by Kurt Dinan
“They left yesterday for Seattle for a broadcasting convention. Dad’s one of the speakers. I’m staying with a family friend.”
“Seattle, huh?” he says. “And who is this person supposedly watching you?”
Stranko sounds like he’s going to call bullshit on me. And when he does, the first thing he’ll do is leave the room and call my house. Then it’s RIP Not Max.
“I asked who’s watching you,” Stranko says.
And right as Not Max is about to fold, the universe gives me the first real break of my life, and in a moment of perfect timing, the conference room door opens.
• • •
Here’s the scoop on Uncle Boyd:
1. He’s not my real uncle but Dad’s oldest friend.
2. He calls himself an artist, although I’m not sure his so-called sculptures qualify as art.
3. And finally, and most importantly, Uncle Boyd sees me as the son he’s never had, meaning I can trust him.
Hopefully.
“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. B,” he says. “I didn’t get the message about Max until a few minutes ago. I must’ve had the radio up too loud.”
Boyd’s wearing ripped jeans and a paint-splattered Rage Against the Machine shirt. He comes up behind me and nods to Stranko.
“Howdy, Dwayne. Been a while.”
Stranko flinches like a bee’s just flown by his face.
“With students in the room, Boyd, I prefer to be called Mr. Stranko.”
“I’ll do my best, Dwayne. I mean, Mr. Stranko. Sir.”
“So Max is staying with you, Boyd?” Mr. B says.
“For the next few days, yeah. It doesn’t look like I’ve been doing a very good job watching him. I apologize for that.”
Stranko’s looking all bullshit again but doesn’t say anything.
Mrs. B says to Boyd, “Max here was just filling us in on the evening. Max, do you have any evidence to back up your story?”
I hold out my invitation and the climb up message from the gate. Stranko lays both on the table before taking pictures with his phone.
“Is there anything else?” Mrs. B asks.
“I have a video too,” Malone says.
Kate unlocks her phone, then passes it over to Mrs. B. Stranko and Hale crowd behind her, but they only make it through fifteen seconds of us on the tower talking about looking for another clue before Mrs. B turns it off.
“I don’t think I need to see any more,” she says. “Is there any other information you’d like to share?”
All five of us collectively shrug.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Malone’s mother says, “but this Chaos Club, is it a school-approved organization?”
“Absolutely not,” Stranko says. “We would never sanction such behavior.”
“Well, apparently you can’t stop it either,” she mutters.
Ellie’s mom raises her hand slowly and just above a whisper asks, “Can someone please tell me what a golden shower is?”
The room fills with an awkward silence, all of us wondering how to explain being peed on for pleasure to a woman who probably bathes in a swimsuit. And yes, Mrs. Wick is probably that naive. She only wears skirts and is the secretary at the town’s Methodist church, where Mr. Wick’s the minister. I’m not sure how they spend that much time together without wanting to kill each other. Jesus must be one heck of a marriage counselor.
“I’ve never heard of a golden shower either, Mr. Stranko,” Wheeler says. “Could you please explain it to us, sir?”
Stranko turns such a wonderful shade of red I think he might start bleeding from the eyes. I have to pinch my leg hard to hold back from laughing.
“Let’s focus on the issue at hand, please,” Mrs. B says.
“What I want to know is if our kids are in danger,” Wheeler’s mom says. “I mean, isn’t this bullying? These kids were targeted.”
“More like stupid,” Adleta’s dad huffs. “Putting their futures and scholarships in danger by being dumb enough to fall for a prank like this. It’s goddamn embarrassing.”
If it’s possible, Mr. Adleta is even bigger than Tim. He stands at almost military attention, his fingers digging into Tim’s shoulders like he’s trying to snap his collarbone. But all you really need to know is that when Tim was in third grade, Mr. Adleta was banned from Tim’s soccer games because he wouldn’t stop screaming at the refs. Third grade.
Mrs. B says, “No, Mrs. Wheeler, I don’t think your children are in danger. But this is the first time I can remember students being set up in this manner by the Chaos Club. Am I right, Mr. Stranko?”
Stranko must be some sort of Chaos Club historian because he launches into a summary of their history, quoting pranks from their website. He finishes by saying, “I can assure all of you that we’re doing everything we can to eliminate this group, whoever they are.”
Then he taps the phone clipped to his belt.
Heist Rule #6: Be observant.
Malone’s mom says, “So what all this really means is that no one knows why these kids were targeted, and that there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening again?”
“Ms. Malone, I can assure you these students are safe. But you’re right. I have no explanation for why they were chosen,” Mrs. B says, and looks at us. “I want each of you to promise to come to me if you’re contacted again. Will you do that?”
We tell her we will, and Stranko adds, “Or come to me.”
Yeah right.
“So what happens now?” Reverend Wick says. It’s the first time he’s spoken tonight. As a school board member, this has to be pretty embarrassing. Not Hitler-moustache-embarrassing, but embarrassing nonetheless.
Mrs. B teepees her fingers under her chin for a moment, then says, “On one hand, it’s clear to me these students are not responsible for the water tower vandalism. Do you agree, Mr. Stranko?”
