Dweeb

by Aaron Starmer

  He looked at the papers in his hand. His eyes lit up. Elijah could see the bully in him returning. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was genuine.

  As Tyler walked back into the darkness, the sound of a fire alarm echoed through the locker room.

  Chapter 21

  BIJAY

  The smell of Mackers permeated the school. Bijay struggled to ignore it, trying not to breathe through his nose. He tucked his headset into his pocket and stepped into the mass of students that were making their way through the halls to their lockers.

  The students surrounding him were orderly, though not as robotic as he had expected. They were chatty and purposeful, moving along like an undefeated sports team accustomed to effortless victory. The girls were staid and proper, their hair pulled back into tight buns. The boys had perfectly tousled hair and wore dark jeans and button-down shirts.

  Bijay had paid attention to how Tyler was dressed a few days before and tried his best to reproduce the look. His wardrobe consisted of one of Elijah’s T-shirts, a faded vintage acquirement that proclaimed BAN THE BOMB. Over that, he sported one of Denton’s shirts, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. He wore his own jeans, because they were the only ones that would fit his funnel-shaped bottom half. His hair was combed into a haphazard part. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

  For Bijay, it was the performance of a lifetime, because he was doing something he had never been able to do: he was fitting in. Eddie had instructed him on how the kids in the auditorium moved, which he described as part swagger, part march.

  As Bijay stood among his transformed classmates, he took in all the subtle details—the unblinking eyes; the stiff fingers; the crisp, flat lips—and adjusted his body and his expression. He improvised until he was just one of the many.

  But he couldn’t waste any time. He scanned the hall. There was one person he needed to find: Jacob Wade.

  When Bijay had first joined the AV club, Jacob had been the president, and Bijay had admired his flawless movie memory. In time, though, he’d grown weary of Jacob’s unsettling habits. As much as he hated to think badly of anyone, Bijay had to accept the truth about Jacob: he was an annoying slob.

  Burps served as punctuation at the end of Jacob’s sentences. He put mustard on just about everything he ate. Mustard was always crusted on the corners of his lips and the cuffs of his shirt. He carried a tattered backpack that was stuffed with used napkins, half-eaten tacos, and a pair of plastic nunchakus, which he would invariably pull out in the locker room and swing around clumsily as he quoted kung fu movies.

  And oh yes, the movie quotes. He never stopped with the quotes.

  The Jacob Wade Bijay spotted at the end of the hall didn’t look anything like he remembered. He was now a dashing young man in a blue jacket and a perfectly weathered, suitably ironic yellow Bon Jovi T-shirt. His hair was swept back in an artful wave.

  As Bijay shuffled through the crowd, he was met with sideways glances from each student he passed. He had to be careful not to arouse suspicion, but he also needed to focus on Jacob.

  The stress of the situation started to work its way into Bijay. He took a deep breath of air, and the aroma of Mackers invaded his body. He winced as his stomach lurched. Sweat began blooming on his brow as he caught up to Jacob.

  “Bijay, lovely to see you,” Jacob, said, turning around. “My goodness. Are you ill?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Bijay said, battling to keep his composure. “Not ill at all. Just a tad tired.”

  “The tired are the weak,” Jacob said, his voice emotionless. “The weak have no place. Remember, my friend—success does not take naps.”

  Bijay nodded and gathered himself. He readopted the cold expression of his classmates and spoke in a polite, steady tone.

  “Jacob. Do you remember in AV club? You told me you secretly made copies of all the school’s security videos. You said that you were going to post them on the Internet and use them as blackmail. You said you kept them—”

  “In my locker,” Jacob confirmed. “Yes, I said and did a lot of stupid things back then. Obsessing over entertainment—what rubbish. Those days are over.”

  Bijay’s heart stopped. That was exactly what he didn’t want to hear. “Did you … get rid of the old ones?” he asked carefully.

  Jacob shrugged. “Who has time for spring cleaning? We have Idaho Tests to worry about.”

