by Kurt Dinan
“Are you kidding me? This is the best time. We’ll totally steal their spotlight,” she says. “Why do you have that look on your face?”
“Stranko, he’ll kill me.”
“Oh, foo. You don’t need to worry about him. Just be confident. It works every time,” she says with her best angelic voice and praying hands under her chin. “If you want me to, I’ll put in a special word with the big guy.”
“That’s good because I may be seeing Him sooner than expected.”
Mrs. Stephen’s precalc exam is next, and by the time I’m finished, I feel like I’ve spent the last hour and a half tumbling and crashing inside an industrial-sized dryer. I’m pretty sure the Pythagorean theorem and reciprocal identities were invented solely to make teenagers’ lives horrible. How else can you explain a teacher saying things like, “To find the zeros of the logarithmic function, one would exponentiate the left and right sides of the equation”?
The daily schedule for exam week at Asheville High makes almost as much sense as having the exams immediately after winter break. We get out ninety minutes early each day, but only after suffering through two, two-hour exams and a mandatory one-hour study session with our homeroom teacher. I’m five minutes into this study session when I get permission from Mr. Ewing to go see Stranko.
It’s time to die young.
• • •
I want to take my time getting to Stranko’s office, but unfortunately, I’m on a tight timetable. I make a quick stop in the bathroom outside the main office and turn on my phone’s video camera app before sliding it into the pocket of the shirt I’ve worn specifically for this purpose. As Ellie requested, I reach Stranko’s door at 11:42 a.m. His expression sours at the sight of me.
“Can I come in?” I say.
Stranko sighs and puts down the lacrosse magazine he’s reading instead of doing his real job, whatever that is.
“Sit.”
Shockingly, Stranko’s office doesn’t have black walls decorated with instruments of torture. Instead, there’s a desk, a bookshelf with actual books (and not just ones for coloring), a framed college degree on the wall (probably from an online university), and a minifridge (likely filled with human heads). The most shocking item is a picture on his desk of an older couple who are probably his parents or the scientists who genetically engineered him at the Asshole Farm. My only seating option is a straight-backed, wooden chair created solely for discomfort. The moment I sit, my ass starts aching.
“What do you want, Cobb?” Stranko said. “I’m sort of busy here.”
Uh-huh.
“Sir, I just came to say that over break, I did a lot of thinking and realized I need to make some changes in my life. With the new semester starting soon, I wanted to apologize for my behavior over the first part of the school year. I promise that second semester will be much less chaotic.”
And that, friends, is some Olympic-level bullshit. I look at the clock over Stranko’s head. 11:43—two minutes to go.
“Well, let’s hope you’re right about next semester,” Stranko says. “You could use some maturing.”
I have to hold down the middle finger struggling to show itself.
“Yeah, I could definitely grow up some.”
Stranko stares, trying to figure out if I’m being a smart-ass, and then sighs, leaning back in his chair. He has to be exhausted from the morning’s events with the doors. What he doesn’t know is that his day’s seconds away from getting worse.
“Look, Cobb, I’m not stupid,” he says. “I know what the students here think about me. That comes with the job. And part of that’s my fault because I’m not touchy-feely like Mrs. Barber, and I’ll never be. I’m intense and I can be a yeller—I know that. But do you think I enjoy being a hard-ass all the time? Believe me, it’s not fun. But it’s the job. What I do here, keeping all of you in line, helps Asheville be what it is, which is a damn fine place. I love this school. But once you let discipline slip, quality slips. That’s something my dad always used to say.”
I glance at the picture on the end table, taking a closer look at Stranko’s father. Although it’s just him and his wife smiling on a couch, the man’s eyes are hard.
“You probably could loosen up just a little,” I say, sort of joking.
Stranko half smiles—or maybe half un-frowns is more accurate.
“Agreed. And you could meet me in the middle by tightening up some.”
“I’ll do my best.”
It’s possible there’s a real human in Stranko somewhere—the joking, dancing, young Stranko just biding his time until he can make a triumphant return. Wouldn’t that be nice? The thought makes me not scared of him for the first time in my life. It’s not a feeling that lasts long.
“Actually, while you’re here, let me show you something,” Stranko says and removes a cell phone from his pocket and places it in front of me. “This is my new phone. I had to get this one because I lost my old one. In fact, interestingly enough, it disappeared on the day of your little stunt in the cafeteria with the trophy. Do you remember that?”
I swallow my terror.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about that day?”
I can barely get words out.
“What do you mean?”
Stranko leans so close and speaks so quietly that if anyone else were in the room, they couldn’t hear him.
“Don’t bullshit me, Cobb. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that my phone went missing at the same time you idiots were chasing each other around the cafeteria. I’m going to figure out what happened, and when I do, I’m going to rain hell on whomever was involved. If you have any information that could help, this is your chance to let me know.”
I don’t piss myself, but, man, I could.
“I don’t know anything,” I say.
Stranko doesn’t move.