Stranko nods but without much confidence behind it. You get the feeling he almost he wishes we were the culprits.
“On the other hand,” Mrs. B says, “we have a very clear policy regarding trespassing on school grounds that was spelled out at the beginning of the year. That is something that must be addressed. So tomorrow after school, you will each take part in painting over the message on the water tower. I believe two hours working in the sun may help deter you from coming onto school property again after hours.”
“How is that fair?” Adleta’s dad says. “You even said they didn’t do it. To punish them for that is crap. And Tim’s going to miss practice then. I don’t see how—”
“Or,” Mrs. B says, staring at Mr. Adleta, “I suppose we could simply turn them over to the Asheville Police Department and let them handle the trespassing violation. You could transport them to the station, could you not, Mr. Hale?”
The stare down doesn’t last long. Mr. Adleta mumbles something under his breath that causes Ellie’s mom’s cheeks to redden.
“And, David,” Mrs. B says to Wheeler, “I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from posting pictures of the water tower to that website you frequent. Is that possible?”
“Anything for you, Mrs. B,” Wheeler says.
They’re talking about H8box, a smart-ass website for posting and commenting on pictures and articles that pulls in more than two millions hits a day. In school, Wheeler may underachieve to global proportions, but on H8box, his twisted vision of the world has made him a god. If you need someone to take a picture of a crowded street at night in Singapore or want an advanced copy of a movie not out for weeks, Wheeler and his H8box connections are your guys.
Mrs. B stands and says, “If there’s nothing else, we all have an early morning tomorrow.”
We all follow her lead and stand. Boyd, probably worried I’m about to make a break for the door, puts a light hand on my arm. But it’s not nece
ssary. I’m enjoying this. Who’d have thought juvenile delinquency would be such a thrill?
Stranko says, “Tim, you and your dad wait for me in the hall. Got it?”
I imagine Adleta running the stadium steps for the rest of his life, and before I can stop myself, a small laugh escapes my mouth.
“Is something funny, Cobb?” Stranko says. “Maybe you should understand something before you ridicule it. You could have learned a lot from the lacrosse team if you were man enough.”
And had a lobotomy, I think.
Stranko’s still sneering as he’s on his way out with the Adletas when he points to Malone.
“Send me the video you shot tonight. I want it as evidence.”
And here Stranko taps his phone again.
Something then clicks in my brain. Stranko is investigating the Chaos Club.
Just call me Sherlock Cobb.
Ellie passes by with her parents, and for a second, our eyes meet.
“We need a plan,” she whispers.
Before I can respond, her parents have her out the door, probably to exorcise the demon that led her to this blasphemy. Boyd and I follow them and are close to a clean getaway when Mrs. B calls out, “Max? Boyd? Will you two stay a minute, please?”
Boyd mutters, “Ah, hell.”
The rest of the room clears out, and Mrs. B motions for us to sit down beside her at the table.
“Boyd, it seems like just yesterday that we were having meetings in here with your parents about you.”
“I was sort of hoping not to be back, Mrs. Barber. No offense.”
“None taken,” Mrs. B says, smiling. “Work keeping you busy?”
“Plenty.”
“Has Pat Kreider contacted you yet?”
“We’re supposed to have a meeting next week. Thanks for the recommendation.”
Mrs. B waves it away.
“So, Max,” she says, “we’ve never really spoken before, have we?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances, but we might as well make the best of it. I’m sure you know your parents attended school here, but did you know your father once used a coat hanger to break into my car for me when I locked my keys inside?”
It’s not a story I’ve heard, but as far as Dad’s pseudocriminal abilities are concerned, well, he and Boyd are friends for a reason.
“Jump ahead twenty-five years later, and here’s his son, the apple not falling far from the tree,” she says. “Do you think that, like your father, you’ll only use your abilities for good, or will this be the first of many unfortunate visits to my office?”
“I don’t plan on being back.”
“Oh, you’re welcome back, Max. Let’s just hope it’s for something positive next time. And, Boyd, you’ll pass all this on to his parents?”
“Absolutely. Max and I’ll be having a long discussion about this on the way home.”
But the only talking Boyd and I do is when we’re pulling out of the parking lot in his truck, Guns N’ Roses blasting on the radio.
“Thanks for saving my ass,” I say.
“Hell, when I was your age, I used to wish I had someone half as cool as me on my side. It’s nice to do some good for once. You okay?”
“Surprisingly, yeah. More than okay, actually. I just feel stupid.”
“About getting tricked, getting caught, or getting lectured?”
“All of the above.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. You get used to it though.”
Boyd smokes a cigarette and leaves me alone for the rest of the ride. I put my feet on the dash and close my eyes, smiling to myself as I replay the night. Ten minutes later, we’re parked on the street a few houses down from mine. I thank him again as I climb out.
“This is just between the two of us, right?” I say.
“You got it, man.”
“Thanks, Uncle Boyd.”
“I gotta say, I’m sort of proud of you, doing something dumb like this,” Boyd says. “It’s unexpected. Good for you.”
Which is pretty much why I went in the first place.