  “Right,” Bijay said, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “We should quiz each other,” Jacob proposed as they made their way down the hall. “See who’s more prepared.”

  “We need to get our books, though, correct?” Bijay asked.

  “We’ll walk and talk,” Jacob said. “Don’t tell me you’re incapable of multitasking?”

  As much as Jacob had annoyed Bijay in the past, at least he had been unique. Now he was frighteningly lifeless and just plain rude. He started firing questions at Bijay as if they were programmed into him.

  “Pop quiz! In what year did the First Continental Congress meet?” Jacob said.

  “Ummm … 1776?”

  “How about 1774?” Jacob said sharply. “Okay, redeem yourself. Name one of the presidents of the First Continental Congress.”

  “Ummm … Thomas Jefferson … no, no. Alexander Hamilton. Definitely Hamilton,” Bijay said firmly.

  “Try Peyton Randolph. How about Henry Middleton?” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You’re in dire straits, my friend.”

  “I suppose I am,” Bijay said.

  The sound of lockers opening and shutting was an almost perfect piece of percussion. The school was simply pulsing with energy. And before he knew it, Bijay was standing with Jacob right next to his locker.

  Bijay looked up at the ceiling, then down to the floor. It was a long way between.

  “Bijay?” Jacob asked as he opened up his locker. “How come you’re such a failure? I thought you were in Mensa or something.”

  “I was told the same thing,” Bijay said.

  Inside Jacob’s locker, Bijay spied a carefully stacked pile of DVDs, each meticulously labeled with a date and location. Failure? This was a success! On these discs, there had to be evidence of Snodgrass framing them, of Mackers altering the school’s food. He froze for a moment, marveling at his good fortune.

  “A locker, Bijay,” Jacob said condescendingly. “For books and such. I suggest you scurry off to yours.”

  Jacob proceeded to swing the door closed, but Bijay broke out of his daze. He caught the door before it could latch shut.

  “Dweeb!” he hollered.

  “Pardon?” Jacob said, clearly annoyed.

  “I’m a … dweeb!” Bijay yelled.

  “No argument there,” Jacob said.

  Just as the words slipped out of Jacob’s mouth, a white dust rained down onto his shoulders. He moved to brush it away, and a rumbling sound came from above. Not thunder. Something different.

  As Jacob looked up, the rain of dust became a rain of ceiling chunks, the foamy remnants of a flimsy drop panel. And landing in the middle of the hallway was Eddie, wearing nothing but running shoes and white underwear.

  “Morning, Mackers fans!” Eddie said, standing on top of the broken ceiling panel and flicking a salute to the crowd. “I’d love to chat with y’all. But I’ve got a deficit of attention and a hankerin’ for mischief.”

  He flashed them a thumbs-up; then he began running. It was Eddie at his wildest and purest and Bijay wanted to laugh with delight, but he needed to stay on course. As Eddie tore around the corner, giggling madly, Bijay took his chance. He lunged for Jacob’s locker. Jacob was too busy assembling with the others, trying to figure out what was going on, to notice him.

  While Bijay stuffed his bag full of DVDs, he looked over his shoulder and watched as Jacob coolly walked to the wall and, following the school’s emergency protocol, pulled the fire alarm.

  As the alarm blared, Bijay zipped up his bag and walked in the opposite direction of the crowd.

 
In the audiovisual lab, Bijay piled dozens of tiny discs on the table. He scanned the labels. “East Wing—April 12,” “Back Hall—April 7,” “Main Entrance—April 10,” and so on and so forth.

  Then he began dividing the discs by location and date. He figured he’d watch them in fast-forward and then zero in on the moment when Snodgrass orchestrated their framing, when he planted the money in their lockers. Then he’d scan the discs from the school’s kitchen. Hopefully, there would be evidence of Mackers tampering with the food, adding something to the burgers and fries to brainwash the student body.

  Bijay would edit the footage together and, if he had time, add a little sinister music to the sound track. Finally, assuming Wendell had done his job of disabling all the school’s security systems, he’d broadcast it on all the monitors in school. This included the digital projector in the gymnasium, which would turn the wall into a veritable movie screen. Elijah would take it from there, delivering a speech at the pep rally that would put everything in context.

