by Kim Zarins
Everyone from the senior prank at Mr. Bailey’s house—everyone except for goody-goody types like Reeve and Parson—glares at Mace. We’re all picturing the scene: that two story high, off-white wall decorated with a hodgepodge of silent clocks—not as many as Pinocchio’s father had in the Disney movie, but quite a few of them, all kinds from cheap to fancy. And way beyond our reach was Pard’s hat, with a hole punched through it, perched on a cuckoo clock. Besides being an expert back rubber, Mace was apparently a Frisbee god, or just lucky, if that was his intention.
It was mean ruining the hat, but more to the point—it was like leaving Mr. Bailey a note saying we’d been there. Drunk people tried blowing all at the same time to see if the hat would dislodge and float down. Rooster wanted to throw stuff at the clock to get it down, but that would risk breaking the clocks, so we left it there. A bunch of us got interrogated, but only Pard did detention.
“You dick,” Frye says to Mace after a pause. “You said I did it. People gave me shit for it. You made me pay you forty bucks to help dispel the rumors. And now we know, don’t we?”
“Dude,” Rooster says to Mace. “Why?”
Mace just smiles like a creep.
“I hate everything about that night,” Pard says, glaring at Mace but then oddly glancing my way. “Doing detention for the trashing of my own hat got me thinking. I deserve to know what Cannon’s part is in all of this.”
“What?” My mouth drops open, and my eyes cut to Mr. Bailey to make sure he’s still lecturing Reeve that it’s unsafe to let him have the clipboard after flinging it like that. “Franklin’s right—you are so anti-Cannon you don’t see straight. Cannon had nothing to do with senior prank, let alone your stupid hat.”
“No? Then what were you doing in Mr. Bailey’s study? Remember? We all started shouting and tried to figure out how to get down the damn hat. But you weren’t around for a bit. So what gives? Were you helping Mace, or did Cannon give you a different project?”
I’m shaking my head at this freak coincidence. “Neither. I just needed some air.”
Pard curls his lip. “Inside his office? That’s where all the best fresh air is, right?”
Now, people look at me like I’m somehow a part of Mace’s nasty joke or something even shadier.
I can’t tell them I was helping Cannon rig the grade book on the cloud. Mr. Bailey only seemed to access the cloud from his home computer, not the teacher’s lounge, so it had to be done. It was wrong hacking a computer in a teacher’s own house, but it had nothing to do with Pard, and it wasn’t hurting anyone, doing it.
But then I have one more sick thought. When Cannon dropped me off at Mr. Bailey’s house, Reiko, Lupe, and Marcus were already there, and Cannon quickly led us all to the back door. Reiko commented it seemed like he’d done this before, and he flashed her a wolfish grin. It took only a couple minutes for him to bust the lock. He’d brought several tools, but in the end he simply wiggled a credit card in the crack and coaxed the cheap lock to give way. “Never underestimate the power of plastic,” Lupe quipped. By then a couple other people had showed up, and everyone piled in. But not Cannon—he had someone to meet, another scheme. I shut the door but then remembered I needed to ask him about some arrangements for prom. I popped open the door in time to see him picking up a small package hidden behind a potted plant. Our eyes met. For a moment we just looked at each other. He winked, his face reassuring, and instead of asking him why he was taking Mr. Bailey’s delivery, I let it be.
I hoped he was just pranking Mr. Bailey and would soon return whatever it was. That’s what I told myself.
I want to unravel the whole convoluted story. But everyone is looking at me with those suspicious eyes.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
Pard sighs, his mouth dragging at one corner. “You never do.”
FRYE’S TALE
“Please!” Reeve begs, and with a sigh Mr. Bailey hands back the clipboard. There’s something naked about the way Reeve clutches it to his chest and faces forward, just to be alone for a moment.
Distracted by Reeve and still worried about my role in the prank, I’ve forgotten all about Mace by the time Mr. Bailey draws Frye’s name. But Frye hasn’t forgotten, not by a long shot.
“I am so ready.” He narrows his eyes and launches right into his story, like he can’t take down Mace fast enough.
