Don’t Get Caught

by Kurt Dinan

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Malone says, “He’s not exaggerating as much as you’d think.”

  “But I didn’t paint his office. The Chaos Club did.”

  “But no one else knows that,” Adleta says. “And don’t correct them either. You’ve got a rep now.”

  “Yeah, as a vandal.”

  “No,” Wheeler says. “As the badass who trashed the place, then sat waiting for Stranko to show up so he’d know you did it.”

  “But that’s not what happened.”

  “Who cares? What’s important is that it’s what everyone thinks happened. It’s called controlling the message.”

  “Yeah, Dave’s diabolical,” Ellie says, giving Wheeler a shove. “He’s got a promising future running political campaigns.”

  “Well, it wasn’t like Stranko was allowed to tell what really happened.”

  “Oh, he tried,” Adleta says. “At practice he mentioned it a few times, saying you started crying when he caught you, but the guys really didn’t believe him. I made sure of that.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  “No, we did,” Wheeler says. “You didn’t rat us out and you could have to save your ass. That’s huge.”

  “Yeah, thanks, man,” Adleta says.

  “I knew you wouldn’t tell,” Ellie says. “I just knew it.”

  “So are you grounded forever?” Malone asks.

  “Pretty much,” I say. “And we’re paying for the damages to the office, but the school decided not to press charges.”

  “Excellent,” Wheeler says.

  For the next couple minutes, everyone brings me up to speed on what I’ve missed since I’ve been gone. It turns out, not much.

  Adleta’s in lacrosse mode full time.

  Malone’s time is split working at the climbing center and finishing pieces for an upcoming art show.

  Ellie’s busy planning with the Asheville Celebration Committee.

  And Wheeler’s been studying, which is a sentence that has never been uttered in the history of the planet.

  “Oh, and you missed prom,” Ellie says.

  “Did you go?”

  “No, none of us went.”

  “Then I don’t care that I missed it,” I say.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Ellie says to me, “if neither of us has a date next year, we’ll go together. How’s that for a welcome-back present?”

  Like I need to answer that.

  “So, not to get all serious, but what’s next?” Malone says. “We’re finished with the Chaos Club, right? Because we all really dodged a bullet there.”

  “Yeah,” Adleta says. “I mean, my dad’s a big enough jerk. If I got arrested, he’d beat my ass into the next century.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Wheeler says, “but I agree. I’m actually doing good in school for once. The last thing I need is to screw that up.”

  All opinions I wasn’t expecting. Not that they’re wrong. Giving up on exposing the Chaos Club would be the smart move. It would be the safe move. But it’s also too much a Just Max move.

  “I’m not giving up,” I say.

  “After what happened? Why would you keep going?” Malone asks. “None of us blame you if you want to quit.”

  “Yeah, dude,” Wheeler says. “You were this close to getting expelled.”

  “And going to jail,” Adleta says.

  “But I didn’t get expelled,” I say. “And I’m not going to let the Chaos Club get away with what they did to me. That’s twice now. I won’t let it happen again.”

  There’s a moment of tense silence, and Malone says, “What if we lay low the rest of the year, let things calm down, and start up next year when things aren’t so crazy? That way we’re not quitting; we’re just postponing our plans.”

  “Yeah, like when we have a rainout in lacrosse,” Adleta says.

  “No,” I say. “Once this year’s over, they’re gone. The Chaos Club will remain, sure, but with different people. Our issue is with this year’s members, not next year’s. And I’m going to make sure there is no Chaos Club next year. I’m going to destroy them.”

  Malone squints like I’m somehow out of focus. “I’ve got to admit it, Max, I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Adleta says.

  “Why?” I say.

  “Because you’re acting like none of this is bothering you,” Malone says. “I thought you’d want out. But here you are, and you’re being—God, this is weird to say—cool.”

  Does this means I made the right decision? Because I feel like I have. I won’t go all and the moral of the story is with you, but here’s the important part: in the choice between Not Max and Just Max, I choose…neither. I’m not going to define myself by such simple terms any longer. And I’m sure as hell not going to let anyone else do it for me either. My friends, including Boyd, have shown me the consequences of letting that happen. If I’ve learned anything over the past six months, it’s that I’m capable of stunning feats of greatness and amazing moments of stupidity. That’s who I am, and it’s time to embrace that. No one else is going to talk me into redesigning my statue. That means no more separating Just Max and Not Max. From here on out, I’m simply Max Cobb.

  Max Cobb, mastermind, to be exact.

  (Okay, so maybe I did just go all and the moral of the story is. Sorry.)

  “Look,” I say, “I told you guys this when we started, that if any of you wanted out, you could quit. But I’m not quitting.”

  “Me either,” Ellie says.

  Which makes me smile.

  “We can get these guys,” I tell everyone. “I’m certain of it.”

  “That all sounds good, Max,” Malone says, “but we’re really no closer now to discovering who’s in the Chaos Club than we were six months ago. What makes you so confident you can do that now?”

  Which makes me smile even more.

  “Because,” I say, “I’ve figured out where and when the Chaos Club is going to strike next.”

