by Kurt Dinan
The girl says, “We didn’t pull those pranks.”
“Yeah right.”
“We didn’t.”
If my fingers weren’t laced, I’d be making fists.
“Why lie to me? Do you still think I’m secretly recording this or something? Like I’m going to run to Stranko if you tell the truth? You have my phone, remember? Besides, it’s not me you need to worry about. It’s him.”
Another pause, and then the girl has the distorter.
“You’re swinging at ghosts,” she says.
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have we set you up at all lately? No. We’ve given up.”
“I wish we could believe that.”
I’m trying to get a clue as to who these people are—some hint in what they say or even how they say it that’ll lead me to their identities. But there’s nothing.
“If you don’t believe me that I’ve quit, then why am I here? If you want to threaten me, fine, but I’ll just tell you the same thing again—I’m not hunting you anymore, so you don’t have to worry.”
“We’re not threatening you,” the girl says.
“No, you’ve already done that.”
“That was just to get you to show up.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“We’re here to make you an offer.”
Even through the voice distorter, I can pick up the girl’s tone. She sounds almost worried, like she’s the one tied to the chair.
“What’s the offer?” I say.
“We’ll forgive what you’ve done if you accept a position in the Chaos Club. There’s only a few months left in the year, but it would be a good setup for next year. We need someone to carry the torch for us, and you’ve been chosen.”
There’s a pause, and then the guy says through the distorter, “We’re told a midyear invitation like this has never happened before. You should feel honored.”
I have a hard time finding words. Of all the scenarios I played out in my head before coming here, I never imagined this one. Me, in the Chaos Club?
“Who told you to do this?” I ask.
The guy says, “What do you mean who?”
“You said you were told this has never happened before. Who’s in charge? Is there some sort of, I don’t know, alumni panel or something?”
This time the pause is longer than I’m comfortable with. I imagine the two trying to figure out how to respond to the gotcha I’ve just nailed them with.
The girl finally says, “We can fill you in on the specifics later. But, Max, this is your chance to be a part of something special. I mean really special. We’re planning something everyone in the town will witness live. Nothing’s even been done like this before—”
“That’s enough,” the guy says.
I decide to push my edge.
“How did you find out about me?”
“We got an anonymous email with the picture attached.”
“Anonymous?”
“Completely.”
“Why would someone do that?”
No answer.
“We don’t have all night,” the guy says. “What’s your answer?”
“What happens if I say no?”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“But what happens?”
“There will be ramifications.”
The girl is on the distorter again. “Join us and we’ll tell you everything. Isn’t that what you want?”
In a way, yes.
Why did they choose us for the water tower prank?
How do they pull off their pranks unnoticed?
Who’s their leader?
What’s their next prank?
With just a quick yes, I can know the answer to all this and more.
Plus, becoming a member of the Chaos Club is as close to a professional heist crew as I’m likely to get.
It’s just too great an offer to turn down.
But.
“Go screw yourselves,” I say.
“You’re not serious?” the guy says.
“I already have a crew, and we’re taking you assholes down. You’ll regret ever messing with us.”
“We told you—”
“Max,” the girl says, this time without the distorter. “You need to reconsider.”
“Or you’ll give Stranko the picture?”
“Worse.”
Her voice is soft and serious. I could still change my mind, I guess. A big part of me still wants answers. But no. They’re just trying to scare me, to blackmail me into joining them, like they blackmailed me into coming here. So hell no.
“I’m out.”
The girl sighs, and both of them start moving past me for the door.
“You started this, remember that,” the guy says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The doors opens, and I say, “Aren’t you going to untie me?”
“The ropes aren’t too tight,” the guys says. “You’ll figure it out.”
“But how will I get home?”
Then the girl whispers in my ear, “Good luck, Max.”
I don’t recognize the voice. Or maybe I do. When the door closes, I’m alone, and suddenly all my macho bullshit is gone. I jerk at the ropes trying to free my hands and find that the guy was right. The ropes are loose but not that loose.
My feet aren’t tied, so I stand up but quickly bang into a table or desk or something. I fall back into the seat and work the ropes, my breathing coming faster. It takes a good minute to get one hand out. After that, the other’s out in seconds. My hands tear the mask off my head, and I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat off my face. It’s only then that I open my eyes.
Oh no.
I’m in the school.
In Stranko’s office.
Which has been painted neon pink.
The entire office—the walls, his desk, the ceiling, the chair I’m sitting on, even the state lacrosse trophy—all of it’s neon pink.
I barely have time to process everything when someone’s putting a key in the door, and suddenly I’ve broken the most important heist rule of all—I got caught.
Chapter 18
Of course Stranko has me arrested.
Handcuffs, police car, fingerprints, mugshot…all of it.
