High and Dry (15 page)

“Can you tell me—”

“No.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to ask yet.”

“I can't tell you where she's going.”

“But you know, don't you?”

“I want to help you, Charlie, but you're making things really difficult. If you only take one thing from this session today—”

“Ennui and disaffection?”

“Let it be that you have a say in your own life. If you truly want to go to Lambert, go. But if you don't, I'd be happy to call your parents and we can all sit down together and discuss other possibilities.”

All four of us could sit down, but only three of us would talk. I wasn't sure I wanted to add Ms. Gerard to the cast of “Analyze Charlie,” now on tour for a special matinee performance, one day only.

Patrick, goalkeeper and head beckham, was waiting for me at my locker after lunch.

“How's it going?” I asked.

We bumped fists.

“Fine,” said Patrick. “Feeling okay for practice today?”

“Yeah, I'm good. What's up?”

“Got a second to speak to some cherkoff? He didn't say what it's about, just said you'd want to know. What the eff, right? If you don't care, I'll tell him to get lost.”

“No, it's cool. I can talk to him. Thanks.”

Patrick walked around the corner and returned with a plump African American kid. “Phil, Charlie. Charlie, Phil,” he intro'd. “Bell's in thirty, buckaroos. Keep it clean.”

I nodded at Patrick to take off. The African American kid offered his hand. “I'm Phil.”

“I gathered that.”

“I saw you at no-man's-land looking through our books.”

“And?”

“Was it yours? Did you put the flash drive there?”

“BM?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Because I found a flash drive there on Monday. I was copying down a passage for my paper, and the flash drive fell out. When I saw you looking, I figured it was yours, and you were hiding it there for safekeeping.”

“What'd you do with it?” I asked, heart pounding. “When it fell out, what'd you do with it?”

He looked at me as though it were obvious. “I—I put it in lost and found. Gave it to the old bat in Jeffries's office.”

I was dumbfounded. “You put it in lost and found.”

“Yeah, you can go pick it up anytime. So … no harm, no foul?”

Damn Phil and his normalcy! Didn't he know half the school was interested in the flipping thing? Of course, before Monday, I would've done the same thing. Bridget had me so convinced people were liars and thieves—well, some of them were, namely Bridget—that it had never occurred to me to look in lost and found. Two days wasted when all I had to do was act legit and stroll into the principal's office and ask for the flash drive!

I grasped Phil's shoulder, spoke swiftly and quietly. “Does anyone else know? Think carefully.”

At my behest, the “old bat” (a.k.a. Mrs. Batiglio) behind the counter ambled over to Principal Jeffries's office and returned with the lost and found bin. Inside were a jacket, a couple of notebooks, a Trapper Keeper, an iPhone or two, even some nice-looking pens. I thought she'd set the plastic bin on the table and I could sift through it and grab the flash drive, but instead, she kept it out of arm's length from me, reached inside, cupped something in her palm, peeked at it, and reburied it.

“You're in luck,” she said. “We have a flash drive.”

“Oh, thank the Lord. That's such a relief,” I feigned, pleased with my acting. I could've joined drama freshman year, if I'd lacked sufficient parental-and-peer attention, of course, the prerequisite for stage monkeys.

“There's a sticker on it,” the Old Bat informed me. “Tell me what the sticker is and you can have it back.”

Freaking seriously? What
sticker
was on it? “Uh …” I squinted. “I'm not sure I remember.”

“Well, when you do remember, you can have it back.”

“What if I tell you what's
in
the flash drive and you look it up on your computer and see that I'm right?”

“I can't do that.”

“How come?”

“That would be a violation of your privacy.”

“I don't mind.” I gave her my biggest, cheesiest grin.

“The sticker.”

“Let me get back to you. I'll just … go through all my other stickered flash drives and use the process of elimination,” I grumbled.

Too Fast, Too Furious, I wheeled around and plowed through the doors into the hall. Danny was actually waiting for me by the water fountain, just as I'd asked the other day. Underclassmen had their uses.

