’s the fastest kid in school, but mainly because he usually has enough food stuck in his braces to open his own all-you-can-eat buffet.

  I fight back my nerves. “Did you leave me the note?”

  He nods.

  “Is this a trap?” I say. There’s no reason for him to lie to me. If it is a trap and I try to run, he’ll be all over me before I can even call for help.

  For such a fast guy he talks very slowly. “No trap,” he says.

  “Why am I here, then?”

  “Cuz you know the Arch has no interest in being student body president and you want to know what he’s really up to.”

  Maybe someone else in this school is paying attention. “I’m listening.”

  Sizzler shuffles from foot to foot and jams his hands into his pockets.

  I turn for the door. “Drop me another note when you’ve got something to say.”

  “He planned it,” he says quietly.

  I stop.

  “The speech, the fake assassination—he planned all of it.”

  “The Shanghai sucker punch,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “He had the principal’s permission for the Secret Service thing. The water balloon part was extra. You know how he is.”

  I know how he is, all right. He’s the kind of kid who never gets in trouble for taking things too far because even adults think he’s perfect.

  “Anyway, there was no way he could’ve known everyone would go nuts like that. He just wanted to make sure it was a speech nobody would ever forget.”

  I look down as I run through what happened. Permission? That explains why there wasn’t a phone call last night. “But there were stink bombs.”

  Sizzler laughs. “No one can prove Archer’s guys lit those. It got a little out of hand, but hey, it got people talking. Everyone knows you can’t stand him since . . .”

  I whip my head up and glare at Sizzler. I don’t need to be reminded about the incident.

  “Since second grade,” he continues. “You try to embarrass him every chance you get. Archer knew everyone would assume you were behind the water balloon, and when Nate and Marlon stopped it, he’d be more popular than ever. You have to admit, it was pretty cool.”

  I take a step toward him. The light through the window behind him makes his Afro look like a halo. I tell myself it must be a pain having that much hair, but who am I kidding? I’d take it if I could.

  Since he’s so talkative, I ask, “Why go to all the trouble? He would’ve been elected anyway.”

  “He wanted to be SURE he’d get elected. He got you out of the gym so everyone would think it was you with the water balloon.”

  “He wants to get rid of me that badly?”

  On one hand, it makes me nervous that the Arch is now so focused on my destruction. On the other hand, it means that all my efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. I smile at the idea that I’m getting under his skin.

  “That’s what I’m here to tell you,” Sizzler says. “It’s not even about you. He’s in some kind of trouble.”

  This might be worth missing lunch for after all. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Dunno, but it’s like his life depends on it or something.”

  That sounds crazy, but if it’s true, it must be something serious. The Archer I knew never got steamed up about anything.

  “So why are you telling me this? Because now that he’s on the track team, you aren’t Coach Farkas’s favorite?”

  He deflates a little, and I know I’ve nailed it. He looks like he might cry, but he just says, “Track’s the only thing I’m good at. I work hard at it because I love it.”

  “So you want him taken down because he’s faster than you?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? Archer doesn’t care about the track team. It’s easy for him, so it doesn’t mean anything to him. When we leave Alanmoore, he’ll forget all about the track team. This was my year to do something special. Doesn’t seem fair.”

  I almost tell him I understand exactly how he feels, but the boys’ room, marinating in the smell of Moby’s gluten-free turd, doesn’t seem like the place for a group hug. Best to keep it all business.

  “What kind of secret could he have that he needs to become student body president to cover it up?”

  He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I just thought you should know, since you’re the only one who isn’t under his spell.”

  “And you are hoping I’ll help you figure out what he’s hiding and get your spot back.”

  He’s embarrassed to look me in the eye now that I’ve figured out his angle, so I let him off the hook. “Good. You came to the right place.”

  This is important info, and I should offer Julius something for it: a changed grade, an erased tardy, maybe a toothpick?

  “So what do you want?” I ask. He shrugs again, and suddenly a thought occurs to me. This is my chance to get something more valuable than one little scrap of information. This is my chance to get my own spy in the Arch’s circle. “Are you and Archer on good terms?”

  “I guess, but if anyone finds out I talked to you, everyone will probably hate me.”

  I tent my fingers. “Julius, do you know what a cadre is?”

  Then I explain to him what I want him to do.

  He shakes his head as I talk. “I dunno, Mazi . . . sack.”

  I wave my hand. “Please, call me Chub.”

  “I dunno, Chub. It seems kind of . . . illegal or something.”

  “Look, Sizzler,” I say. “If we’re going to let you into the cadre, we need to know you aren’t secretly working with the Arch. You have to do this to prove it, see?”