And yeah, Hale’s car isn’t an official cop car since he isn’t a real cop, but it has the mesh-wire guard and no latches on the inside of the back door. Hale even proudly tells me there’s no point in trying to call anyone because of the cell phone jammer he’s installed, so it might as well be a cop car. Or a potential rapist’s car, the creep.
Being arrested is just as humiliating as you might imagine, possibly even more so. The real cops don’t put me in a jail cell, thank God, but I’m locked in a room that’s probably used for interrogating real criminals. I almost wish I were in a cell because iron bars would make it harder for Mom and Dad to murder me, which they’re going to do.
I guess this is what happens when you try to write your name in the wet cement of the universe. It hardens, trapping you in place, then begins downpouring shit on you.
Not Max can kiss my ass.
Through the door’s window, I can see Stranko’s still here at a desk with Hale, the two of them relaying the story to a cop who’s hunting and pecking her way through my arrest report.
An hour earlier, when Stranko opened his office door and saw me, he held up a hand before I could say anything. His was eerily calm as he surveyed the room, then eventually, he stepped into the hall and called Hale. In the five minutes we waited, the only thing Stranko said in my presence was a quiet, “God, I’m not going to miss this.”
Stranko’s the least of my worries though, because my small window gi
ves me a perfect view of Mom and Dad’s arrival. They look worried as they listen to Hale and Stranko explaining what happened, but they’re not fooling me. They have to be rage-filled, homicidal maniacs faking concern to ensure the police will release me. And once that happens, the bloodbath will begin. This room offers nowhere to hide, so I’m stuck sitting here like the penned-up convict I am. Dad, unshaven and looking like he’s just taken a hammer blow to the forehead, shakes both Hale’s and Stranko’s hands. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I already do, but seeing Dad’s embarrassment does it.
I have fifteen seconds until Mom and Dad get here. That’s fifteen seconds left to live. What should I do with those fifteen seconds?
Bang my head on the chair until I’m unconscious?
Punch myself in the groin to generate some tears?
Get a running start at the door so that when it opens, I can smash past my parents and race into the night to live a life on the lam?
But it’s too late. The door opens, and my parents appear in the doorway. They’re both slump shouldered and—oh man—what’s that look they’re giving me?
Rage?
Embarrassment?
No, worse.
Disappointment. Sad-eyed, slow-moving, tired-voiced disappointment.
I’d prefer rage.
“Let’s go home, Max,” Mom says.
That’s it. Not a “What were you thinking?” or “Do you know how much trouble you’re in?” Just Mom’s, “Let’s go home, Max.”
Dad doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s not even looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Nothing back from either of them. I can actually feel myself growing smaller.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Without looking at me, Mom says, “We heard you.”
I keep my eyes to the floor on my way out so I won’t have to see Stranko. I expect at least some talking once we get outside, but no, Mom and Dad just walk to the car, with me trailing behind. Even when we’re inside, away from the ears of anyone who might hear them laying into me, the silence continues. We drive home with no talking, no radio, no nothing. I’d prefer shouting instead of this terrible nothingness. If parents receive a How to Effectively Punish Your Children pamphlet, this has to be in the “Only for Professionals” section because, man, it’s brutal.
At home, the silent treatment mercifully ends with Mom saying, “Come sit down, Max.”
When they use your name it’s just the worst. The formality, the seriousness. That’s when you know you’re in atom bomb–sized trouble. Mom and Dad sit on the couch, and I’m across from them in the La-Z-Boy, exhausted and sorry, self-conscious and worried, all at the same time.
“Tell us everything,” Mom says.
Dad’s staring at the space where my chair touches the carpet.
“From the beginning,” he says.
I knew this was coming, but with it here now, I’m still not sure what to say. I mean, I know the whole story, but telling it all to them can only end in Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta getting in serious trouble. But isn’t there a point where that doesn’t matter? Where the truth is more important than protecting your friends?
I don’t know the answer to that.
I do know, however, that I’ve failed my parents. So I decide on the fly that I can’t fail Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta too. I have to protect my crew. Because what good would it do to involve them? How would explaining the other four’s role in this help my parents understand the arrest of their criminal son?
So here’s what I tell Mom and Dad about:
The water tower.
Today’s letter.
And my kidnapping and offer to join.
What I don’t tell them about:
Anything implicating the other four.
I do explain their part in the water tower, but beyond that, I leave Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta out of it. I don’t even tell my parents about the fake website because the pictures on it are from pranks the other four did. So yes, I lie. And I feel bad for doing it, but it’s necessary.
“Is there anything else?” Mom says.
“No.”
“Why didn’t we hear about the water tower from the school when it happened?” Dad says.
The question’s a right hook to the jaw I didn’t see coming. Dad’s staring directly at me, giving me no chance to work up a lie.
