by Kurt Dinan
“Godspeed, John Glenn,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Does anyone know that allusion?”
“It’s what they said to John Glenn as he lifted off into space. It was in the extra credit reading,” Wheeler says.
“Okay, man,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Who are you and what did you do with Dave Wheeler?”
“Dude, I like astronauts. Sue me. Haven’t you ever seen The Right Stuff?”
On the way back to building, Wheeler’s beside Hansen, asking questions and behaving like, well, a real student. The bell rings as we hit the inside of the building, but instead of going to lunch, Wheeler peels off toward the media center. I watch through the window as he takes a seat in the back and opens up an Algebra I book. He doesn’t even notice me until I sit down across from him.
“What in the hell is going on with you?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this,” I say, poking at the math book. “You’ve never opened a textbook in your life.”
“That’s not true. I used to look at my health book all the time last year.”
“Because of the vagina diagram.”
“Man, that was a great picture.”
“It was, yeah, but come on. You know what I’m talking about.”
Wheeler puts down his pencil and digs into his backpack. Shockingly, there are other textbooks in there. And folders. Honest-to-God folders. From one of them, he pulls a sheet of paper and hands it to me. It’s his school transcript, filled with line after line of Ds and Fs for both freshman and sophomore year. By the time he graduates, projected to be by his thirtieth birthday, Wheeler’s transcript will be a meme used to scare children into studying harder.
“Do you see it?” Wheeler asks.
I don’t.
“Look at my class rank.”
At the bottom of the page in the class-rank box, 508/509 is printed.
“Who’s dead last?” I ask.
“Joe Vogelsang.”
Ah, him. A year ago, Joe drank an entire bottle of Crown Royal when his parents were out of town, then took their car for a joyride. One ignored red light and two paralyzed people later, Joe’s now awaiting trial.
“I can’t beat him,” Wheeler says. “He’s still a student here and not doing any of his work, so I can’t beat him for the lowest rank. At least until he’s convicted and officially removed from the school roster.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Number two’s good enough for me, man,” Wheeler says. “I proved I can be the worst—at least the worst of the nonfelons—so now it’s time for the dramatic turnaround. Let’s see how good at this I can be. Who knows, maybe my brothers were onto something with the whole studying thing. Besides, you heard Malone the other day. Imagine what I could do if I really tried. None of this is that hard. I just have to do it. And seriously, who wants to end up living in a stupid barn like your uncle? I mean, yeah, he has money and stuff, but the guy’s pretty much a loser. No offense.”
I give him a none taken wave of the hand. “So you’re now Nerdy Wheeler?”
“Instead of Screwup Wheeler, yeah. Why not try something new, right? But, man, let me tell you, it sucks. I have all these credits to make up, and I’m in guidance all of third period now doing courses online, and I have permission to be here working during lunch, but it’s so much, dude. The good news is my mom’s so thrilled that she says if I pass all my classes this semester, she’ll help me get a new car.”
“And get rid of the Wheelermobile?”
“All things must come to an end, dude. Besides, if I pull this off, I’m a shoo-in for Most Changed in the yearbook next year.”
If ever there was an I’ll believe it when I see it moment, this is it. But I don’t tell Wheeler that. Mostly I’m impressed. It’s sort of what I’m doing with Not Max. So, I say, good for us.
Well, good for us until Stranko walks into the media center. He comes through the doors and gives the room a quick once-over. When he sees us, his head jerks to a stop, then he comes our way. Not that I blame him. Wheeler, even Nerdy Wheeler, unsupervised anywhere is definitely cause for concern.
“What’s going on here?” Stranko asks.
“Just getting my homework done,” Wheeler says.
“Homework? Right.”
“No, seriously. Look.”
Wheeler pushes his book and a page of algebra problems toward Stranko, who smirks as he looks it over.
“Good luck with that. At this point, you’d have better luck putting out a house fire with a cup of water.”
“Thank you for your support, sir.”
Stranko scowls, which only grows in intensity when he notices Wheeler’s beaver shirt.
“And would you care to explain your shirt to me?”
“This?” Wheeler says, pointing to the woman. “Well, as far as I can tell, the family owns a petting zoo or maybe they live in the woods, I don’t know, but for some reason, her husband wants the beaver shaved. Maybe it has fleas or something.”
Stranko’s eyes go full-on coin slot.
“Is that right?”
“Well, sure,” Wheeler says. “Why? Do you have a different interpretation?”
Stranko’s lip twitches.
“You need to turn that shirt inside out,” he says. “Then I never want to see it in the school again. Do we understand each other?”
“Absolutely, sir. Thank you for your continued concern about my well-being and education.”
Wheeler sits there, staring up at Stranko, who’s not moving.
“I said turn the shirt inside out,” Stranko says.
“You mean right here? Now?”
“That’s what I said.”
Wheeler shrugs, then mouths perv at me as he stands up. He takes his shirt off, deliberately fumbling with it longer than he has to before turning it inside out. When he finally gets the shirt back on, he gives Stranko a Happy? look.
