We added Vicki Jordan and Dwayne Michaels to the board. Like I said before, I’m an equal-opportunity extortionist; I wasn’t only targeting the popular kids. Besides, I thought they’d make good diversity for the magazine.
“How are we going to blackmail all of them?” Malerie asked.
“I’ve got dirt on most of them,” I said. “But I’m not sure about the others. Then again, Columbus wasn’t sure North America was there. And you know what he did when he got here?”
“What?” Malerie asked.
“He enslaved every Indian around him,” I said.
“Oh,” Malerie said, and gazed up at the board. “All you little Indians watch out.”
“Some will be much easier than others,” I said, deciding where to strike first. “Remember, Malerie, if anything happens to me while I’m attempting this, you’re in charge of the Chronicle and the Writers’ Club.”
Her jaw fell open and her eyes widened. I had to tell her I was partially kidding and my life wasn’t really at stake.
“Who are we starting with?” Malerie asked.
I walked closer to the board and examined Remy’s cheesy class-photo smile. “I’m starting with Frodo,” I said. “She’s in my English class next period.”
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a funny user name on the Clover High School website: Yearbook-Girl69. I didn’t think much of it, a freshman slut under Remy’s rule perhaps. However, whoever it was left uptight opinionated comments on almost every page.
“Why do the lunch ladies need to be at back-to-school night? Can’t they just stay in the kitchen?” was one of the many obnoxious posts. “I hate lunch ladies more than I hate war!”
Could Remy be pulling a Voltaire? Over the weekend, while I was thinking of ways to blackmail Remy, I messaged YearbookGirl69 privately to test out this theory under the user name BadBoy2012.
“Hey, sexy,” I messaged. “Love reading your thoughts on the CHS site. We think alike.”
A few minutes later, she responded. “OMG thanks. I’m so glad some1 noticed LOL.”
I waited a couple of minutes more, playing hard-to-get, seeing if she’d write more.
“Who is this LOL?” YearbookGirl69 asked.
“I like to keep my identity a secret; I’m like Batman,” I replied. “But with better abs.”
“Hott! Me 2! I like the mystery LOL,” she sent. I don’t know what the hell was so funny. Was she seriously laughing out loud every time? “Can I get a pic of those abs?” she asked.
I copied and pasted a picture of Taylor Lautner’s torso from the Internet (I pray no one ever finds that Google image search in my web history).
“@Q#$TWERYJ#$%&!!!” is what I got next. “Are U even real?”
“Very,” I said, and left it at that.
Now, today, while I was in English and the class had their laptops out, I decided to see if I was right about Remy. I was sitting a few seats behind her and had a clear view of her computer.
BadBoy2012 messaged YearbookGirl69. A window popped up on Remy’s computer screen. Bingo!
“What are you wearing?” BadBoy2012 asked.
I saw Remy’s neck blush.
“Practically nothing,” Remy responded as YearbookGirl69.
“Send me a pic!” BadBoy2012 said.
Remy looked around the classroom to see if anyone was watching her. I ducked behind my laptop when she glanced my way. I looked back and saw her retrieving a photo from her documents and attach it to the instant-message conversation.
A photo of Remy half-naked with a “sexy face” popped up on my computer screen. It was enough to turn a nun into an atheist. I shut my laptop, ran out of the classroom, and vomited into the nearest trash can. I’m being dramatic—I didn’t vomit but I did dry-heave.
“Mr. Phillips, are you all right?” my English teacher asked when I returned to class.
“I’m afraid I’m changed for life,” I said, and went back to my seat. Remy rolled her eyes at me as I passed her. She had no idea what she had just done to herself!
After school I found Remy sitting on a bench alone. I sat down next to her. I couldn’t make eye contact. I’m not sure I ever will again.
“Can I help you, Carson?” she asked rudely.
I slyly handed her a large manila envelope. Inside she found printed copies of the conversations between BadBoy2012 and YearbookGirl69.
She went silent for a good minute and a half. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the papers start to shake in her tight, petrified grip. She looked at me as if I had told her that her father had had a successful sex change while she was at school.
“You’re BadBoy2012?” she whimpered.
“I can’t even look at you anymore,” I said. “Not that it was easy before.”
I took a bright yellow flyer out of my back pocket and handed it to her. I left before she could open it. The flyer said:
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND A
MANDATORY MEETING IN THE JOURNALISM
CLASSROOM FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL.
I had to make sure it was subtle in case any of my victims tried turning me in, but if Remy’s horror was any indication, that wouldn’t be a problem.
I stopped by the boys’ bathroom, figuring I could kill two birds with one stone. Unsurprisingly, I saw Nicholas and Scott come out of it at roughly the same time. They must have had a quickie.
“Hey, Siegfried,” I said to Nicholas, and handed him a yellow flyer. “And here you go, Roy,” I said to Scott, giving him one too. “Enjoy.” I figure I pretty much have them under my thumb until I move to Illinois, so I didn’t bother explaining things further.
I went to the journalism classroom and drew an X on Scott’s and Nicholas’s faces. I drew several X’s on Remy’s, just because I was still having trouble looking at her.
