“Thank you for your time, Matt,” Tina said. “Come along, Tim.”
I let go of Tim’s shirt, giving him a little push as a good-bye. He gave me a sneer for the road, then walked toward his sister. Tina pulled a couple of thin, brightly colored objects out of her back pocket. She tossed them to me; they landed at my feet. They looked like straws in homemade wrappers. “If you happen to come across our memento,” she said, “reward is in the triple digits.”
She held out her arm. Tim took it. They walked off without looking back.
I waited until they had disappeared before I bent down and picked up the straws at my feet. They were Pixy Stix … containing the Thompsons’ own special blend. There was a phone number printed on the side of the wrapper.
I tore one open, dabbed my pinkie finger into the powder, then put the powder onto my tongue. My head almost exploded. It was pure sugar, but with hints of watermelon, strawberry, and bubblegum. It was easy to see how someone could get addicted.
I threw the opened straw in the trash, then put the unopened one in my pocket and started running toward the gym. I had to get to Melissa.
girl who answered the practice room door stared at me with a look that was teetering between curiosity and annoyance. Her name was Cynthia Shea, and she was the head cheerleader. “May I help you?” she asked at last.
Behind her, I could hear the sounds of cheerleaders warming up. I tried to get a glimpse of Melissa, but Cynthia had only opened the door wide enough for her face to peek out.
It was a flawless face. Dark and smooth, it was the kind of face you could stare at for hours, even if it meant you’d be labeled “the creepy kid who stares at girls’ faces for hours.” Her curly black hair was pulled through an elastic that looked overmatched. I knew how it felt.
“I need to talk to Melissa Scott,” I said.
Her smile was stiff and polite. “I’m sorry. We’re a little busy right now. You can talk to her—”
“It’s important.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Lots of things are important,” she said.
I waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t.
“I need to talk to her,” I said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“Okay, listen …” She paused so that I could fill in my name.
“Matt,” I said, as my ego took one on the chin.
“Matt,” she repeated. “We don’t have a minute. The game starts in five, and we need—”
“Look, forget your stupid game!” I yelled, then immediately regretted it. The volume of the practice sounds behind Cynthia took a noticeable dip. The last thing I wanted to do was to draw attention to myself or the fact that I was trying to get in contact with Melissa. So what had I done? I had yelled at the head cheerleader and caused a scene in front of the entire squad. The smoooooth Matt Stevens strikes again.
A cheerleader came trotting up behind Cynthia. “You okay, Cyn?”
“Yeah, I’ve got this. Go run them through the opening routine.”
“Got it.” The cheerleader flitted off to her assignment. Cynthia stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “Listen … Matt,” she said, the annoyance in her voice unmistakable. “I’m sure you believe that whatever it is that you’re worked up about is justification for you to yell at me, but I assure you that it isn’t.”
“Sorry. Honestly. But I really need to talk to Melissa. Now.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Matt. That’s not going to happen.”
She was drawing a line in the sand, and in order for me to cross it, I was going to have to give up more information than I was comfortable with. I took a deep sigh. “Are you practicing right up to game time?”
“Yes. If you need to talk to her so badly, she’ll have some free time a little after tip-off.”
That might be too late, I thought, but didn’t say it. I sighed again. “Fine.” I started to walk away.
“What’s this about?” she called after me.
“I just bought a new pair of pom-poms, but I can’t get them to work,” I said, and walked away without waiting for her response.
When I entered the gym, both teams were in their layup lines. The bleachers were already full of kids anxious to cheer Will on to victory.
Even though the team had crashed and burned last year, there was a sense of optimism leading into this season, and almost all of that optimism was centered around Will. He was always the best player on the court, regardless of who the other team was. But there was something else, something beyond his athletic ability that made kids want to show up and support him: He loved the game. It was obvious from the way he played. And he had proved that no matter how much the odds were stacked against him, he would never stop giving his all. Even if his own teammates were clearly on the take, doing everything they could to prevent the team from winning, it didn’t matter … He would never stop fighting. That kind of determination gave kids hope, and hope in the Frank was rare.