So Mace used to work at McDonald’s. You could see him there in the back, all zitty and scaly faced, with his eyebrow flakes falling on the fries, and when people noticed, he said it was just salt.
“Frye, this isn’t appropriate,” Mr. Bailey warns in that feeble-teacher way of his.
“No worries,” Mace says with that deep voice. “My turn will be next. He’ll pay.”
“I’ll pay?” Frye shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “Dude, you owe me forty bucks.”
So, eventually, after a health inspection, Mace was personally declared an infestation and fired.
After Mace’s first and only attempt at honest labor, he went into a life of crime. Turns out if he got into people’s faces, they were so freaked out by the skin peeling off him and the zits that they were all too willing to pay Mace to go away. So he made a small business of getting lunch money from kids. Later on he learned to see weaknesses and exploit them. He’d find rich geeks and pretend they were trying to steal Cannon’s business, and the geeks would pay Mace to make the accusation go away. Cannon tolerated him and occasionally gave him real jobs, mostly ones to suit Mace’s increasingly violent, scheming nature.
To branch out, Mace looked for loner girls and picked on their dress code violations. Their skirts were too short? Midriffs were showing? Mace was right on them, asking if they wanted to pay him to keep his mouth shut. They were so creeped out, they paid. Not that he wanted to be paid in money, but most of the girls didn’t let him get physical.
“Ew!” Briony shrieks, and there’s a whoosh of angry whispers from the girls.
Frye’s smile is wicked. It’s kind of bizarre, because Frye is the school moocher, and he’s received piles of cash from Franklin and others all the time, and he’s cool with it. But being conned out of forty bucks brings out all Frye’s fury.
Mace sits back with his arms crossed and waits. Deadpan, scaly, and pimply, he looks terrifying. I wonder if Frye is just being vindictive, or if Mace really did become a sort of blackmailer and henchman or worked with Cannon. Mace’s sister probably did help Cannon meet some people, but I’ve never seen Cannon and Mace hang out.
So, one day, Mace sees a new guy at school, but this one doesn’t look like an easy target. Maybe it was the knowing look on his face, but there was something a little scary about him, and Mace doesn’t scare easily—I mean, he looks into a mirror every morning, for crying out loud. But this is different.
“Hey, you, in the green . . . what up?” He sits down with the guy at lunch to figure him out.
Just then one of Mace’s victims approaches their table, slips Mace a five, and scuttles away, like he does every week.
Green asks, “What was that about?”
What is Mace supposed to say? It’s kind of embarrassing to say he bullies kids with invented, trumped-up charges just to squeeze cash out of them. But then he kind of confesses it, and Green acts like this is great news.
“Cool. If you want to make some real money, let me know.”
Mace lifts a flaky eyebrow. “Meaning?”
The new guy smiles. “I was pretty good at milking the kids at my old town.” After Mace says he’s interested, Green offers to work together. “I’m new, and you can help me find the right people to extort. We’ll split whatever profit we make. How’s that?”
“Sure. If you’re as good as you say you are.”
“ ‘Good’ isn’t an adequate word.” Green smiles pleasantly. “I’m a fiend.”
“A what?”
Green laughs. “A fiend, a demon. A devil. Whatever you call them nowadays. I‘m not joking.”
“I thought this was a realistic story. You can’t have a devil at a regular high school,” Marcus says.
“Yes, you can!” Sophie blurts. She flinches, like she’s surprised she spoke out.
“She’s right, I’m afraid,” Parson adds, very seriously, and Marcus and Sophie look worried a sermon will follow any second now.
Sophie turns to Frye with her cute fangirl eyes. “Please go on—I love paranormal.”
Frye laughs, and for a moment his face captures his flirtatious personality. But only for a moment. “Glad you do, but I’m not sure Mace does—do you, Mace?”
Mace very calmly cracks his knuckles in response.
Mace glares at the new guy, who comes across as some kind of Satanist weirdo or a prankster. “Yeah, sure. A devil.”
“Think I’m lying? Look me in the eye and say that.”
