The Quick Fix

by Jack D. Ferraiolo

  “Is there something we can help you with?” Tina asked, as if she was standing behind a counter, offering to sell me something.

  “I want the piece of wood,” I said. “The one you stole from Melissa right before you put her in the Outs.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said with mock innocence, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” I asked, torquing Tim’s arm a little. He yelped. “Any ideas now?”

  “Ohhhh …,” she said as if her memory had just kicked in. “You mean our great-aunt’s memento.”

  “Right—except on the first go around it was your grandfather’s.”

  “We have so many loving relatives, it’s hard to keep them all straight.”

  “Yeah, especially when half of them don’t exist,” I said. “Now, where is it?”

  She smiled, but it looked like it was hurting her. “Do you have a plan for the next step,” she asked, “or are we going to stay like this until the end of the day?”

  “Sure, I’ve got a plan. First, you’re going to drop the squirt gun. Second, I’m going to search your brother’s locker for the item you stole from Melissa. Third, if I don’t find it in his locker, you’re going to tell me where I can find it, or I’m going to break Tim in half and use the pieces to knock you around. Got it?”

  “Ooh, that does sound frightening,” she said. “Doesn’t that sound frightening, Tim?”

  Tim snarled. “Let go of me!” He started to squirm more violently, but I managed to keep a hold. Everyone was watching us now. They started to creep forward.

  “What Tim is trying to say is that we would love to help you,” Tina said, pumping the soaker again, “but your accusations are completely false. Go ahead. His locker is open. Check it if you don’t believe me.”

  I held Tim tight with one hand as I rooted around his locker with the other.

  The piece of wood wasn’t there.

  “OK, let go of my brother,” Tina told me. “You have five seconds.”

  “No,” I said. “Now we go to your locker.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Now!”

  Tim swung his right foot backward, trying to kick me in the shin. I backed away to avoid it, but in doing so, I lost some leverage on his arm. That was all he needed. He slipped out of my arm lock. Tina had a clear shot at me for half a second before a water balloon suddenly came out of nowhere and hit the locker next to her. She froze, staring at the water dripping down.

  “Vinny Biggs sends his regards!” shouted a kid to my right. Three more balloons came flying at us. Tim dove and tackled his sister; a split second later, another water balloon passed through the space she had just been standing in. I shoved myself backward into Tim’s locker and pulled the door closed, but with my finger still on the outside, keeping it from shutting completely and locking me inside. A balloon exploded against the door. Water dripped through the slats above, sprinkling down on me, but not enough to make an impact.

  I could hear Vinny’s hit kids running toward us. I tensed for a confrontation, waiting for the last possible moment before pushing the locker door open, hoping to time it perfectly and catch someone in the nose. If I timed it wrong, I’d be a sitting duck.

  I waited … and waited … listening for a footstep outside the locker door. I heard the Thompsons run down the hall and two sets of footsteps running after them. I heard the sound of the exit door being slammed open in a hurry and the sound of footsteps running out and fading away. I heard the exit door squeak shut. Then I heard nothing.

  I opened the locker door a crack and peeked out.

  No one was there.

  Even the spectators were gone.

  I stepped out of the locker and looked around. I was alone.

  I looked down at the puddles of water and the strips of rubber from exploded balloons that littered the hallway. I tried not to think about how my job had put me in the wrong place at the wrong time again. That’s all it would take—just one balloon, or one squirt of water. The only thing I had to defend myself with was luck. And I knew, somewhere in the school, there was a water balloon with my name on it, and that luck always ran out at the worst possible time.

  “Balloons,” came a voice from behind me. I wheeled around, arms cocked, ready to do some damage, but it was only Nicole Finnegan, a.k.a. the girl who used to be Nikki Fingers. Not so long ago, she was Vinny’s most trusted lieutenant—and the Frank’s most feared squirt-gun assassin. Then, a couple of weeks ago, her younger sister, Jenny, orchestrated a scheme to put Nikki in the Outs and take her place at Vinny’s side. Now Nicole was just another broken kid, all traces of her fiery personality gone. Her red hair, which used to flow free and wild, hung limp and dull. You could say the same thing about the rest of her.