I walked into the gym, scanning the crowd for any sign of Vinny or the Thompsons. Instead, I spotted Liz Carling. She was sitting at the end of the bleachers, fifth row up from the court. Her foot was dangling off the side. I walked over and stood below her, her foot even with my face. She smiled. “Matt,” she said. “I didn’t know you liked basketball.”
“Doesn’t everyone at the Frank?”
“Apparently,” she said, looking at the full bleachers. “I could scoot over if you want to sit down.”
I shook my head no, even though there was nothing I wanted more than to sit down next to Liz and forget about everything other than the fact that I was sitting next to Liz. She was Kevin Carling’s younger sister, a year behind Kevin and me, but that never mattered. Liz was smarter and savvier than most of the teachers.
Her hair was so black that it was almost blue, and it was cut in a boyish bob that framed her face perfectly. She was wearing a dark purple velvet dress that managed to look fancy and casual at the same time, with black tights and black shoes. She was so cute that you might underestimate her, and that would be your downfall. Liz was a world-ranked chess player. You took her lightly at your own risk.
She and I had been friends forever, but lately our relationship had drifted into new territory. We’d held hands—and each other—in a way that felt outside the boundaries of “regular” friendship. I had certainly never done either of those things with any of my other friends.
What did it mean? I had no idea, and I liked to think that she didn’t, either … but I could never be sure. I always got the feeling that Liz knew something I didn’t.
“You’re on a job,” she said, this time giving me a quick glance.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Do you want the honest answer or the lying-but-supportive answer?”
“Your choice.”
“Okay … No! It is not obvious that you are on a job,” she said with fake stiffness.
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.
“Anytime. No, really.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Anytime.”
The teams were huddling at their respective benches, getting last-second instructions. Will was looking at the coach with an expression of intense focus, as if the coach was revealing the secrets of the universe on his miniature dry-erase board.
The cheerleaders were performing on the sidelines. They were in two rows, one behind the other. Melissa was in the front row, dead center. She was running through the routine with her eyes closed. Right before the end of the cheer, she opened them, and our eyes locked. She immediately stopped what she was doing and almost got a leg kick in the face from the girl next to her. Cynthia walked over to Melissa and started to give her an earful, but she didn’t seem to be listening; her eyes stayed focused on me.
“Melissa Scott is staring at you,” Liz said.
“Is she?”
“Should I be worried?”
I shook my head but didn’t say anything.
“Can you talk
about it?” she asked, still looking straight ahead.
“Not right now.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
I shook my head again, but it was a slow shake, with a small hitch. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if she could help or not; I was just saying no out of habit.
Liz didn’t ask for an explanation. She dropped her hand over the side of the bleachers. I reached up and took it. She grabbed hold and squeezed, running her thumb over the back of my hand. My heart and stomach flopped at the same time, making it feel like they were trying to switch places inside me. She let go of my hand.
I nodded my head at Melissa, then held my hand to my chest, and gave what I hoped was a subtle finger point toward my left, her right. There was an exit door near her, and another near me. Both led to the same hallway. Melissa gave a little nod and said something to Cynthia. Cynthia didn’t look happy about it and waved her hand dismissively. Melissa started for her exit door. I waited a moment before heading toward mine.
“Be careful,” Liz said.
“Careful’s never helped me.”
“Then be reckless, but good.” She turned toward me at last and winked.
I had taken three steps toward the exit when the scream came.
Everything in the gym stopped. I started running, crashing through the exit door.
Melissa was on the hallway floor. She was crying, hysterical. Her backpack was lying next to her, torn. The contents were spread all around her. There was a giant wet spot on the front of her skirt.
“Melissa!” I yelled, running toward her. “Melissa!”