  It was a long shot, for sure. But it was the plan.

  He popped the first disc—“Snodgrass Office—April 12”—into the player. As Bijay pressed Play, he took a deep breath through his nose … and he stopped.

  His nose didn’t lie. The Mackers smell was everywhere in the school, but now it was thicker than before. It was unmistakable and unavoidable. If he was going to concentrate, he needed to do something about that smell.

  Hounding around the room, he located the source of the scent. It sat on an empty shelf, upon its unfurled wrapper, as if it had been laid out especially for him—a Double Double Triple.

  What a glorious culinary week it must have been at school! Mackers for every meal. Gazing at the burger, Bijay was consumed with equal amounts of longing and jealousy.

  He picked it up, held it to his nose, and drew in another big breath. His hand began to shake. Surely one bite wouldn’t hurt?

  No, he thought. I’ll just smell it. That will get rid of the urge.

  Of course, it was a silly idea. Inhaling the vapors only made him want it more. So he considered just touching it with his tongue. Not swallowing, just tasting. The taste could linger on his tongue and that would be all he needed.

  But before his mouth could reach the roll of the burger, he bit down hard on his tongue to remind himself how serious this was.

  He carried the burger across the room, all the way to a window. With one hand he pulled down on the black shade, then shot it spinning skyward. The room was splashed with daylight. With his free hand, he pried open the window. Spring air spilled in, his first fresh breath in a week. It was time to end this.

  With a sidearm fling, Bijay chucked the burger outside. It landed in the parking lot, where it bounced once like a hunk of rubber, then split open, spilling its innards onto the concrete.

  There was a sink next to the window, a deep-basined model that was once used for developing photographs. Bijay turned the tap on, and splashed cold water onto his warm face.

  Then he held his mouth under the stream and started gulping the water down. It tasted clean and pure. It tasted like victory.

  He wiped off his mouth and hustled back to the video monitors. As he pulled his headset from his pocket, he looked closely at the communication device Wendell had built for him, an ingenious contraption of tiny wires, speakers, and microphones.

  Instinctively, he cracked it open. Then he grabbed a stereo cord from a box at his feet. He used it to plug Wendell’s device into a sound board, and adjusted the sound levels.

  He smiled to himself. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?

  The sound board lit up. Voices began babbling forth from a set of speakers.

  He pressed Record.

  Chapter 22

  DENTON

  When the fire alarm rang out, it blared so loud that it felt like shivers through Denton’s body. He had been sitting with Coach McKenzie on the dark landing outside the room for almost two hours. They hadn’t said much to each other. McKenzie seemed perfectly content with sitting there in silence.

  Denton looked up at the ceiling with concern. After about thirty seconds, the alarm stopped.

  McKenzie nodded to him knowingly. “The others—they’re fully prepared, right?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t pretend I’m a fool,” McKenzie said. “That’s Snodgrass’s job. I know more than I let on.”

  Denton gulped. McKenzie just grinned.

  “Europeans talk about their long history. Do you know what that room is?” McKenzie said.

  “It’s a bloody, god-awful prison.”

  “I guess you could call it that,” McKenzie said. “But it hasn’t always been. It was built, the foundation of it anyway, over three hundred years ago. How ’bout that? Back then, it was a root cellar, a place to keep vegetables. I think the guy was a Brit, an immigrant like you. Made his wealth and the root cellar soon became a wine cellar, with a mansion dropped on top of it. In the eighteen fifties, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Hundred years later, the cold war had begun, and it was reinforced and turned into a bomb shelter. State bought the land and built a school here in the sixties. The mansion was converted to a series of classrooms, but the bomb shelter remained. Cold war ended in the eighties. They closed that room up, took down the reinforcements, ran pipes through, and it became a memory of past times. Snodgrass decided it should serve another function.”

  “How do you know all this?” Denton asked.

