Don't Get Caught (15 page)

Oh no.

I’m in the school.

In Stranko’s office.

Which has been painted neon pink.

The entire office—the walls, his desk, the ceiling, the chair I’m sitting on, even the state lacrosse trophy—all of it’s neon pink.

I barely have time to process everything when someone’s putting a key in the door, and suddenly I’ve broken the most important heist rule of all—I got caught.

Of course Stranko has me arrested.

Handcuffs, police car, fingerprints, mugshot…all of it.

And yeah, Hale’s car isn’t an official cop car since he isn’t a real cop, but it has the mesh-wire guard and no latches on the inside of the back door. Hale even proudly tells me there’s no point in trying to call anyone because of the cell phone jammer he’s installed, so it might as well be a cop car. Or a potential rapist’s car, the creep.

Being arrested is just as humiliating as you might imagine, possibly even more so. The real cops don’t put me in a jail cell, thank God, but I’m locked in a room that’s probably used for interrogating real criminals. I almost wish I were in a cell because iron bars would make it harder for Mom and Dad to murder me, which they’re going to do.

I guess this is what happens when you try to write your name in the wet cement of the universe. It hardens, trapping you in place, then begins downpouring shit on you.

Not Max can kiss my ass.

Through the door’s window, I can see Stranko’s still here at a desk with Hale, the two of them relaying the story to a cop who’s hunting and pecking her way through my arrest report.

An hour earlier, when Stranko opened his office door and saw me, he held up a hand before I could say anything. His was eerily calm as he surveyed the room, then eventually, he stepped into the hall and called Hale. In the five minutes we waited, the only thing Stranko said in my presence was a quiet, “God, I’m not going to miss this.”

Stranko’s the least of my worries though, because my small window gives me a perfect view of Mom and Dad’s arrival. They look worried as they listen to Hale and Stranko explaining what happened, but they’re not fooling me. They have to be rage-filled, homicidal maniacs faking concern to ensure the police will release me. And once that happens, the bloodbath will begin. This room offers nowhere to hide, so I’m stuck sitting here like the penned-up convict I am. Dad, unshaven and looking like he’s just taken a hammer blow to the forehead, shakes both Hale’s and Stranko’s hands. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I already do, but seeing Dad’s embarrassment does it.

I have fifteen seconds until Mom and Dad get here. That’s fifteen seconds left to live. What should I do with those fifteen seconds?

Bang my head on the chair until I’m unconscious?

Punch myself in the groin to generate some tears?

Get a running start at the door so that when it opens, I can smash past my parents and race into the night to live a life on the lam?

But it’s too late. The door opens, and my parents appear in the doorway. They’re both slump shouldered and—oh man—what’s that look they’re giving me?

Rage?

Embarrassment?

No, worse.

Disappointment. Sad-eyed, slow-moving, tired-voiced disappointment.

I’d prefer rage.

“Let’s go home, Max,” Mom says.

That’s it. Not a “What were you thinking?” or “Do you know how much trouble you’re in?” Just Mom’s, “Let’s go home, Max.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s not even looking at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Nothing back from either of them. I can actually feel myself growing smaller.

“I said I’m sorry.”

Without looking at me, Mom says, “We heard you.”

I keep my eyes to the floor on my way out so I won’t have to see Stranko. I expect at least some talking once we get outside, but no, Mom and Dad just walk to the car, with me trailing behind. Even when we’re inside, away from the ears of anyone who might hear them laying into me, the silence continues. We drive home with no talking, no radio, no nothing. I’d prefer shouting instead of this terrible nothingness. If parents receive a
How to Effectively Punish Your Children
pamphlet, this has to be in the “Only for Professionals” section because, man, it’s brutal.

At home, the silent treatment mercifully ends with Mom saying, “Come sit down, Max.”

When they use your name it’s just the worst. The formality, the seriousness. That’s when you know you’re in atom bomb–sized trouble. Mom and Dad sit on the couch, and I’m across from them in the La-Z-Boy, exhausted and sorry, self-conscious and worried, all at the same time.

“Tell us everything,” Mom says.