“Never again,” Stranko says, then leaves without responding.
“Jerk,” I say.
“Who cares? He’ll get his.”
“Wait, are you saying the New Studious Wheeler didn’t completely kill off Old Devious Wheeler?”
“Dude, this is just an upgrade, not a brand-new install. The old me isn’t going anywhere.”
Which is a scary thought indeed.
• • •
The final and weirdest thing to happen that week occurs on Thursday evening while I’m dangerously flirting with an aneurism by studying precalc. My phone pings announcing a text, and I have to read the message twice to understand what I’m being asked to do.
Ellie: Tremblay’s Pet Shop. Buy 200 goldfish. Meet at the window outside Room 103 in an hour.
Me: ?
Ellie: Hurry, Mongoose.
What choice do I have? It’s Heist Rule #16: Be ready when your team needs you.
I use the excuse that I forgot I needed a copy of Macbeth for English tomorrow to escape the house. Tremblay’s Pet Shop is in Freehold, one town over, and it takes me twenty minutes to get there. When I arrive, it’s 8:55 p.m., and a guy so old looking I worry he might turn to dust right in front of me is locking up.
“I need two hundred goldfish,” I say.
He lets out a sigh that, considering his age, he probably shouldn’t. When you’re close to 150 years old, you should conserve as many of your remaining breaths as possible.
“Piranhas?” he says.
“No, goldfish.”
“I mean, do you have a piranha? Is that what the fish are for?”
“Oh, duh, yeah. Exactly.”
It takes Tremblay a good ten minutes to scoop out two hundred goldfish from the massive tank in back. Honestly, it’s more like two hundred give or take twenty. I seriously doubt whatever Ellie needs the goldfish for is dependent on exact numbers. T
he total comes to just under forty dollars, and I leave the store hauling a box with ten clear plastic bags filled with seriously freaked-out goldfish.
On the way back to school, I use Stranko’s school map on my phone to find out exactly who Room 103 belongs to. It’s Mrs. Roberts’s art room, located in the back of the building. Twenty minutes later, I’m giving myself a hernia as I lug what’s essentially a box of water to the correct window. Already there, waiting in the darkness and holding their own boxes, are Wheeler and Adleta.
“Goldfish too?” Adleta asks.
“From Tremblay’s,” I say.
“I had to go to the PetSmart in Athens.”
“I was all the way over in Bakersfield,” Wheeler says. “We should demand gas money.”
“No sign of Ellie?” I ask.
“Ellie?” Adleta says. “My text was from Kate.”
“I got one from both of them, telling me to move my ass,” Wheeler says.
The window blind suddenly goes up, and standing there are both Ellie and Malone, dressed all in black and wearing ski caps. Malone opens the window, and Ellie leans out, saying, “Come on, there’s not a lot of time.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’ll explain later. Hurry.”
We begin handing bag after bag of goldfish through the window to Ellie and Malone. With each bag we pass through, the girls disappear into the dark art room. I can’t see where they’re going, but I can hear water running inside. After I hand Ellie my final bag, she starts to close the window.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “At least give us some clue.”
Ellie and Kate break into grins, and Malone says, “Operation Aquatic Art is under way.”
Chapter 14
I have to wait until morning to see the final product. I show up to school early, but even then I have to fight my way through dozens of students already packed into Mrs. Roberts’s art room, where everyone is staring at the ten-foot-tall glass display case used to show off award-winning art. But it’s not the art that has their attention—it’s the six hundred goldfish swimming among the pottery and now-blurry charcoal drawings. Hanging from a paper clip chain attached to the case is one of Malone’s Chaos Club cards.
Both Malone and Ellie stand on chairs in the back of the room, and on my way, I kick a garden hose connected to the faucet on one of Roberts’s many paint-splattered sinks. I pull up a chair between the girls, both of whom are struggling not to smile.
“How’d you even get in here?” I whisper.
“We hid in the storage room until Mrs. Roberts left,” Malone said. “After that, the room was ours.”
“You guys waited here until we showed up at nine? That’s insane.”
“But worth it, right?”
There’s no denying that. The glass case is a massive pulsing orange cloud. In a day or two, it’ll be murky with fish crap, but for now—
“It’s a work of art,” Ellie says.
“Shoot, I had to make up for the hours I spent on Wheeler’s boner diagram,” Malone says. “That whole thing left me with a bad taste in my mouth.”
“That’s what she said,” I say.
“Funny guy.”
When Adleta and Wheeler enter the room, Adleta bulldozes a path for them to the front of the crowd. After seeing what Ellie and Malone have accomplished, they come our way.
Wow, Adleta mouths to the girls.
Wheeler holds a thumbs-up close to his chest.
Soon, all five of us are on chairs, watching the revolving door of students enter and leave the room. Even teachers show up to see the school’s newest aquarium.
“Is that caulking?” Adleta asks.