  “When I was your age, I went to this school,” McKenzie said. “I wrote a report on this room. It was an important thing to know about. Snodgrass thinks it’s a place to hold people. This is a museum, boy. A piece of history. A place to teach people.”

  What’s going on here? Denton thought. I’m enjoying listening to Coach McKenzie. He isn’t yelling at me. He’s actually being interesting.

  “I’ve been this many places in my life,” McKenzie confessed, holding up three fingers. “New Jersey, where I was born. Louisiana, but only for basic training. And South Korea, one year along the Demilitarized Zone. A world away. I haven’t been to war. I haven’t seen much. Good gravy, would I like to see more. England, maybe. Bharata’s from India, right? Gotta be quite a place. But for now, my heart and my duty bind me to this little piece of earth. And I’d like to think it’s just as special as anywhere else.”

  “There’s a map in your office. It’s got thumbtacks all over it. What’s that, then? Your allies? Coalition of the willing?” Denton said condescendingly.

  McKenzie chuckled. “The red ones are places I’ve been. The green ones are places I’d like to go.”

  “A lot of green ones.”

  “A lot of places,” McKenzie said plainly. “A lot of money to get to them.”

  McKenzie paused. Then he reached into the pouch of his sweatshirt and pulled out a wad of money.

  “What’s that?” Denton asked.

  “What I’m worth,” McKenzie said. “You deserve to know.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not really. It’s what we took from your lockers. And what Snodgrass promised me for doing this job.”

  “Bake-sale money?” Denton asked.

  McKenzie shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can convince yourself to do if you think you’re acting in everyone’s interests.”

  “Are you trying to make me think you were helping us?”

  “No,” McKenzie said. “I was punishing you. But I was also sparing you shame. And I was helping you take your punishment like men.”

  “And you still honestly think we deserved it?” Denton asked.

  “Honestly … does it matter?” McKenzie said. “There are bigger concerns now. I keep my ear to the wall. All is not right with this school. Growling in the walls. Snodgrass spittin’ all over Principal Phipps’s legacy. I followed my orders and my orders were wrong.”

  “It’s the Mackers,” Denton said. “That’s what’s changing everything.”

  McKenz
ie looked puzzled.

  “Really?” he said. “I’ve been eating the Mackers all week. There was one thing Snodgrass told me, though….”

  McKenzie’s voice trailed off as he stood up. Denton hardly recognized the man standing above him. McKenzie puffed up his chest. He took off his Marines cap and placed it on Denton’s head.

  “You’ve done an admirable job, Kensington,” McKenzie said. “Let’s go round up the other guys. I know they’re not in the room. So where are they really? This might be worse than I thought.”

  Chapter 23

  WENDELL

  Almost as soon as he disabled the fire alarm, Wendell heard Snodgrass’s voice at the door to the office.

  “Settle down, Xerxes.”

  A phlegmy cough accompained it. It sounded like it came from a troll.

  Wendell quickly logged off the computer and rose from the desk. When he began to turn around, he noticed something.

  His butt was still stuck in the chair.

  His size had played yet another sick joke on him. Wendell, destructor of chairs, was now connected to one. He tried desperately to pry it off, but there was no time.

  “Crap, crap, crap …,” he said under his breath as he swiveled back and forth, trying to figure out what to do.

  Snodgrass was entering the code to the door. Wendell had no other choice. He backed into the closet, the chair protruding behind him and knocking things from the shelves.

  The office door swung open just as Wendell made it safely into the closet. He put his hand over his mouth to shield the sound of his heavy breaths. Claws clicked on the tile floor. There was a metallic squeak like a rusty gate. And then the sound of a snorting nose running across the bottom edge of the closet door. Wendell closed his eyes.

  “SOS,” he whispered through his fingers into his microphone. “The snake is in the grass…. The snake is in the grass….”

  “My chair is missing, Xerx?” Snodgrass said. “Why is my chair missing?”

  Wendell watched as Snodgrass circled around his desk and picked up the microphone for the PA system. Lifting it to his mouth, he pressed the button.