  Chapter 20

  “Hey, you’re Max Cobb, right?” the guy says.

  He and his friend are big enough and old enough that they’re probably super-seniors—kids who didn’t have enough credits to graduate on time and are stuck in high school until they either pass their required classes or turn fifty, whichever comes first. It’s three weeks after I’ve returned to school, and the Water Tower Fivers are all at the same table in the cafeteria. I’m done worrying that the Chaos Club will suspect we’re working together. What are they going to do, get me arrested again?

  “Yeah,” I tell the guys. “That’s me.”

  “Is it true you destroyed Stranko’s office?”

  It’s a question I’ve been asked a lot since returning. And in true Rule #2 fashion—Be cool—I give them my standard reply.

  “My lawyer says I can’t talk about it, sorry,” but I add a wink, letting them know what’s really up.

  “Cool, man, cool,” the guy says, and both of them hold out fists for me to bump.

  “You’re like a rock star,” Wheeler says once they’re gone.

  “Yeah, I heard you called Tami Cantor ‘Kami’ on purpose today in Watson’s class,” Adleta says.

  “I couldn’t resist,” I say.

  “Like I said, a rock star,” Wheeler says.

  “Yeah,” Ellie says, “a rock star who’s on permanent lockdown.”

  “Thanks for that reminder.”

  I’ve become like one of those American hikers who accidentally crosses the border into some third-world country and is imprisoned indefinitely. Whenever I ask Mom or Dad how much longer my incarceration will last, I get the same reply: “We’ll let you know.” Mostly I stay in my room doing homework and watching Adleta’s lacrosse games on the school website.

 
“Tim’s the real rock star,” I say. “What are you guys? Four and oh?”

  “Five and oh,” Adleta says. “Not that I’m paying attention.”

  “No way, feel free to brag,” Ellie says. “You’re amazing out there.”

  Amazing is probably the right word for it. So far, Adleta leads the league in every offensive category. It’s pretty cool having a friend who’s so completely dominant in something. I mean, yeah, Wheeler’s dominant as a suburban terrorist, but Adleta’s dominant in something that won’t end with him in a supermax prison.

  “And now you’re a Vine star too,” Wheeler says.

  “What?” Adleta asks.

  “You haven’t seen this?” Malone says and opens the app on her phone.

  The six-second video, sensitively titled “All Backbone or No Backbone?” shows Adleta standing stone-faced while his dad and Stranko simultaneously yell at him on the sideline.

  “I don’t know how you sat through that without going nuclear on them,” Wheeler says.

  “By being a master of looking like I’m paying attention when really I’m a million miles away,” Adleta says.

  “That’s sad,” Ellie says, patting his arm.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  But I know Tim better than that now.

  “That’s bullshit,” I say. “You shouldn’t put up with that.”

  “Oh? And what do you suggest?” Adleta says.

  “I don’t know, but if puking on them didn’t get their attention, maybe something else will. You’re crazy to let them get away with that.”

  I return to my pizza but can feel Adleta looking at me.

  “Does anyone else find it ironic that Max just used the word crazy?” Malone asks.

  The rest of the table starts laughing. So we’re back to this again.

  “I’m not crazy,” I say. “For the thousandth time, I heard what the girl said. ‘We’re planning something everyone in the town will witness live.’ The town hasn’t had anything like that until now. The Asheville Celebration will bring out everyone. That’s the plan, right, Ellie?”

  “That’s how they talk at the planning sessions,” she says.

  “And we know the Chaos Club always pulls an end-of-the-year prank,” I say. “What better place than the celebration they know everyone will be at?”

  I should probably thank my parents for a lot of forced reflection time during my suspension and also the Chaos Club for breaking Heist Rule #20: Explain things on a need-to-know basis.

  “What if it’s a red herring?” Wheeler says.

  “Exactly,” Malone says. “Maybe they said it on purpose, so you’d think they were going to prank the celebration but really they’re planning something else. Have you thought about that?”

  “Of course I have, but there’s not much we can do about it. This is the first real lead we’ve had. We have to follow it.”

  Ellie, who’s agreed with me from the start, says, “Let’s just assume for a second that Max is right, because he could be. What do you think we should do about it?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it? Because it’s one thing to know where the Chaos Club is going to strike next, but it’s a whole different thing to know how to use it to our advantage. The good news is that I have time to plan because the Asheville Celebration isn’t until school’s out, which helps because this calls for careful planning and execution.

  “Look, I’ll come up with something,” I say. “Are you guys in when I do?”

  “Sure,” Malone says, and the others agree. “If you’re right,” she adds.

  “And if you come up with something,” Adleta says.

  “Those are big ifs,” Wheeler says. “Huge ones.”

  “Like my balls,” I say.

  • • •

  On a clear Saturday afternoon, five weeks after my arrest, Mom calls me into the kitchen where she’s making a chicken potpie while listening to the Wicked soundtrack. It’s beautiful outside, and all the windows in the house are open for the first time in months.

  “I’m letting you know,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m letting you know.”

  “Letting me know what?”

  Mom raises her eyebrows and gives me a Really? look.

  Then I get it.

