by Kurt Dinan
Thx.
I don’t understand Tim’s message until later in the week when the Malone-Libby powder keg finally detonates in Watson’s room.
• • •
Thursday’s Big Question of Existence is “Does everything happen for a reason?” The class is evenly split on the question, but I’m firmly entrenched on the no side. As much as I’d like to believe there’s some master plan, I can’t buy into the idea that some set of galactic directions manipulates my life. And if the universe is really letting, say, little kids get sick and die “for a reason,” then I say screw you, universe.
The only drawback to having this stance today is that Libby Heckman agrees and is at the desk next to me. You’d think the goldfish incident would’ve deflated her some, maybe even scared her off of Malone, but no, especially not today, with Malone on the other side of the argument.
“I don’t fully buy into determinism,” Malone says, “but I can’t just accept free will either. There’s a side of me that wants to believe I’m a part of something bigger. I guess it makes me feel less alone.”
Lots of people on both sides agree with this.
Libby, not so much.
She raises her hand and says, “I think people like to believe everything happens for a reason so they don’t have to take responsibility for themselves.”
“Care to elaborate?” Mr. Watson says.
“Well, if you believe everything happens for a reason, then you’re admitting you don’t have any control over what you do. And that means you never have to regret anything.”
Fair point.
Unfortunately, Libby doesn’t stop there.
“And if you don’t have to regret anything, then it’s not your fault if you ruin your life. Is that why you like to believe it all happens for a reason, Kate? So you don’t have to regret a decision that ruins your life?”
All eyes turn to Malone. She’s never taken Libby’s bait, no matter how bad it’s gotten. Today’s different though.
“If you have something to say, Libby, go ahead and say it. I won’t stop you.”
Libby has daggers in her smile. She leans forward on her desk and says, “There’s nothing to say that everyone doesn’t already know about you being a slut, Kate. I’m just telling it like it is.”
“Which is just a way to justify being mean to people, but that’s your right,” Malone says. “Here’s the thing though, Libby—I sort of agree with you. Not about me being a slut, but about how it feels to regret something. Probably not in the way you mean though.”
Libby chuffs in a Well? way, like she’s impatient, but she shifts just a tiny bit in her seat. There’s no way she was expecting Kate to defend herself.
“Looking back on it,” Malone says, “yeah, I regret sending Troy that picture of me. But not because it makes me a slut like you tell people. I regret it because I did it for his approval, and as a feminist, I shouldn’t need any boy’s approval to feel confident. I definitely won’t be doing that again.”
Libby chuffs some more. She’s so good at it that she had to be a steam engine in a past life.
“But what I really regret is wasting my time worrying so much about you. I don’t think about my mom or my friends as much as I’ve thought about you. I even catch myself having arguments with you in my head. That’s just sad on my part. Who wants to live that way? I’m better than that. So in order to let all this go once and for all, I need to apologize.”
“For what?”
“Well, for two things: One, for getting in the way of you and Troy. I honestly thought you two were finished, but apparently you weren’t. You and I were friends in art, and I should have asked you what the situation was before agreeing to go out with him. It did nothing but cause problems, and girls shouldn’t treat each other like that.”
“Whatever,” Libby snorts.
“And two, I apologize for your drawing. I feel bad for what happened to it in the display case, because that piece was really excellent and I destroyed it. You shouldn’t have had to suffer that sort of humiliation. Believe me, I know.”
“You’re the one who did that?” Libby gapes at Malone, who’s looking back at her with just the slightest of smiles.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Libby says, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Probably.”
“I’m going to get you expelled.”
“Okay.”
“You think your life was ruined before, it’s over now!”
“Maybe.”
“I’m serious!”
Malone still hasn’t really moved, but now she put her hands out in an oh well way.
“You are such a bitch!” Libby shouts.
No one in the room makes a sound.
Malone sighs and says, “You know, Libby, maybe if you didn’t act this way, you and Troy wouldn’t have the problems you do. Maybe then he wouldn’t have broken up with you and come running to me in the first place.”
There’s a collective inhale as everyone gasps at Malone’s surgically focused insult. Libby stands frozen, gaping, then beautifully and 150 percent awesomely lets out a howler-monkey scream, a sort of primal wail that only our cavemen ancestors could have understood. Tears geyser from her eyes, and she shrieks before sprinting down the aisle and out Watson’s door, her sobs fading the farther she gets down the hall.
For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. Then Tina Manetti, Libby’s friend, raises her hand.
“Can I go check on her?”
“Of course,” Watson says.
Malone says, “I’m sorry for the interruption, Mr. Watson. I didn’t want that to happen here.”
Watson, who has been behind his podium the entire time, says, “You know, in my years of teaching, I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to let things play out. It’s all over, so let’s get back to our discussion.”
Of course, we don’t get squat done the rest of the period. Watson could begin juggling flaming bowling balls and all we’d be able to think about was Libby’s epic destruction. When the bell rings, both Ellie and I rush over to Malone, who doesn’t say anything until we’re in the hall.
