Don't Get Caught (10 page)

The student section breaks for the gym doors, pushing past teachers who are fighting to get out themselves. Because we’re up top, the four of us can do nothing but watch the chaos and wait for the stench to envelop us and disintegrate our faces.

“Everyone, remain calm,” Mrs. B says, standing closer to the puke party than I’d ever go. “It’s going to be all right.”

Yeah, tell that to the guys who can’t stop vomiting.

Stranko and Mr. Adleta stand on the edge of the team, watching in horror as the guys stumble about, their shirts, pants, and shoes drenched in vomit.

“Poor Tim,” Ellie says, pointing.

Like the others, Adleta’s covered in puke from the first one, two, or three barfings, but now, he has a hand over his mouth, his cheeks puffy as he tries to stop himself from spewing again. He turns his head—looking, looking, looking—his cheeks growing bigger, like a professional trumpet player—and then he begins staggering away from the team.

Right at Stranko and his dad.

And then I get it.

But it’s the coaches who really get it.

Stranko sees what’s coming and even puts up two hands, like that can stop the inevitable, but the fire hose stream of orange puke hits him square in face, filling his mouth and eyes. Then, like a sprinkler, Tim turns and pukes again, this time into his dad’s open mouth. Adleta drops to the floor, writhing around with his arms wrapped around his middle while Stranko and Mr. Adleta slough handfuls of vomit from their mouths.

“Did Tim…?” Ellie says.

“I think so,” I say.

“How?”

“I don’t know. But he did say he wanted something all his own.”

“Well, it looks like he got it.”

“I’m impressed,” Wheeler says.

“I’m nauseated,” Malone finishes.

Students continue rushing away from the toxic air of the gym and into the fresh air of the hall. Adleta’s still in the fetal position on the floor, but he’s turned away from his dad and Stranko and faces us as if he knew all along exactly where we were sitting. He’s far away, and his face is an orange-painted mess, but he gives us a look that is impossible to misinterpret.

It’s victory.

In the two weeks following the pep rally pukeathon, three weird things happen.

The first occurs that night at the homecoming game, which, no surprise, we lose. I don’t have to be in the locker room to know the guys blame the loss on their mystery illness, a convenient excuse they can thank Adleta for. As for how Adleta pulled it off, he group texted us after school with the answer: ipecac.

If you don’t know, ipecac is syrup that causes you to throw up. Some girls have been known to drink it to simplify their eating disorders, so you have to be over eighteen to buy ipecac in a store. Online though, everyone is an adult with a few clicks of “Yes, I am over 18,” so it wasn’t hard for Adleta to get enough bottles to not only induce vomiting in twenty guys but also to speed up the process considerably.

In the packed nurse’s office, Stranko, Mrs. B, and Officer Hale interviewed the victims and dealt with angry parents, but beyond a lot of embarrassment and tired stomach muscles, everyone was fine. Not fine enough
not
to lose the homecoming game 49–6, but fine enough not to die.

But here’s the thing—the whole prank unnerved me. It’s not just that I can still smell the vomit as if microscopic, vile-smelling puke particles have permanently embedded themselves in my nostrils; it’s because, at its core, the prank was just plain mean.

Don’t get me wrong: Was the prank creative?

Yes.

Was anyone hurt?

Not really.

And did the prank do exactly what we wanted it to, which is make the Chaos Club look like assholes willing to injure people?

Yes.

So then why does Adleta’s prank make me uncomfortable?

Probably because when I think of the guys who were the victims…well, aren’t they feeling the same hatred and curl-up-and-die embarrassment I felt after the water tower? Is that something I really want to be responsible for? Is it possible to be Not Max without becoming heartless? I don’t know. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m being a baby about the whole thing.

Goddamn empathy.

Still, it isn’t my guilty conscience that’s the first weird thing that happens—it’s the theft of the school’s Zippy the Golden Eagle mascot costume.

According to the school newspaper’s website, Becca Yancey wore the costume during the homecoming game, flapping around like a dope as usual, then changed in the locker room before halftime so she could walk onto the field with the other popular kids/politicians-in-the-making who were nominated to homecoming court. When Becca went back to the locker room before the start of the third quarter, Zippy had flown the coop, as Mr. Watson might say. Becca’s impassioned plea during the morning announcements asking for Zippy’s return had me feeling so bad I considered initiating a Buy a New Zippy Kickstarter campaign, but one project a year is my limit.

The second weird thing that occurs isn’t a single event but a string of weirdness from Wheeler that lasts an entire week. Not only is Dave late to Weird Science every day, but he also leaves five minutes before the end of the period. Hansen never even asks for an arrival or dismissal pass. Wheeler just comes and goes as he pleases. He’s also absent from lunch, which he’ll freely tell you is his favorite class. Even when I text him about what’s going on, I get no response. He’s become Mr. Mystery.

