Don't Get Caught (7 page)

By the time Friday evening finally arrives, I should be exhausted, but the excitement of going out with Ellie has me filled with adrenaline. I do the best
angry and bored grounded kid
I can, slumping around the house with the occasional dramatic sigh while secretly readying for a date without my parents becoming suspicious. This is not as easy as it sounds. It’s hard to act normal when you drop your fork three times at the dinner table because your palms are so sweaty.

At six thirty, I put on a pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. I check the mirror, then switch the hoodie for a navy-blue T-shirt.

Then back to the hoodie.

Then a different pair of jeans.

God, is this what it’s like going on dates?

Am I even allowed to call this a date?

Screw it, I’m calling it a date.

I finally go with my original getup, and for my brilliant idea of the week, I don’t put on shoes or socks because I have to look unprepared.

A few minutes after seven o’clock, Dad calls up to me from downstairs.

My throat’s so dry I can barely get out a “Yeah?”

“You have a visitor.”

I do a quick check in the mirror, combing my hair with my fingers and breath-checking into my cupped hand. Coming down the stairs, I don’t just have a lump in my throat—it’s an entire watermelon.

Ellie’s at the front door saying, “…due Monday and we were supposed to meet after school. It’s twenty percent of our final grade and—”

It’s not hard to see where she’s going with this, so I play along just like I did in Mrs. B’s office after nabbing Stranko’s phone.

“Hey, Ellie.”

My parents move aside, and there, glaring at me, stands Ellie in her black-and-gold Asheville High jacket, a red backpack at her feet.

“Where the heck were you?”

My mouth drops.

“Oh man…”

“I even reminded you after school, Max. You know I’m leaving with the youth group tomorrow morning and won’t be back until late Sunday. How’s this supposed to get done?”

Ellie drops to a knee and begins rifling through her backpack. She’s breathing funny, and Mom and Dad looked concerned, even a bit worried. Ellie’s so good, I’m starting to think I actually did forget to meet her.

“What’s this project, Max?” Dad says.

“It’s a research project comparing Greek philosophers,” I say, improvising. “We’ve worked on it all week in class and were going to meet at the library today after school to finish. I just forgot. Maybe we could ask Watson for an extension on Monday?”

“That won’t work,” Ellie says. “How many times this week did he say ‘Due Monday. No excuses’? My parents are going to kill me.”

“What about finishing online?” Dad asks.

“We’re not allowed to use the Internet,” Ellie says. “Watson wants us doing what he calls ‘old school research’—books, magazines, and newspapers only.”

“We’ll just turn in what we have,” I say. “It should at least get us a C.”

Mom and Dad practically shout, “What?”

“A C stinks, Max,” Ellie says. “My parents don’t accept Cs. They start researching convents to ship me off to when I get a B.”

“We don’t accept Cs either,” Mom says, almost defensively.

Ellie puts her backpack on and says, “Look, I have to go. The library closes in three hours. I just wanted to see why you didn’t show up. And now I know—because you’re selfish. Forget it. I’ll finish by myself.”

And there it is, bobbing like a ripe worm waiting for my parents to bite. Mom’s brow furrows, and I see her looking at me from the corner of her eye, but Dad chomps like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“Get your shoes, Max,” he says. “You’re not going to leave her to do all the work.”

“Unless you forgot your book bag at school too,” Mom says.

“No, I’ve got it.”

“Then go get it. Hurry up.”

I walk, not run, to my room and sit on my bed, trying not to laugh. Or throw up.

Because confession time—I’ve never had a girlfriend.

Or kissed a girl.

Or even had one over to the house.

It’s not that I’m a member of the all-ugly team. It’s just that the girlfriend-getting opportunities have been scarce. Okay, nonexistent. Mom, ever the optimist, tries to comfort me by saying I’m a “late bloomer,” which is parent-speak for, “You are going to die a sad and lonely virgin.”

When I get back downstairs, Ellie says, “I really appreciate this, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. You’re saving my life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but we’re happy to help,” Mom says. “The library closes at ten, right?”

“Yep,” Ellie says. “I’ll have him back right after that.”

Mom and Dad tell us to be careful, and then we’re out the door and heading down the walk, halfway to freedom.

Ellie whispers, “No matter what, don’t look back.”

No problem there.

