Bound for Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Near the end of the game, another junior named Steve O’Brien was called out and settled on the bench next to me. For a few minutes he was totally silent, watching the game intently, so I didn’t try to make conversation. But after two or three minutes he suddenly turned to me and asked, “So why didn’t you guys show up last night?”

  “Sorry?” I asked, startled. I’d been watching Dorian intercept one of Mill Valley’s strongest players.

  “DEFENSE!” the Mill Valley coach was yelling.

  “At Paco’s,” Steve said, looking at me with genuine disappointment. “We were there to celebrate my birthday. Jason said he’d invited you and Joe.”

  I stared at Steve. Was he being serious right now? Did that mean he wasn’t involved with the weird masked guys, or maybe didn’t even know that was happening?

  Or was he playing a part now? If so, he was doing a great job.

  Is the hazing problem something just a few team members are involved in? Or is everyone on this team an Academy Award–caliber actor?

  “Um, we actually did show up,” I said honestly. “But we didn’t see anyone inside, so we . . . didn’t stay.”

  “You didn’t see anyone inside?” Steve looked confused. “I was there, like, right at seven.”

  Ahhhh. “Jason told us six thirty,” I explained. “That’s when we got there.”

  Recognition dawned in Steve’s eyes. “Oh, that blockhead,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Jason is the worst with time. He should never be left in charge of invitations.”

  Something was still bothering me, though. “Um, the weird thing is, we did go back,” I said, wondering if this would trigger any recognition on Steve’s part. “Like, at eight thirtyish? And no one was there then, either.”

  Steve nodded. “Yeah, we didn’t end up staying long,” he said. “We had our pizza, but then Doug mentioned he had the new Call of Duty game. We all went to his house and played for, like, four hours.” He chuckled. “My mom ended up calling me, dude. We totally lost track of time.”

  I frowned, still stuck on his first point. “What time did you leave?” I asked. “Jason said you were there for two hours, at least.”

  Steve groaned and shook his head. “See my previous comment about Jason and time,” he said. “We were there for an hour, maybe. We must’ve gotten there after you left, and left before you came back. I’m sorry, dude. Next time we get together, I’ll give you the deets, all right?”

  I smiled. “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, was Jason there the whole time? I mean, maybe that’s why he was totally off on his times.”

  Steve laughed. “Oh, he was there,” he said. “I beat him senseless at Call of Duty. He’s just an idiot.”

  I glanced back up at the game. Jason was, right at that moment, making a three-point shot from the middle of the court. “A talented idiot,” I said.

  Steve looked at Jason without a trace of jealousy. “You can say that again.”

  I studied Steve’s contented face, wondering if I’d be pushing my luck with another question. “Who else was there?”

  He glanced at me, surprised. “Pretty much the whole team? It was a lot of guys.”

  “Just tell me who you remember,” I said.

  Steve sighed. “Okay, um, Jason,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “Ty, Gabe, Quentin, Juan . . .”

  “Was Dorian there?” I asked suddenly. The voice of the masked leader had sounded familiar. And there were only so many voices I’d heard up to that point. Dorian’s was one of them.

  Steve shook his head. “Dorian never comes out on weeknights,” he said. “His mom is, like, super strict.”

  “Got it,” I said, nodding slowly. “Well . . . I’m really sorry we missed it. I hope you had a happy birthday, anyway.”

  He shrugged. “Pizza and video games. It’s the simple things, right?”

  “Right.” We both turned back to the game. We were up by twelve points. Things were looking good for the Bayport Tigers, and for Jason Bound.

  Pizza and video games definitely beats our night.

  • • •

  “So you think Jason intentionally gave us the wrong time?” Joe asked as I drove us to school the next morning. I’d told him what I learned from Steve after the game, and we’d been thinking on it ever since.

  “It’s definitely possible,” I said. “He was with them all night, so he couldn’t have been one of the masked guys, but that doesn’t mean he can’t know it’s happening. Of all the guys, he has the most to gain if the team stays strong . . . and the most to lose if they don’t.”