  Sizzler thinks about it for a moment. He needs a nudge.

  “You came to me, remember? If I turn you away, do you think you can go back to being one of his mindless followers?” I wait for him to do the math.

  “I guess not,” he says.

  “Then you know what you have to do.”

  After a moment he nods, sticks his hands in his pockets, and slowly walks out of the bathroom.

  Maybe Shelby is
right. Maybe having a cadre can be useful after all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lunchtime is almost over. Rather than risk a run-in with the Arch or any members of his Secret Service, I decide to wait in the abandoned stairwell behind the library for the bell to ring. I need some time to make sense of what Sizzler told me. The Arch being in big trouble is good news, so why does it make me nervous?

  The door to the stairwell is in the back of Mrs. Belfry’s office. She’s in her chair, as still as a statue, and for a split second I wonder if she’s been filed in the great card catalog in the sky. She’s sitting bolt upright with her hands folded in front of her on the desk.

  I’m not an expert or anything, but I have seen a dead body before. My parents made me look at my uncle Stosh in the casket at his funeral (it’s a Polish thing; don’t ask). I was nervous about it until I actually saw him. When Uncle Stosh was alive, his favorite hobby was mining for gold—in his nose. Decades of burrowing for boogers, or “picking winners” as he used to call it, left him with nostrils big enough to hangar a blimp. Whoever got him ready for the casket had decided to fix his nostrils by flattening them back to a normal size. When I figured out what looked weird about him, my anxiousness disappeared and I could even laugh, but only because Stosh would have thought it was funny too. My parents, however, didn’t think it was funny, and that weekend I got to learn how to run a single-buck vacuum shirt press.

  Mrs. Belfry’s nostrils look pretty lifelike, but I pause by the door for a minute to make sure I don’t need to call 911. I’m about to look for a mirror to hold under her nose when she sucks in a gasping snort. She might just make it to two hundred after all. I slip through the forgotten door and close it behind me as quietly as possible.

  The stairway is my little secret. It goes from the library on the fourth floor all the way to the basement, where the old steam boilers heat the water for the radiators. I discovered it during a detention, and I’ve used it several times for escapes and shortcuts, or just when I need a place to get away. I don’t see Mr. Mayer sitting on one of the steps until I almost trip over him.

  He doesn’t seem all that surprised to see me. “Maciek.”

  My eyes are adjusting to the dark, but I glimpse the telltale glow of a cell phone’s screen as he shoves it in his pocket.

  I stay on the step just above him. “Mr. Mayer.” The stairway isn’t technically off-limits, since nobody knows it exists. Still, I wait for him to say something first.

  He lets out a deep sigh. “How much of that did you overhear?”

  The truth is I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear a word of his conversation, but instinct tells me not to admit that.

  “Enough?” I say, not technically lying.

  Mr. Mayer hangs his head. He doesn’t talk for almost a minute.

  I don’t move a muscle.

  “Then you know this isn’t good.”

  A giant bubble forms and then pops in my stomach. He was on the phone with my parents and I’ve stupidly wandered into his little ambush. My mind scrambles through my options. How long will it take my parents to replace my passport if I’m able to find it and burn it? It probably won’t get me out of my trip to prison planet Poland. My dad will just figure out a way to put me in a box and ship me as freight.

  “You’re a smart kid. You apply it in odd ways, but you’re smart. What would you do if you were me?” he asked.

  Maybe Sizzler was wrong. Maybe the Arch didn’t have permission for the riot and Mr. Mayer does think I’m responsible. Will he really give me the chance to decide my own discipline? “I guess an act of mercy is out of the question?” I say.

  He laughs. “That would be nice, but this is a lot more serious than that.”

  The stomach bubble rises again. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent this time, I’m going to pay one way or another, just like the Arch planned.

  I’m about to throw myself on Mr. Mayer’s mercy and tell him everything I know when he turns to face me. His eyes are red. Pushing the boundaries is one thing, but making an adult cry is a line you don’t want to cross. My knees shake.

  “Mr. Mayer, I’m—”

  “You know what, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” he says, standing up and dusting off his pants. “In fact, I think it’s best if neither of us ever brings it up again.”

  I’m starting to wonder if we are having the same conversation.

  “There’s a lesson in this, though,” he says.

  I don’t want him to clam up because I sense he’s about to give me something good. “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t ever gamble more than you can afford to lose.”