Once we’re safely inside Ellie’s car, I say, “So you didn’t go with the Crybaby this time?”

“I have more bullets in my gun than that, silly.”

Ellie starts the car, and some terrible boy band song blasts from the speakers. She turns the radio down but not off.

“You look dressed to rob a bank,” I say.

“Maybe next time. Tonight we have a different mission to complete. Ready, Mongoose?”

“Gun it, Puma.”

And with that, Ellie gives a whoop before driving us off into the night.

Located in the old part of town, the Whippy Dip Ice Cream Emporium’s been in business for more than three decades. It was also the spot of my parents’ first date when they were in high school. That’s a bit too creepy of a coincidence for my liking.

Because it’s mid-October and not exactly ice cream weather, the Whippy Dip is deserted. Or
desserted
, as Mr. Watson would proudly say. Still, we can see four workers through the closed Place Your Order Here window. That might seem like overkill, but after the football game’s over—a game that we’ll no doubt lose—there’ll be a tsunami of students in the parking lot.

“You know, heist films say you should work in private as much as possible. I’m pretty sure the Whippy Dip doesn’t count as private,” I say.

“Yeah, but it’s ice cream, Mongoose. Ice cream calls for rule breaking.”

Ellie hums while looking over the massive menu. Me, I have my hands jammed in my pockets, trying to avoid the million and one worst-case scenarios I’ve dreamed up, most of which end with either me puking or Ellie losing a limb. We both order our cones—hers with sprinkles, mine without—and I insist on paying because, dammit, I’m standing by my belief that this is a date and that’s what guys on dates do.

We sit at a nearby bench, where Ellie and I both take out our laptops. She also has a spiral notebook with her and flips through a dozen or so pages already filled with meticulous notes on the files in Stranko’s cloud.

“Wow, you make me feel like a slacker,” I say.

“Why? How much have you read through?”

“Er, only some.”

“Meaning zero. But that’s okay. I’ve been doing it all week during second period while I’m in the office. I have a lot more time than you anyway, with you doing work crew and all.”

The next fifteen minutes are as un-date-like as they can possibly be. Ellie takes notes on files, commenting when she finds something interesting, while I make lame jokes and try to look at her while keeping my head pointed toward my laptop screen. Question: Is it possible to pull an eye muscle?

“Oh, here’s something,” Ellie says. “Look at this.”

I scoot close enough that our hips touch.

The file Ellie’s talking about is named AHS PR Plan, and it’s a bullet-pointed list on how to raise the school’s image in the community and beyond. Most of it’s standard bureaucratic nonsense, like increase the number of National Merit Finalists, offer more AP courses, a Celebrate Asheville festival, etc. But it’s the final item that stands out.

“Did you see this one about the aerial shot of the student body coming up?” I ask. “Have you heard about that?”

“No, why would they want that?”

“Maybe for the website? Or yearbook? I’m not sure.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know, but we’re looking for opportunities, right?”

After another ten minutes of eye straining and file reading, first one, then two and three cars trickle into the parking lot.

“The game must be over,” Ellie says. “Maybe we should get out of here.”

We pack up our stuff and leave the picnic bench. On the way to the car, I text the other three about the aerial photo, figuring maybe one of them can figure out an angle.

“So where to, Mongoose?” Ellie says.

“You’re the driver, Puma.”

“Well, we can either do more research or we can quit for the night.”

The last thing I want to do is more reading, but Not Max certainly doesn’t want to go home. Who knows when I might be out with Ellie again? If there is an
again
.

“Is there a third option?”

Ellie bites her lower lip, thinking it over.

“Do you trust me?”

Like she needs to ask.

• • •

Soon we’re heading back through town, passing the bright lights of the emptying football stadium. Eventually the subdivisions give way to cornfields and—God forbid—actual nature. I have no idea where we’re going and don’t care. Ellie’s singing along to the
Grease
soundtrack, and I join in, not embarrassed at all that I know all the words due to Mom’s addiction to musicals. After ten minutes, Ellie slows and turns onto a small dirt road bordered on both sides by
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted
signs.

“Um.”

“Relax, Mongoose. The coast is clear.”

We follow the road and soon enter a forest I never knew existed. We weave our way up a large hill, the dirt road now nothing but a set of beaten-down tire tracks.

“You’re not taking me here to kill me, are you?”