Dad’s staring at the space where my chair touches the carpet.

“From the beginning,” he says.

I knew this was coming, but with it here now, I’m still not sure what to say. I mean, I know the whole story, but telling it all to them can only end in Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta getting in serious trouble. But isn’t there a point where that doesn’t matter? Where the truth is more important than protecting your friends?

I don’t know the answer to that.

I do know, however, that I’ve failed my parents. So I decide on the fly that I can’t fail Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta too. I have to protect my crew. Because what good would it do to involve them? How would explaining the other four’s role in this help my parents understand the arrest of their criminal son?

So here’s what I tell Mom and Dad about:

The water tower.

Today’s letter.

And my kidnapping and offer to join.

What I don’t tell them about:

Anything implicating the other four.

I do explain their part in the water tower, but beyond that, I leave Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and Adleta out of it. I don’t even tell my parents about the fake website because the pictures on it are from pranks the other four did. So yes, I lie. And I feel bad for doing it, but it’s necessary.

“Is there anything else?” Mom says.

“No.”

“Why didn’t we hear about the water tower from the school when it happened?” Dad says.

The question’s a right hook to the jaw I didn’t see coming. Dad’s staring directly at me, giving me no chance to work up a lie.

“Boyd came and got me,” I say.

Dad sighs and Mom’s eyes narrow. She’s
this
close to growling.

Uh, sorry, Uncle Boyd.

My parents exchange silent words with a long look, then Mom says, “We’ll pick this up again in the morning, after your father and I have had a chance to talk.”

“Okay,” I say, getting up. “I’m really sorry.”

Neither of them says anything back.

I’m halfway up the stairs when Dad says, “Max, leave your laptop and phone outside your door.”

Um.

Now I understand what it means to break out in a cold sweat.

“Did you hear me, Max?”

“Yes, sir.”

I walk upstairs thinking about my browser history. And my text messages. Usually I’m pretty good at erasing my web adventures, but I can’t remember the last time I cleared my history. If Mom asks me, “Max, why did you do a search for ‘naughty teachers in glasses’?” I may die of embarrassment. But considering the alternatives, that may not be a bad thing.

• • •

I make myself a ghost for the rest of the weekend. When I do venture downstairs, Mom and Dad keep to basics, like asking me to pass the mustard or to turn the TV down. I’m told I’m grounded for an indefinite amount of time. My guess is until I’m forty-six. They also break the news that I’m to be charged with trespassing and criminal mischief, which could put me in jail for up to sixty days, along with a $5,000 fine. I could be prison bound by the spring.

On Sunday night, while all of us are in the family room, the doorbell rings. I automatically rise from the couch, but Dad stops me.

“You stay,” he says.

He opens the door, and I hear Ellie’s voice.

“Hi, Mr. Cobb. Is Max here?”

Dad’s normally a big Ellie fan, but not tonight. He blocks the door so she can’t see or come inside.

“He’s not allowed to see anyone right now, Ellie, but I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. He’s not allowed visitors.”

“Because I’ve texted him and called a bunch of times but haven’t heard back.”

Ellie’s confused and upset—bonus for me?—and suddenly I’m pissed at Mom and Dad for sending her away to worry even more. I stand up and start for the door.

“Max, sit down,” Mom says.

I keep going.

“Maxwell Connor Cobb.”

I clear the corner, and Ellie and I see each other, but Dad blocks me from getting closer.

“I’m okay,” I tell Ellie.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I’m just in some trouble. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, I guess.”

Dad tells her to be safe driving home before closing the door.

“You should probably get up to bed,” Dad says to me. “We have an early day tomorrow.”

• • •

In the morning, I learn something new—school districts have lawyers. In the case of Asheville, the lawyer is Mr. Huelle—rhymes with mule—and he’s about as friendly and personable as his name. He’s in a full suit and sits sour faced beside Mrs. B at the end of a long table in the high school conference room on Monday morning. Also present are Stranko and Hale, who take seats on Mrs. B’s side. Assuming my parents are on my side, which is debatable, I’m outnumbered three to four.