“God, that was awful,” Malone says.
“Awful?” I say. “More like amazing.”
“Good for you, Kate,” Ellie says.
“I tried to be nice,” she says.
“What made you do that?” I ask. “Libby’s said stuff like that before.”
Malone stares at me for a good long couple of seconds. “Do you really want to know?”
It’s such an odd thing to ask, I don’t know how to respond. Why would I have asked if I didn’t want an answer?
“You’re the reason,” Malone says.
“I don’t get it.”
Malone frowns like she regrets bringing it up but knows she can’t go back.
“It’s just that watching how you’ve handled yourself these last couple of weeks got me thinking. A lot of people, after getting arrested like that, would’ve done their best to remain invisible the rest of the year. But you didn’t do that. If anything, you’ve put yourself out there even more, like you’re not going to let one thing sink you. I figured if you could do that, I could do it too. So I did. And I feel a whole lot better.”
When Malone finishes, there are tears pooling in her eyes.
“That’s why Tim finally walked off the field the other night,” Ellie says. “You didn’t know that?”
I shake my head, but now I understand his mystery text. The whole thing is so flattering, I’m not sure what the right response is.
“I’m…honored, I guess,” I say.
“Yeah, well, don’t go getting a big head,” Malone says. “If you tell anyone I almost cried in front of you, I’ll kick your ass. I’m not kidding, Max.”
Deal.
• • •
<
br /> Nothing is more motivating than knowing people are watching you and—dare I say it—getting inspired by you. This shocking revelation is what gives me the extra push I need to really focus on a plan to take down the Chaos Club. And as if I need any additional motivation, Ellie stops by my locker this afternoon and whispers, “Think of what you could do with a guaranteed yes, Max. The sky’s the limit.”
I simplify the Chaos Club problem by breaking it down to two questions:
1. What do I want to happen?
2. How do I make that happen?
Then I spend the weekend doing what I enjoy best—watching my favorite caper films, some of them twice, and filling an entire notebook with ideas. Most of the ideas are inventive but unrealistic. Others are realistic but dull. A dozen are incredibly stupid. And one makes me literally jump off my bed and stare down at my notebook, not believing the idea that just came to me.
It’s crazy.
It’s epic.
It’s flat-out brilliant.
And I just happen to have the crew to make it work.
• • •
Before I tell the others my plan, I have to fully commit. Because if I think too much about this, Just Max may reappear and talk me into chickening out. So as soon as I get to school on Monday, I head straight for Stranko’s office, where he’s talking with the new lacrosse team captain, Jason Bruno.
“What is it, Cobb?” Stranko says.
“Do you have a minute?”
Stranko tells Bruno they’ll talk before practice. With Adleta’s quitting, the team’s in a death spiral, having lost by four on Saturday to a vastly inferior Athens team. Still, it’s hard to look at Stranko and not remember his sad shock and confusion when Tim walked off the field last week.
“Remember back in September when you said we’re to come to you if we know something?” I say.
Stranko says a long, “Yeah.”
“Well, I know something about the Chaos Club.”
Stranko straightens in his chair.
“What about them?”
“I think I know what they’re going to do for their end-of-the-year prank. And I think I have a way to catch them.”
“Do you now? Then tell me.”
There’s something in his voice—is it skepticism?—that causes me to stumble a bit.
“Well, I, uh, just know they always pull a prank at the end of the year, and with the Asheville Celebration coming up, I was thinking that would be the perfect time for them to strike.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
Because you’re going to be out there guarding the grounds if I warn you or not. This way I can control what you do. Otherwise, you’re a wild card, and I can’t have that.
“Because you’re the vice principal, and you’ve been after them for years. I thought you might want to stop them from ruining the celebration.”
Stranko doesn’t blink for a good ten seconds.
“You don’t ever stop, do you, Cobb?”
“Huh?”
“Even after trashing my office, getting arrested, and spending ten days out of school, you’re still playing this game. Let me make it simple for you: your reputation is zero with me. If I had it my way, you’d have been expelled weeks ago.”
“But I really think they’re going to hit the celebration.”
“Right, and I’m betting that next you’ll tell me some idea you have for catching the Chaos Club, maybe even give me a role in your plan. Is that right?”
He wants me to say yes, so I do.
“Uh-huh,” he says, “and then, when the time comes to execute your plan, something happens. Maybe you have me in one place while your friends vandalize a different area or you trick me into busting the wrong people while you attack someplace else. Am I close?”
“No, I—”
“I’ll save you the trouble, Cobb. You can’t fool me. I know who you are and what you are, and if your club comes within a mile of the Asheville Celebration, I will make it my life’s goal to have you in jail. Do you understand?”
“But I—”
“Now get out of here and tell your friends you failed.”