“Don’t be silly,” Ellie says. “If I were going to kill you, I’d have poisoned your ice cream.”

She pulls into a ditch on the side of the road by a bullet-ridden sign now warning
Trespassers Will Be Shot
.

“Ignore that one too,” Ellie tells me, killing the engine. “Bullets can’t stop Puma and Mongoose tonight.”

I follow Ellie as she hikes up the hill through the trees. It’s so dark, I can barely make out her silhouette in front of me and have to trust in the crinkling leaves to keep up. If she is about to murder me, at least I won’t see it coming. Suddenly, the rustling stops, and Ellie puts her hand in mine. Warm electricity crackles up my arm. Her hand is cool but soft as she pulls me along.

“Close your eyes,” she says. “It’s just up ahead. No peeking.”

I do as I’m told, allowing Ellie to guide me for a dozen or so steps until the ground becomes softer.

“Okay, now you can look.”

I open my eyes and my mouth drops. We’re standing at the edge of a field at the bottom of a large hill. On top, where a full moon is rising, stands a twenty-foot platform with a massive radar dish pointing straight into the sky like a monstrous metal spiderweb. It’s something right out of a painting.

“Wanna race?” Ellie says.

Without waiting for my answer, she blazes away.

Now I understand where the name Puma came from.

Ellie’s freakishly fast, disappearing up the hill and into the night before I can get my legs moving. All I can do is follow the sound of her giggling as she sprints ahead of me, a wild animal unleashed. I do my best to keep up, but it’s useless. By the time I get to the top of the hill, sucking air like I’ve been underwater for two minutes, Ellie is leaning against the ladder, not even breathing hard.

“You should”—pant—“run track.”

“And let it interfere with my international spying gig? No way.”

“We’re not international yet.”

“Give it time, Mongoose. We’re going worldwide.”

Ellie starts up the ladder, and I follow slowly.

“The last time we climbed a ladder, it didn’t work out so well,” I say.

She smiles over her shoulder. “This time’ll be better. I promise.”

The metal is cold on my hands as I scale the platform and approach the radar dish. Ellie crouches at the top, waiting for me beside a mechanism made up of two massive cogs and a hand crank. The dish is inches over our heads. Ellie stands and her top half disappears through a cut-out space in the dish right above her. She works her hands up through the hole, then hoists herself onto the dish, which thrums in response.

“You coming?”

My shoulders are broader than Ellie’s, so I have a harder time squeezing through the space, but soon I’m standing on shaky legs beside her. Above us, the moon is blindingly white and so close that it looks like I can touch it. We stand enjoying the view and the silence. The sky seems impossibly large from here, and I feel smaller than I’ve ever felt.

“Isn’t it like we’re the only people alive?” she says.

“And at the highest point on the planet.”

“My dad says there used to be other dishes here too. One there,” she says, pointing, “and another there.”

“What was it all for?”

“To track satellites at first, then something with mapping the surface of the moon. Once the government sold the land, they tore down the other dishes. I guess they forgot about this one.”

“How did your dad find out about this place?”

“It belongs to someone in our church. He comes here when he needs to think.”

“And you?”

Ellie’s fingers tighten around mine.

“I come when I
don’t
want to think. When the
Slaughterhouse-Five
thing got really bad last year, I came here a lot. I was so angry at everyone—the people calling our house and hanging up, the kids at school saying I was a book burner—that I needed a place where I could just disappear.”

“Has it gotten better?” I ask.

“Better enough. I’ve just gotten used to it, I guess. I still want the Chaos Club to pay though. They made an already-bad situation even worse. Here,” she says, crouching down, “do this.”

Ellie begins crab walking backward to the edge of the dish. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I just follow her lead and am soon lying beside her, holding her hand, our heads on the lip of the dish, staring straight up into a thousand pinpricks of light.

“I feel like I could fall up,” I say.

“Or just disappear.”

“That’d be even better.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “So do you like it?”

“It’s awesome. Thanks for bringing me here.”

“I’m glad to share it,” she says. “I thought you could use something special. Whenever I feel lonely, this is where I come. It always makes me feel better.”

“When do
you
get lonely?”