Mace takes a chance and looks into Green’s eyes. There’s something off about them, though he can’t say what. But he cannot pull his eyes away. And then the whispers start in his head. Whatever they are saying, the whispering voices are downright freaky. They’re asking for something. Demanding something. His soul, maybe? Mace senses that all he has to do is speak the words, offering his soul, and demons will rush him down to Hell.
Green laughs, and Mace finds himself released from the freaky whispers. “Are we done with the skepticism?”
“Whoa.” Mace shakes himself but recovers quickly. “Okay, I believe you. But now that I know, I don’t see the point in partnering. You want souls, right? I want money, cars, girls, stuff. Not the same.”
Green absentmindedly traces a pentagram on the table with orange juice. “Actually, I get tons of that stuff. When mortals call on the Devil’s name and curse their pet parakeet to Hell, guess what happens down there?”
“You get pet parakeets?”
The demon laughs with an embarrassed frown. “Yup. I’d rather you get the parakeets . . . and the gold, jewels, and so on. So, you get the stuff, and I get the souls. Deal?”
Mace smiles at this windfall. “Yeah. Partner.”
A normal person wouldn’t jump at a pact with a devil, but Mace is all over it. The school is his oyster now. Even Cannon will have to bow down to him. No more Mr. Loser Scabface for Mace. He’ll get money. Hell, he’ll get laid. His lonely balls have always wondered what that would be like.
There’s laughter all around at Mace’s expense. I join the laughter, but as a pathetic virgin, I feel like a hypocrite.
“Hey, all,” Parson says. “There’s no need to laugh at our brother. I think every guy must wonder what it’s like to be with a woman. I do.”
That’s Parson for you: Jesus shirt, virgin guy. Up-front and smiley about it.
“Parson, I’m shocked,” Alison says, all mischievous. “Are you saying that even you sometimes have sinful thoughts?”
Parson’s face goes beet red. Characters in books always blush, but Parson’s skin really changes from pale pink to deep red. It’s kind of charming. He finally manages to say, “All young people think about . . . about sex. I just won’t act on my impulses until marriage.”
“Dude,” Rooster says, “you are missing out.”
Cece leans an elbow on the row in front of her so that her armpit shows. “I hope you aren’t one of those guys who insist on your wife’s virginity—you know, so you’re the only one to ‘show her a man’s touch.’ Yikes. That’s a major red flag for a woman.”
Parson’s deep red blush has traveled all the way down his neck, so that his skin is darker than the pink Jesus shirt. He mumbles that he only wants to offer his future wife his full self and know no other touch but hers.
“Oh, leave him alone, everyone!” Pard’s eyes shine tenderly like he’s ready to nuzzle that Jesus shirt. “Parson, just be yourself and don’t listen to these heathens. You’re going to have a great wedding night, and I hope you’ll invite me to the ceremony.”
Parson beams with a sweet God bless you smile that seems blissfully unaware that Pard’s brotherly love might go a little deeper than Parson expects.
“Okay, guys, the difference here is Parson wants to keep his virginity,” Frye says, “and we can respect that choice. It’s different if you want to lose it but can’t find anyone to help you out with that.” He grins as he continues his tale.
After school Mace and Green meet up to do their first job.
“Watch this,” Mace tells him.
Then Mace taps Marcus on the shoulder in the parking lot. “Hey, we need a ride.”
Marcus spins around, terrified that Mace will threaten or rob him and unsure who Green is, but Marcus can’t say no out there in the quiet lot. He shrugs. “Sure, but can we stay in the downtown area? I have violin rehearsal at four.”
“Oooh,” Mace says, “we wouldn’t want you to miss that.”
“It’s a cello,” Marcus says, blinking with shock that Frye can’t tell the difference.
Frye shrugs and continues.
They all get in Marcus’s car.
Marcus drives them around for a couple miles, when his old Focus dies. So he gets out, pops the hood, but still can’t figure out the problem. He knows one thing for certain though: His famous violin—cello—teacher isn’t going to be happy about being stood up because of his lemon of a car.
“Dammit! To hell with this piece of crap!”
Mace gives Green a look, expecting the car to literally go to Hell or come into Green’s own possession somehow. But nothing happens. Marcus ramps up to the F-word, and that’s about it.
