by Kurt Dinan
Both girls start laughing their bitchy heads off, and something inside me just sort of snaps.
I say to the two of them, “And if some people aren’t careful, someone might falsify evidence proving they’re in the Chaos Club and give it to Stranko.”
Both girls straighten like they’ve just straddled an electric fence. They turn the corner, and Libby does a quick glance over her should at me. Her eyes are full of fear. Then the girls are out of sight, hopefully running for their lives. Wheeler, Adleta, and I start laughing, but Malone wheels around on me.
“Don’t do that again,” she says.
“Huh?” I say.
“I don’t need you or anyone else fighting my battles for me, Max. It makes me look weak, which is what they want. It’s embarrassing.”
“I wasn’t fighting your battles for you. It just sort of came out.”
“Well, try to keep yourself in check. You’re only making it worse. I’ve got it taken care of.”
“Taken care of how?”
Suddenly, Malone’s anger is gone, and she’s rising in front of me, growing somehow larger, her eyes full of fire.
“Well, there’s a contest going on, isn’t there?”
And when I hear the laugh that she and Ellie share as they walk away, I’m the one feeling fear. But for Libby.
“You guys want to do something?” Wheeler says.
“Like what?” I say.
“I don’t know, something. Does it matter?”
“I would but I can’t,” Adleta says. “Lacrosse conditioning and all.”
“You should just quit,” Wheeler says.
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
Adleta leaves us, and I tell Wheeler I know where we can go, thus independently putting an end to Mom’s I don’t want you hanging out with that Wheeler boy rule. We’re halfway down the hall on our way to freedom when we pass Mr. Watson. He’s like a rock in the middle of a stream, standing still as a river of students floods past him.
“Ah, Mr. Cobb,” he says. “Can I talk with you a moment? Relax, you’re not in trouble.”
Wheeler tells me he’ll wait, and Watson and I step into the doorway of his classroom.
“I just wanted to tell you I’ve noticed a marked difference in you these last couple weeks,” Watson says. “And I mean that in a good way.”
“Um, thanks,” I say.
“There’s no need to thank me. I’ve just noticed how you’ve been carrying yourself differently of late, like you’ve grown up somehow. I see it in class, how you participate more. And in the halls, where you’re talking with more people. I’m not sure what happened to you, but I think it’s a nice change.”
“I didn’t think teachers paid attention to things like that.”
“Let me fill you in on a little secret, Max. Teachers are a lot more aware of things than we let on. Seeing you these last couple of weeks, I’m proud of you.”
I can’t help but smile.
“That’s all I wanted,” Watson says. “Go have fun with your friend.”
• • •
Five minutes later, Wheeler and I are pulling out of the parking lot in his cruddy Chevy Concours, a car mostly held together by duct tape and gum. But at least Wheeler has his own car and isn’t stuck having to borrow the mom mobile. Wheeler hauls ass off school property like we’re trying to outrun a nuclear blast, the music pumping so loudly through blown speakers my ears are close to bleeding. Within fifteen minutes, we’re outside of town, pulling off the road onto a bumpy trail that marks the start of Boyd’s property. I have Wheeler park in front of a trailer with a splintered front door and windows covered in thick plastic sheets.
“Your uncle lives in that shit hole?”
“He’s not my real uncle, but no, he mostly lives in the barn.”
We get out of the car and head down the dirt path leading away from the trailer. Weeds grow high on both sides of us, and the faded red barn looms up ahead. The only bright spot, literally, is a fifteen-foot-high metal sculpture resembling a shiny, upside-down pyramid with mannequin arms and legs sticking out in all directions.
“So he’s a serial killer?” Wheeler asks.
“If he is, we’re safe.”
Boyd’s barn is a junkman’s dream. You name it, it’s somewhere inside. Old kitchen appliances, rusted tools, torn furniture, computer keyboards and towers, black-and-white TVs, and rusty farming equipment fill makeshift aisles. The floor is concrete but barely recognizable for all the rope, pieces of sheet metal, and lawn equipment covering it. Everything in the barn goes to his sculptures, which, despite how he lives, sell for outrageous amounts of money. Whatever he does with the money, he apparently doesn’t spend it creating a comfortable living environment.
Music blasts from the back, where Boyd stands with a beer in his hand, staring at Asheville High’s very own Zippy the Eagle statue. Here, away from home, Zippy looks smaller, even fragile, despite standing six feet high with a wingspan covering ten feet. Boyd’s so fully focused on the statue that he doesn’t notice us until we’re only a few feet away. When he finally sees us, he comes over offering a hand.
“So, wait, you’re the one doing the restoration?”
“Yeah, cool, right?” he says. “Mrs. B helped me set it up.”
“Is this what she was talking about when you came to get me at the school that night?”
“Yep, it’s for the big celebration in May. I have until then to get it looking brand-new.”
“How long is that going to take?”
“I don’t know. A month? Two? That’s what’s nice about dealing with people who don’t know anything about what you really do—you tell them you need it now to get started, and then you can sit on your ass a lot and work when you want to.”
Wheeler clears his throat dramatically, and I introduce him to Boyd.