“Why does that surprise you? Of course I get lonely. And sad. And moody. I’m not always happy, Max. Who is?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. Everyone thinks they know how everyone else is, but they’re usually wrong. People see what they want to see. It makes everything easier. If they want to think of me as the sweet, happy church girl, that’s fine because I am that way too. It’s just not true all the time.”

Overhead, the flashing red lights of an airliner cross the sky. I should be cold, but Ellie’s hand in mine and her body beside me has me warm enough to stay here all night.

“What are you thinking about?” she says.

“Watson.”

“You’re here thinking about a sixty-year-old guy? You’re weird.”

I can’t help it. Out here in nature, my mind has turned to the
Write Your Name in the Wet Cement of the Universe
banner over Watson’s boards and Just Max/Not Max. Normally, I wouldn’t tell anyone about that, but Ellie’s not just anyone.

“Oh, Just Max isn’t bad,” she says. “He’s nice and sweet and smart. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the Not Max side of you too. We wouldn’t all be leading these dangerous lives if he wasn’t around. Just try not to overthink this. Enjoy being here in this space.”

It isn’t long before a special sort of silence descends. It’s a warm, comfortable quiet that puts me completely at ease. I’m not thinking about the Chaos Club, who I am, or anything. I’m just in the moment and it’s perfect.

“Can we come here again sometime?” I say.

“I’ll have to check my schedule. I’m pretty busy, you know.”

“What with skipping youth group and all.”

“And my job as a phone thief.”

“And eventual toppler of governments.”

We’re looking at each other as we say all this, and I know this is when I’m supposed to kiss her. I’ve also seen enough movies to know not to ask the girl if I can kiss her. The cool guys never do. Girls like confidence, and right now, Not Max is overflowing with confidence.

I lean in and begin to close my eyes…

Oh shit.

Ellie’s eyes aren’t closing. In fact, they’re growing wide with horror the closer I come.

Shit, shit, shit.

Now Ellie’s on her feet and backing away from me, looking mortified.

“I’m sorry, Max,” she says. “I mean, I like you and all but…”

“No, it’s okay,” I say, hoping I fall over the edge and die so I don’t have to think of this moment ever again. “I just thought, uh, you know…”

“It’s just we’re friends, and I don’t want that to mess that up. And right now I don’t want anything that could distract us from our Chaos Club plans. Is that okay? I’m sorry if I made you think this was anything more than just friends. Good friends, Max.”

Well, if we’re good friends, then maybe you can douse me in gasoline and light me on fire so I don’t have to hide in shame the next time I see you.

“I can live with just being friends,” I say, one hundred percent lying. “We’d better get back. It’s probably close to ten.”

• • •

On the return trip to town, Ellie has on the local college station down low, a slow instrumental song all echo-y that would make everything seem like a dream if this wasn’t all nightmare-y. It takes all my self-control not to throw my body from the speeding car.

At quarter past ten, Ellie pulls into my driveway, and I open the door before she’s even in park.

“Max, I’m sorry,” she says before I can escape. “You’re really a sweet guy.”

No, Just Max is a sweet guy. And sweet guys don’t get girls like Ellie Wick.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Unless I can find an Ebola patient to lick.

Inside the house, I head upstairs, where Mom and Dad are in their room, the lights still on. I try to creep by without being heard, but Mom has bionic ears and calls for me to come in. She’s in bed reading, and Dad’s in the bathroom, probably on the iPad, a habit that drives Mom crazy.

“Get your work finished?” she says.

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” I say. “We stopped at Becca Yancey’s for her notes.”

“I’m glad it worked out. She seems nice.”

“Ellie? Yeah, she’s great.” Great at tearing my heart out of my chest and tossing it into a wood chipper. “I’m going to crash,” I say. “It’s been a long week.”

“Okay, sweetie,” Mom says. “Good night.”

I turn, ready to escape into the safety of my room, when she says, “Oh and, Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Research project my ear,” she says. “You owe us an extra day for that. Get some sleep.”

Awesome. First humiliation, now time added on to my sentence. What’s next? A paper cut on my eyeball?

I throw myself onto my bed and stare lifelessly at the knobs on my dresser, wondering how I could’ve been so stupid. That’s what I get for following the lead of fictional characters in unrealistic movies. I’m not sure for how long I stay zombified, but at some point I fall asleep, and I don’t move from that position until my phone buzzes at 2:37 a.m. with a text from Wheeler.