I hotfoot it out the door and head for the bathroom, where I take a newly purchased burner phone from my backpack. Then I send a single text to Stranko’s old phone, which is currently packaged in a bubble-wrapped envelope addressed to Stranko’s home. Accompanying the phone is a letter from a Good Samaritan explaining how she discovered Stranko’s address in the contacts file after finding the phone in a booth at McDonald’s where “two loud and rude teenagers had been sitting.”
The whole thing almost makes me feel bad for the guy.
Almost.
Chapter 21
Ellie calls it Operation Eagle Eye and gives each member of the Water Tower Five code names related to our roles.
Adleta is Sluggo.
Malone is da Vinci.
Wheeler is Captain Calamity.
Ellie is Puma.
And I was hoping for Mongoose, but once Wheeler hears the plan, he renames me Master Baiter.
I blame Sun Tzu for that. If you’re not up on your early-fifth-century BC military strategists, Sun Tzu was a general whose The Art of War is still studied today. In my search for a way to set up the Chaos Club, I ran across this Sun Tzu quote: “Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.” Using that idea as the template, I arranged Operation Eagle Eye into three parts: Bait, Wait, and Punish.
Catchy, yeah?
Well, except for the whole Master Baiter thing.
• • •
At this point in a heist film, you’d be treated to a planning montage where each crew member works on his or her individual assignment.
You’d see:
Adleta rejoining the lacrosse team after a lecture from his dad and Stranko and suffering through a forced apology to the team.
Malone working long nights in Boyd’s barn, her clothes and body smeared with plaster as she creates her masterpiece.
Ellie producing a short documentary about Zippy, still currently under renovation and scheduled to make its long-awaited return at the upcoming Asheville Celebration.
Wheeler hijacking the school’s sound system to announce during seventh period, “This is Captain Calamity, and I have a message for the Chaos Club. You are put on notice that I, Captain Calamity, will expose your identities at Saturday’s celebration. Your reign of terror ends there. Show up if you dare.”
And finally, me sending Stranko texts he’s come to believe are from a high-ranking member of the Chaos Club about an end-of-the-year prank. How did I trick Stranko into believing this? With a deft hand like any master baiter would.
• • •
The last day of school comes way too fast, and with most of my brain power going toward planning our assault on the Chaos Club, I’m going to have to come up with good explanations for my terrifyingly bad performance on my precalc final and the C- I received on my Weird Science project. (Solar Oven S’mores—don’t ask.) But right now, I have more important things on my mind. Because unlike most kids who are attending parties where they’re drinking warm beer from red plastic cups, settling yearlong arguments with either a hug or a fistfight, and writing lies in each other’s yearbooks (“I loved being in the same English class together!”), at 8:30 p.m., I’m hiding in the tree line on the edge of the parking lot with Puma. She’s dressed in black spandex workout pants and a long-sleeved, tight black Under Armour shirt like our first night at the water tower. And yes, it’s as distracting now as it was then.
Setup for the Asheville Celebration began two days ago, and carnival rides and booths fill the front lawn. Erected on the walkway to the school is a fifteen-foot-high curtained barrier concealing the Zippy statue that arrived this morning. A large stage has been constructed in fro
nt of the school’s entrance, with a large white screen behind it that will show Ellie’s documentary tomorrow. And there, sitting in lawn chairs on the stage like the Royal Guard of Assville, are Stranko and Hale.
“What are you smiling about?” I say.
“This,” Ellie says. “All of this is awesome. How often in life are we going to get to do something like this?”
“Probably not very much.”
“But we are now. That’s why I’m smiling. Even if this doesn’t work, this has been an awesome year. I’ve loved having a project for all of us to work on. It almost makes everything that’s happened worth it.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“Ready?” I say.
“Absolutely.”
I take out my phone.
Me: Where r u???
We watch through the trees as Stranko takes his phone from his pocket.
Stranko: ?
Me: I’m in the tunnel. Hurry up.
Stranko: ?
I’ve texted about the tunnel to Stranko’s phone more than a dozen times in the last week, but whenever he’s asked for more information, I haven’t answered. Now it’s finally time to give him what he wants.
Me: Duh.
And with that, I attach a picture I’ve had waiting for just this moment.
Stranko stands up and shows the text and picture to Hale, who rises to join him. But Stranko shakes his head, and Hale sits back down. No way Stranko’s going to leave the statue unguarded. When he descends the stage stairs and disappears into the building, I send a text to Adleta.
On his way.
Adleta doesn’t reply, but he’s not supposed to. Leading up to this night, Adleta’s job was to keep close tabs on Stranko, and the only way he could do that was to be a part of the team again. It’s only because of his sacrificial apology to Stranko and the team that he knew tonight’s practice schedule and, therefore, Stranko’s whereabouts. It also gave Adleta a reason to be in the school well after hours—something we needed from him.
“I’m sort of bummed I’m going to miss this,” I say.
“We won’t,” Ellie says.
Before I can ask what she means, her phone vibrates.
