High and Dry (19 page)

In the chaos, I dove under Jeffries's desk and dug through the lost-and-found box. I found the flash drive (which had a sticker of a cartoon character, black, white, and yellow, with four points on its head. I had no idea what the frack it was; if I'd had a hundred years to guess, I wouldn't have come close to guessing it), scrabbled to open Ellie's fleece jacket, and slipped the flash drive inside her inner pocket, the way she'd smuggled Nerds into the movies last night. I zipped it closed and stuffed it back in the box just as Jeffries's feet appeared in my view.

“What are you doing?” said Principal Jeffries.

“Dropped my pens,” I said, standing and straightening up, and showing him a fistful. He winced, and pushed the lost-and-found box farther under his desk.

“Come into the other room, please.” He squinted suspiciously at me and locked the door behind him.

I bobbed my head to the cadence of the march, which was still going on outside. It was sort of catchy. And Danny would be a hero among the art, drama, and band kids for setting it up.

“I misunderstood Fred,” I said. “It's all on me. I thought he called Ms. Daniels an extremely naughty word. Turns out he called her a Bundt cake.” I smacked my forehead. “Inappropriate, sure. But also kind of flattering. For a woman her age. Don't Bundt cakes have nice curves or something?”

Mr. Jeffries and Mrs. Batiglio stared at me.

Civilizations died and were reborn.

“You feel the need to defend the fairer sex, is that it?” Jeffries said. “You like to think of yourself as chivalrous. The last time I saw you in this office you had destroyed another student's property.”

“Right. All due respect, sir, the camera lens was pointed up. Through female legs.”

“Carl claims he was documenting the staircase's water damage from the storm the night before.”

“I scrolled through the pictures before I took action, and the only thing damp was—”

“That's enough! That's two strikes this school year, Mr. Dixon. Three strikes and you're out of soccer. I wouldn't want that, not with tomorrow's game coming up.” He cleared his throat. “Think you'll win against Agua Dulce?”

Jesus, had he placed a bet, too? And was he for or against us?

Mrs. Batiglio rolled her eyes.
Men
.

The rest of the school day I expected to be ambushed by Bridget's partner in crime, hoping it wouldn't be Griffin but knowing, deep down, that it probably was.

I took corners cautiously; I opened my locker slowly; and I sat in the back row in all my classes so no one could sneak up behind me.

I knew I wouldn't be allowed to leave school grounds without someone paying me a not-so-friendly visit. That's why the flash drive was going to be safely carried off campus by Ellie instead, tipped off by now by her brother.

I made it out to the soccer field just in time for Coach to announce a new lineup for Friday's game. Josh and I would both be starting. Josh didn't look at me, but I saw a smirk lift the corner of his lip like an invisible fishhook, and stinking just as much.

It was tough to concentrate on drills. I kept wondering if Ellie had made it home with her jacket okay. After practice, I showered and changed, intending to head straight to Ellie's and fill her in.

However, someone else had other plans for me. He was waiting for me by my car, and he didn't look happy.

BRIDGET'S SILENT PARTNER

“MR. DONOVAN?”

“Charlie. We need to talk.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I removed it.

“About what?”

“I think you know what, Charlie.”

I wasn't crazy about the way he kept saying my name. It wasn't like Maria Posey, who acted like she needed a hazmat suit around me, but it was … overly familiar. Like Mr. D. and I were old pals who joked around in history class, like we had that special student-teacher relationship that only comes around every couple of years. Please. I had nothing against the guy, but I had nothing for him, either.

I thought he was a dupe for not picking up on Ryder's scheme, for believing he was such a gosh-darn inventive teacher that his lessons made a difference in our lives and test scores.

“Suppose you fill me in anyway,” I said. “Pretend I don't know, and we'll go from there.”

“Bridget and I had an arrangement, and she told me you and she had an arrangement. That means we're on the same side.”

It sounded more like a triangle trying to eat itself.

I didn't like being seen after school chatting up a teacher in the parking lot, but I wasn't about to invite him inside my car. Amelia would never forgive me for getting the stench of faculty on her upholstery.

Besides, he was tall, balding, and slight, with wire-rimmed glasses and small hands. I could take him in a fight, no question; I could wipe the floor with his elbow-patch tweed jacket if need be.

“What exactly did Bridget tell you? Because I have it on good authority she lies,” I said.

“Cut the crap, Charlie. Just give me the flash drive. It doesn't belong to you, and you have no right to it. A lot of people are going to be affected, some close to home, and I don't think you've thought this through.”

Holy puke.
Was
it naked photos of Bridget after all? Had Mr. Donovan snapped them?

I shrugged. “I don't have the flash drive.”

A campus security guard appeared on the horizon, walking toward us.

“I'm going to have to ask you to empty your backpack and pockets,” said Mr. Donovan, stepping aside to give me room.

“Everything okay?” said the guard.

“We're about to find out,” said Mr. Donovan. “I've asked Charlie to comply with a quick search. Several students have come to me with rumors that he's carrying a switchblade.”

“A switchblade, really?” I said incredulously. “Is it for the rumble this weekend? Why not a broadsword or nunchucks?”

