by Kurt Dinan
“Max?” Mrs. B says, bringing me back.
Everyone is looking at me, waiting for my answer. Nothing to do but give the standard response every guilty teenager is programmed to give when they know they’re busted.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did you do anything to upset them?” Mrs. B says.
I shake my head.
“Do you have the note?” Stranko asks.
I do, but it’s too incriminating.
“I lost it.”
“Convenient,” he says, then opens the folder in front of him and removes a piece of paper, looking at it for a few seconds before sliding it over to me. It’s the picture of Ellie and me at the football field. The corners of my vision gray, then blacken as the room begins to collapse in on me.
“Who’s this in the picture with you?”
“It’s no one,” I say.
“No one?”
There’s only one option here: make up something absurd.
“I filled the costume with newspaper to fill it out. I did everything by myself.”
“Newspaper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you get the mascot costume? It’s been missing for months.”
“Um, I found it?”
“Of course you did,” Stranko says. “So then who took the picture?”
“The Chaos Club.”
“Right,” Stranko says. He has a smug, condescending smile I’d love to punch off his face.
I refuse to look at Mom and Dad because I’m sure I can’t take the looks of disappointment they’re giving me.
“Jim, Beth, do you have anything you’d like to add?” Mrs. B says.
“Just that we’ll obviously pay for any damages,” Mom says.
“Thank you for that. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk this over with my administrative team before moving forward. Could you give us a few minutes, please?”
We move to the chairs right outside the conference room and wait without talking. First period doesn’t start for twenty-five minutes, but already the halls are starting to fill. The three of us sit outside the office for five excruciating minutes.
I hate all of it.
I hate the quiet.
I hate the looks the secretaries and guidance counselors give me as they pass.
I hate that I’m being talked about by people I can’t hear.
When the office door opens and Mr. Watson enters with a coffee cup in his hand, I have a new hate to add to my list:
I hate that my favorite teacher is seeing me like this.
Watson slows as he passes, saying, “Max, Jim, Beth,” before stopping outside the conference room. He gives a light knock, then enters without being invited inside.
“He still remembers us,” Dad says to Mom.
“I always liked him.”
They both sound somewhat happy in the memory. Time to take advantage of that.
“Mr. Watson’s really cool,” I say.
And we’re back to the silent treatment.
Mr. Watson isn’t inside long, three minutes tops, before reappearing.
“They’re ready for you,” he says. “Max, you hang in there.”
Hopefully, I’ll never have to face a jury in real life, because if walking back into court to hear the verdict is anything like walking back into that conference room, I’ll just have to off myself in my cell. I sit between Mom and Dad and swallow down my bile.
Dad puts both hands on the table, but Mom slides one of hers into mine underneath. It’s the most attention she’s shown me in days.
Mrs. B says, “Max, I want you to know I don’t think you’re a bad kid. I’ve been in this job for almost forty years and can say that I’ve seen my share of trouble kids, and you’re not one of them.”
This is promising.
“However…”
Uh-oh.
“I do think you’re on a dangerous path and that if you’re not careful, you could end up in some real trouble. After discussing matters, I’ve decided that the school district will ask the police to drop the charges in regard to the vandalism in Mr. Stranko’s office. Considering your side of the story, Mr. Huelle doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to prove you’re responsible. I tend to agree with him, as does Officer Hale.”
Yes!
“However—”
Dammit.
“I also think you’re lying to us. Not outright, but you’re definitely not telling the whole story. I’m pretty sure your parents agree.”
Out of the corners of my eyes, I see both Mom and Dad nod.
“At best, Max, you’re guilty of showing exceptionally bad judgment for the third time this year and, at worst, of outright vandalism. With your lack of forthrightness and any clear evidence to support your story, you’ve left me no other choice than to follow school policy, which was explained in the recent assembly.”
Under the table, Mom squeezes my hand tight enough to grind my bones to dust. Next to me, Dad is catatonic, and I’m holding my breath.
“You are to be suspended ten days. I could expel you for what you’ve done, but I don’t think that’s fitting here. Your teachers will send work home, but it will be at their discretion whether they accept the assignments for full credit. You can also contact them through email if you have questions.”
I’m trying not to cry, but it’s hard.
“Max, I understand this has to be difficult for you, but I’m hoping this sets you back on the path we all want you on. You should know that Mr. Watson came in here this morning and offered a spirited defense against your punishment, but in the end, we decided that this is best.”
“I’m not lying,” I choke out. “The Chaos Club brought me here.”
No one responds. All that happens is Mrs. B explains how my make-up work will be available after school at the front desk. After that, we’re told we can go.
There’s no shaking of hands.
No thank-yous or sorrys.
No last-second reprieve by Mrs. B.
Only a triumphant Stranko smirking asshole-ishly at me.