“You like AC/DC?” Wheeler says, pointing to the speakers playing “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”
“Shit, yeah. When I was eight my dad took me to see them on the Highway to Hell Tour.”
“Oh my God! With Bon Scott?”
“Absolutely. My life was never the same again.”
“How many times have you seen them?”
“Fourteen.”
“Oh my God.”
I’ve made a grievous error. I’ve just introduced Wheeler to himself twenty years down the road. I’m never going to get him out of here.
“Wheeler’s aiming for the lowest GPA in our class,” I say.
Boyd toasts Wheeler with his beer.
“I didn’t hit bottom,” Boyd says, “that would be John Mantooth—no, seriously, that’s his name—who’s been in jail the last twelve years, but I was close. And look at me now, living the dream. My own boss, a beer when I want it, no old lady dragging me down. I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried. So is this a social call or business?”
Isn’t it annoying how adults can sense whenever you want something?
I say, “Do you remember a bird attack happening at your senior picnic?”
“Oh man,” Boyd half shouts. “The bird-shit picnic! That was the highlight of senior year.”
“How did they make the birds crap on cue like that?” Wheeler asks. “I mean, how do you command a flock of birds to do anything?”
Boyd goes to his minifridge and pulls out another beer.
“Ah, one of the few things I learned in school. Is Mr. Huntley still there teaching psych? He explained it all to us on the final day. The trick, he said, was conditioning.”
Wheeler and I both make a face.
“You haven’t had psych yet? Oh man, you have to take it. It’s a total mind screw. Conditioning is used to train someone—or in this case, birds. Huntley said he figured someone went out to the intramural fields for months, spread birdseed, then bl
ew a whistle. Eventually, the birds in the woods understood that the whistle meant food was available. So when the senior picnic came, someone blew that whistle and—presto!—birds doing what birds do, raining down shit.”
Wheeler says, “Man, that took some serious commitment.”
“Oh, they were serious about it all right. It doesn’t sound like the group now does nearly anything as elaborate. Cows on the roof? Seen it. Painting the water tower? Bush league, man. But the Chaos Club then, they were proud of that tradition.”
“Wheeler’s the one who set up the student body boner pic,” I say.
Boyd toasts our way. “See, that’s what I’m talking about—creativity and dedication. That’s what goes into an epic prank. But do you know the most impressive thing? I’ll bet if you asked people at my next reunion what they remember from high school, they’ll struggle to name their teachers or what classes they took, but they’ll know every last detail from those pranks. That’s what called creating a legacy.”
“Stranko’s probably never forgot it,” I say.
“Well, the thing you wouldn’t know is that for part of high school, Stranko was actually pretty cool to hang out with. He was a joker—not on the level of me or your dad, but funny, good to be in class with because he kept things light. He was an athletic beast too, especially at lacrosse. And, man, the girls loved him, probably because he was one of the few guys who would actually bust a move at the school dances. That guy could really get down. I was jealous as hell. Because if you guys haven’t figured it out yet, girls love a guy who will dance.”
“Wait a minute,” Wheeler says. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Dwayne Stranko? Tall, bald, looks like Sloth from The Goonies?”
“That’s the one,” Boyd says. “He had hair then, of course, but yeah, he was a good guy.”
“Well, that’s not the Dwayne Stranko we know,” I say.
“You can blame his parents for that. They were never what you’d call friendly people—you sure as hell didn’t want to go over to the Stranko house—but they mostly let Dwayne do his thing. Then at the end of our sophomore year, he got busted with some guys trespassing at the city pool, drinking beer and doing stupid stuff—throwing chairs in the deep end, raiding the concession stand, you get the idea. Supposedly when the cops showed up, Stranko was standing naked on the high dive serenading everyone with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”
“Not an image I needed,” Wheeler says.
“No doubt,” Boyd says. “After that night, Dwayne disappeared for the entire summer. When we got back to school in the fall, he was different—buzzed hair, sitting up straight in class, paying attention and never joking. Some people thought he’d been sent to military camp. But his mom and dad didn’t have a lot of money, so I doubt that. My guess is his parents shut him down completely, molded him into exactly what they wanted.”
“Someone obedient,” I say.
“Right, and when parents try to do that to a kid, they usually win, unless the kid is really strong. Whatever happened to Stranko, he wouldn’t talk about it. I do know the lacrosse coach benched him for the first half of the season our junior year though, which hurt his scholarship chances. Stranko became super serious then and only got worse from there. By our senior year, man, the guy was unbearable. It was bad enough that he was so uptight, but it got to the point where he demanded it from everyone else. Flash forward twenty years, and I can only imagine how awful he is now that he has power. He wasn’t always that way though. Not that it excuses his being an asshole.”
“Which he is,” Wheeler says.
There’s more talk about Stranko and some talk about the Chaos Club, but not much. Mostly it’s Boyd drinking beer and showing us around the barn, telling us how he obtained certain junky items. We leave after twenty minutes, and on our way back to town, there’s no gushing from Wheeler about how cool Boyd and the barn are like I assumed there would be. In fact, Wheeler’s not talking at all. Instead, he has the radio on and doesn’t even bother changing the channel when commercials come on, like usual.