  Joe looked thoughtful. “If he has a serious shot at a basketball career ahead of him, maybe he’s trying to keep his hands clean. You know, letting other guys carry out the hazing, in case they get caught, but pulling the strings from a distance.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” I agreed.

  Suddenly Joe’s phone dinged with an incoming e-mail. He grabbed it from the center console and checked it.

  “Want me to read this email from Gabe out loud?” he asked.

  “Please,” I said.

  He read, “‘Hey, Joe. Look, I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I would let go of this. This may seem like a weird little game to you, but these guys are dangerous. If you defy them, they will end you. I was harassed by those guys for a whole month, but I’ve been playing better and I’m finally past it. I would never wish what I went through on anyone. There is a rumor that they did something so horrible to Diego Lopez that he quit the team and won’t talk about it with anybody. If you guys really want to play basketball, then focus on getting better so they won’t target you anymore. If you don’t really want to play . . . take their advice and quit. It’s not worth it! Don’t be a hero. Get out while you can. Gabe.’”

  I had pulled into the school parking lot while Joe was reading and now swung the car into a spot. “Wow,” Joe said, as I put the car in park and stared out the windshield.

  I was quiet for a moment, considering Gabe’s words. “Do you really think they’re that dangerous?” I asked. “They’re just kids playing games. Aren’t they?”

  Joe looked at me. “They wanted to brand me, bro.”

  I shook my head. “I still don’t think they would have gone through with it.”

  “For someone who’s so sure of that,” Joe said, “you told them everything they wanted to know at just the right time.”

  I frowned. I mean, I couldn’t risk it. I still didn’t think they would have done it.

  Would they?

  “Let’s think on this,” I said after a minute or two. “We can talk about our next steps at lunch. Cool?”

  “Cool,” Joe agreed, and we got out of the car and headed for our first classes.

  For me, this was English with Ms. Kowalski. I’m usually more of a science guy, but I was really enjoying English so far this year. Ms. Kowalski believed in lots of class participation and always came up with the best questions to ask to get the conversation going. Books and plays that seemed dry and uninteresting came alive in our discussions, opening a whole new understanding of what the author was trying to say.

  Ms. Kowalski was waiting at the classroom door this morning. I smiled as I walked by her into class. “Good morning, Ms. Kowalski.”

  But she looked notably unhappy to see me. “Stop right there, Frank.”

  I stopped.

  Up to that point, I had never heard Ms. Kowalski use a tone stronger than “mildly annoyed.” But this morning, she sounded mad.

  At me.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She held up a sheaf of papers in her hand. “You’re not coming to class this morning. You’re going with Mr. Porter here—”

  She nodded behind me, and that’s when I noticed my guidance counselor, Mr. Porter, approaching from the bank of lockers. Was he waiting there for me? I’d met with Mr. Porter exactly once, at the start of the year, to talk about preparing for college applications. Interestingly, he’d found no cause for c
oncern in my lack of extracurricular activities.

  “—to talk about this paper.”

  She held up the papers again. She said this paper like she was saying this piece of dog poop or this snot-crusted used tissue.

  “Um,” I said, trying to stay calm, “what paper is that?”

  “The paper you turned in last night, Frank.” This time she held up the paper long enough for me to read the cover page.

  BLOOD ON MY HANDS: LADY MACBETH AND THE PROBLEM WITH WOMEN IN POWER. BY FRANK HARDY

  “Ah—um—”

  I had never seen this paper before in my life. Also, I mean, come on. “The Problem with Women in Power”? I wasn’t some kind of raging, misogynist.

  “But I didn’t write that!”

  Ms. Kowalski sighed and looked at Mr. Porter as though she had expected exactly this reaction.

  “It was turned in over our server using your username and password, Frank,” Mr. Porter said calmly. “I think we’d better go to the office and talk about this.”

