Made You Up

by Francesca Zappia

  “You named your bike Erwin?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “After Erwin Rommel? You named your bike after a Nazi?” Miles narrowed his eyes at me. Erwin’s back half swung at his side.

  “My dad got him from the African desert. Plus, Rommel was humane. He got an order straight from Hitler to execute Jews, and he tore it up. And then he traded his family’s protection for his own suicide.”

  “Yeah, but he still knew what he was doing and who he was fighting for,” said Miles, but without conviction. “I thought you were scared of Nazis?”

  My step faltered. “How did you know that?”

  “You’re a history buff; I assumed that whatever you were scared of would come from history, and Nazis were pretty scary.” The corner of his lips twisted up. “There’s that, and whenever someone calls me a Nazi, you get this look on your face like I tried to kill you.”

  “Oh. Good guess.” I gripped Erwin’s handlebars tighter. We rounded the back of the school and headed for the dumpster behind the kitchen doors. I could smell tobacco and wood shavings and suspected Miles’s jacket. He wore it every day now. He pushed the top off the dumpster and we tossed Erwin’s halves inside, closing the lid on my poor bike forever.

  “Why does being called a Nazi make you so mad?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know why anyone would be happy about it, but I thought you were going to rip Cliff’s teeth out the other day.”

  He shrugged. “People are ignorant. I don’t know.”

  He knew. Miles always knew.

  As we turned back toward the gym, he said, “Heard you’ve been on some sort of scavenger hunt with Beaumont.”

  “Yep. Jealous?”

  It sort of slipped out. I was too paralyzed to say anything else. He didn’t know about the library, did he? He couldn’t know that I’d found out about his mom.

  But then he snorted loudly and said, “Hardly.”

  I relaxed. “What is everyone’s problem with him? I don’t think he’s that bad, honestly. Yeah, he’s got a Cult in a Closet, but he’s really nice. He hates you, but doesn’t everyone?”

  “He actually has a reason to hate me, though. Everyone else does it because it’s expected.”

  “What reason?”

  Miles paused. “We were friends in middle school,” he said. “I thought he was a decent guy because we were both smart, we got along well, and I was new and he didn’t make fun of my accent. But when we got here, I realized—he lets other people walk all over him. He’s got no ambition. No drive, no end goal.”

  And what kind of ambition do you have? I thought. The kind where you see how effectively you can kill someone’s puppy?

  “He’s smart,” Miles continued, “he’s really smart. But he doesn’t put it to use. He could have as much leverage as I do, but he sits around with his stupid conspiracies and does his little chemistry equations and obsesses over girls who won’t look twice at him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Ria.”

  “Tucker likes Ria?” How did I not know that?

  “Since I’ve known him. If he had any sense, he would’ve tossed out that romanticized idea of her he’s had for so long and gotten to work doing something useful.”

  “So you ditched him,” I said.

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “You ditched your friend—your only friend—because he didn’t want to help you control the school.”

  Miles’s lips tightened into a thin line. “No, not that . . .”

  “Because he’s got no ambition? No ‘end goal’?”

  “Yeah.”

  I scoffed at him. He looked over at me with the Magnificently Quirked Eyebrow, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  “You’re a jerk,” I said, walking off.

  Miles went ahead to the pool while I searched the storage rooms behind the gym for extra towels for the swimmers. I had to walk past the gym doors to get there, and I stopped when I heard voices inside.

  “You’re not giving her the support she needs,” said a sickly-sweet voice.

  “I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.”

  McCoy. Talking to Celia’s mother.

  So there was a connection between them. I couldn’t let this pass me by. I ducked into the gym and under the bleachers, checking the scaffolding for microphones as I climbed through to the other side. McCoy stood before the scoreboard, his gray hair disheveled, his suit wrinkled. I crouched down as far as I could and turned my camera on, pointing it toward McCoy and the woman who stood with her back to me. Today, her blond hair was done back in a tight braid.

  “I know she’s your daughter,” McCoy said, “but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She’s not like you were.”

  “Celia is as smart as any of these idiots. She needs more focus, is all,” drawled the woman. “She needs to get her head out of the clouds and see what’s really important. What I’m handing her on a silver platter.”

  McCoy raised his hands pleadingly. “I want this to be easy. I want to be there for her.”

  Celia’s mother scoffed. “Please, Richard. If you really want to help her, you’ll show her this is about her future. Continuing the legacy I left her. She has potential to be the best.” She paused, chewing on her words. Her bright nails tapped against her arm. “She failed in cheerleading. Surely you can do something about that?”

  “I can’t give Celia that spot just because she threw a tantrum. It’ll have to be something else.”

  “Fine, then do something about the boy! Remove the distractions!”

  “Richter is a problem. I don’t understand what she sees in him. Or what she thinks is going to happen. He wants nothing to do with her.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he wants. As long as Celia wants him, we have problems.”

  McCoy sighed. “I can only help as long as she doesn’t try to fix the problem on her own. I have everything she needs.”