On Friday, after a whole week of this bizarre behavior, Mrs. Hansen leaves a reminder on her classroom door to get our jackets and meet her on the football field for the Great Balloon Launch. Last week, the odds on Wheeler actually showing up for class after being given permission to leave the building were somewhere around 100 to 1, but today, Wheeler’s at the fifty-yard line with other students in our class, watching as Hansen, in her a white lab coat and aviator goggles, inflates a massive twenty-foot weather balloon with an air compressor. Painted on the balloon is the lopsided smiley face we added yesterday. This experiment has been two weeks in the making, and in that time, we’ve studied air currents, weather patterns, GPS tracking, and even Federal Aviation Administration guidelines. Fun, fun.

I stand beside Wheeler, who’s wearing a shirt with a picture of a woman holding a beaver covered in soap bubbles in one hand and, in the other hand, a razor blade. Her thought balloon reads, “My husband makes the strangest requests.”

“Subtle,” I say.

“Awesome, right?”

While Mrs. Hansen inflates the balloon, two students grip the metal ring at its base so the balloon doesn’t prematurely go off.

(Side note: prematurely going off is one of my biggest fears.)

Mrs. Hansen says, “And what are we filling Larry with, everyone?”

“Helium,” Wheeler says.

We all gawk at Wheeler, who’s just volunteered his first correct answer in two and a half years of high school.

“But why not hydrogen, Dave?” Hansen says. “Wouldn’t that work just as well for Larry?”

“Because the reading last night said hydrogen’s too volatile. The
Hindenburg
was filled with hydrogen.”

“It was, Dave, and there’s no need to kill Larry before he’s fulfilled his destiny. His death is coming soon enough.”

“Why is he named Larry?” someone asks.

“After my soon-to-be ex-husband,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Sending him into space has long been a dream of mine.”

If all goes according to plan, Larry will rise into the air carrying a small camera mounted inside an orange protective case to record the flight. At around ninety thousand feet, Larry—poor, corpulent, unsuspecting Larry—will burst from the atmospheric pressure, sending the case plummeting to the earth until its parachute engages. Hansen plans on tracking the GPS signal inside the camera after school, and on Monday we’ll watch the footage. It’s awesomeness like this that is precisely why everyone signs up for Weird Science.

“This is safe for birds, right?” Becca asks.

“Unless there’s a pterodactyl up there big enough to swallow this, then yes, Becca, no birds will be harmed.”

“But what will happen to Larry after? Are you going to recycle him?”

Hansen starts to answer, but Wheeler does it for her.

“Weren’t you listening yesterday? She’ll bring the balloon back Monday so we can inspect the remains. Sheesh.”

Whoever kidnapped Wheeler and replaced him with this Wheeler-bot will pay dearly.

After double-checking that the camera and GPS are working and after another review session of FAA regulations and the earth’s atmosphere just to drive home that this is an educational experiment, we do an enthusiastic countdown. At zero, Larry the Balloon lifts into the early November sky at more than thirty miles per hour with the orange case dangling from its base. It’s a holy moment with no one speaking as Larry grows smaller and smaller before finally disappearing into the clouds.

“Godspeed, John Glenn,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Does anyone know that allusion?”

“It’s what they said to John Glenn as he lifted off into space. It was in the extra credit reading,” Wheeler says.

“Okay, man,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Who are you and what did you do with Dave Wheeler?”

“Dude, I like astronauts. Sue me. Haven’t you ever seen
The Right Stuff
?”

On the way back to building, Wheeler’s beside Hansen, asking questions and behaving like, well, a real student. The bell rings as we hit the inside of the building, but instead of going to lunch, Wheeler peels off toward the media center. I watch through the window as he takes a seat in the back and opens up an Algebra I book. He doesn’t even notice me until I sit down across from him.

“What in the hell is going on with you?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this,” I say, poking at the math book. “You’ve never opened a textbook in your life.”

“That’s not true. I used to look at my health book all the time last year.”

“Because of the vagina diagram.”

“Man, that was a great picture.”

“It was, yeah, but come on. You know what I’m talking about.”

Wheeler puts down his pencil and digs into his backpack. Shockingly, there are other textbooks in there. And folders. Honest-to-God folders. From one of them, he pulls a sheet of paper and hands it to me. It’s his school transcript, filled with line after line of Ds and Fs for both freshman and sophomore year. By the time he graduates, projected to be by his thirtieth birthday, Wheeler’s transcript will be a meme used to scare children into studying harder.

“Do you see it?” Wheeler asks.

I don’t.

“Look at my class rank.”

At the bottom of the page in the class-rank box, 508/509 is printed.

“Who’s dead last?” I ask.

“Joe Vogelsang.”

Ah, him. A year ago, Joe drank an entire bottle of Crown Royal when his parents were out of town, then took their car for a joyride. One ignored red light and two paralyzed people later, Joe’s now awaiting trial.

