Don't Get Caught (3 page)

“None taken,” Mrs. B says, smiling. “Work keeping you busy?”

“Plenty.”

“Has Pat Kreider contacted you yet?”

“We’re supposed to have a meeting next week. Thanks for the recommendation.”

Mrs. B waves it away.

“So, Max,” she says, “we’ve never really spoken before, have we?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances, but we might as well make the best of it. I’m sure you know your parents attended school here, but did you know your father once used a coat hanger to break into my car for me when I locked my keys inside?”

It’s not a story I’ve heard, but as far as Dad’s pseudocriminal abilities are concerned, well, he and Boyd are friends for a reason.

“Jump ahead twenty-five years later, and here’s his son, the apple not falling far from the tree,” she says. “Do you think that, like your father, you’ll only use your abilities for good, or will this be the first of many unfortunate visits to my office?”

“I don’t plan on being back.”

“Oh, you’re welcome back, Max. Let’s just hope it’s for something positive next time. And, Boyd, you’ll pass all this on to his parents?”

“Absolutely. Max and I’ll be having a long discussion about this on the way home.”

But the only talking Boyd and I do is when we’re pulling out of the parking lot in his truck, Guns N’ Roses blasting on the radio.

“Thanks for saving my ass,” I say.

“Hell, when I was your age, I used to wish I had someone half as cool as me on my side. It’s nice to do some good for once. You okay?”

“Surprisingly, yeah. More than okay, actually. I just feel stupid.”

“About getting tricked, getting caught, or getting lectured?”

“All of the above.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. You get used to it though.”

Boyd smokes a cigarette and leaves me alone for the rest of the ride. I put my feet on the dash and close my eyes, smiling to myself as I replay the night. Ten minutes later, we’re parked on the street a few houses down from mine. I thank him again as I climb out.

“This is just between the two of us, right?” I say.

“You got it, man.”

“Thanks, Uncle Boyd.”

“I gotta say, I’m sort of proud of you, doing something dumb like this,” Boyd says. “It’s unexpected. Good for you.”

Which is pretty much why I went in the first place.

I don’t expect Mom and Dad to be sitting on my bed in full war paint, ready to take hatchets to me, but I still breathe a sigh of relief when I reenter the house through my window and see my bedroom is empty. That’s the nice thing about being boring—it gets to where even your parents overlook you.

When I climb into bed, you’d think I’d be able to relax now that the shock of getting caught has passed.

But you’d be wrong.

Relaxing is the last thing on my mind.

Because if I’ve learned anything tonight, it’s that having the guts to not be a nobody—that taking risks and being Not Max—feels good.

No, scratch that.

It feels great.

What doesn’t feel good is knowing someone set me up and I was dumb enough to fall for it.

Just Max may have put up with that, but Not Max sure as hell won’t.

Ellie’s right—we need a plan.

It’s Heist Rule #7:
Always get payback.

The worst thing about school the next day isn’t how the school newspaper website headline reads
The Water Tower 5
.

Or the photoshopped picture of the five of us in prison-orange jumpsuits accompanying the story.

Or the constant calls of “Water Tower Five!” in the halls.

Or how someone Sharpied it on my locker.

No, the worst part is that I respond to it by hiding my ass in the theater. Before school, between periods, during lunch, I sit in the dark theater, embarrassed, worrying that a group of students will come in and stand in a circle around me, mocking my very existence and stupidity.

Can you say delusions of grandeur?

And believe me, I know how pathetic I sound. Not Max would punch Just Max in the groin for behaving this way. Less than eight hours ago, I was full of gung ho confidence, ready to destroy my enemies single-handedly. Now I’m considering faking a stomachache so I can go home early. But I can’t help it. I didn’t think there was anything worse than being a nobody, but it turns out I was wrong. Being thought of as an idiot is way worse. Add that to the shame I feel for being a coward, for disappearing instead of walking the halls with a
screw you
swagger like any one of my movie heroes would do, and my descent into loserdom is complete.

Coming a close second in the Worst Thing about School the Next Day list is the perp walk Warden Stranko forces us to do from his office to the water tower after school. He marches us through a corridor of students in the parking lot, everyone laughing and pointing at us in the safety helmets we’re forced to wear. Like an inmate entering the prison population, I keep my head down as I walk and ignore the ridicule. It’s not easy though, especially with the entire lacrosse team waiting for us at the tower. As we get close, Geoff Varelman, the senior captain, says to the others, “Any of you guys smell piss? Because I smell piss. It reeks of piss.”

Clearly, Varelman has a bright future as a prison yard storyteller.

At the base of the tower, Stranko orders us to step into crotch-strangling harnesses with ropes and clips around the waist.

“Latch on when you get up top,” he says. “We don’t need a lawsuit if you fall to your death.”

“That’s very caring of you, sir. Thank you,” Wheeler says.

“Just get your butts up there.”

We climb the tower in the same order we did less than twenty-four hours earlier. This time though, it’s not excitement I feel but constant humiliation. The student mob has followed us from the parking lot to the tower, chanting “Water Tower Five!” the entire way.

“This sucks,” Wheeler says.

