by Kurt Dinan
The team members jerk their heads my way, and I’m filled with complete crap-your-pants fear when I see the menace in their eyes. But none of it matches the pure hatred on Goon’s face. He’s on his feet, stalking toward me, fists at his sides and the rest of the team following, hungry to tear my head off for daring to touch the symbol of the lacrosse team’s dominance.
I never should have trusted him.
“Wait, no—” I say, backing up.
“You’re dead.”
His anger is so authentic, so primal, that I freeze, wishing I’d told my parents I loved them this morning because I’ll be spending the next decade in a coma.
That’s when Goon winks.
And I understand.
I should never have doubted him.
“Dead,” Goon shouts, and he comes faster now.
My feet unstick from the floor, and I backpedal a few steps before turning and running for my life, the trophy tight in my hands. I zigzag around tables, with Goon’s bull-like grunting close behind. I hear other footsteps too, and I know the rest of the lacrosse team is salivating at the chance to kill. Kids leap up to watch the excitement, and I race for Potatoes’s table.
Stranko leaps down from the stage now, shouting, “Cobb, get over here!”
It’s worry, though, not anger in his voice. Sure, I’m about to get murdered in front of hundreds of witnesses, but God forbid the championship trophy gets damaged.
The entire cafeteria rises to its feet, cheering. Stranko angles to cut me off, and I turn toward the front of the stage. Goon closes in a few feet behind me now, ready to maul me when he gets the chance.
It never happens.
The second I pass Potatoes, he jumps up from his chair directly into Goon’s path and yells, “I’ll save you, dude!”
I don’t get to see Potatoes get stampeded and eventually tossed onto the stage like a…well, like a sack of potatoes, hence the name…but I hear the collision as he smashes into the table. Or possibly through the wall. I want to look back—this may be the last time I see Wheeler alive—but I don’t have time.
Wheeler’s the crew’s maniac, the person who doesn’t give a shit for personal safety and is willing do whatever’s necessary to make the heist work. In Wheeler’s case, the possibility of a hospital stay and therefore missed school was all it took for him to accept the job.
I run to Stranko for safety and hold out the trophy. He jerks it from my hands, pulling it close to his chest like it’s the Holy Grail. Then Goon tackles me, crushing my spine and sending me across the tiled floor. We rehearsed the tackle in my basement using pratfalls Ellie learned in theater class, but Goon, fully embracing his role here, crashes into me like he’s trying to take off a lacrosse opponent’s head. My body screams in pain, or maybe that’s me. I’m pinned to the floor, my cheek wet from what I’m guessing is blood. If so, it’d fit my code name.
I manage to lift my head up just enough to see Potatoes, angling through the crowd toward Shadow, sitting alone in back, with the illegal cell phone data extraction device Potatoes borrowed from one of his H8box friends.
Step Three, the Grab, is complete.
• • •
Or not.
I can’t be sure the Grab is a success because I’m under a pile of lacrosse players swinging blindly, doing more damage to each other than to me. Over their shouts, Stranko yells for them to stop, although with not as much urgency as I would like. Goon smothers me with his weight, pulling his punches and wrestling more than anything. He has my knee pinned against my ear and smiles widely, like this is the most fun he’s had in his life.
“I can’t breathe,” I eek out.
Goon lets off a bit, but it isn’t until other teachers arrive to stop the fight that the chaos ends. The fight’s over, but the shouting in the cafeteria seems louder than ever.
Goon whispers, “Time?”
“Yeah.”
He pushes backward, and the players on top of us fall away. I’m supposed to act hurt, with lots of limping and groaning, maybe even pretend to pass out. But acting isn’t necessary because my entire body throbs like one massive exposed nerve.
“Get up,” Stranko snarls, practically yanking my arm from its socket.
I stumble to my knees, then, achingly, to my feet. Varelman and the rest of the lacrosse team breathe hard, fists clenched at their sides like they still might come at me. I risk a quick look to Shadow sitting hunched over her laptop. Potatoes is nowhere to be found.
“You’re finished here,” Stranko says.
“But I was only—”
“Shut up.” He turns to Goon and says, “Return the trophy and get your ass to my office.”
I’m led away to cheers. I can’t tell if the students are on my side or are calling for my beheading, but Stranko’s opinion is clear.
“I’ll have you expelled by the end of the day.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Shut your mouth.”
If being a jerk keeps Stranko’s focus on me instead of what I hope is happening right now in the cafeteria, he can say whatever he wants. He drags me through the hall to his office, his grip so tight he’s almost grinding bone. His administrative office is beside Mrs. B’s, and just as we’re passing, she and Crybaby, whose eyes are puffy from her crying fit, emerge.
“What happened?” Mrs. B says.
“Cobb decided to get cute and race around the cafeteria with the state lacrosse trophy. I’ll handle it.”
Mrs. B’s face remains calm as she looks at me.
“Max?”
“But he told me to do it,” I say, pointing at Stranko.
His grip goes from tight to crushing.
“What did you say?”
“You sent me a note.”