“He took it! He took it!” she screamed. She was looking past me as if I wasn’t even there.
“We have to get you out of here.” I started to grab her arm and pick her up, but she was dead weight. “Melissa! Stand up!”
Kids were streaming into the hallway behind me, running to see the source of the screaming.
“Melissa!” I yelled.
“He took it!” she yelled.
“It doesn’t matter! You have to—”
It was too late.
“Melissa peed herself!” someone shouted. The laughter started almost immediately, multiplying exponentially until it filled the entire hallway. “PEE-PEE PANTS! PEE-PEE PANTS!” the crowd chanted as it surged forward like a conquering army. Melissa was just lying there, sobbing, picking up her stuff from the floor, then putting it down again, hoping the piece of wood was still there.
“PEE-PEE PANTS! PEE-PEE PANTS!”
“Forget the piece of wood and get out of here!” I yelled at Melissa, but I don’t think she heard me. She didn’t move.
The crowd kept coming. The only thing standing between all those kids and Melissa was me. I turned to face them, but I felt like a mouse about to face a mob of hungry cats.
“PEE-PEE PANTS! PEE-PEE PANTS!”
“Leave her alone!” came an authoritative shout from the back. The kids in the rear stopped and turned; some of the curiosity traveled as far up as the midpoint of the crowd. The kids in the front paid no attention to it, though, and continued to push forward.
“PEE-PEE PANTS! PEE-PEE PANTS!”
“I said, leave her alone!” The voice was closer now, moving up through the crowd. I craned my neck to see. It was Cynthia. There were two cheerleaders flanking her. She was pushing people out of the way. Some of the kids were letting her, but I suspect that it was just so they could brag later that she touched them.
I was still holding Melissa’s arm when Cynthia got to me. She grabbed the front of my shirt and held it tight. “Get your hands off of her!” she shouted.
“I’m trying to help her!” I yelled back, but she didn’t seem to hear me.
While Cynthia was holding on to my shirt, Melissa tried to stand up, but the floor was wet. Her foot slipped, and she went back down with a plop. Whatever quiet Cynthia had fought for was gone. The crowd started surging forward again, laughing and chanting.
“PEE-PEE PANTS! PEE-PEE PANTS!”
“Stop it!” Cynthia yelled. I don’t think they were listening anymore. “STOP IT!”
She had lost her bid for control. And because she was still holding on to the front of my shirt, she was preventing me from doing anything. I grabbed her wrist and twisted it, just enough to break her grip. She let out a yelp.
I pushed her out of the way, then turned to Melissa. She was still sitting in the puddle, not even trying to get up anymore. Some weaselly looking kid was yelling in her face, his nose about an inch away from hers. I put my hand in between them, then grabbed the kid’s weasel face and shoved him into the crowd.
I lifted Melissa up and started guiding her away. “Run,” I said. She looked at me, her eyes wide with shock, her teeth chattering as if the temperature in the hallway had suddenly plummeted. “RUN!” I shouted into her face, then turned her away from the crowd and gave her a gentle push to get her started. Her legs were unsteady, but they held. She built up a little momentum and started to run.
The crowd tried to follow her. Weasel-face was out in front again, laughing and chanting. I tripped him. He went down, face-first, smacking his palms onto the floor. I grabbed the runty kid that was behind him, spun him around, and flung him into the crowd, causing a domino effect that knocked over the front line and slowed the rushing mob. By the time they had recovered, Melissa was gone. Cynthia broke through and ran down the hall after her.
The crowd started to disperse, filtering back into the gym. The weasel-face kid stood up and got in my face. “What is your problem?!?”
I was about to shove my hand through his chest when Liz came over. “Hey!” she yelled. He turned toward her. She grabbed his shirt and slammed him into the wall.
“Who the hell are you?” he yelled.
“I’m the girl who’s about to embarrass you more than you’ve already embarrassed yourself.”