“Boyd came and got me,” I say.
Dad sighs and Mom’s eyes narrow. She’s this close to growling.
Uh, sorry, Uncle Boyd.
My parents exchange silent words with a long look, then Mom says, “We’ll pick this up again in the morning, after your father and I have had a chance to talk.”
“Okay,” I say, getting up. “I’m really sorry.”
Neither of them says anything back.
I’m halfway up the stairs when Dad says, “Max, leave your laptop and phone outside your door.”
Um.
Now I understand what it means to break out in a cold sweat.
“Did you hear me, Max?”
“Yes, sir.”
I walk upstairs thinking about my browser history. And my text messages. Usually I’m pretty good at erasing my web adventures, but I can’t remember the last time I cleared my history. If Mom asks me, “Max, why did you do a search for ‘naughty teachers in glasses’?” I may die of embarrassment. But considering the alternatives, that may not be a bad thing.
• • •
I make myself a ghost for the rest of the weekend. When I do venture downstairs, Mom and Dad keep to basics, like asking me to pass the mustard or to turn the TV down. I’m told I’m grounded for an indefinite amount of time. My guess is until I’m forty-six. They also break the news that I’m to be charged with trespassing and criminal mischief, which could put me in jail for up to sixty days, along with a $5,000 fine. I could be prison bound by the spring.
On Sunday night, while all of us are in the family room, the doorbell rings. I automatically rise from the couch, but Dad stops me.
“You stay,” he says.
He opens the door, and I hear Ellie’s voice.
“Hi, Mr. Cobb. Is Max here?”
Dad’s normally a big Ellie fan, but not tonight. He blocks the door so she can’t see or come inside.
“He’s not allowed to see anyone right now, Ellie, but I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. He’s not allowed visitors.”
“Because I’ve texted him and called a bunch of times but haven’t heard back.”
Ellie’s confused and upset—bonus for me?—and suddenly I’m pissed at Mom and Dad for sending her away to worry even more. I stand up and start for the door.
“Max, sit down,” Mom says.
I keep going.
“Maxwell Connor Cobb.”
I clear the corner, and Ellie and I see each other, but Dad blocks me from getting closer.
“I’m okay,” I tell Ellie.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I’m just in some trouble. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay, I guess.”
Dad tells her to be safe driving home before closing the door.
“You should probably get up to bed,” Dad says to me. “We have an early day tomorrow.”
• • •
In the morning, I learn something new—school districts have lawyers. In the case of Asheville, the lawyer is Mr. Huelle—rhymes with mule—and he’s about as friendly and personable as his name. He’s in a full suit and sits sour faced beside Mrs. B at the end of a long table in the high school conference room on Monday morning. Also present are Stranko and Hale, who take seats on Mrs. B’s side. Assuming my parents are on my side, which
is debatable, I’m outnumbered three to four.
“Jim, Beth, it’s nice to see the two of you. I just wish we were all meeting under different circumstances,” Mrs. B says.
“You and us both, Mrs. Barber,” Dad says.
Mrs. Barber. I guess no matter how old you get, there are just some people you can’t force yourself to call by their first name.
“Well, Max, we’re here today to discuss what happened the other night and what to do about it,” Mrs. B says. “Mr. Stranko has already filled me in on what he saw, but I’d like to hear your version of the events, please.”
Déjà vu all over again.
My right knee bounces spastically underneath the table as I repeat the story I told my parents, about finding the note in my locker and what happened after meeting the Chaos Club at the baseball field. My eyes are glued to the table as I talk, not because I can’t look at Mrs. B but because the three goons sitting beside her are as intimidating as hell.
“I know I shouldn’t have gone, especially after what happened at the beginning of the year, but I felt like I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because I hoped it would give me some clues as to who’s in the Chaos Club.”
“And did it?”
“It’s a boy and a girl,” I said. “I know that.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head.
Stranko whispers something to Hale while Barber taps her pen on the folder in front of her.
“So your story is that members of the Chaos Club invited you to meet, then blindfolded and transported you here to the school, where they put you in Mr. Stranko’s office so that if you turned them down, you’d get in trouble.”
I see where this is going, but it’s too late.
“My question is—why would they do that?” she says.
“Do what?”
“Why would they set you up to get in trouble a second time? What would their motivation be? Why not just invite you? What’s the purpose in vandalizing Mr. Stranko’s office and getting you in trouble for turning them down?”
There’s no safe answer. I can’t tell them that the Chaos Club blackmailed me into coming with threats of showing the picture of me at the football stadium because it proves I was working with Ellie. And once that gets out, the other three would eventually fall too. I just hope the Chaos Club didn’t keep their promise of sending Stranko the picture.