I don’t expect Mom and Dad to be sitting on my bed in full war paint, ready to take hatchets to me, but I still breathe a sigh of relief when I reenter the house through my window and see my bedroom is empty. That’s the nice thing about being boring—it gets to where even your parents overlook you.
When I climb into bed, you’d think I’d be able to relax now that the shock of getting caught has passed.
But you’d be wrong.
Relaxing is the last thing on my mind.
Because if I’ve learned anything tonight, it’s that having the guts to not be a nobody—that taking risks and being Not Max—feels good.
No, scratch that.
It feels great.
What doesn’t feel good is knowing someone set me up and I was dumb enough to fall for it.
Just Max may have put up with that, but Not Max sure as hell won’t.
Ellie’s right—we need a plan.
It’s Heist Rule #7: Always get payback.
Chapter 5
The worst thing about school the next day isn’t how the school newspaper website headline reads The Water Tower 5.
Or the photoshopped picture of the five of us in prison-orange jumpsuits accompanying the story.
Or the constant calls of “Water Tower Five!” in the halls.
Or how someone Sharpied it on my locker.
No, the worst part is that I respond to it by hiding my ass in the theater. Before school, between periods, during lunch, I sit in the dark theater, embarrassed, worrying that a group of students will come in and stand in a circle around me, mocking my very existence and stupidity.
Can you say delusions of grandeur?
And believe me, I know how pathetic I sound. Not Max would punch Just Max in the groin for behaving this way. Less than eight hours ago, I was full of gung ho confidence, ready to destroy my enemies single-handedly. Now I’m considering faking a stomachache so I can go home early. But I can’t help it. I didn’t think there was anything worse than being a nobody, but it turns out I was wrong. Being thought of as an idiot is way worse. Add that to the shame I feel for being a coward, for disappearing instead of walking the halls with a screw you swagger like any one of my movie heroes would do, and my descent into loserdom is complete.
Coming a close second in the Worst Thing about School the Next Day list is the perp walk Warden Stranko forces us to do from his office to the water tower after school. He marches us through a corridor of students in the parking lot, everyone laughing and pointing at us in the safety helmets we’re forced to wear. Like an inmate entering the prison population, I keep my head down as I walk and ignore the ridicule. It’s not easy though, especially with the entire lacrosse team waiting for us at the tower. As we get close, Geoff Varelman, the senior captain, says to the others, “Any of you guys smell piss? Because I smell piss. It reeks of piss.”
Clearly, Varelman has a bright future as a prison yard storyteller.
At the base of the tower, Stranko orders us to step into crotch-strangling harnesses with ropes and clips around the waist.
“Latch on when you get up top,” he says. “We don’t need a lawsuit if you fall to your death.”
“That’s very caring of you, sir. Thank you,” Wheeler says.
“Just get your butts up there.”
We climb the tower in the same order we did less than twenty-four hours earlier. This time though, it’s not excitement I feel but constant humiliation. The student mob has followed us from the parking lot to the tower, chanting “Water Tower Five!” the entire way.
“This sucks,” Wheeler says.
“You certainly have a way with words,” Malone says.
&nbs
p; “And you certainly have a way with photography.”
“Enjoy this climb, Wheeler, because I’m throwing you off the tower as soon as we get to the top.”
But once we’re on the platform overlooking the parking lot, Malone doesn’t send Wheeler to his death, at least not right away. We’re all too busy looking down at the growing crowd of students pointing up at us and filming us with their phones. I can’t help but wonder if the Chaos Club is down there too, mixed in with the others, admiring their accomplishment. If they are, there’s no way of knowing it. What I do know is that the audience below is made up of a who’s who of personal tormentors.
Stranko and his lacrosse team for Adleta.
Tami Cantor for me.
The tsk-tsking youth groupers from Ellie’s church.
And Libby Heckman for Malone.
If I haven’t mentioned her earlier, Libby’s one of Malone’s former friends and, like Kate, one of the best artists in the school. More importantly though, she’s the reason every boy in this school has a picture of Malone half-naked. Last spring, Malone made the epic mistake of sending a topless picture of herself to a junior named Troy Huff, Libby’s ex-boyfriend. When the inevitable let’s give this relationship sent from the heavens a ninth chance occurred two days later between Libby and Troy, the picture of Malone wearing only an open robe appeared on everyone’s phone. Libby wasn’t exactly secretive about being the sender. And if you must know, yes, I’ve looked at that picture. Okay, more than a thousand times. It’s not something I’m proud of.
The only one of us without a ridiculer below is Wheeler. It’s not that he doesn’t have enemies. Far from it. It’s just that they’re all afraid he’ll recruit a ninja from H8box to fly around the world to lop their heads off.
“I guess we should get started,” Ellie says, picking out a brush from the bag lying on the catwalk. Beside the bag is a single can of blue paint we’re supposed to use to cover the “Assville High School—Home of the Golden Showers” message.
Malone pops the lid and dips her brush in, but before she can start, Wheeler says, “Wait, everyone hold up your brushes and smile in that direction.”
Standing on the far side of the parking lot where Wheeler is pointing is a lone figure aiming a camera at us with a lens that looks like it could photograph a tick on the moon.