“You certainly have a way with words,” Malone says.

“And you certainly have a way with photography.”

“Enjoy this climb, Wheeler, because I’m throwing you off the tower as soon as we get to the top.”

But once we’re on the platform overlooking the parking lot, Malone doesn’t send Wheeler to his death, at least not right away. We’re all too busy looking down at the growing crowd of students pointing up at us and filming us with their phones. I can’t help but wonder if the Chaos Club is down there too, mixed in with the others, admiring their accomplishment. If they are, there’s no way of knowing it. What I do know is that the audience below is made up of a who’s who of personal tormentors.

Stranko and his lacrosse team for Adleta.

Tami Cantor for me.

The tsk-tsking youth groupers from Ellie’s church.

And Libby Heckman for Malone.

If I haven’t mentioned her earlier, Libby’s one of Malone’s former friends and, like Kate, one of the best artists in the school. More importantly though, she’s the reason every boy in this school has a picture of Malone half-naked. Last spring, Malone made the epic mistake of sending a topless picture of herself to a junior named Troy Huff, Libby’s ex-boyfriend. When the inevitable
let’s give this relationship sent from the heavens a ninth chance
occurred two days later between Libby and Troy, the picture of Malone wearing only an open robe appeared on everyone’s phone. Libby wasn’t exactly secretive about being the sender. And if you must know, yes, I’ve looked at that picture. Okay, more than a thousand times. It’s not something I’m proud of.

The only one of us without a ridiculer below is Wheeler. It’s not that he doesn’t have enemies. Far from it. It’s just that they’re all afraid he’ll recruit a ninja from H8box to fly around the world to lop their heads off.

“I guess we should get started,” Ellie says, picking out a brush from the bag lying on the catwalk. Beside the bag is a single can of blue paint we’re supposed to use to cover the “Assville High School—Home of the Golden Showers” message.

Malone pops the lid and dips her brush in, but before she can start, Wheeler says, “Wait, everyone hold up your brushes and smile in that direction.”

Standing on the far side of the parking lot where Wheeler is pointing is a lone figure aiming a camera at us with a lens that looks like it could photograph a tick on the moon.

“Who is that?” Ellie asks.

“Mark Richardson,” Wheeler says. “He’s shooting a picture for H8box.”

“But Mrs. B asked you not to do that.”

“Right, but she didn’t say anything about someone else doing it, did she? Semantics, man. They’ll get you every time.”

We all hold up our paint brushes in Mark’s direction and pause for a picture before dipping our brushes and slathering the water tower with blue paint. I’m standing next to Ellie on the end, which, if I have to risk my life up here, is the best place to be. Up until last year, Ellie’s parents forced her to wear long skirts to school. She eventually won the battle to dress more like a normal teenager, but in her parents’ minds, that means loose jeans and shirts buttoned high. Still, if anyone can rock the Puritan look, it’s Ellie.

What’s awesome is the paint we’re using isn’t a perfect match for the original blue. The district will inevitably have to pay someone to repaint the entire tower, which is a small but excellent consolation.

“So you made it back into your house without getting caught?” Ellie says.

“Luckily. What happened to you?”

“I just got a—quote—stern talking to—unquote—about temptation and the importance of our family’s reputation.”

“But they didn’t ground you?”

“No, my parents don’t do that. I think they’re afraid I’ll become like other PKs.”

“PKs?”

“Preacher’s kids. Haven’t you heard? We’re the biggest drunks, druggies, and sex fiends out there. Did Stranko call your parents yet?”

“No, not yet,” I say. “I’m betting it’ll come in the next couple days.”

“Well, if he tries, he’s not going to have much luck.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“You know how I’m an office aide second period? Today I changed your parents’ phone number in the system to the childcare room at my dad’s church. It’s only used on Sunday mornings. So if Stranko does call, the phone will just ring and ring.”

“You did that for me?”

“Sure. Why not?”

It’s official. I’m in love.

From somewhere down below, someone shouts, “Hey, you missed a spot!”

Clever.

“You know what pisses me off?” Malone asks. “Knowing the Chaos Club is probably down there laughing at us.”

We all stop painting and look over the side again.

“I’m going to find ’em and kill ’em,” Adleta growls.

“And who exactly are you going to kill?” Malone asks. “No one knows who’s in the Chaos Club.”

“Oh, someone knows. I’ll find out who,” Adleta says.

“How? By beating people up until you get a confession?”

“It’s an idea.”

“Yeah, a dumb one.”

“Like you’re one for good ideas. What’s your answer? Text everyone another nudie?”

Malone holds Adleta’s eyes a lot longer than I’d be able to. Or maybe he’s holding her eyes. Regardless, I haven’t heard Adleta say that many words in all the years I’ve known him.

“Look, everyone just needs to chill out,” Wheeler says. “This isn’t a big deal.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Ellie tells him. “You don’t care about how this’ll look to prospective colleges.”

“Or how Stranko’s going to make your life hell during practice,” Adleta says, then adds, “with your father’s blessing.”