Both administrators look confused. Mrs. B steps back into her office, saying, “Let’s discuss this in here. Ellie, return to lunch. If you need to talk more, I’m here.”
But Crybaby doesn’t leave.
“Mrs. Barber?” she says. Her voice is so thin and innocent I have a hard time keeping a straight face. “I think I know what Max is talking about.”
Mrs. B sighs and waves Ellie into the office with us. Crybaby and I are on one side of the principal’s desk, with Mrs. B and Stranko on the other.
“Do you want to call your parents first, Max?” Mrs. B asks.
“There’s no reason to. I didn’t do anything. I got a note from him to bring the trophy to the cafeteria.”
“I didn’t send you a note,” Stranko snarls.
“But I have it right here.”
I take the purple office note from my pocket and hand it to Mrs. B.
She reads, “Bring the lacrosse trophy to lunch. I want to teach you something.”
“That’s not my handwriting,” Stranko says. “He forged this.”
Mrs. B gives me a look that says, Well?
I go all Lifetime Movie on them, making my eyes bug out and trying to sound as pathetic as possible when I deliver my scripted line.
“But Mrs. Hansen gave me that note!”
Crybaby had me practice that line, coaching me on how to sound desperate. I don’t dare look at her now because I’ll start laughing.
“So Mrs. Hansen is out to get you? Is that it?” Stranko smirks.
“No, she just—”
“That Mrs. Hansen wanted to get you in trouble?”
“No, but—”
Then, Crybaby, right on cue, “I took the note to her.”
Stranko’s jaw almost drops off his skull.
“Second period,” Crybaby says. “This was one of the notes I delivered that period. It was in with the others. She told me she didn’t have Max until fourth, but when that happens, I just say to give it to him when he shows up. Mrs. Hansen said she would.”
I’
d easily pay a thousand dollars for a picture of the shock on Stranko’s face during Crybaby’s explanation. His mouth is open, but nothing’s coming out.
“You didn’t find this note the least bit suspicious, Max?” Mrs. B asks.
“Why would I? It’s an official pass. Besides, I don’t want to get in any more trouble.”
“What would be the point of having you bring me the trophy?” Stranko says.
“I have no idea. Maybe you thought I’d feel some sort of pride if I carried the trophy and I’d join the team.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because you told me the other day how much I could learn from the lacrosse team.”
This time, I’d pay two thousand dollars for a picture of Stranko’s face.
“I swear I didn’t write that note, Mrs. B,” I said.
This is the truth.
“Do you have any idea who did?”
“No.”
And this is a lie.
The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. If all is going according to plan, Malone has uploaded the contents of Stranko’s memory card to her computer and Wheeler has the phone back on stage. That’s a lot of ifs.
“Max,” Mrs. Barber starts, “this is the second time you’ve fallen for something like this. There’s a fine line between being legitimately tricked and simply being gullible. Your decisions, especially this one, are well on the side of being gullible. You have to be more careful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Stranko may have a stroke right in front of me.
“However, it sounds like you and Mr. Adleta caused quite an unnecessary scene, and that can’t be dismissed as easily. What do you think, Mr. Stranko? Does a day of in-school suspension seem fair?”
Stranko shakes his head.
“I want him gone for a week at least.”
“That may be a bit much,” she says. “What about work crew instead? They wrecked part of the school; they’ll clean part of the school. We’ll make the punishment fit the crime.”
“Fine,” he spits. “But we add Dave Wheeler to that list too.”
“That’s fine. And I’ll have to call your parents about this, Max. They are in town this time, right?”
“Yeah, but here,” I say and pull out a pen. “Can I have one of those Post-its?”
On it, I write Mom’s and Dad’s work numbers. Another day of the school calling the unmanned phone in the church nursery is just asking for trouble.
“You can get them at those numbers. They’re usually not home until late.”
“Thank you, Max,” Mrs. B says. “You both can go. Thanks for your help, Ellie.”
“No problem, Mrs. Barber.”
We walk out of the office and into the hall, and it’s only when we’re around the corner that the both of us break into hysterics.
Step Four: the Getaway. Complete.
“The Ocean’s Eleven team couldn’t have done it any smoother,” Ellie says.
“You were quite the actress, Crybaby,” I tell her.
“No, Crybaby was a one-timer. Call me Puma.”
“What?”
“Puma. That’s my official code name. And you’re Mongoose.”
“I thought I was the Bleeder.”
“That’s for today only. You’re Mongoose from here on out.”
It’s a lot catchier than Not Max. And hell, Ellie can call me Bloody Diarrhea for all I care.
“So, Puma, huh?”
“And don’t you forget it,” Ellie says.
Before I can respond, she goes on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek.
“Gotta get to class,” she says and, catlike, is gone.
Chapter 7
“So what can we steal next?”
Ellie’s question, of course.
The five of us are debriefing—something that occurs in every heist film after a mission is complete and everyone is back at headquarters. In this case, headquarters is my basement seven hours following the Stranko Caper, and the debriefing is more of a celebration than a review of the heist.
“Dude, the way we pulled that off, could you imagine the epic pranks we could do if we really were in the Chaos Club? No one could stop us,” Wheeler says.