I drove home with a big smile. Three down, four to go! Clovergate Day One has been a success!
10/16
CLOVERGATE DAY TWO
I woke up this morning (which is always a good thing) and decided to hit the easy targets of my Clovergate plan. Yesterday’s blackmailing worked out so well I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. So today, I set my sights on Vicki and Dwayne.
It was lunchtime and all the high school beasts were roaming around the quad. I met Malerie in the shadows behind the cafeteria Dumpster. No one could know what we were up to.
“Did you get the stuff?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” Malerie said. “And it wasn’t easy.” She pulled out a tiny Ziploc bag containing…stuff.
“Great work!” I said. “Let’s find him.”
Dwayne was sitting at one of the shaded tables in the quad. If the quad was a neighborhood, the shaded benches would be considered the “other side of the tracks.” This is where all the slackers go at lunch to compare skateboarding injuries and bomb-building techniques.
Malerie looked around with large, worried eyes.
“It’s okay, Mal,” I said. “Just follow my lead. Good cop/bad cop, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said, and toughly pursed her lips. “Let’s do this.”
We approached Dwayne and leaned in toward him from the other side of the table; the interrogation was on.
He looked up at us from a sketch he was drawing of a squirrel armed with grenade nuts. (I thought it was clever, but this was no time for praising the enemy.)
I tossed the small bag onto the table.
“What is that?” Dwayne said, tapping it with his pen.
Malerie busted out laughing and then immediately dropped into a serious gaze. “Come on, you know what that is!”
Apparently Malerie was the bad cop.
“You left this in the journalism classroom,” I said.
He stared at us blankly. I wasn’t sure if he was confused or just normal Dwayne.
“Did you guys want some?” he asked us, and a smile appeared on his stupid face.
Malerie looked at me; we hadn’t planned for this response. I nodded to her: Stay the course
.
“If we were responsible students, we would go to the school authorities,” she said, violently pointing behind her. She was pointing at the janitor’s closet, but Dwayne got the gist of things.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” Dwayne said, and his face changed more than I’ve ever seen it move. “Listen, I’ll write that movie review you want, all right?!”
“It’s too late for that,” I said sinisterly, and slammed a flyer on the table.
I grabbed the Ziploc bag and walked away. I figured actions spoke louder than words. Malerie stayed there and continued pointing at him. I had to go back and collect her.
“Great job, Malerie!” I said once we were back in the journalism classroom.
“I don’t want to hear it!” Malerie yelled at me and I jumped. She was still so aggressive. “Sorry, it’s hard for me to get out of character.”
“No worries,” I said. “By the way, what was in the bag?”
“Crushed-up Funyuns, pencil shavings, and string,” she said.
“Is that what weed looks like?” I asked.
“Weed? I thought you said ‘tweed,’” Malerie said, and then looked down at the floor, as if the solution to her confusion was on the ground.
“Doesn’t matter, he bought it,” I said, and Malerie smiled again.
I went to the Clovergate board and drew a large X on Dwayne’s photo. Vicki’s was next to it.
“What do you have planned for Vicki?” Malerie asked.
I really had to think about this one. Vicki would be a tricky person to blackmail; she was so openly flawed. What does the girl with all the upside-down crosses and “Satanfest 2011” pins on her backpack not want everyone at school knowing about?
Then it came to me: Vicki might not be keeping anything from her peers, but what about her parents! Unless she was the love child of Ozzy Osbourne and Lily Munster, they couldn’t approve of their daughter’s behavior!
“Do you know what Vicki’s parents’ names are?” I asked Malerie.
“I do!” Malerie said. “Martha and Jebediah Jordan. I used to be in her mom’s Sunday school class until my family converted to Lazyism and stayed home on Sundays.”
I practically did a frigging cartwheel right then and there. “Perfect!” I yelled.
I immediately hopped behind my computer and Googled “Satanfest 2011.” I never actually thought the pin had any meaning, like the Celibacy Club’s purity rings, but boy was I wrong … and what I saw made me wish I had been right.
It was an annual gathering held at the fairgrounds convention center that attracted all the seriously fucked-up people from the local counties. Judging from the photos, it looked like the participants listened to heavy metal, pierced things, bought various wardrobe accessories made of chains, compared eye makeup, and drank the tears of innocent children. (That last one is purely conjecture—I have no proof.)
Unfortunately, the pictures got worse and worse. At one point I saw something like a goat under a tablecloth surrounded by a circle of candles. Fortunately, our Vicki seemed to be the muse of the photographer. Unfortunately, I saw more of Vicki than I wanted to, that’s for sure.
I hit the print button on my keyboard multiple times and the erase-memory button on my brain.
“Now that I think about it, I don’t think Lazyism is a real religion,” Malerie said to herself. “I think my parents just hated church.” She nodded very seriously and convincingly to herself.
“I think you’re right,” I said, and nodded along. I collected the pictures from the printer and went on to my next target.
Can I please just take a minute to thank the Internet? Seriously, without it and the teenage need to post provocative pictures of oneself online, this whole Clovergate thing might not have been possible!
I met up with Vicki later in her AP Zoology class. I was shocked she took that class too—totally threw me for a loop. Was she researching different animals to sacrifice?