This devil was either deaf or a slacker.
“So, why isn’t anything happening?” Mace says under his breath while Marcus looks under the hood.
Green smiles and shakes his head. “He didn’t mean it, right? I can’t take it unless he really means it. Regulations from Our Enemy Above require intention and the verbal go-ahead to get through customs. It’s too bad, because otherwise everyone and everything would have already been in Hell ages ago. Alas, my hands are tied.”
Even as Green makes a gesture of bound hands, the car splutters to life again. Green doesn’t look surprised.
“Oh yes!” Marcus pumps his fist like a seventh grader. “I love you, Socrates!”
Green cocks his eyebrow. “You named your car Socrates?” He laughs. “Socrates isn’t offing himself today, I guess.”
Marcus smiles for the first time since Mace barged in on his afternoon. “You know about Socrates’s death by poison? He wasn’t offing himself because he wanted to, you know.”
“Really? How interesting,” Green says, his wide smile very, very knowing. Like he’d been there.
Mace gives Green a sour look for not showing off his powers and getting Marcus’s car, lemon or not, but the devil stretches his arms comfortably. “We have all the time in the world. No rush.”
“Is your car really named Socrates?” Kai asks.
Marcus chuckles, nerd style. “Yeah. But that’s nothing. I named my Betta fish Diogenes . . . you know, the oft-naked philosopher who lived in a barrel? So we have a barrel in the fish tank, and Diogenes actually hangs out in it. It’s hilarious.” And he chuckles again, blinking with pleasure with those thick black lashes, and it’s all so over-the-top nerdtastic and sweet that I kind of adore him and want to meet his fish.
So Mace is dead-set on trying something again. He’s seen Green in action and knows that the car breaking down and coming back is all Green’s doing. It just didn’t work out that they could take Marcus’s stuff.
Mace has a new idea.
He takes the devil to the library. “There’s always a wuss to pick on in here.”
Green pauses before a shelf and appreciatively touches the books’ spines the way a harpist strokes the strings. “I wouldn’t mind some of these going to Hell, frankly.”
“You can have all of the books you want. Just sucker some wallets from the students here, and I’ll be impressed.”
Green’s face fills with longing. “You could help
me curse these books to Hell, you know.”
Mace cranes his neck, looking for someone to extort. “Forget it. We’re here to get some work done, Green. Maybe for every ten wallets you get me, I can reward you with a book. If that’s your thing.”
“That would be very nice,” Green says with a slight bow, eyes narrowed to slits.
Mace finally finds what he’s looking for. “Watch how I work this time. Learn something.” And he strides to his target.
Sophie is sitting alone, reading.
“Me?” Sophie gasps, horrified.
“Sorry, do you mind?” Frye smiles. “It’s a good part.”
She squirms, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet. “I’d rather not. Couldn’t you cast Mari instead?”
Frye shakes his head. “Not really. Mari would just give Mace a piece of her mind. You’re a more interesting heroine because you’re the type who wants to cave, but then you’ll fight back. It’ll be cool.” He pauses. “Okay?” His voice is a soft caress. There’s a reason he’s slept with half the school and convinces people to give him lunch money, rides, funds for double dates, you name it, all the time.
Sophie turns to Mari, but Mari doesn’t give her friend any easy outs. She shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”
Mari reminds me just a little bit of Cannon. Not Pard’s Cannon, but my Cannon. The guy sophomore year who pushed me into Franklin’s living room when I was hiding in the front room with all the coats. The one who pointed out some girls from a different high school and said, very casually, “See those two girls? We’re going to have a beer with them.” And then we did. Yes, he lives for schemes, but I’m more than a scheme to him. I am. Even his plans this weekend point to wanting to help me out. Mostly.
Green tips his head to read the spine of Sophie’s book. Clearly surprised and delighted, he puts a hand over his mouth. “I’m flattered by your reading material.”
She is reading—
“Sophie, what are you reading in the story? I need something that makes the devil a kind of hero. Like fallen, but misunderstood.”
Sophie nods. “Easy. Paradise Lost.”