“Yeah, we’re the ones who should’ve been in the Chaos Club,” I say.
“And Stranko never saw any of it coming,” Malone says. “I watched all of it from the back of the cafeteria, and no one had any idea what was going on. It was amazing. Tim tackled you so hard I thought you were dead.”
“My ribs are still killing me,” I say.
“Sorry,” Adleta says.
“No, I just wish I could’ve seen what happened after you took me out.”
“Yeah, you missed Wheeler gank the phone,” Malone says. “I swear he could be a professional thief, the pickup was so smooth.”
“Because he threw me right into it,” Wheeler says.
“Again, sorry,” Adleta says.
Malone continues, “When Wheeler dropped the phone in my lap, I got so paranoid, I put it up my shirt so no one would see it.”
“That’s so hot,” Wheeler says.
Malone laughs and hands him a small black box the size of a deck of cards, the phone-cloning device he borrowed from a friend on H8box.
“And this thing is great. Dangerous but great. It downloaded everything in about a minute,” Malone says.
“So no problems?” I say.
“No problems.”
“And no problems getting the phone back to the stage?” I ask Wheeler.
“Nope.”
“Aww, I feel like I missed all the fun,” Ellie says.
“No, you were great,” Adleta says. “I watched you crying at your table and really thought you were upset. If you hadn’t pulled that off, the plan wouldn’t have worked.”
“Thanks, but next time I want to do something more dangerous.”
“No problem,” I say. “Adleta can Hulk-smash you, and I’ll get to stay in one piece.”
“Deal,” Ellie says.
Having everyone here has calmed me down. From the moment I got home, I’ve imagined answering the front door and Stranko Tasering me before hauling me off to jail, where real criminals perform unspeakable acts on me. Of course, if Stranko does show up, he’ll have to get in line behind my parents, who have grounded me for a week after talking to Mrs. B. I didn’t argue the punishment and kept quiet throughout the you’ve got to use your head better lecture. The only reason they let me have the others over tonight is that I used the magic words: class project. If you haven’t learned yet, starting a sentence with “I have this big class project…” hypnotizes parents to immediately let you do whatever you ask—break curfew, fire a bazooka, buy a monkey online, you name it.
And a quick word on my parents: If you’re hoping for A Child Called “It”–like abuse or emotional scars that’ll have me seeing a team of psychiatrists through adulthood, you’ll be disappointed. My parents are smart, mostly calm, and—I say this with some guilt—trusting. Dad’s a news producer at Channel 4 (“Your home for hometown news!”), and Mom works for an agency finding jobs for people who don’t have them. The worst thing I can say about them is they’ve raised a revenge-driven teenager who’s secretly plotting to ruin lives. But isn’t everyone doing that?
“Did you guys bring what I asked?” Malone says.
We all fish into our pockets for flash drives while on the couch Malone fires up her laptop. Her wallpaper is a girl in black boots, black-and-white striped tights, and a black dress who’s spray-painting “Riots, Not Diets” on a brick wall. All of us, even Adleta, crowd around her.
“Okay, so there’s good news and bad news,” Malone says. “The bad news is there really wasn’t anything helpful in the phone’s memory. A bunch of sports news app
s, all the Angry Birds games—which, weird, right?—and zero photos. He’s completely boring.”
“But we saw him take pictures,” Ellie says.
“And he’s on that phone all the time,” Adleta adds.
“Which leads me to the good news,” Malone says. “There’s nothing on his phone because he stores everything in his cloud, and I downloaded everything in there.”
“Have you looked through it yet?” I ask.
“I skimmed it, but I didn’t have the time to read it all. It would take a week.”
“That long?”
“Obsesssive’s the word I’d use to describe it.”
Once the files are transferred, I see what Malone means. On my laptop, the folder labeled Chaos Club expands into five subfolders: History, Evidence, Witnesses, Suspects, and Pictures. A quick scroll through each reveals at least seven hundred files total.
“See what I mean?” Malone says. “It’s way too much for any one person to sift through.”
“I’ll do it,” Ellie says. “I don’t really have the time, but I’ll make it. I want the Chaos Club dead.”
It’s the harshest I’ve ever heard Ellie sound. She must see the look I give her because she says, “No, it’s true. And not just for the water tower, but for last year. I couldn’t care less about them calling my dad a Nazi. I might even agree with them. But kids are still doing that whole Seig Heil thing to me in the hall. Someone even keyed a swastika into my car door last week. We had it buffed out, but the outline is still there. I mean, it’s bad enough being known as a goody-goody, there’s not much I can do about that, but I’m being blamed for something I wasn’t a part of. No one hears the fights I get into with my dad about censorship or how the earth isn’t only six thousand years old or how we should be teaching more than abstinence in health class, but I also have to deal with finding pictures of Hitler in my locker. I blame the Chaos Club for all that.”
An awkward silence falls on the room until Malone says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“None of you would,” Ellie says. “You’re not people who would do that. But the ones who would and do need to pay.”
A moment later, a muffled ring tone sounds out. Wheeler fishes into his jacket pocket with his left hand and the ringing stops.