“Okay, here's what's going down,” I said. “Do you need to take notes, or can you memorize this?”

Danny dutifully flipped open his sketch pad and poised his charcoal.

“I need you to get a message to the drama kids. I need you to tell them I'll be doing a perp walk
tomorrow
between second and third, right down this hall, should they want revenge.”

Danny hadn't written a word. He cocked his head curiously at me. “Revenge for what?”

“It'll be obvious. After it goes down, that's what you tell them. ‘Charlie Dixon is doing a perp walk between second and third tomorrow.' Got it?”

Just before seventh I cornered Bridget outside European history, for what I hoped would be our last meeting. I knew that's where she'd be because I'd memorized a few spots on her schedule last time we'd talked.

“What sticker's on the flash drive?” I demanded.

“Jeez, you scared me.” She placed her hand where she probably assumed her heart was, like a Southern belle with the vapors. “You're getting stalkery, Charlie. And not in a hot way.”

“The sticker?”

“What're you babbling about?” she said.

I made a noise of frustration. “You don't even know what's on the flash drive, do you? You definitely don't know what it looks like. So how'd you get messed up in this? What are you even doing?”

“Did you find it?” she asked, emerald eyes agleam, begging to be appraised.

“You're not listening to me.”

“I listened, I just don't care. There's a difference.”

I placed my arms on either side of her shoulders and leaned in. “What's on it?”

She pursed her lips and looked side to side, seeming to contemplate ducking under my arms or knocking them away. In the end she did neither.

“Look, I know where it is,” I told her. “I just need to know what's
on
it. Literally, as in, what sticker, and also what file it really contains; but we both know you're never going to be straight with me about that.”

She closed her eyes, heaved a sigh, and opened them again. “Fine. I was embarrassed. It's naked pictures of me.”

I hooted. “You're lying.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your mouth's moving. Also, the way your mind works, you would have told me that in the first place, thinking I'd be so desperate to see the photos I'd have the flash drive back for you in a second.” I got in her face. “Has anything you've told me about any of this been true?”

She didn't answer.

I backed off. “Doesn't matter. I'll have the flash drive this time tomorrow.”

“Seriously?”

My plan was still forming, but I had twenty-four hours to perfect it. The important thing was getting Bridget to tell whoever she was working with that I had it, so I could draw him out of hiding. I didn't believe she was flying solo.

“Where should we meet?” Bridget wondered.

I feigned surprise. “Oh, it's not for you, Bridge. Not anymore. I'm gonna make
a lot
of money off this. But thanks for gettin' me on the case.” I slapped her on the back, all friendly-like.

Her bottom lip dropped and her eyes flashed in anger. “But … I helped you. I got you out of trouble with the sheriff's department.”

I placed my middle finger on her lips, which in retrospect was only flipping
myself
off. “Shh.”

She swatted my finger away and I laughed.

It felt good to have the upper hand for once.

PHASE ONE

PHASE ONE OF MY PLAN TO BREAK INTO PRINCIPAL JEFFRIES'S
office and steal the flash drive required that I declare war on the drama kids. Being drama kids, they were by definition easily hurt and vengeful, but I couldn't risk using a light touch. I needed to stage a scene so over the top they would secretly envy not writing, scoring, directing, lighting, or starring in it.

I'd be ten minutes late to soccer practice, so I pulled Josh aside after history and told him to let Coach and Patrick know I was on my way.

“I'll cover for you,” said Josh, barely looking at me as he stacked his books in a pile. “For the game, too, if you want.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“If you're not up for it.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?” I repeated.

Josh quickly shook his head. “Never mind. Patrick and I were talking about the Agua Dulce game. And we think maybe it's better if you sit this one out.”

“Just today Patrick asked if I was fit for practice, and when I told him I was, he was cool with it. So that doesn't fly.”