“Yeah,” says Malone. “I ran strips around the edge of the case and where the doors normally open. I’m not sure how secure it is though. If it gives out—”
“We’ll have a goldfish holocaust,” Wheeler finishes.
“Why didn’t you take the art out first?” I ask. “Didn’t you have a piece in there?”
“Two, actually,” Malone says, “but to create, you must destroy.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Ellie says, and she and Malone start laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Adleta asks.
“Just wait,” Malone says, then looks to the doorway.
Oh no.
It’s Libby. It only takes her three steps into the room before she’s shouting, “Oh my God!” and shoving her way to the display case. When she gets a closer look, she goes full-on hysterical, pounding at the glass so hard we’re all probably seconds away from a goldfish tidal wave. Luckily for all of us, Mrs. Roberts steps out from the crowd and gently guides Libby into the hall. I’m not sure if it’s to calm her down or protect the rest of us from a Libby rampage.
“Oh man,” Malone says. “Libby’s charcoal self-portrait for the Scholastics Competition was in there. That’s a shame. And she was sure to get a Gold Key for it too. Maybe even a scholarship.”
“Wow, bummer,” Ellie deadpans.
Then they both start giggling, trying—and failing—to control their volume.
Wheeler and Adleta join in too, but I don’t. I can’t. I won’t. Of course, like an idiot, I say, “Man, that has to suck if you’re Libby.”
Malone’s eyes darken. “Are you purposely trying to sound like an asshole or are you actually showing sympathy for Libby Heckman?”
“No, but—”
“Good, because I’d hate to think you feel sorry for her. That would mean you’ve forgotten what she put me through last year. And what she did at the pep rally last week. Girls commit suicide over things like that, Max. Maybe some girls you know have actually even considered it.”
“I just meant—”
“So you don’t get to try to make me feel bad about this, you got it? You wanted us to pull a prank in the name of the Chaos Club, and that’s what I did. If I chose Libby as my target, that’s my decision, not yours.”
“But—”
Malone drops off the chair and walks through the jam-packed students still in the room.
Wheeler gives me a yeeesh look.
Adleta’s not even looking at me.
And Ellie says, “I’d think you of all people would be a little more supportive.”
“I’m just saying maybe that may have been a little much. You saw Libby, right? And that’s the drawing she’s been working on for weeks. It’s completely ruined.”
“So what? Maybe try to see it from Kate’s point of view next time and not just your own. I have to get to my locker before class.”
“Smooth, dude,” Wheeler says.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
• • •
For the rest of the day, I feel like shit, which is only compounded by Malone ignoring my apology texts. But am I wrong? Making a bunch of guys puke and destroying a girl’s art—how does it help us get back at the Chaos Club? What was business before is now personal, and I don’t like it. Or maybe I’m overreacting. Stranger things have happened. It’s really an ethics question, so I do the only thing I can think of: I stop by Watson’s room on the way out of the building.
“What can I do for you, Max?” Watson asks. He’s at his desk in the back of the room with his feet up, an Existential Dread Is My Copilot coffee cup resting on a pile of today’s pop quizzes.
“I have a philosophy question,” I say.
“Then you came to the right place. Fire away.”
“Is revenge ethical?”
Watson raises his eyebrows.
“Now that is an excellent question. Maybe it should be this week’s Big Questions of Existence topic.”
“I’d rather hear what you have to say on it.”
“Well, not to be evasive, but it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what you think. All ques
tions of ethics are like that. The answer depends on what you believe in—your religion, if you have one; your upbringing; your environment. You have to set your own parameters for what’s acceptable. If you don’t, someone else will do it for you.”
“I should’ve known better than to come here looking for a straight answer.”
Watson laughs and says, “I’m not one to give answers. I’m more interested in giving you the tools to come up with the answers yourself.”
“And in this case?”
“That means thinking about what you believe in and why—the why is the important part—then making decisions based on that. It’s the only honest way to do things.”
“You’re like the illegitimate child of Yoda and Socrates,” I say.
“That might just be the best compliment I’ve ever received,” Watson says. “However, I will say that revenge and justice aren’t the same thing. Most people make the mistake of confusing the two.”
• • •
I wish I could report the clouds parting and a rainbow of understanding shining down on me, but no, two weeks later, I’m as confused as I was before. I do know that I hate having people mad at me though, and Malone’s cold-shouldering me gets to be too much to take, so one night, I drive to the Asheville Climbing Center, where she works. Just the sight of those walls with their tiny handholds is enough to make my stomach do somersaults. I find Malone at the base of the expert wall with a group of college-y-looking guys in a semicircle in front of her. Kate’s wearing black soccer shorts and an employee shirt with the sleeves cut off. She looks absolutely badass.
“I can’t,” she’s saying to one of the guys. “I’m not allowed to climb during work hours.”
He says, “Come on, I’ll even make it easier for you. I put up ten bucks and you put up nothing. Just race me.”
“Like I said—”