But then again, Stranko’s going back to his My Little Pony office, and I’m headed home on a ten-day forced hell-vacation, so who’s the real asshole here?
On second thought, don’t answer that.
Chapter 19
The ground rules for my suspension as laid out by my parents:
1. No phone, no Internet, and no visitors.
2. No leaving the house.
3. During the day, Mom or Dad will call the house at random times to make sure I’m there.
4. Once Mom brings my homework, I’m to finish it immediately.
5. Bedtime is nine o’clock.
So basically, prison. But better than what I feared, which was that I’d be placed into one of those mountain-survival programs where you’re supposed to learn to respect your parents but only end up being sodomized with a tree branch by a crazed counselor. Unfortunately, like any inmate, the jailers don’t believe me when I say I was set up. I come to this realization on the third full day of my suspension, when I apologize for the thousandth time and add, “It was stupid of me to trust them.”
“Trust who?” Mom asks.
“The Chaos Club.”
My parents roll their eyes.
“You still think I’m making that up?”
“We don’t know, Max,” Dad says. “But you lied by not telling us about the water tower, so who’s to say you’re not lying here?”
“I’m not lying!”
Mom gives an if you say so look that just kills me. Warden Dad’s not finished though, and it’s obvious from the edge in his voice that he’s been holding in a lot of anger.
“You know, Max, if your story’s true, then you should have come to
us. Of course we would have been mad, but at least then we would have understood your going to the water tower. Hell, if I were your age, I would’ve gone. But no, you didn’t tell us. In fact, you made it worse by involving Boyd in your lie. Then, as if you hadn’t caused enough trouble, you make another dumb decision, and we have to suffer the embarrassment of picking you up at the police station, where I have to apologize—apologize!—to Dwayne Stranko for your ridiculous behavior. So I’m sorry if we’re a little skeptical of your story. You’re not the most credible person right now. You’ve changed this year, and I’m not sure it’s for the better. Maybe instead of repeating over and over again that you were set up, you should make better use of your time by reflecting on what you’ve done and who you want to be.”
Astonishingly, I take Dad’s advice.
For the next couple days, I think about what I’ve done.
I think about who I am.
I think about who I want to be.
Here are my choices as I see them:
I could just live out the rest of the year, the rest of high school, hell, even the rest of my life playing it as safe as I have for my first sixteen years. Basically, I could Just Max it. It’s certainly the cautious, not get arrested way to go. But Just Max also has no confidence, no friends, and lives his life through movie characters. What good is that?
Or I could go the Not Max route. In the months since letting him surface, Not Max has spoken out, taken risks, and acquired a circle of real friends. Of course, Not Max’s impulsiveness also got him arrested, twice if you count the water tower. And Not Max’s parents don’t trust him anymore, and I sure don’t want that happening again.
So the question is, Just Max or Not Max?
Caution or impulsiveness?
Safety or action?
Silence or noise?
The hell if I know. But I do know what would happen in a heist film—the mastermind would go to his mentor for advice. In The Italian Job, Mark Wahlberg goes to Donald Southerland. In Parker, Jason Stratham goes to Nick Nolte. In Ocean’s Eleven, George Clooney goes to Elliott Gould. I don’t have a mentor—I’ve been flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pantsing it if you haven’t noticed—but I do know someone who fits the characteristics of a mentor, or at least can fill in on short notice. That is, if he’s speaking to me anymore.
• • •
“If your mom finds out I was here, she’s going to murder me, you know that, right?” Boyd says.
We’re pulling out of my driveway in Boyd’s truck. He has a Red Bull between his legs and a half-eaten turkey sandwich balanced on one knee. I waited until Dad made his daily noontime phone check-in to make sure I’m in the house (Bonus Heist Rule: Don’t be predictable) before calling Boyd to pick me up. He came without even asking why.
“I know she will. You’re definitely on Mom’s shit list right now. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have any choice. I talked myself into a corner I couldn’t get out of.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there. Don’t worry about it. So how much time do we have?”
“Thirty minutes maybe,” I say. “Mom makes the afternoon call but never until around two. Sometimes she doesn’t call at all.”
“Or she might be calling right now,” Boyd says.
“There’s nothing I can do about that if she is.”
“You lead a dangerous life, man.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“So then tell me.”
I fill Boyd in on what’s happened since he first rescued me at the school after the water tower. The story takes ten minutes, during which time Boyd finishes his lunch. I end with what I’m struggling with, Dad suggesting I figure out who I want to be. When I finish, Boyd checks the rearview mirror and then does a U-turn in the middle of the road.
“I thought we were going to the barn,” I say.
“Change of plans, man. Field trip time.”
We head toward downtown Asheville, which is made up of a dozen small stores that are inexplicably still in business, two places I don’t want to ever return to—the police station and the Whippy Dip—and what turns out to be our destination: the town’s administrative building. We pull into the building’s parking lot, and Boyd takes a spot in the back, away from the other cars but with a clear view of the front entrance.