  “Just try not to get arrested, okay?” Mom says. “What? Too soon?”

  I receive congratulatory texts from everyone when I announce my ungrounding, but only Wheeler’s free that night. We decide to meet up at Adleta’s lacrosse game.

  Behind Adleta’s continuing dominance, the Golden Eagles are undefeated in division play and have only lost a single game, a 6–5 heartbreaker to Reynoldsburg when Adleta took a concussion shot to the head and was forced to sit out the second half. Wheeler and I are in the third row of the packed stands, surrounded by lacrosse parents. Wheeler’s wearing his Future of the Left T-shirt that reads “You Need Satan More Than He Needs You” and has a biology textbook open on his lap. It’s even right-side up.

  “Miss the days of not caring?” I ask.

  “Absolutely, dude. There’s just so much work to do. I have an essay for Cronin right now that’s giving me migraines. If I knew how much work it took to, you know, not fail, I’m not sure I would have ever started trying to pass.”

  “You’re like one of those people who gets brainwashed by a religious cult.”

  “Yeah, but without the togas and free love. It sucks, man.”

  At halftime, Asheville is up 5–3 against Trenton, our biggest rival. Stranko’s diaper must be full because he’s tearing into the team right in front of us. Adleta’s getting the brunt of the reaming despite having three of our goals. Tim’s dad is right beside Stranko, jabbing his finger at his son while Stranko rails.

  “What assholes,” Wheeler says.

  A parental unit seated directly in front of us turns around, frowning.

  “Sorry,” Wheeler says. “But they are assholes.”

  Both give disapproving shakes of their heads in that way all adults seem to have mastered, and the dad’s frown grows even frownier when he sees Wheeler’s shirt.

  “Satan’s no laughing matter, son,” the dad says.

  “Yeah, an invisible being tempting us to do evil so he can torture our souls forever. Nothing funny or ridiculous about that.”

  The dad glares at Wheeler but turns around without saying anything.

  “Oh, and speaking of evil,” Wheeler says and from his pocket pulls out a sandwich bag containing Stranko’s phone. I snatch the bag away and shove it deep into my pocket before anyone can see it.

  “It’s ready to go, a new phone number and everything.”

  “Is his phone number in the contacts?”

  “Like you asked.”

  “Under what name?”

  “Mike Oxbig.”

  “Huh?”

  “Say it out loud.”

  I do and start laughing.

  “Are you going to tell me what it’s for?” Wheeler says.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  Because I really don’t know—at least not entirely. But I have an idea marinating in my brain, and Stranko’s phone plays a small role. Or maybe that’s just Wheeler’s friend Satan setting me up for the big beat down.

  We’re eight minutes into the second half when the Asheville defense breaks down and a Trenton middie fires a shot, bringing the score to 5–4. Stranko immediately shouts for a time-out. Adleta’s the last to join the huddle because he was on the opposite side of the field, twenty yards from the play. His dad grabs him by the arm and shoves him into the circle of players. Stranko’s yelling so loud, people in Alaska can hear him.

  “You guys think you can take it easy and still win this game? Because you won’t. You want to be champions, you have to play like champions. What you
’re doing out there is a disgrace. You should be up ten goals at this point, but no. Your sorry asses are up one. It’s pathetic. If you don’t put it into high gear, you’re going to find your season over.” Then Stranko points at Adleta. “You especially. You’re playing like a loser right now.”

  Adleta visibly stiffens.

  “Oh, do you have something to say?” Stranko asks. “I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

  “I think we’re playing hard out there,” Adleta says. “Trenton’s better than you think.”

  Stranko is actually too stunned to talk, so Mr. Adleta does it for him.

  “You keep quiet,” he growls.

  “Why? I just said—”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  Adleta cocks his head.

  “Or what?”

  Both Adletas are locked in on one another. Everyone in the stands is quiet and staring at the showdown. Stranko actually puts a hand between them.

  He says, “Okay now—”

  “You don’t deserve to be out there,” Mr. Adleta tells Tim. “Champions play for blood. You’re playing like you’re stupid. Is that it? Are you stupid? Because you sure as hell—”

  And then it happens—Tim drops his stick and starts across the field.

  Mr. Adleta pushes past players to chase after Tim, but Stranko grabs his arm. At midfield, one of the refs holds up a hand to say something to Tim, but he keeps walking, crossing the entire field, passing in front of Trenton’s bench, then out the gate and into the parking lot. There’s not a closed mouth in the entire stadium.

  “Holy shit,” Wheeler says.

  Holy shit is right.

  When the game resumes, the team’s play is chaotic. Asheville gives up two quick goals and loses the lead. Stranko calls another time-out. This time though, he doesn’t raise his voice. He keeps looking toward the parking lot with a dazed, humble look, like he’s expecting Adleta to return. In fact, Stranko doesn’t shout once the rest of the game, not even with one minute remaining when it’s clear Asheville’s going to lose. It’s like Adleta’s exit has lobotomized him. When the clock runs out, Asheville’s lost by only one, but somehow it feels like they’ve lost by a lot more.

  Later that night, a single cryptic text arrives from Adleta.