Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (15 page)

T
he next day at lunch, I took Matty into the computer lab and showed him the fake page Zeke and Kenny had made.

Before you could say “payback,” he already had an idea. He pulled out his notebook right there and started drawing, really fast, the way he always does.

“We’re going to get them back the same way they got you,” he said.

“You mean like another web page?” I said.

“No, something better,” he said. “But when it happens, they’re going to know exactly who did it to them, and they’ll never be able to prove it.”

See, this is why it’s good to have a professional
freak on your side. I didn’t even know what Matty’s idea was, and I already liked it.

Meanwhile, he just kept scribbling and drawing, scribbling and drawing.

“So, the junk-sculpture crit is this Friday, right?” he said. “That means Thursday fifth period, everyone’s going to be finishing their sculptures and leaving them in the back of Mrs. Ling’s room.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And?”

“What time does fifth period let out?”

“Eleven forty-five,” I told him, because I always know when lunch is.

Matty wrote
Ling
and
11:45
on two different parts of the page. That’s when I realized what he was drawing. It was a map of the school. But I still didn’t understand why.

“I’m thinking we’ll need maybe five minutes before Mrs. Ling comes down,” he said, and wrote that too. “Then maybe another three minutes until—”

“Slow down a second,” I said. “You’ve got to catch me up here. What happens at eleven forty-five on Thursday?”

Finally, Matty put down his pen and gave me this look like he was sitting on the world’s best secret. Which he kind of was.

“Just the first professional art-napping in the history of Cathedral School of the Arts,” he said. “That’s all.”

I
f you haven’t already noticed, Matty the Freak never does anything halfway. That’s one of the things I liked about him. By fifth period that Thursday, we had the whole plan figured out, right down to the last detail.

It wasn’t like we were going to
keep
Zeke’s and Kenny’s sculptures. We were just going to hide them up on the roof until they took down that stupid RAFE K page of theirs. As soon as they did, they’d get another note in their lockers, telling them where to look. If they knew what was good for them, the whole thing would be taken care of by the crit on Friday.

And Matty was right. It didn’t matter whether they knew this was coming from me or not. In fact, I wanted them to. This was war, after all—the kind where you’re supposed to know exactly who your enemy is.

I know I sure did.

A
ll through fifth period that day, I could barely concentrate on finishing my own sculpture. I’d made a little couch out of pieces of scrap wood. Then I’d made a little man out of wire and covered him with a thin piece of aluminum that I molded like a blanket. It wasn’t a self-portrait, exactly, but I was trying to “bring my life to my art,” like Mr. Beekman was always telling us to do. I called it
Kid Sleeping on Couch.
(I couldn’t think of anything else.)

Finally, the bell rang for lunch. Operation: Art-nap was a go!

First, Matty and I put our sculptures on the back table and headed downstairs, like everyone else. But then, when no one was looking, we cut around through the auditorium and out the other
side. That’s where we could watch for Mrs. Ling in the hallway. As soon as she came around the corner with her lunch tray and went into the teachers’ lounge, we headed upstairs again. Thirty seconds later, we were back in Mrs. L.’s room, and it was totally deserted.

So far, so good. Matty grabbed Kenny’s sculpture, and I took Zeke’s.

Kenny had made a palm tree out of a plastic pipe and a broken umbrella, all covered with cut-up pieces of cereal boxes that he painted brown and green. It looked okay, I guess.

And as for Zeke’s sculpture—well, you’d have to torture me and
then
pay me a thousand bucks to say I liked anything about Zeke McDonald. But he was obviously going to get an A, like always.

First, he’d built this metal cube out of steel rods and hot glue. Then he strung the whole thing with fishing line and hung about a million little rusted screws and gears and springs inside. It was like a mobile in a cage, and it made this cool sound if you blew on it.

And yeah, okay, it was maybe just a little… tiny… bit… awesome.

Still, all I could think about was how Zeke’s and Kenny’s brains were going to melt right out their ears when they found out their art had been ’napped. I threw my sweatshirt over the cube to keep it from making too much noise, and we headed straight for the door.

That’s when we hit our first roadblock.

As soon as I checked the hall, I saw one of the janitors, Mr. McQuade. He was parking his big rolling trash can outside the boys’ bathroom—which was also right across from the stairs to the roof, where we needed to go.

I stepped back and pointed. “What do we do?” I whispered.

Just then, Mr. McQuade opened the bathroom door and went inside.

“Go!” Matty said.
“Now!”

Before I could think about it, he went out ahead of me, and I followed him up the hall. All we needed was half a minute to get past that door and up to the roof.

And then—roadblock number two.

When Matty got to the stairs, he stopped short. I almost crashed into him, and Zeke’s sculpture started clanging under my sweatshirt. My heart started clanging pretty hard too.

WHAT?
I said, not even talking, just mouthing it now.

Matty pointed down, and mouthed back:
SOMEONE’S COMING
.

Sure enough, I could hear a voice at the bottom of the stairs.

“If you’ll all follow me this way, I’ll show you our visual arts wing….”

It was Mr. Crawley. He was always giving tours of the school, which I hadn’t even thought about—until now.

And now he was headed right for us. It was too far to try to get back to Mrs. Ling’s room. The boys’ bathroom was off-limits with Mr. McQuade in there. And trying to get up the stairs to the roof was way too risky.

I looked at Matty. Matty looked at me.

HIDE
, he mouthed, and we scattered.

I did the first thing I could think of: I scrambled right up and into that big trash can. It wasn’t easy, either, with that sculpture under my arm, not to mention that the whole can was on wheels. By the time I was pulling the lid over my head, I could just see the girls’ bathroom door swinging closed behind Matty, and I thought—
much better idea
.

But it was too late to change my mind. All I could do now was sit there in the dark and pray that Mr. Crawley would be gone before Mr. McQuade ever came out of that bathroom.

And if you’re thinking that was too much to hope for—you’re right.

Obviously, I couldn’t see anything from where I was, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened next. I guess that garbage barrel must have rolled right in front of the bathroom door while I was climbing inside, and I guess Mr. McQuade must have come out a second later, because the next thing I felt was a hard
BUMP!
against the side of the can…

… right before the whole thing started zipping
across the floor…

… right before—

I don’t know if you’ve ever been inside a plastic garbage can while it’s rolling down half a flight of stairs, but believe me, it’s not as fun as it sounds. (Even if it doesn’t sound fun at all.)

By the time I hit the first landing, it wasn’t just
me and a bunch of used paper towels spilling out of that can either. It was also Zeke’s sculpture, which had been bumped, rolled, slammed, crashed, and smashed back into the million separate pieces it started out as.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is what you call blowing it,
big-time
. Because this wasn’t just a case of art-napping anymore. No, sir.

Now it was art murder.