“Do you know why your mom doesn’t like me?” Boyd says.
“Because you drink a lot?”
“No, it’s—”
“Because Dad always comes back from your barn smelling like he’s smoked a dozen cigarettes?”
“No, I—”
“Because of that time you and Dad were escorted by the police to the Las Vegas city limits and told not to return?”
“Okay, stop,” Boyd says. “Those are all good reasons that definitely play into why she doesn’t like me, but the main reason is because of that.”
Boyd points to the front of the administrative building, specifically to an archway outside the main entrance. From where we sit, the arch seems to grow out of the earth naturally, like some sort of metal weed pushing through the concrete. Four orange-and-green metal poles twisted together rise fifteen feet into the air before arcing down to the other side of the walkway. It’s your basic arch—nothing more, nothing less.
“One of yours?” I ask.
“So, twenty years ago, your mom and dad were already living their grown-up lives—married with real jobs, thinking about having kids, and living in a house a lot smaller than the one you’re in now. I was doing the struggling-artist thing full time at that point, a lot like I am now but with a lot more struggling. I borrowed money from them a couple times, something I didn’t want to do but had to. Anyway, the city council announced a contest for local artists to design a sculpture that would go right there. The contest was obviously a big opportunity, not only because of the money but also because of the exposure. So I worked on my idea for a couple weeks and came up with something that sort of looked like the pieces I make now. I showed your parents the idea, and your dad liked it, but your mom, man, she hated it. I mean, really hated it. She told me that if I was going to live as an artist, I needed to do something a lot more commercial, because the city council would make their decision based on what the whole town would like. At first I hated the idea, but you know your mom—she kept talking about how this could really launch my career, and eventually she just wore me down and I gave in. I ditched my original idea and presented a new, more commercial concept to the city council. And as you guessed, yeah, that’s the one they chose. The final’s right there in front of you.”
We both look at Boyd’s archway for a few seconds without saying anything. A man and woman in business attire walk under it on their way to the front entrance without giving the arch a second glance.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would Mom hate you because of that? You won the contest.”
“Because,” Boyd says lighting a cigarette and pointing it at the building, “that arch is a piece of shit. It’s boring and common and not me. It did nothing for my career except force me to take the long way through town for the rest of my life so I don’t have to see it. And your mom knows it’s terrible too and feels guilty about it. Your dad’s told me as much. Shit, just sitting here looking at it makes me want to go sledgehammer happy. I snuck in when it first went up and removed the placard with my name on it, but everyone in this town still knows it’s mine. I hate that. What’s worse is I can pretend it’s not mine, but I know it is, and I sold myself out for the opportunity.”
“I’m not sure I see how that story relates to my problem.”
“Give it some time. You’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks a lot,” I deadpan.
“Sorry, man,” Boyd says. “But if you’re expecting me to tell you what to do, I’m not going to do that.”
I think about Boyd’s story on the way back to th
e house and am no closer to an answer than I was when he picked me up. Still, I thank him as I get out of the truck.
“I think you’re wrong though,” I say before closing the door. “Mom’s a lot more practical than you think. Guilt isn’t why she doesn’t like you.”
“You’re probably right,” Boyd says and laughs. “Your dad’s still not allowed back in Vegas.”
Inside the house, the first thing I do is check the phone for messages. No calls. So instead of having to come up with a reasonable answer for why I wasn’t here, I’m free to spend my brain power working out Boyd’s story and which path I’m going to choose.
Three days of headache-inducing thought later, I have my answer.
• • •
When I return to school after my ten-day suspension, there’s no hiding in the auditorium or nurse’s office like back in September. Instead, I walk the halls steely eyed, ignoring the whispers of “He’s the one” and “He’s back.” Crowds part for me as if they know to stay out of my way, as if people know the decision I’ve come to thanks to Boyd. The decision? Simple. Quit trying to be the version of Max that will sell and start being the one I actually like.
I’m at my locker before first period, trying to remember my combination, when I hear Ellie say, “There he is!”
I look up to see the other members of the Water Tower Five heading my way. Ellie’s the first one to me, practically laying out a group of freshmen in her rush to hug me. If I had known this would be her reaction, I would’ve gotten arrested years ago.
“Welcome back, dude,” Wheeler says, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Adleta says. “How was the vacation?”
“It sucked.”
“Because you missed us?” Ellie says.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Good answer!”
“We’re all happy you’re back, Max,” Malone says.
“Yeah, dude, the conquering hero returns,” Wheeler says.
“Hero?”
“Yeah, you’re a legend in this place—the Guy Who Trashed Stranko’s Office. They’ll probably erect a golden statue of you now that you’re back.”