“Jim, Beth, it’s nice to see the two of you. I just wish we were all meeting under different circumstances,” Mrs. B says.

“You and us both, Mrs. Barber,” Dad says.

Mrs. Barber.
I guess no matter how old you get, there are just some people you can’t force yourself to call by their first name.

“Well, Max, we’re here today to discuss what happened the other night and what to do about it,” Mrs. B says. “Mr. Stranko has already filled me in on what he saw, but I’d like to hear your version of the events, please.”

Déjà vu all over again.

My right knee bounces spastically underneath the table as I repeat the story I told my parents, about finding the note in my locker and what happened after meeting the Chaos Club at the baseball field. My eyes are glued to the table as I talk, not because I can’t look at Mrs. B but because the three goons sitting beside her are as intimidating as hell.

“I know I shouldn’t have gone, especially after what happened at the beginning of the year, but I felt like I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because I hoped it would give me some clues as to who’s in the Chaos Club.”

“And did it?”

“It’s a boy and a girl,” I said. “I know that.”

“Anything else?”

I shake my head.

Stranko whispers something to Hale while Barber taps her pen on the folder in front of her.

“So your story is that members of the Chaos Club invited you to meet, then blindfolded and transported you here to the school, where they put you in Mr. Stranko’s office so that if you turned them down, you’d get in trouble.”

I see where this is going, but it’s too late.

“My question is—why would they do that?” she says.

“Do what?”

“Why would they set you up to get in trouble a second time? What would their motivation be? Why not just invite you? What’s the purpose in vandalizing Mr. Stranko’s office and getting you in trouble for turning them down?”

There’s no safe answer. I can’t tell them that the Chaos Club blackmailed me into coming with threats of showing the picture of me at the football stadium because it proves I was working with Ellie. And once that gets out, the other three would eventually fall too. I just hope the Chaos Club didn’t keep their promise of sending Stranko the picture.

“Max?” Mrs. B says, bringing me back.

Everyone is looking at me, waiting for my answer. Nothing to do but give the standard response every guilty teenager is programmed to give when they know they’re busted.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Did you do anything to upset them?” Mrs. B says.

I shake my head.

“Do you have the note?” Stranko asks.

I do, but it’s too incriminating.

“I lost it.”

“Convenient,” he says, then opens the folder in front of him and removes a piece of paper, looking at it for a few seconds before sliding it over to me. It’s the picture of Ellie and me at the football field. The corners of my vision gray, then blacken as the room begins to collapse in on me.

“Who’s this in the picture with you?”

“It’s no one,” I say.

“No one?”

There’s only one option here: make up something absurd.

“I filled the costume with newspaper to fill it out. I did everything by myself.”

“Newspaper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get the mascot costume? It’s been missing for months.”

“Um, I found it?”

“Of course you did,” Stranko says. “So then who took the picture?”

“The Chaos Club.”

“Right,” Stranko says. He has a smug, condescending smile I’d love to punch off his face.

I refuse to look at Mom and Dad because I’m sure I can’t take the looks of disappointment they’re giving me.

“Jim, Beth, do you have anything you’d like to add?” Mrs. B says.

“Just that we’ll obviously pay for any damages,” Mom says.

“Thank you for that. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk this over with my administrative team before moving forward. Could you give us a few minutes, please?”

We move to the chairs right outside the conference room and wait without talking. First period doesn’t start for twenty-five minutes, but already the halls are starting to fill. The three of us sit outside the office for five excruciating minutes.

I hate all of it.

I hate the quiet.

I hate the looks the secretaries and guidance counselors give me as they pass.

I hate that I’m being talked about by people I can’t hear.

When the office door opens and Mr. Watson enters with a coffee cup in his hand, I have a new hate to add to my list:

I hate that my favorite teacher is seeing me like this.

Watson slows as he passes, saying, “Max, Jim, Beth,” before stopping outside the conference room. He gives a light knock, then enters without being invited inside.

“He still remembers us,” Dad says to Mom.

“I always liked him.”

They both sound somewhat happy in the memory. Time to take advantage of that.

“Mr. Watson’s really cool,” I say.

And we’re back to the silent treatment.