“Right, but …” He stopped packing up and rubbed his eyes
before looking at me. “If you give me all ninety minutes this Friday, you can start any game you want for the rest of the season.”

“I can do that anyway.”

“Or you can bench me for good, whatever.”

I pushed him in the shoulder. “That's not up to me!”

“You keep showing up late or drunk, what do you think's going to happen?” Josh said, shoving me back. “No one can rely on you. There's gonna be
scouts
at this game.”

“I just need ten minutes today, all right? I'll be there, asshole,” I muttered, and took off for the auditorium. I'm self-aware enough to know I was angry because everything he'd said was true, for more reasons than he knew. Even though I hadn't agreed to throw the game, the conversation I'd had with Ryder still haunted me.

The day's cafeteria theme food had been Mexicali. I'm proud to say the once-a-week “ethnic-educational” menu was
not
one of my mom's initiatives. I'd loaded up on tomatillos (little green tomatoes) and hid them in a plastic bag, which had probably stunk up my locker. Weapons collected, I crept up to the auditorium balcony to watch a dress rehearsal for the spring production of
The Misanthrope
.

The idea was to anger the drama kids, not hurt any of them. I'm not a deer hunter. I decided to prey on their most basic, cherished fears.

“This play sucks! No one likes it. Not even the junior high bloggers will review this lame excuse for a Molière,” I yelled, and chucked tomatillos at the stage, over, under, and past the ducking,
traumatized performers in French aristocrat costumes. I barely got five off when the harsh beam of a spotlight, wielded by a techie in the control booth, nailed me in the face. I took off down the back stairs, two at a time, and out onto the soccer field.

They'd stew in it—but they couldn't follow. They couldn't move fast enough to catch me, nor risk ruining their costumes, and even if they did catch up to me, they certainly weren't going to take on a team of jocks in broad daylight.

I was proud of my attack. Coach Tierson was dead wrong about me back in Little League. I had a
great
throwing arm, and perfect aim. The stage had been packed, but I hadn't hit a single kid; hadn't splattered a single costume.

JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

AFTER PRACTICE, I GRABBED A RIDE HOME WITH PATRICK.

“Josh wants me out of the game on Friday,” I told him.

“Josh always wants you out of the game. Don't worry about it.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you got dumped and took it hard. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. If you tell me you're good for Friday, I'll believe you.”

“I'm good for Friday,” I said.

He pulled up to my house. “What're you doing right now? Want to practice more?”

“Actually, I'm seeing a movie with my ex,” I said sheepishly.

When Ellie rang the doorbell, I made sure I had plenty of gifts on hand. The pomegranates from Christmas had gone bad, so I'd grabbed a few fresh ones from Granddad's yard. I'd also bought a mini-cactus in a pot and a couple packets of Nerds for Jonathan, so he wouldn't need me to spend twelve dollars or whatever on popcorn. The tickets had set me back almost forty dollars as it was.

Ellie stared at the mini-cactus, confused. “Cute,” she said, not taking it from me. “What is it? A metaphor?”

I set it down. “You never have to water it, and there's no commitment; it just lives in hope, in the worst possible conditions.” I waited for her to catch my gaze. “Kinda like me.”

“Ha. You didn't have to do that,” she said.

She was wearing a tight camisole and a thin cardigan over an old pair of jeans. I knew the jeans intimately. I knew what it felt like to unzip them, tug them down her legs. I knew how soft and faded the denim was. I knew how warm and smooth her thighs were.

How many times had I kissed her, standing right in this spot? Hundreds? Thousands? Deep, soft, lingering kisses good night, neither of us wanting to be the first to break them off, both of us dragging the other person back under.

Maybe I should've kept one last nip of something handy, just to make it through the desert of Ellie.

Jonathan tore into the foyer and clapped his hands imperiously at us. “Chop-chop, or we'll be late.”

He saw the cactus and did an about-face. “Hello, what's this?”

“When you have a date with a girl, you should never show up empty-handed,” I said. “Even if she comes to your place.”