  We were starting to attract some attention. A small crowd of my classmates was watching, both inside and outside the classroom.

  “Dude,” Nate Jefferson said, glancing at the paper, “did you seriously write that?”

  “No!” I said helplessly. “I wrote a paper about the sleepwalking scene! I spent weeks on it!”

  Ms. Kowalski turned and stomped into the classroom, clearly disgusted with me. I felt horrible. I really liked Ms. Kowalski. Now she thought I was some kind of girl-hating monster!

  Mr. Porter clamped his hand down on my shoulder. “Let’s go discuss this in my office, Frank.”

  • • •

  “The thing is, Frank,” Mr. Porter said, leaning back in his chair, “even if what you’re saying is correct, and this is some kind of setup, it’s hard to imagine anyone having the technical skill to pull it off. This paper was turned in at eight forty-five last night, under your name, from a computer at the town library.”

  “Aha!” I cried. “See, right there, that’s wrong! I turned in my paper from home!”

  Mr. Porter looked at me skeptically. “Frank, there is no record of you turning in anything from home. There is no record of you turning in anything else, at all.”

  I tapped my toe nervously. This had to be the work of the masked people. But it was so unexpected. I’d predicted they’d ambush me and bash me over the head, not mess with my schoolwork. Who knew they had a hacker among them? And the school server was notoriously hard to hack into. But clearly, someone had done it. All to target me.

  Mr. Porter gave me a quizzical look. “Do you want to tell me more about who might set you up?” he asked. “Is this a problem we can discuss?”

  Oh sure. Well, Principal Gerther made my brother and me join the basketball team for some reason we can’t figure out, and then these masked people put bags over our heads and drove us to someone’s basement, where they tried to brand my brother and promised to ruin our lives if we didn’t quit the team. So we didn’t, which is a decision I’m starting to rethink, and it looks like they wrote a fake woman-hating paper about Macbeth, hacked into the school server, and submitted it in my name. And somehow scuttled the actual, amazing paper I spent three weeks writing about the sleepwalking scene.

  “No,” I said, looking down at my lap. “It’s . . . never mind.”

  Mr. Porter looked disappointed. “I feel like there must be more for us to discuss, Frank,” he said. “If you did write this paper, it’s full of anger and disturbing thoughts. You should talk to someone about that.”

  “I didn’t write the paper,” I said.

  “I wish I could believe you,” Mr. Porter said, “but the evidence says otherwise. I’m sorry, but you’re going to receive an F on this paper, and I have to give you in-school suspension for two days. Handing such an offensive paper in to Ms. Kowalski is considered an aggressive act.”

  I took in a deep breath through my nose. “Okay.”

  Mr. Porter nodded. “You can report to the in-school suspension room, room nine in the basement. I’m sorry, Frank. If you decide there’s more you’d like to tell me about this, you know my door is always open.”

  I thanked him and got to my feet.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing more to discuss with Mr. Porter.

  But there was a lot for me to discuss with my brother.

  6

  PHOTO BOMBED

  JOE

  MY FIRST CLASS OF THE day is history. It’s also the only class I have with Marianne, and I was eager to see her. I was still feeling bad about bagging on our plans so I could go to basketball practice, and I wanted to make a date for the weekend so we could catch up.

  When I settled into the desk next to her, though, she barely looked at me.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching out and touching her arm. “Can we make plans for Friday? I’ve been missing you!”

  Marianne looked at me like I was some weird guy off the street. She pulled her arm away and straightened up, glaring down her nose at me. “Really?” she huffed.

  “Yeah, really,” I said, not sure what was going on. Marianne was usually super mellow and easygoing. Why was she acting like one of the Real Housewives?

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and thrusting it at me.

  I looked down at the screen.

  What the heck?!

  It was a screenshot of a text conversation between “Joe Hardy” and “Lila Derroches.” Lila is a cheerleader who basically the entire male student body agrees is cute. She is also way, way out of my league.