  “I’m glad you’re putting that principal position to good use.” Celia’s mother’s voice went sweet again. “Thank you, Richard. For everything.” She reached out to stroke his face. Then she strode past him, out of the gym. He waited a minute, then followed.

  I retreated underneath the bleachers, shut my camera off, and tried to make sense of what I’d just heard.

  McCoy knew Celia’s mother.

  McCoy really was helping her with some strange destructive plan to make Celia the queen of the school.

  They were going to remove the distractions.

  That meant Miles.

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  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Quickly, another.”

  “I’ve got one.”

  “Do you play a sport?”

  “Goddammit, you already know it, don’t you?”

  “You’re Pelé.”

  Evan had been running his hand through his hair, and he ripped it away so fast he tore some out. “How? How did you get it without even asking me any questions?”

  Miles laced his fingers together on his chest and stared at the ceiling of the gym, not answering. The rest of us sat in a circle around him while the boys’ basketball team practiced on the court below. Jetta pulled a single grape out of her lunch box and dropped it in Miles’s mouth. He took his sweet time chewing his reward.

  “Last week, you said you had started getting really into football,” he finally said.

  “Soccer,” Ian said.

  “Football,” Jetta hissed, kicking Ian in the shin.

  Miles ignored them. “Don’t pick one of the most celebrated players in the sport next time.”

  “I have one, Boss,” Art said.

  “Are you alive?”

  Miles started with that question when he wasn’t quite sure where you were coming from. At least that’s what I thought at first. After watching him play this game with the members of th
e club over a few months, I’d noticed a pattern. He smashed Theo, Evan, and Ian under his mental heel because it encouraged them to try to beat him, but he always gave Jetta and Art some leeway.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you male?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a TV show?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a TV show at any point in your life?”

  Art’s smile never got very big, but it gave away every single thought in his head. “Yes.”

  “Did you wear bowties?”

  Art kept smiling. “No.”

  Miles had to tilt his head back against the bleacher to see Art. “Really? Interesting.”

  “Give up?” Art asked.

  “No. You’re Norm Abram. It was either Bill Nye or someone involved in woodworking.”

  Evan, Ian, and Theo let out a collective groan. Jetta fed Miles another grape. Art shrugged and said, “My dad got me hooked on This Old House when I was a kid.”

  Miles waved his hand toward me. “You go.”

  I hadn’t had a turn at this since that first time, with the Aztec emperors. He’d never invited me, before now. “Okay, I have someone.”

  “Are you alive?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a historian; of course you’re going to pick a dead person. Are you male?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you from North America or South America?”

  “No.”

  He turned his head to stare me straight in the eye, like he could read my thoughts if he only focused hard enough.

  “Europe is a trap . . . are you from Asia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a significant effect on the development of some strain of philosophy that profoundly impacted the world?”

  “Why don’t you ask us questions like that?” Theo blurted out.

  I stifled a laugh. “Yes.”

  Miles sat and thought for a moment. He was only at five questions, and he was already getting pretty close.

  “Are you from China?”

  “No.”

  “Are you from India?”

  “Nope.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you from the Middle East?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you practice Islam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you born before 1500 AD?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you contribute to the field of medicine?”

  “Yes.”

  Miles turned to the ceiling again and closed his eyes. “Are you also known as the father of modern medicine?”

  Ian frowned. “Hippocrates was a Muslim?”

  “I’m not Hippocrates,” I said. “I’m Ibn Sina”

  “You know, part of the game is not telling Boss who you are before he guesses it,” Evan said.

  I shrugged. “He already knew.” I turned back to Miles. “And we got to twelve. But hey, at least you didn’t drag it out just to show off, like you did last time.”

  He grunted.

  Jetta looked up to the gym doors, then back to Miles. “Mein Chef. Der Teufel ist hier.”

  We all turned to look. Mr. McCoy strode into the gym, straightening his jacket and tie, his gaze zeroed in on our group. He edged around the basketball practice and stopped at the foot of the bleachers. “Mr. Richter,” he called up. He sounded like his jaw had been wired shut. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Yes,” Miles said. He didn’t move.

  McCoy waited a total of four seconds before he added, “In private, Mr. Richter.”

  Miles pushed himself to his feet, stepped past me, and climbed down the bleachers. As he and McCoy walked to the far end of the gym, out of earshot, Evan and Ian gave identical exaggerated shudders.

  “Careful, don’t let them out of your sight,” said Evan.

  “Yeah,” Ian added. “McCoy might pop out Boss’s eyes with a melon baller and use them like olives in his martinis.”

  “What?” I said. “Why?”

  “Der Teufel hasst Chef,” Jetta said.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “McCoy hates Boss,” Theo explained. “I would say my brothers are being obnoxious, but there’s a good chance McCoy actually has a melon baller in his desk drawer with Boss’s name on it.”

  “Seriously though,” I said. “Is it just the way everyone else hates him? Because it probably sucks to be the principal who has to deal with him.” Please let it only be that way. Please let it not be anything out of the ordinary.