  I lowered my arms. Her gaze was fixed on the spent balloons lying on the floor. “Balloons,” she said again.

  “Yeah,” I said. I turned to leave. I wanted to get to Tina Thompson’s locker before anyone else did. But it wasn’t going to happen. Katie Kondo, chief hall monitor, was standing in my path.

  “In a hurry, Stevens?” she asked.

  “No, I’m just a speedy guy.”

  “Want to tell me what happened?” She pointed to the water and the balloon fragments on the floor.

  I looked down as if I hadn’t seen them before. “Wow! Looks like there’s a litterbug loose,” I replied. “All these popped balloons on the ground. And is that water? Why, someone could slip and fall!”

  “Funny you’re just noticing that now,” she said.

  “Nothing funny about it,” I replied. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Big project due.”

  “Oh yeah? What class is that?”

  “Social studies.”

  “We’re in that class together,” she said. “I don’t remember there being a project due.”

  “Well, you may be in trouble, then.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  “Balloons,” the ghost of Nicole muttered, breaking the tension.

  I looked at her. For a second, I thought Katie was going to haul Nicole into detention for even daring to speak. But Katie didn’t react. If anything, her expression softened for a moment. “Thanks,” she said. “I can see that. How did they get here?”

  “Why don’t you find the people who dropped them and ask?” I said.

  Her expression hardened. “I heard you were on the scene when Melissa got put in the Outs just now, Stevens. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because nothing surprises you anymore. You’ve forgotten how to believe in magic!” I said. “Funny … I don’t remember seeing you there. Little slow getting around these days?”

  Katie leaned toward me. “You helped my sister, Matt … and I haven’t forgotten that,” she growled, as if she’d like nothing better than to forget it. “But you just used up your last free pass. Got it?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I had free passes?!? And now they’re gone?!? How many did I start with? And when did I use the others? Can I trade them in for cash and prizes?”

  Katie’s lips started twitching, as if they couldn’t wait to get a taste of my blood. She opened her mouth to say something, but Nicole spoke first. “Balloons,” she said, pointing to the floor this time. She looked up at us, wide-eyed.

  Katie looked over at her; I could feel the momentum of her anger grinding to a halt. She took a deep breath, then looked back at me. “Get out of here, Stevens.”

  “Will do, Chief,” I said as I walked down the hall. “Glad to see those anger-management classes are paying off.”

  I walked away as quickly as I could without running. The last thing I heard before I was out of earshot was Nicole saying “Balloons” again, and Katie quietly agreeing with her.

  had staked out Tina Thompson on a past case, so I knew her locker was one of a handful placed in a small alcove under a staircase, almost as if the school had put them in as an afterthought. I couldn’t remember which locker wa
s hers, but it turned out that I didn’t need to. Of the eight lockers, one had been pried open. The metal all around the edge of the door had been bent, as if someone with a crowbar couldn’t find a weak point and had decided to sculpt the door into an entirely new shape. Whatever their plan, it seemed to have worked.

  I looked up the stairwell to see if anyone was coming. Then I tried to look inside the locker without touching the door or opening it any farther, but the gap wasn’t wide enough to see anything. After one more stairway check, I used my foot to open the door all the way, so I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints.

  There, sitting on the top shelf, as if waiting patiently for me, was the missing piece of wood.

  I picked it up. It was small—as small and thin as a piece of white bread. It had an intricately carved pattern on one side. There was a sticky note attached to it. It was a message, in handwriting I didn’t recognize. It said, “Go for the skirt.” I was pretty sure it wasn’t a fashion tip. Someone had told the Thompsons about Melissa, which meant that my incompetence was only partly responsible for her getting popped. It made me feel a little better, but not much.