He looked at me. “Whatsa matter, tough guy? Need a girl to fight your—”
Liz punched him in the arm. Hard.
“Ahhhh! Hey!” he yelled, rubbing his shoulder.
“No, he doesn’t need me to,” she said. “I just like to. Now beat it.”
The kid started to say something but then stopped. He looked from Liz to me, then back to Liz. He must’ve seen that we weren’t happy, and that hitting him was at the top of our “This Will Make Us Feel Better” list, because he kept his mouth shut and walked away. When he was well out of punching range, he turned and yelled, “Jerks!”
“So … that thing you’re working on … Can you talk about it now?” Liz asked.
I shook my head. “This has gotten way too hot way too fast,” I said. “I don’t want to be involved, let alone drag you into it.” That made me think about Will and Melissa. That’s exactly what he had done: dragged her into his mess … or set her up. Either way, it didn’t paint a very flattering picture of Will “Savior of Franklin Middle School” Atkins.
I picked up Melissa’s bag. It had a pink and yellow argyle pattern on it. One of the straps was ripped. The front flapped open like a torn piece of skin. There were still a couple of pens and some makeup inside—and a couple of straws, wrapped up in brightly colored, homemade wrappers. I took one out. There was a phone number printed neatly on the side. The same number that was on the straw that Tina Thompson had tossed to me earlier. I dropped the straw back in the bag.
Liz picked up the rest of Melissa’s stuff from the floor and handed it to me. I put it back inside the bag, then zipped it up. There were three or four drops of black ink or dye on the outside of the bag. I checked the floor. A few similar-looking drops were there as well.
“Found something?” Liz asked.
“Yeah. Go home, Liz,” I said. “Right now. And watch out.”
“For what?”
“Twins.”
of the kids who had yelled at and humiliated Melissa marched right back into the gymnasium to resume rooting for the basketball team. The idea that it might be ridiculous for them to have “school s
pirit” minutes after totally crushing the spirit of one of their classmates—a cheerleader, no less—seemed lost on them.
Some other kids—too hopped up from all the excitement—decided that they couldn’t sit still, even for a basketball game, so they wandered the hallways, talking loudly with other jittery kids. Some lamented the fact that the school was going to hell in a handbasket; others talked about how “awesome” the takedown had been and wondered out loud what Melissa had done to deserve her fate. Maybe the kid who took her out was a girl who got cut from the cheerleading squad. Or maybe it was a girl who had the hots for Will and wanted Melissa out of the picture. Or maybe Melissa had been seeing another boy on the side, behind Will’s back, and the other boy decided that if he couldn’t have her all to himself, then nobody else could have her, either.
I started walking faster, trying hard to tune out the chatter. I had already chosen an outlet for my anger, and I didn’t want to waste any of it on these kids.
Both the Thompsons were standing in front of Tim’s open locker. They looked giddy, laughing and talking as if they had just aced a final. A couple of kids approached them and exchanged some money for a few of their special Pixy Stix. The four of them smiled and laughed. It looked like the Thompsons’ joy was infectious … and came in brightly colored wrappers.
I was fifteen feet away when Tim turned in my direction. He must have been expecting me, because he gave me a smug smile. I walked right up to him, put my hand around his neck, and shoved him against his neighbor’s locker. His smile remained, but I had knocked some of the smugness out of it.
“Well … aren’t you two a scummy little family,” I said.
“Let go of me,” Tim snarled.
“You talk?” I asked. “I thought you were the ‘silent, creepy type.’”
“Oh, Matty-boy!” came Tina’s singsongy voice from behind me. I didn’t even have to look. I could hear her pumping the squirt gun. I wheeled around, using Tim as a shield. I had one of his arms bent back at a painful angle. It was a soaker, and Tina held it with steady hands. Tim was shaking with fury. Kids around us were starting to take an interest while trying hard to look like they weren’t.
The Quick Fix Page 3