  “Mmm,” I say, trying to sound like I’m pondering this pearl of wisdom, even though I still have no clue what the heck he’s babbling about. Honestly, do adults really believe kids know or care what they mean when they say stuff like that? Gambling? Seriously, does he think—

  Suddenly a trapdoor springs open in my mind. He isn’t talking about the riot at all. He’s talking about the other thing that only he and I know about—poker!

  That’s why he’s talking on the cell phone in the secret stairwell. He can’t risk anyone overhearing him discussing his little hobby.

  I need him to give me more. This info could be very useful, especially now that it looks like I’m going to be covering up for a whole bunch of people, not just Moby and me. I nudge him to spill the good stuff. “What are you going to do?”

  He shakes his head. “The only thing I can do. Figure out how to beat this Mr. X and play my way out of this hole.”

  This is officially too good to be true. One minute I think I’m getting deported for a crime I didn’t commit, the next my principal is giving me enough dirt on him to guarantee me a free ride through school. The mess he’s in explains why he never even asked me about the assembly.

  “And Mr. X is . . .”

  “He’s the whole reason I’m in this mess. I was almost qualified for the regional poker tournament when he started showing up at our league nights and winning games I had in the bag. I thought it was a fluke at first, but he just keeps winning and winning. I was sure I could figure out his game, but it’s impossible.”

  I don’t want him to get sidetracked, because it’s all actually pretty interesting. “What makes him so hard to figure out?”

  “He wears these sunglasses and a big cowboy hat. Not to mention his mustache, which covers half his face. It makes him impossible to read.”

  I start to think how unfair it is that someone would get extra hair on his face when some of us don’t even have it on our heads, but I catch myself and try to figure out what I would do if I were Mr. Mayer. “So why don’t you just not play him anymore?”

  He sighs. “I wish it were that simple. Now that we’re almost in the qualifier, I have to play him to get in. The real problem is I can’t afford to sit out now. I’ve dug myself a pretty big hole with Mace, trying to take this guy down.”

  I haven’t heard that name before. “Who’s Mace?”

  “He lends me money. He’s what’s called a loan shark. He’s the one who I was on the phone with when you . . .”

  The confusion must show on my face, because Mr. Mayer stops talking and lets out a deep sigh.

  He’s suddenly unable to look me in the eye. “You didn’t overhear the call at all, did you?”

  I shrug and try to look apologetic, but it’s hard to mask my outright glee at that moment. I had a little bit of dirt on Mr. Mayer before, but he’s just unloaded a dump truck full of it in my front yard.

  Mr. Mayer tells me he feels sick, so I leave him in the stairwell and make my way to the basement, then back up the other stairs to Mr. Kraley’s utility room. I feel a lot better about things as I push open the door that leads out toward the Dumpsters.

  Now that I know Mr. Mayer is in no position to worry about what I’m up to, I need to get the cadre together to start planning the Arch’s impeachment. Yes
sir, things look pretty good compared with the way the day started. That is, until a hand lands on my shoulder.

  Marlon and Nate are still dressed in the oversize suits and sunglasses they wore at the assembly when they “rescued” the Arch from the fake assassination.

  “Mr. Turbo-Chunky,” Marlon says. “Please come with us.”

  “What? Where?”

  Nate Plemmons kicks my feet apart and starts patting me down like I’m being arrested. “He wants to see you,” Nate says.

  I slap Nate’s hand away and dust myself off. Some kids see what’s happening and quickly look the other way, not wanting to get involved.

  Marlon puts a hand on my shoulder and nudges me toward the gym. I stop walking and stare at his hand, and after a few seconds of standoff he lets go of me and points the way.

  CHAPTER 10

  I should have expected this, but it’s happening sooner than I would’ve guessed and with a lot less subtlety. Nate and Marlon lead me into the locker room, then back away and stand by the door. I roll my eyes, but they just stare back blankly from behind their matching sunglasses. I’m trying to think of something clever to say when the Arch’s voice echoes off the brick walls.

  “Nice of you to join me.”

  I turn. He’s standing on top of the half wall that separates the showers from the rest of the locker room.

  My heart feels like a woodpecker trying to beat its way through my rib cage. “Nice of you to send your flying monkeys to give me a ride,” I say. Not bad.

  “Whatever.” He paces back and forth like a cat walking a fence. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  The end-of-lunch bell rings.

  “No,” I say. “But you better make it quick. We’re gonna be late for class.”

  “Oh, maybe you didn’t hear the news. I’m student body president now.”

  “Yeah,” I say as sarcastically as possible. “I’m pretty sure you still have to go to class.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see.” He strokes his chin.

  “Well, maybe you don’t have to go to class, but I do, so . . .” I turn to leave and the fake Secret Service agents step forward to block my way.