  I shoved the note in my front pocket, then put the piece of wood in my back pocket. There was a sandwich bag full of Pixy Stix on the floor of the locker. I grabbed it and put it in my other back pocket. Then I pulled my shirt low to cover everything. I hoped that no one decided to do a close examination of my tush.

  I closed the locker door and walked away.

  The hallways were deserted. I walked to the main entrance of the school. I could still hear the basketball sounds, though I was far from the gym. The cheering. The game sounds. As if the past hour hadn’t happened. As if a cheerleader’s life hadn’t just skidded off the road. I pushed open the doors and walked out.

  It was starting to get dark now that daylight saving time had ended. The air was cold, but it was still comfortable enough for walking. I thought about going to Sal’s for a root beer or six but then thought better of it. It was a game day, so people would already be there, drinking. If we won, they’d keep drinking to celebrate; if we lost, they’d keep drinking to drown their sorrows. I didn’t really feel like being around people. Oh, and I just happened to have a thing in my back pocket that some of the shadiest, most powerful kids in school were fighting over. Oh, and a full bag of designer Pixy Stix. I decided it might be best if I just went home.

  When I got there, my mom was just leaving the house to go to her second job: a waitressing gig at Santini’s, an upscale restaurant downtown. Ever since my dad disappeared over six years ago, she’s had to carry two jobs just to almost-but-not-quite make ends meet. Usually, we got along great—our relationship was a nice mixture of respect and protectiveness. But lately things had been a little strained.

  “No need to lock it,” I said.

  “Oh! Hey!” my mom replied, turning around. Her purse squirted out from under her arm. She was able to snatch it in midair before it hit the ground, but her lip balm flew out and rolled to a stop at my feet.

  “Was that an overelaborate way of letting me know that my lips are chapped?” I asked as I picked it up. “Because you could have just told me.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” she replied. “I know how sensitive you are about your lips.”

  “I think they’re my third best feature, right behind my intellect and sharp wit …”

  “Of course. Although I should ask your girlfriend for a more accurate grading.”

  I blushed. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable discussing my “girlfriend” with my mom.

  “Right,” she said to fill in the awkward silence where my response was supposed to fit. She walked past me toward the car.

  I turned and smiled at her. “Say hi to Mr. Carling for me.” Kevin and Liz’s dad, Albert Carling, managed Santini’s. My mom did NOT get along with him.

  “That’s enough, chappy!”

  “Hey! I’m sensitive!” I said in mock outrage. I picked up the lip balm, took the cap off, and slathered it sloppily all over my face. I put the cap back on, then offered it back to my mom.

  “Ugh,” she said. “Feel free to keep that.” She checked her watch. “All right, I have to go. Come here and give your mom a kiss.”

  I walked over with my lips puckered. They glistened, thick with lip balm. My mom grabbed both sides of my head. She gripped tight, and planted a big kiss on my forehead.

  “I love ya,” she said, “but greasy lips are where I draw the line.” I smiled. “I’ll be home at two,” she continued. “Don’t—”

  “—wait up. Yeah, I know. See you at two.”

  Just then the phone in the basement started ringing.

  “Ugh. That damn thing’s been ringing off the hook since I got home,” she said. “I wish the landlord would just take it out.”

  “Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it. That phone was supposed to be a private line for the landlord, but I was pretty sure I used it more than he did.

  “All right. Spaghetti’s in the fridge.”

  “Okay. Love ya.”

  “Back atcha.” She smiled halfheartedly at me, as if she hated the fact that these two minutes were our catch-up time for the day. But there was nothing either of us could do about it.

  I walked inside, closed the door, and headed straight for the basement.

  The phone had stopped ringing by the time I picked it up. There was only a dial tone, so I hung up and sat down at my desk.