  JOE: So when are we getting together?

  LILA: Are you serious right now?

  Thought you were dating Marianne.

  JOE: Serious as cancer. I think you’re gorgeous.

  LILA: What about Marianne?

  JOE: What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

  I looked up at Marianne, sputtering. “I didn’t—I mean, I don’t even—”

  “Don’t try to deny it, Joe,” Marianne said sharply. “I also have this.”

  She took back her phone and clicked around a bit, finally handing it back to me with a photo.

  A photo of me and Lila Derroches—her kissing my cheek!

  What is going on??

  Just to be clear: I’ve never even spoken to Lila Derroches. Not via text, not via carrier pigeon, not at all. And I certainly haven’t gotten a smooch on the cheek from her. If Lila could even pick me out of a lineup, I’d be stunned.

  But someone sure wanted to make it look like I had. The photo was a fake, obviously, a Photoshop job—but a very good one. I recognized the photo, which was one from my Facebook page of Aunt Trudy giving me a cheek smooch on my birthday. (Is it dorky to love your aunt and not be embarrassed about it? THEN I GUESS I’M DORKY.) Someone had found the perfect photo of Lila Derroches to paste into it, matching the lighting and everything.

  I looked from the photo to Marianne. “Look, this isn’t me,” I said.

  She nodded. “Suuuuuuuuuure,” she drawled, her disgusted tone making it clear she wasn’t sure at all.

  “Where did you even get this?” I started clicking around on Marianne’s phone, trying to find out, but she snatched it back from me.

  “An anonymous e-mail, if you must know,” she said. “It was signed ‘A Concerned Citizen.’”

  “That doesn’t seem strange to you?” I asked. “Look, there’s a simple solution to this. Ask Lila whether she knows me.”

  Marianne snorted. “No, there’s an even simpler solution to this,” she said. “I break up with you. Why should I have to ask Lila when there’s photographic evidence that you guys have been together?”

  “I told you, that’s fake!”

  Marianne shook her head. She looked really upset now. “Joe, I don’t need this negativity in my life. Who would make a fake photo of you and Lila? Who has that much time and energy to spend on breaking us up?”

  Funny you should ask. “Actual
ly,” I said, sitting up in my chair and putting on my best serious expression, “I’ve made some powerful enemies over the last couple days, and I think they’re trying to set me up.”

  Marianne looked me in the eye. Her mouth dropped open, and for a second I thought I had her convinced I was telling the truth. I waited for her coo of concern, her expression of support for my bravery in taking on the big guns.

  “Are you kidding me?” she said finally. “‘I’ve made some powerful enemies’? I’m sorry, Joe, but I’m going to trust my eyes on this one. We’re through.”

  And with that, she put her phone in her purse, pulled out her textbook, and wouldn’t look at me again for the rest of the class.

  • • •

  “You will not believe what happened to me,” was the first thing Frank said to me when we met up in the lunch line.

  “You won’t believe what happened to me,” I replied. “I think the masked people were serious about ruining our lives.”

  Frank frowned. “You don’t say,” he murmured, grabbing a ham sandwich from the premade bar. “Okay, I’ll bite. What happened to you?”

  I told him the whole sordid story about Marianne: the faked screenshots, the Photoshopped picture.

  Frank listened with his eyes getting wider and wider. When I finished—we’d paid and were settling into our usual table by then—his eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “I guess Marianne won’t be joining us, then?” he asked.

  I snorted. “Not unless she wants to throw some rotten fruit at me or something,” I said. “I think she and I are through.”

  Frank nodded. “Well, you’ve had almost as bad a morning as me,” he said. And then he told me the crazy story of Ms. Kowalski thinking he wrote this insane, woman-hating paper, and having to talk to his guidance counselor about it, and ending up with an F and in-school suspension.

  “In-school suspension is the worst,” I said. “It has all the stigma of suspension, with none of the daytime TV.”