by Kurt Dinan
“Okay, but cud you ask them to stop?”
Over our groans, Jess Galley says, “Have the two of you have been thinking up cow puns the entire time?”
“You are udderly correct,” Watson says.
• • •
On the way to second period, Malone sidles up to me, with Ellie following closely behind. Malone has us follow her to an empty locker bay, where she pulls a black Chaos Club card from her book bag.
“How did you do this so fast?” I ask.
“It didn’t take too long, not once I found the right font. And we have a great laser printer at home,” she says.
“How many did you make?”
“Just this prototype for now. I wanted to make sure it was okay before I printed more.”
I look around to make sure no one can see us, then examine the card more closely.
“It’s perfect. Looks exactly like the real ones.”
“With one small addition,” Malone says.
She points to a small white ink drop in the bottom left-hand corner. It takes me holding it inches from my eyes to see what it really is: a small water tower icon with a miniscule 5 on it.
“You know, sort of an extra f-you to the Chaos Club,” Malone says.
“You don’t think they’ll notice?”
“Who cares if the Chaos Club notices? What are they going to do, prank us again? And if Stranko sees the change, he’ll first have to figure out what it means, and even if he does, it’s a long shot he connects it to us.”
It’s flimsy logic and a risk, but I like the addition and tell Malone so.
“Cool, thanks,” she says. “So run a bunch?”
“Absolutely.”
“I have a late shift at the climbing center tonight, but I should be able to get these finished after that.”
I’m still amazed all this is happening. I ask people to do things, and they do it. If I’d known it was this easy, I’d have started speaking up years ago.
“So have you two figured out your pranks yet?” Ellie asks.
“I have an idea percolating,” Malone says. “I just don’t know how to pull it off yet.”
“You’ll come up with something,” Ellie says, then turns to me.
I look at my feet.
“I’ll take that as a no. I’m not worried though. You’re good at planning things like that.”
“Really?”
Ellie cocks her head.
“Are you fishing for compliments, Maxwell Cobb? Okay then, yes, you’re good at plotting. Remember in Mr. Hubbard’s seventh grade history class how our group’s army beat everyone else in that military battle game? That was all because of you. And your Rube Goldberg device in science last year that maneuvered an egg across a table and cracked it into a bowl? Or what about that extra credit assignment you wrote about Gatsby for English? Is that enough evidence for you?”
“All right, I’ll come up with something,” I say.
“Make that something good enough and all your dreams can come true,” she says.
Believe me, I’ve given the reward of a guaranteed yes more thought than the prank itself. I’m not exactly sure what I would do with the prize, but it would definitely be a strong test of my already-questionable morality.
“And even if you don’t win,” Ellie says, “at least make sure you don’t lose. Because remember—dire consequences.”
• • •
After school, Adleta, Wheeler, and I serve our first of five work crews, and to get straight to the point—work crew sucks. It’s three hours of humiliation, sweeping the halls while kids deliberately toss garbage in our paths and chipping at crusty toilet bowls with a Spackle knife. Do me a favor and remind me of this day if I ever consider full-time employment in the custodial arts.
The only positive in the experience comes after an hour and a half of slave labor, when Mr. Jessup leads the three of us down a back hallway and through a set of heavy doors into an area marked Restricted. Along the walls are desks stacked three high. A mountain of boxes waits for us at the end of the corridor by the loading dock.
“What are all these?” Wheeler says.
“What the food comes in each week,” Jessup says. “You need to tear the tape off the bottom of each and flatten them for the recycling bin out back.”
“Can we have box cutters or something?” Adleta asks.
Jessup doesn’t even bother replying. He leaves us staring at the mountain of brown boxes, unsure where to start.
“This blows,” Wheeler says.
“No doubt,” Adleta says and kicks at the pile.
In the next ten minutes, we each suffer a dozen paper cuts, and our shirts are soon covered in streaks of blood, like we’re been sprinting through thornbushes.
“Screw this, man,” Wheeler says. “I can’t even feel my fingers anymore. It’s break time.”
We follow Wheeler back down the corridor, where he stops halfway to the door and takes out his phone, opening a map I’ve never seen before.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Wheeler ignores me and uses his shoulder to shove aside a series of desks, moving them just enough to expose a small cubbyhole door in the wall.
“Bingo,” Wheeler says.
“How did you know that was there?” Adleta says, coming forward and moving the desks even farther.
“Stranko’s files. There’s a great map that shows a lot of the older parts of this building that are blocked off or hidden from us.”
“You mean, like secret passages?” I ask, now getting out my phone to see what Wheeler’s talking about.
“Not that cool, no, but there are shortcuts through this building and rooms that are closed off like this one.”
Wheeler drops to his knees and slides a rusty latch on the door that sounds like a cat whose tail is being stepped on. The door opens with an equally painful shrieking noise, and Wheeler crawls through, disappearing into the dark.
“What do you think?” I say to Adleta.
“I think…uh-oh,” Adleta says.