  “No no,” Evan said. “Listen. You could say Ian and I have . . . made the front office our second home. How many times would you say we’ve been sent in three years, Ian?”

  Ian tapped his chin. “Give or take four times per semester? We’re actually due.”

  “So we know a little bit about what goes on in that guy’s office. He talks about Boss all the time. Boss is pretty careful with his . . . stuff . . . you know, so McCoy doesn’t have anything on him, but he has all these theories he’s always telling Assistant Principal Borruso. That Boss has weapons, or drugs, just a bunch of ridiculous stories. He legit wants Boss kicked out.”

  This was East Shoal; of course it was out of the ordinary.

  “But . . . why?” I asked. “He can’t just be annoyed. What would cause that?”

  Evan shrugged. “All I know,” said Ian, “is that McCoy didn’t just make this club and force Boss to lead it because he wanted to stop Boss from plastering people’s homework on the ceiling. He did it because he wants to keep Boss in his sights.”

  So the possibly-mentally-unstable McCoy had his crosshairs locked on Miles. Why? Why would he care so much about Miles? Why would McCoy try to hurt him?

  Or was I being paranoid? Was McCoy just dealing with an unruly student?

  Could I take that chance?

  “Don’t worry, Alex,” Jetta said, lounging back with her bundle of grapes. “If ’ee tries to ’urt mein Chef, we will send ’im back to the ’ell ’ee came from.”

  Coming from Jetta, that was refreshingly reassuring.

  Miles returned to the bleachers a few minutes later, both eyes still in his head. I looked him over three times before doing a quick perimeter check. Nothing strange, but I couldn’t deny the gut instinct that told me something bad was coming.

  Blue Eyes was a little candle flame in the darkness, and even though I didn’t know for sure if Miles really was Blue Eyes, I couldn’t let him be snuffed out.

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  Chapter Twenty-five

  I sat by my window on the night of the job, waiting for the signal. My fingers jittered against the windowsill and my feet sweated in my shoes, despite the cold outside. Dad snored in the room down the hall, and if he was snoring, that meant both he and my mother were asleep. In the room next to mine, Charlie mumbled something about sugarcoated chess pieces. All they had to do was stay asleep for the next two hours, and everything would be fine.

  I’d double- and triple-checked with Art to make sure the job was (mostly) safe and would definitely be over in two hours. I still didn’t know exactly what the job was, or what I was supposed to do.

  But then I realized I didn’t care. I was going to enjoy tonight’s adrenaline rush if it killed me. I wanted to be a teenager. I wanted to sneak out at night (not while under the impression I was being kidnapped by Communists) and do things I wasn’t supposed to. I wanted to do them with other people. Real people. People who knew there was something different about me and didn’t care.

  Art’s van rolled up at the end of the street, flashing its headlights. As quietly as I could, I removed the screen from my window, set it against the wall, climbed into the flowerbed outside, and slid the storm window shut behind me. Just like a nighttime trip to Red Witch Bridge. I set off down the slush-streaked street, squinted to make sure
it was actually Art in the driver’s seat, then climbed into the passenger side.

  “Okay, now we have to go get Boss,” Art said.

  I buckled myself in. “Where are we going?”

  “Downing Heights.” Art smiled a little. “I know you love it there.”

  “Oh, but I do,” I mumbled. “Tell me we’re not going to Celia’s.”

  “Nope. But first we have to get Boss, and he definitely doesn’t live in Downing Heights.”

  Silent houses flicked by. In the distance, expensive Lakeview houses rose like dark mountains. But around us, each house was less friendly than the last. Suddenly my dirt-colored hovel of a home seemed so much nicer than before.

  We turned a corner and the houses became downright scary. Like, Bloody Miles trying to murder me scary. I wouldn’t have come down this way even at high noon.

  Art stopped in front of a two-story house that looked like staples held it together at the corners. Shingles were missing all over the roof, half the windows had the glass broken out of them, and the porch sagged in the middle. Garbage littered a front lawn enclosed by a rusted chain-link fence. Miles’s blue truck sat in the driveway, next to an aging Mustang that looked like it might be worth a lot of money if anyone tried to take care of it.

  I knew something here must have been a delusion. Something. The darkness made everything worse, but this place . . . no one could live like this. This had to be fake.

  “Uh-oh—Ohio’s outside.” Art nodded toward the side of the porch, where a makeshift doghouse gave shelter to the biggest Rottweiler I’d ever seen in my life. It looked like the kind of dog that ate babies for breakfast, old men for lunch, and virgin sacrifices for dinner.

  No wonder he was Miles’s dog.

  “He lives here?” I leaned forward for a better look at the house. “How is this even habitable?”

  “It’s not, I don’t think. His dad survives by constantly surrounding himself in a booze haze and setting the hell hound loose on the neighbors.” Art shuddered. “The first time we ever picked Boss up, Ohio was awake. I thought he would bite my head off, and I never got out of the van.”