  My mom and I lived in the first-floor apartment, and we had the only indoor access to the basement. The only other person that came down here was the guy who owned the building, some guy called “Big A.” At least, I thought Big A owned it. Every once in a while, I’d get a call from some guy looking for “Big A.” Whenever I tried to take a message, though, he’d hang up.

  Other than Big A (who I never saw), no one else came down here, not even my mom. It was a storage space, and quite frankly, when you don’t have much, you don’t really need extra storage. There were a bunch of boxes of holiday decorations and old toys of mine that my mom didn’t have the heart to throw out, but still more than enough space for me to set up shop.

  I was able to furnish my office with rich people’s “junk.” Rich people apparently have a different definition of junk than I do. To me, junk is something that doesn’t work anymore; to them, junk is something that doesn’t match the new pillows they just bought.

  I had an old wood desk and matching chair, a beat-up but comfortable sofa with a faded floral slipcover, a couple of lamps, and an old-fashioned radio that had needed quite a bit of elbow grease to get working again. It was my own office: a little dark, a little musty, and totally private—crucial for a business like mine.

  I pulled the piece of wood out of my back pocket and put it on the desk. Before I studied it, I did what I always do when I come down to my office. I opened the center drawer on my desk and pulled out the sheet of paper they’d found in my dad’s car five days after he went missing. The car was in a parking garage, four states away; this paper was in the glove compartment. On the sheet of paper, neatly typed in the left corner, was: TMS136P15. I had been turning it over in my head for years and still had no idea what it meant.

  The phone rang. I picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “Matt?”

  “As far as you know.”

  “It’s Kevin. Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Yeah, so I heard. You should really switch to decaf.”

  “What the hell happened today?” he yelled.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t already know.”

  “Listen, man, Vinny thinks you weren’t being completely honest with him. He seems to think that you knew Melissa had the piece of wood he was looking for.”

  “And if I did?”

  Kevin sighed heavily.

  “You should hold the phone away from your mouth before you do that,” I said. “I can practically feel your spit in my ear.”

  �
�Do you have the piece of wood?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That means yes,” he said. “Or no.”

  “Well, as long as you’ve got it narrowed down to those two choices …”

  “Listen, Matt, I know we haven’t been the best of friends lately, but— I mean, you really saved my butt a couple of weeks ago. Come on, let me help you.”

  “Nothing to help with, Kev. Really.”

  There was a pause.

  “All right,” he said. “Listen, Matt … I’m serious … don’t stonewall yourself right into the Outs, okay? Ask for help if you need it.”

  “All right,” I said. And I meant it.

  “See you in school tomorrow,” he said.

  “Now how am I supposed to sleep tonight, with all this anticipation!”

  He laughed. “Shut up.”

  “I’ll dream of you,” I whispered.

  “Ugh,” he said, and hung up.

  I put the receiver back in the cradle. The phone rang again immediately. I picked it up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Matt?”

  “Hold on, let me check … Yeah, it’s me.”

  “It’s Mac.” Jimmy MacGregor was the editor of the school paper and one of the few honest kids at the Frank. “Where ya been? I been trying to reach ya.”

  “Yeah, so I heard. You should really switch to decaf.”

  “Nah. I’d miss the jitters too much. Listen, can you meet me at Sal’s?”

  “When?”

  “In three weeks,” he said. “Now! Why do you think I’ve been calling?”

  “Because you missed me and my sparkling brown eyes? Hey, don’t you have a newspaper to put out or something?”

  “I don’t tell you your job, do I?”

  “The way I’ve been doing it lately, maybe you should. Listen, I’ve already had a busy day,” I said. “Can this wait until I recover? Say, in four to six months?”

  “Stop being such a sissy and meet me at Sal’s in five minutes. You’ll thank me.”

  “Can I just thank you now and not go?” I asked, but he had already hung up. I had to hand it to him; he had given me just enough info to make me curious but not enough to know what he was talking about. It looked like I was going to Sal’s after all.