I sat down in front of her; she glared at me like a wolf. That also threw me for a loop, because she tends to make the same face whether she’s happy or mad.
“Can I help you?” Vicki asked.
“I was just Googling ‘Satan-worshipping cults,’ a hobby of mine, and I came across these,” I said, and shuffled through the photos. “Check these out! Is that you with the whip in your mouth? And in this one, you’re riding some guys. Neat! What about this one? Is that a goat, or has Lucifer arisen and I just wasn’t told about it?”
“Why are you showing me these?” Vicki asked. She played I don’t care very well.
“I’m just trying to protect you, Vicki,” I said. “I would hate it if these were accidentally e-mailed to your mom. Does she still teach Sunday school at Brighter Baptist Church?”
Vicki turned bright red; she was so flustered she almost looked alive. She yanked the photos out of my hands. I gave her an evil smile she would be envious of and handed her a yellow flyer.
Back in the journalism classroom I put an X across Vicki’s face and actually gave Malerie a high five.
Clovergate Day Two had been better than Day One! I felt chills, the kind of chills you get when someone supposedly walks over your grave from a previous life, but I knew these chills were telling me my Northwestern acceptance letter would soon be on its way.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I even went to class today. Oh well, I’ll just tell them I had the runs. That works every time.
Have I not mentioned my “the runs” trick? Oh, it’s genius! Just tell your teacher or counselor that you were late or were absent because you had “the runs.” It’s specific, but vague enough that they don’t ask questions.
They can’t give you detention for having diarrhea. It’s practically foolproof. What are they gonna say to you? “I don’t believe you, show me”??
I don’t endorse truancy or tardiness, but if you’re ever in a bind (like trying to blackmail your peers in a week to better your chances of getting into the university of your dreams), it’s a great tool. Word of caution: Use sparingly. Otherwise they send you to the school nutritionist and make you pee in a cup. Don’t ask.
10/17
CLOVERGATE DAY THREE
Claire Mathews and Coach Colin were the only victims left. I’d saved the hard part for last; I wanted to stretch my blackmailing legs before running the marathon. (Did I really just say that? Who am I?)
I spent half the day just pacing in front of the Clovergate board. I knew what I had against them. I knew how to use it against them. I knew what I needed to say to them. But how was I going to say it to them?
“Hey, Carson,” Malerie said to me. “Why isn’t Justin Walker on the board? Or what about that one cheerleader who told everyone her boobs were real but then got kicked in the chest at a pep rally and had silicone dripping down her shirt? It seems like they’d be good candidates too.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be in the magazine too,” I said. “If I can get Claire and Colin under my thumb, I should have control over all the other athletes and cheerleaders also.”
“You’re going to be so powerful,” Malerie said. “Which is funny, because you’ve always reminded me a little of Margaret Thatcher.”
“Thanks?” I said. I’m hoping it’s because I also wear a lot of blue.
I gathered up my final two copies of the yellow flyer and headed out of the journalism classroom. I decided to start with Colin. He was the first faculty member I would be attempting to blackmail, so I was extra anxious.
I went out to the baseball field. Colin had just finished with a PE class.
(This is off topic, but I want you to do something for me. Put a picture of high school students roaming the yards during PE and a picture of inmates roaming the yard at a prison together. Look between the two. See the difference? No? BECAUSE THERE IS NONE!)
I took a deep breath and centered my thoughts. Imagining my first steps on the Northwestern campus gave me courage and I walked up to the young coach.
“Hey, Colin!” I cal
led to him.
“Football tryouts are over, son,” he said, not even making eye contact with me. Douchebag.
“No, thanks, I’d rather have paper cuts on my corneas,” I said. “And please don’t call me ‘son.’ You were a senior when I was a freshman, remember? I tutored you in biology.”
“You’re that newspaper boy, aren’t you?” Colin said. “Did you come out here to interview me?”
“Nope,” I said. It seemed best to strike quickly. “The Clover High Chronicle doesn’t have a sports section, but the statutory section is free.”
He dropped the bats and baseballs he was carrying.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. The way he was looking at me, though, like a venomous snake, told me he begged to differ.
“I think you do,” I said.
He looked like his head was about to explode. I was happy he had dropped the bats.
“Are you accusing me of something, boy?!” he yelled, and stepped toward me.
I raised a hand, mostly to block the spit as he talked, but the motion silenced him like I was a Jedi.
“Let’s not play the question game, shall we?” I said. “It’s one sport I’ll beat you at. I’ll get to the point with this. I know about you and Claire Mathews and have a video to prove it. If I go public with it, you’ll lose your job, your trophies, and your reputation, and you’ll never be allowed back into this high school world that you clearly love so much.”
Looking back at this moment, I probably should have approached him in a more populated area. Colin could have easily snapped my neck and buried me under the pitcher’s mound. But instead of killing me, he just sort of retreated into himself and became quiet. It was kind of sad.
“What do you want?” he said.
I handed him a flyer. Was this dude gonna cry on me?
“I want you to be there at that time,” I said. “I also want to recommend not sleeping with students—strongly recommend.”
Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal Page 7