“Or what it’s like to give everyone another reason to make fun of you,” Malone says.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Wheeler says. “But let’s remember that if Ellie hadn’t given that quote to the paper about how we didn’t paint the tower, they would’ve thought we were the Chaos Club. We’d be gods. But noooo, now we’re just assclowns.”

“You’re used to being an assclown though,” Malone says.

“Yeah, but on my terms, not someone else’s.”

“What I can’t stop wondering is why us?” Malone says. “Of everyone the Chaos Club could pick for this prank, why the five of us?”

“Because we’re stupid,” Adleta says.

“Thanks for sharing. But seriously, hasn’t anyone else thought of this?”

I have. A lot. If there’s anything positive about my self-imposed isolation in the theater, it’s that I’ve had a lot of time to think. And all those thoughts haven’t been bad. I feel different, like whoever went up the tower isn’t the same person who came back down. And I do have an answer for Malone. I’m just not sure how to answer her without someone tossing my body over the railing. But regardless of the shameful way Just Max had me hiding out today, Not Max has definite opinions on what needs to be done in this situation, and he’s not about to shut up. So while I’m nervous to say anything, I have to.

“We were picked because we’re easy targets,” I say.

Malone stops painting and looks at me.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re easy targets,” I repeat. “Adleta’s right. We were stupid. We made it easy for them.”

“How am I an easy target?” Malone says. She’s not holding the paintbrush like a knife, but considering her tone of voice, she might as well be.

“Because of what happened last year with your picture. It made you a victim, so of course you’d want to join the Chaos Club.”

Now Malone’s coming at me, ready to paint me blue, and I back up with my hands out.

“Whoa, hold on,” I say. “We’re all that way. We all have reasons we’d fall for that invite. I went because I don’t have shit going on in my life. Ellie’s in the same boat as you, but with her dad and the book thing.”

“What about him?” Malone says, pointing to Wheeler. “How’s he a target?”

I don’t have to answer because Wheeler does it for me.

“Are you seriously asking that question? An invitation to join a club known for pulling pranks and, by their very name, causing chaos? They could’ve written ‘This is all a setup’ on the card and I still would’ve shown up.”

“Okay, that was dumb of me,” Malone says.

All of us have stopped painting now, and from the base of the tower, Stranko shouts up, “Get back to work!”

“Asshole,” Wheeler says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Adleta says. “So what about me? How am I a target?”

Actually, the answer to Adleta’s question is simple. But answering him is hard. No one wants to die young.

Still, Heist Rule #8 says,
Recruit a strong crew
, and no one is stronger than Adleta. Literally.

“People have been talking about you behind your back ever since you screwed up in the tournament game last year,” I say, then brace myself. If death comes, I hope it’s quick and painless.

But Adleta doesn’t murder me.

At least not yet.

“What do people say?” he asks.

Wheeler says, “That you have anger-management issues that would make the Hulk jealous.”

“Is that so?”

“Sorry, dude. It’s the truth.”

Last year during the state lacrosse regional semifinals, Adleta, doing his best impersonation of his father, screamed at a ref and got thrown out of the game. The team was already playing shorthanded, and losing him sealed their fate. I didn’t see the game, but supposedly, his dad had to be restrained by security from murdering the ref, then Tim.

“Why does getting thrown out of a game make me an easy target?” Adleta says.

“Because when you feel powerless, you’ll do anything to feel better about yourself.”

Thank you, Psychology 101.

“You may be right, but that’s not why I showed up.”

“Then why did you?” Malone asks.

Tim doesn’t answer; instead, he turns his back and resumes painting the tower.

“So let’s say you’re right, Max,” Ellie says. “What if all of us were chosen because we were easy targets. What are we supposed to do about it?”

It’s all been leading up to this. If you’ve never seen
Ocean’s Eleven
, there’s a scene where Danny Ocean, the group’s mastermind, gets everyone together and pitches the impossible heist of robbing three casinos in one night. I’m no Danny Ocean, but I did watch that scene three times today on my phone in study hall, planning for this moment.
Steal from the best
—that’s my motto. It’s time for Not Max to step up.

“I think we’re all pissed about what happened to us,” I say. “And we should be. We look like idiots up here, and no one’s going to let us forget about that. But I think the Chaos Club messed up. We’re not the type of people to just roll over and take it. I might have been, but I’m not going to be anymore.”

“Me either,” Adleta says.

“Yep,” Wheeler says.

“I agree,” Ellie says.

“So, revenge?” Malone asks.

“No, not just revenge,” I say. “That’s too shortsighted. I don’t want to just get back at the people who pranked us. Anyone could do that.” I throw in a dramatic pause here—the result of watching way too many movies. “What I want is to nuke the Chaos Club out of existence, to be the ones to end their secret society forever.”

Go big, right?

Ellie claps her hands once.

“Excellent!”

“Abso-freakin’-lutely, dude!” Wheeler says.

Even Adleta’s smiling.

And, of course, Malone’s shaking her head no.

“Nice goal. But like you said, we don’t even know who they are.”

“Right, I have a plan for that. But before I get into it, what I’m thinking could get us in a lot of trouble. If I explain everything and someone wants out, that’s cool.”