Outside my house, I say, “Maybe we should skip the rest of the week, save ourselves the pain of more homecoming torture.”
Wheeler cracks a weak smile and says, “I’ll see you in the morning, man.”
He pulls away, and I’m left wondering: (A) what’s eating him, and (B) if I’d really ever cut school.
I decide (A) I don’t know, and (B) probably not.
Four days later, I’m happy as hell I’m not a school cutter, because if I were, I’d have missed out on what’s easily the most memorable pep rally in Asheville history.
Chapter 12
Friday is the big homecoming game—a guaranteed loss—so class periods are condensed to forty-five minutes, allowing for two hours to celebrate school spirit, which by my calculation is only felt by six percent of the student body. We’re all herded into the gym, where I end up sitting in the top row of the bleachers with Wheeler and Malone. Adleta has some role in the pep rally, but he didn’t go into specifics. And Ellie, I’m not exactly sure where she is. Probably off kissing some guy who isn’t me.
“Any hits on the website?” I ask Wheeler.
He doesn’t answer because he’s staring off across the gym, his eyes unfocused.
“Hey, man. You alive?”
“Yeah, sorry. What’s up?”
I ask about the website again.
He pushes a few buttons on his phone and says, “Ninety-eight hits since we went live. That’ll go up once word gets out. We’ve gotten eight suggestions for future pranks though. We have some seriously screwed-up people in this school.”
“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” Malone says.
“I know, right?”
“What type of suggestions?” I ask.
“Lots of fecal-related pranks,” Wheeler says. “‘Shit in the cafeteria,’ ‘Shit in a library book,’ ‘Fill Stranko’s office with cow shit,’ stuff like that.”
“The future is going to be a dark place,” Malone says.
“Like I said,” Wheeler says.
“What about Stranko’s phone?” I ask.
“He’s not calling it anymore, but the cloud’s still active,” Wheeler says. “I told you he wouldn’t change the password. Adults are stupid that way.”
“Has he added anything lately?”
“Nothing worth mentioning, but I can tell he’s accessing it by the Date Modified column.”
“What’s he reading?” Malone asks.
“Mostly old prank reports from the nineties. I have this image of him drunk at his kitchen table in the middle of the night, reading over the files like a detective who can’t let a cold case die.”
“That’s sort of sad,” I say.
“If by sad you mean hilarious, then yeah.”
Ellie’s one of the last students to enter the gym and pauses in the doorway, surveying the junior section. Malone stands and gives her a wave, and soon, Ellie’s plopping down next to me. Next time, remind me to show up last so I can control where I sit.
“Where were you?” Malone asks.
“Talking with Mrs. B,” Ellie says. “I’m now officially on the Celebrate Asheville Committee.”
“So like instead of the Chaos Club, you’re in the Brownnose Club?” Wheeler says.
“No, it’s really kind of a cool idea. The plan is to make the event an all-day thing, with bands and rides and stuff. ‘A celebration of Asheville’ is how Mrs. Barber put it. They’re hoping to make it annual event.”
“When is it?” I say.
“They’re scheduling it for the Saturday after school’s out for the summer. So it’s a long way off.”
“That’s a lot of committee meetings,” Malone says.
“It’s okay. I like that kind of stuff.”
The cheerleaders enter the gym, and Wheeler
and Malone start debating whether cheerleaders are demeaning to women. Go ahead and guess which side of that argument Wheeler’s on. Ellie and I sit awkwardly, neither of us talking and fully aware we’re not.
Eventually, Ellie says, “So how long are you going to stay weird around me?”
“What? I’m not being weird around you,” I say in a clearly weird way.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Maxwell Cobb.”
“I don’t—”
“Girls aren’t dumb, Max. You won’t talk to me; you won’t sit by me; you barely even look at me. And I know why, and I want you to stop. We’re friends, and friends don’t act like this toward each other.”
I pick at a piece of lint on my pants. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. I get it. My main goal right now is taking down the Chaos Club. After we take them down, we’ll see.”
My heart hiccups.
“We’ll see? What does that mean?”
“It means what you think it means. Now stop being a stupid boy and act normal.”
Message received loud and clear. Not Max can definitely work with we’ll see.
With the gym finally filled, the pep rally gets started, with Watson’s aide, Jeff Benz, and Chloe Seymour, one of the hottest girls on the planet, playing emcees. They’re trying to get everyone excited, but because they’re reading from a preapproved script, they sound robotic. The seniors show the most enthusiasm, with energy levels decreasing by class until you get to the freshmen, who are so quiet they may be unconscious.
Wheeler might as well be sitting with the frosh because he’s back to his staring act again. If I didn’t know him like I did, I’d think he’s tripping on something. What snaps Wheeler back to reality is when Chloe overenthusiastically tells us to welcome the Asheville dance team. They enter from the side door with Malone’s nemesis, Libby Heckman, leading the way to center court. Then Wheeler’s on his feet, whooping and hollering until finally Ellie can’t take it anymore.
“Stop it.”
“What? They’re awesome. I love the dance team,” he says.