I turn, and coming our way is Becca Yancey.
Becca is a junior like us and could easily be class president, but she’s too busy saving the world through organizing blood drives and raising money for leukemia victims. She also wears the Zippy mascot costume at every home football and basketball game, not that it helps us win. Right now, she’s carrying a green recycling bin filled to the top with plastic bottles. If the rumor’s true that she’s moving at the end of the school year, I’m not sure who will fill her place. Is Gandhi still alive?
“Hey, Becca,” Adleta says.
“Hi, guys. Find anything good?”
“Just goofing off,” Adleta says. “Work crew and all.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Funny.”
“You won’t, uh…” and Tim motions to the open door.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “You boys have fun. I have twenty more bins to hunt down and empty.”
Becca heads for the loading dock, and I call Wheeler back. His dirty face appears a few seconds later.
“What’s back there?” Tim says.
“Just boxes of files and old floor hockey equipment,” Wheeler says. “Stupid stuff like that.”
“Maybe we come back when we have more time,” I say. “There might be something cool.”
“Like my balls,” Wheeler says.
Adleta starts laughing.
“What does that mean?” I say.
“Dude, you’ve never played Like My Balls? How do you survive the day? It’s all I ever do. Anytime the teacher makes a statement, try adding ‘like my balls.’ You know how like in history, Mr. Navarro is always saying, ‘History is a living breathing thing…’”
“Like my balls,” I finish.
“Exactly, man.
It’ll change your life.”
“Like my balls.”
“See? You’re a natural.”
Since we’ve committed petty theft together and scrubbed toilets next to each other, I decide now’s probably a safe time to ask Adleta something that’s bothered me for weeks.
“Can I ask you a question? Why’d you show up at the water tower? You don’t seem the Chaos Club type.”
“What does that mean?”
“No offense, dude,” Wheeler says, “but he’s right. You’re more the organized-sports guy, not the cause-trouble guy.”
Adleta looks away for a few long, uncomfortable seconds.
Finally, he says, “Because I need something that’s just mine.”
Wheeler says, “Huh?”
Adleta leans against a box before answering.
“Everyone knows I’m good at lacrosse, right? That it’s pretty much all I do. But no one knows how Stranko convinced my dad to sign me up for an athletic trainer to keep me in the best shape possible so I can play in college and go pro. Or that now I have a dietician who tells me what I can eat. Or that I haven’t had a free weekend in three years because I’m always at some lacrosse camp or tournament. No one even asked my opinion. And when I tried to register for AP U.S. History this year, Dad wouldn’t let me because he said the extra work would get in the way of my training. Who does that?”
Wheeler and I look at each other, trying to figure out how to respond, but Adleta’s not finished.
“It’s like they’re forcing me into being this thing I’m not sure I want to be. Yeah, I destroy on the lacrosse field, and that’s cool and I like it, but I didn’t choose this life—my dad did. And you’ve seen my dad. It’s not like I can just tell him to lay off a bit. He’d lose his shit. It’s what he does best. With the water tower, I hoped I’d have at least one thing that was just mine. But even that backfired, and now my dad and Stranko are on my ass even more. Part of me just wishes I’d tear my ACL and be done with it all for good.”
It’s weird seeing Adleta being, well, human. And an AP class? I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years, which makes me feel like a dick.
“That sucks, man,” Wheeler says. “But at least you have us now.”
“Yeah, you’re part of a crew that’s going to take down the Chaos Club,” I say. “That’s a big plus.”
“Like my balls,” Tim says, and we all start laughing so hard it’s another five minutes before we start working again.
• • •
The rest of the school week is a continuation of tortuous ragging about the water tower, followed by three hours of slaving on work crew. The worst duty by far? Cleaning out grease traps in the kitchen. I may never eat again.
By the time Friday evening finally arrives, I should be exhausted, but the excitement of going out with Ellie has me filled with adrenaline. I do the best angry and bored grounded kid I can, slumping around the house with the occasional dramatic sigh while secretly readying for a date without my parents becoming suspicious. This is not as easy as it sounds. It’s hard to act normal when you drop your fork three times at the dinner table because your palms are so sweaty.
At six thirty, I put on a pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. I check the mirror, then switch the hoodie for a navy-blue T-shirt.
Then back to the hoodie.
Then a different pair of jeans.
God, is this what it’s like going on dates?
Am I even allowed to call this a date?
Screw it, I’m calling it a date.
I finally go with my original getup, and for my brilliant idea of the week, I don’t put on shoes or socks because I have to look unprepared.
A few minutes after seven o’clock, Dad calls up to me from downstairs.
My throat’s so dry I can barely get out a “Yeah?”
“You have a visitor.”
I do a quick check in the mirror, combing my hair with my fingers and breath-checking into my cupped hand. Coming down the stairs, I don’t just have a lump in my throat—it’s an entire watermelon.
Ellie’s at the front door saying, “…due Monday and we were supposed to meet after school. It’s twenty percent of our final grade and—”
It’s not hard to see where she’s going with this, so I play along just like I did in Mrs. B’s office after nabbing Stranko’s phone.