“Of course you don’t, Cobb. Of course you don’t.”
A knock at the door saves me.
Mrs. Engen, Stranko’s secretary, hurries in and whispers something I can’t make out. Not that I need to hear her. I sit up and reposition myself to capture everything. Stranko performs a few clicks on his computer and goes from serious to concerned to infuriated all in a matter of seconds.
“You, get out.”
“What’s wrong?” I say.
Stranko doesn’t answer, doesn’t even tell me to leave again because he’s fully focused on the pictures Ellie’s uploaded onto our fake Chaos Club site. They’ve been there since this morning, but the program Wheeler pirated for Ellie only sent the mass email and text to the staff and student body two minutes ago.
“Dammit!”
Stranko pounds the desk so hard, he’s lucky his hand doesn’t go all the way through. I remain frozen, so the camera catches everything. Stranko’s eyes strain like they might come out of his head. It’s frighteningly awesome.
“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
I practically hit the ceiling at the outburst.
“What are you still doing here?” he shouts. “Get the hell out!”
I leave so fast there’s a vapor trail.
In each office I pass, guidance counselors, secretaries, and even the school psychologist are staring at their computers. In the classrooms, I walk by kids who have their phones out, not even trying to hide their laughter.
I’m happy for Ellie. Her idea was brilliant, and I’m sure some part of her wishes everyone knew that she’s the one who’s pulled this off. Because even though she’s in every picture, no one can tell it’s her. Why? Because she’s wearing the Zippy the Golden Eagle mascot costume she stole during the homecoming game.
Among the pictures we took:
1. Zippy spray-painting a naked woman on the side of a vacant building downtown.
2. Zippy with an ax poised over a neighborhood dog’s neck.
4. Zippy hunched over, ready to snort a long line of white power through his massive beak.
5. Zippy passed out on the football field surrounded by beer cans and condoms.
6. And the final image—Zippy standing on a bucket with a noose around his neck.
Oh, and prominently displayed in each picture on Zippy’s feathery chest? A Chaos Club card.
• • •
After school, I head in the direction of Ellie’s homeroom and spot her in the hall coming my way, unable to hold back her excitement.
“Did you get it? Please tell me you got it.”
I tap the phone in my pocket.
Ellie throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek hard in the middle of the crowded hall. The tent I pitch could house a circus.
“Can I see it?” she says, referring, unfortunately, to the video.
“Let’s wait until we get to your car. Too many people around.”
“Come on then!”
Ellie pulls at my hand, dragging me toward the exit. Her excitement is contagious, and soon, I’m rushing through the halls with her. We’re closing in on the front lobby by the main office, when coming toward us is the last person in the world I want to see: Stranko. I slow a little, thinking maybe we should duck into a classroom, but Ellie’s tugs at my arm.
“Relax,” she says. “Act natural.”
I grip Ellie’s hand tight as Stranko approaches. We don’t need to worry though. Stranko goes right past us like we’re not there. He’s on a mission, and from the tight set of his jaw, it’s one to seek and destroy. And I know Stranko’s target because he was muttering the name under his breath as he passed.
“We have to follow him,” I say.
“Why? Do you think he found out who did the doors?”
“I’m not sure, but we can’t let him get away.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s about to bust Wheeler.”
Chapter 16
Being right sucks.
Ellie and I watch from behind a locker as Stranko goes into Mr. Fleiger’s room and escorts a stone-faced Wheeler to his office with Mr. Fleiger following.
“What do you think he did?” Ellie says.
The possibilities:
a. Wheeler got caught planning a prank.
b. Wheeler got caught pulling a prank.
c. Wheeler got caught cheating.
d. Wheeler got caught with Stranko’s phone.
e. All of the above.
Everyone knows when you don’t know the answer you’re supposed to choose C, but in this case, I fear it’s D.
“We need to let the others know,” I say. “If this is all about to go to hell, they need to be prepared, maybe even leave the country.”
Heist Rule #18: Protect your crew.
Ellie sends a text to Adleta and Malone, and we take up surveillance in the lobby, sitting on a ratty couch across from the receptionist’s desk. While we wait, Mrs. Wheeler comes through the front doors and heads straight for Stranko’s office. It’s not two minutes before Adleta and Malone show up, walking and talking together as they approach. No chance this scene would have happened a year ago. Funny how that happens.
“Anything yet?” Adleta asks.
“They’re still in there,” I say. “Wheeler’s mom just showed up.”
“But we don’t know why?” Malone says.
“No, but it can’t be good.”
We all stare pointlessly at the office for a few seconds, as if the answer will suddenly appear on the glass.
“By the way, nice prank, Ellie,” Malone says. “Suicidal Zippy should be the cover of the yearbook.”
Adleta says, “People in my homeroom were going crazy. Even Mrs. Bross was laughing.”
“Thanks, guys. Max deserves some of the credit too. He took the pictures.”
I scowl and wave off the recognition.