“I can’t beat him,” Wheeler says. “He’s still a student here and not doing any of his work, so I can’t beat him for the lowest rank. At least until he’s convicted and officially removed from the school roster.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Number two’s good enough for me, man,” Wheeler says. “I proved I can be the worst—at least the worst of the nonfelons—so now it’s time for the dramatic turnaround. Let’s see how good at this I can be. Who knows, maybe my brothers were onto something with the whole studying thing. Besides, you heard Malone the other day. Imagine what I could do if I really tried. None of this is that hard. I just have to do it. And seriously, who wants to end up living in a stupid barn like your uncle? I mean, yeah, he has money and stuff, but the guy’s pretty much a loser. No offense.”

I give him a
none taken
wave of the hand. “So you’re now Nerdy Wheeler?”

“Instead of Screwup Wheeler, yeah. Why not try something new, right? But, man, let me tell you, it sucks. I have all these credits to make up, and I’m in guidance all of third period now doing courses online, and I have permission to be here working during lunch, but it’s so much, dude. The good news is my mom’s so thrilled that she says if I pass all my classes this semester, she’ll help me get a new car.”

“And get rid of the Wheelermobile?”

“All things must come to an end, dude. Besides, if I pull this off, I’m a shoo-in for Most Changed in the yearbook next year.”

If ever there was an
I’ll believe it when I see it
moment, this is it. But I don’t tell Wheeler that. Mostly I’m impressed. It’s sort of what I’m doing with Not Max. So, I say, good for us.

Well, good for us until Stranko walks into the media center. He comes through the doors and gives the room a quick once-over. When he sees us, his head jerks to a stop, then he comes our way. Not that I blame him. Wheeler, even Nerdy Wheeler, unsupervised anywhere is definitely cause for concern.

“What’s going on here?” Stranko asks.

“Just getting my homework done,” Wheeler says.

“Homework? Right.”

“No, seriously. Look.”

Wheeler pushes his book and a page of algebra problems toward Stranko, who smirks as he looks it over.

“Good luck with that. At this point, you’d have better luck putting out a house fire with a cup of water.”

“Thank you for your support, sir.”

Stranko scowls, which only grows in intensity when he notices Wheeler’s beaver shirt.

“And would you care to explain your shirt to me?”

“This?” Wheeler says, pointing to the woman. “Well, as far as I can tell, the family owns a petting zoo or maybe they live in the woods, I don’t know, but for some reason, her husband wants the beaver shaved. Maybe it has fleas or something.”

Stranko’s eyes go full-on coin slot.

“Is that right?”

“Well, sure,” Wheeler says. “Why? Do you have a different interpretation?”

Stranko’s lip twitches.

“You need to turn that shirt inside out,” he says. “Then I never want to see it in the school again. Do we understand each other?”

“Absolutely, sir. Thank you for your continued concern about my well-being and education.”

Wheeler sits there, staring up at Stranko, who’s not moving.

“I said turn the shirt inside out,” Stranko says.

“You mean right here? Now?”

“That’s what I said.”

Wheeler shrugs, then mouths
perv
at me as he stands up. He takes his shirt off, deliberately fumbling with it longer than he has to before turning it inside out. When he finally gets the shirt back on, he gives Stranko a
Happy?
look.

“Never again,” Stranko says, then leaves without responding.

“Jerk,” I say.

“Who cares? He’ll get his.”

“Wait, are you saying the New Studious Wheeler didn’t completely kill off Old Devious Wheeler?”

“Dude, this is just an upgrade, not a brand-new install. The old me isn’t going anywhere.”

Which is a scary thought indeed.

• • •

The final and weirdest thing to happen that week occurs on Thursday evening while I’m dangerously flirting with an aneurism by studying precalc. My phone pings announcing a text, and I have to read the message twice to understand what I’m being asked to do.

Ellie: Tremblay’s Pet Shop. Buy 200 goldfish. Meet at the window outside Room 103 in an hour.

Me: ?

Ellie: Hurry, Mongoose.

What choice do I have? It’s Heist Rule #16:
Be ready when your team needs you.

I use the excuse that I forgot I needed a copy of
Macbeth
for English tomorrow to escape the house. Tremblay’s Pet Shop is in Freehold, one town over, and it takes me twenty minutes to get there. When I arrive, it’s 8:55 p.m., and a guy so old looking I worry he might turn to dust right in front of me is locking up.

“I need two hundred goldfish,” I say.

He lets out a sigh that, considering his age, he probably shouldn’t. When you’re close to 150 years old, you should conserve as many of your remaining breaths as possible.

“Piranhas?” he says.

“No, goldfish.”

“I mean, do you have a piranha? Is that what the fish are for?”

“Oh, duh, yeah. Exactly.”

It takes Tremblay a good ten minutes to scoop out two hundred goldfish from the massive tank in back. Honestly, it’s more like two hundred give or take twenty. I seriously doubt whatever Ellie needs the goldfish for is dependent on exact numbers. The total comes to just under forty dollars, and I leave the store hauling a box with ten clear plastic bags filled with seriously freaked-out goldfish.