“Hey, Ellie.”
My parents move aside, and there, glaring at me, stands Ellie in her black-and-gold Asheville High jacket, a red backpack at her feet.
“Where the heck were you?”
My mouth drops.
“Oh man…”
“I even reminded you after school, Max. You know I’m leaving with the youth group tomorrow morning and won’t be back until late Sunday. How’s this supposed to get done?”
Ellie drops to a knee and begins rifling through her backpack. She’s breathing funny, and Mom and Dad looked concerned, even a bit worried. Ellie’s so good, I’m starting to think I actually did forget to meet her.
“What’s this project, Max?” Dad says.
“It’s a research project comparing Greek philosophers,” I say, improvising. “We’ve worked on it all week in class and were going to meet at the library today after school to finish. I just forgot. Maybe we could ask Watson for an extension on Monday?”
“That won’t work,” Ellie says. “How many times this week did he say ‘Due Monday. No excuses’? My parents are going to kill me.”
“What about finishing online?” Dad asks.
“We’re not allowed to use the Internet,” Ellie says. “Watson wants us doing what he calls ‘old school research’—books, magazines, and newspapers only.”
“We’ll just turn in what we have,” I say. “It should at least get us a C.”
Mom and Dad practically shout, “What?”
“A C stinks, Max,” Ellie says. “My parents don’t accept Cs. They start researching convents to ship me off to when I get a B.”
“We don’t accept Cs either,” Mom says, almost defensively.
Ellie puts her backpack on and says, “Look, I have to go. The library closes in three hours. I just wanted to see why you didn’t show up. And now I know—because you’re selfish. Forget it. I’ll finish by myself.”
And there it is, bobbing like a ripe worm waiting for my parents to bite. Mom’s brow furrows, and I see her looking at me from the corner of her eye, but Dad chomps like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Get your shoes, Max,” he says. “You’re not going to leave her to do all the work.”
“Unless you forgot your book bag at school too,” Mom says.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Then go get it. Hurry up.”
I walk, not run, to my room and sit on my bed, trying not to laugh. Or throw up.
Because confession time—I’ve never had a girlfriend.
Or kissed a girl.
Or even had one over to the house.
It’s not that I’m a member of the all-ugly team. It’s just that the girlfriend-getting opportunities have been scarce. Okay, nonexistent. Mom, ever the optimist, tries to comfort me by saying I’m a “late bloomer,” which is parent-speak for, “You are going to die a sad and lonely virgin.”
When I get back downstairs, Ellie says, “I really appreciate this, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. You’re saving my life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but we’re happy to help,” Mom says. “The library closes at ten, right?”
“Yep,” Ellie says. “I’ll have him back right after that.”
Mom and Dad tell us to be careful, and then we’re out the door and heading down the walk, halfway to freedom.
Ellie whispers, “No matter what, don’t look back.”
No problem there.
Once we’re safely inside Ellie’s
car, I say, “So you didn’t go with the Crybaby this time?”
“I have more bullets in my gun than that, silly.”
Ellie starts the car, and some terrible boy band song blasts from the speakers. She turns the radio down but not off.
“You look dressed to rob a bank,” I say.
“Maybe next time. Tonight we have a different mission to complete. Ready, Mongoose?”
“Gun it, Puma.”
And with that, Ellie gives a whoop before driving us off into the night.
Chapter 9
Located in the old part of town, the Whippy Dip Ice Cream Emporium’s been in business for more than three decades. It was also the spot of my parents’ first date when they were in high school. That’s a bit too creepy of a coincidence for my liking.
Because it’s mid-October and not exactly ice cream weather, the Whippy Dip is deserted. Or desserted, as Mr. Watson would proudly say. Still, we can see four workers through the closed Place Your Order Here window. That might seem like overkill, but after the football game’s over—a game that we’ll no doubt lose—there’ll be a tsunami of students in the parking lot.
“You know, heist films say you should work in private as much as possible. I’m pretty sure the Whippy Dip doesn’t count as private,” I say.
“Yeah, but it’s ice cream, Mongoose. Ice cream calls for rule breaking.”
Ellie hums while looking over the massive menu. Me, I have my hands jammed in my pockets, trying to avoid the million and one worst-case scenarios I’ve dreamed up, most of which end with either me puking or Ellie losing a limb. We both order our cones—hers with sprinkles, mine without—and I insist on paying because, dammit, I’m standing by my belief that this is a date and that’s what guys on dates do.
We sit at a nearby bench, where Ellie and I both take out our laptops. She also has a spiral notebook with her and flips through a dozen or so pages already filled with meticulous notes on the files in Stranko’s cloud.
“Wow, you make me feel like a slacker,” I say.
“Why? How much have you read through?”
“Er, only some.”
“Meaning zero. But that’s okay. I’ve been doing it all week during second period while I’m in the office. I have a lot more time than you anyway, with you doing work crew and all.”