“What’s wrong with you?” Malone says.
“This isn’t going to end well.”
“Seriously? You’re such a Debbie Downer. You don’t know why they’re in there. For all you know, Wheeler called Fleiger an asshole.”
“No, Stranko’s onto us.”
I tell them about going to film Stranko in his office and his asking me what I know about his missing phone.
“And you denied it, right?” Malone says.
“Of course.”
“Then that’s all you need to do.”
“That’s not the point. He suspects us. We need to be careful.”
It’s another ten minutes before Stranko’s door opens and Wheeler and his mom come out. Wheeler struts like he doesn’t care about whatever just happened, but his mom looks just the opposite, even pointing an angry finger back toward Stranko’s office.
“Man, she’s pissed,” Adleta says.
“No Stranko though. That’s a good sign for us,” Ellie says.
I give Wheeler a low whistle that draws his attention.
“Any bets?” Adleta says.
“I’ll go with cheating,” Malone says.
She’s probably right. But considering all the work he’s been doing lately to turn things around, the thought makes me feel like the world’s worst friend.
“Hey, guys,” Wheeler says.
“Hey, guys? That’s it?” Malone says. “What happened?”
“Fleiger accused me of cheating, and I called him a dick.”
Malone looks at us with I-told-you-so eyes.
“So why does he think you cheated?” Ellie says.
“Because I got a B on his stupid exam.”
“He knows that already?”
“Yeah, it was a Scantron test.”
Ah, the Scantron, the lazy teacher’s test format. So easy a chimp can grade it.
“The thing is, I didn’t cheat,” Wheeler says. “I studied my ass off for that exam. It’s not my fault that for review, Fleiger read off every question straight from the test. I just wrote them all down.”
“Did you tell him that?” Ellis asks.
“Yeah, and all he could say is there was no way I could do that well after screwing around all semester. Finally, I just lost it.”
“And called him a dick,” Malone says.
“A shriveled dick, but yeah.”
“So what happened in the office?”
“Mom took my side, of course. She knows how much I’ve been studying. By the end of the meeting, she wanted to call both of them dicks too.”
“You mean shriveled dicks,” Adleta says.
“The thing is I don’t blame Fleiger for accusing me. It’s not like I have the cleanest record. But Stranko really pushed that I was cheating and even called Mrs. Nally to grade my first-period exam and let me know how I did. He’s really after me. Now I have to take a different exam from Fleiger tomorrow. You just know he’s going to make it impossibly hard so I fail.”
“How’s that fair?” Malone says.
“Stranko called it a ‘compromise.’ I think he was just trying to get my mom out of the office before she put him through the wall.”
“You’ll do great,” Ellie says. “I know you will. I can help you study if you want.”
“I’ll be fine, but thanks.”
“What about calling him a dick? Did Stranko hit you with verbal assault?”
“Another week of work crew,” Wheeler says, making a whoop-de-doo motion with his finger. “Okay, I’d better go. Mom’s waiting for me.”
He gets a few steps away before turning back.
“What sucks is I did study. It’s not like I’m dumb. I have good DNA. My brothers prove that. I guess it’s going to take people a while to catch up with this new version of me.”
Now I feel even g
uiltier for having doubted him. Am I really any better than Fleiger and Stranko?
“See?” Malone says. “There was nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know Wheeler. Stranko had better watch his back.”
• • •
The rest of exam week goes quietly, and on his retake, Wheeler earns a C-, giving him his first no-F report card since seventh grade. The achievement is celebrated in the Wheeler household like he’s just cured cancer. In my house, the Bs and Cs filling my report card are met with a resigned “We know you can do better, Max” from my parents.
The first few weeks of the new semester are quiet—so quiet, in fact, that I’m lulled into a sense of normalcy. Classes are tolerable, and we even get a snowstorm on a Friday, giving us a three-day weekend. Life overall is good, so of course, something has to come along and screw it up.
It’s a freezing Wednesday during third period, and I’m zoned out at my desk in Navarro’s class watching Dances with Wolves, the social studies department’s idea of a unit on Native Americans, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Ellie: Get up here now.
By here, Ellie means the main office where she’s still an aide. Claiming it’s an emergency, I ask Mr. Allen if I can use the bathroom. I then hurry through the hall, taking the steps two at a time as I head for the office. As I pass the girls’ bathroom just off the lobby, the door opens and Ellie pulls me inside.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax, no one’s in here,” she says. “Something big is going on. A couple men in suits looking all official came in earlier. They said something to Mrs. Engen, and she turned so pale I thought she might pass out. All the aides were told to go to the library for the rest of the period. I doubled back and came in here. Stranko came out and offered to shake hands, but they wouldn’t take it. They’re all up in his office right now.”
“Who are they?”
“I’m not sure, but they weren’t very friendly looking.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I’ll show you.”
Ellie checks the hall to make sure it’s safe, and we step out, giving us a clear shot of the lobby.