“Well, those wouldn't fit in your backpack, would they, son?” asked the guard. “Empty your backpack, please.”

Burning, I unzipped my bag and shook it out. Itchy and Scratchy went through each of the bag's pockets and slid their hands through the lining, too. Then they made me empty my jean pockets.

“Are we done here? Am I free to go?” I asked, gathering my notebooks and pencils and shoving them back into my bag.

Mr. Donovan dismissed the security guard to finish his rounds and then sat down beside me as I cleaned up their mess.

“I'm sorry,” he said, sounding weary and defeated. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I shouldn't have done that. It's just—I'm certain if you understood the ramifications of your actions, you'd behave differently. I care about this school. I care about my debate team. I don't know what they'd— It's been too much, these last couple of years, too much to ask of them, and of me. But they deserve to succeed.”

“Do you have, like, a therapist you can talk to?” I said. “Because midlife crises aren't my forte.”

I left him sitting there, alone in the school parking lot, his face in his hands, as I drove away.

THE ANGRY PENGUIN

I DIDN'T HAVE TO DRIVE ALL THE WAY TO ELLIE'S TO TALK TO
her. She was walking her neighbor's decrepit red Labrador on Antelope Drive, halfway between Palm Valley High and her house.

“Walking” was a generous term; Ellie practically had to drag the old dog along on his leash. He kept trying to sit. I knew how he felt. It was that kind of day.

The pooch's real name: Freckles. His temporary name while in Ellie's care, which she swore fit him better and afforded him a higher degree of dignity: Mr. Melanin.

I pulled over slowly so I wouldn't startle her. “Freckles looks beat. Hop in.”

“
Mr. Melanin
needs the exercise. And I need the less-than-minimum wage.”

I shut my car engine off and joined Ellie outside. The dog wagged its tail at me.

“Hi, boy,” I said, patting him on the head. “What's that, boy? You want a less cancery name?”

Ellie refused to take the bait. “I heard the drama kids nailed you with a free-range marching band after second period. How you holding up?”

“Pretty good, considering I orchestrated the whole thing,” I said, and winked at her.

“Sure you did,” she teased. “Who wouldn't want a personalized marching song written and dedicated to their bullying ways?”

“Moi? I'm no bully. It was all part of my plan.”

Thus we entered Phase Three: reel in Ellie as a full partner.

“I needed a distraction in the hallway so I could steal something out of the principal's office,” I added casually.

She gave me her full attention now. “What?”

As we towed our reluctant canine captive up the road, I told her everything that'd happened since Monday. How Bridget had approached me in the library intending to blackmail me but realized you catch more flies with honey; how I'd IM'd with a mysterious entity going by the initials BM; how BM had offered me cash for the drive, and assumed I'd been hired by a girl other than Bridget; how I'd discovered the drive in lost and found but had no way of freeing it; and, last, how Mr. Donovan had practically begged me for the flash drive today after practice.

“Jeez, Charlie. You've been busy. And you still had time to chat me up every night and take me to the movies? I'm flattered.”

“I combined objectives,” I admitted.

“How so?”

“You tell me.”

“I'm lost,” she said. “Does that mean you have the flash drive?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I couldn't stop smiling. I'd been waiting all day for this moment.

Ellie tapped her foot impatiently. “Well, what's on it?”

“No idea.”

“There's cryptic, and then there's annoying.”

“Check the inner pocket of your jacket,” I said.

She did.

Freckles had never been dragged around the block faster.

In the safety of Ellie's bedroom, we fired up Ellie's laptop and prepared to gaze upon the flash drive's contents. Jonathan was hanging around outside, wanting to know what we were up to.

I wasn't in the mood to humor him, but I did my best. “Hey, buddy, can you give us some time alone?” I knew I was being condescending, but Jonathan didn't. He thought I sounded kind. What bothered me about the situation was not the disparity between my feelings and behavior but the fear that I was once the recipient of such hypocrisy without knowing it, either; that every time someone had been kind to me as a child, it was with the same wince or cringe or secret desire to get rid of me that I harbored now. Because in Jonathan I saw my old self. My nerdy, comic-book-reading, eager-to-please, chatty little self, who would've gotten eaten alive at a new school if not for the saving grace of Ryder.

Jonathan was so desperate for us to tolerate his company he even offered to make us snacks. We accepted, in the hopes of keeping him out of our way for the next five minutes.

“Why does the flash drive have a Badtz-Maru sticker on it?” said Ellie, once Jonathan was gone.

“You know what that thing is?” I held up the drive and squinted at it.

“Bad Badtz-Maru.”

“What's a ‘bad Badtz-Maru'?”

“It's a penguin; he's like one of Hello Kitty's underlings.”

“How can you tell? It doesn't even remotely look like a penguin.”

“It's more a feeling,” she laughed. “Anatomical accuracy is not the Sanrio people's strong suit.”

“Oh, come on. Hello Kitty is an excellent depiction of a cat with no mouth, tail, claws, or profile.”

“There's a store at the mall that sells nothing but cutesy shit. I've seen it in there.”

“Is it bored or hostile?” I asked, squinting harder at the sticker.

“I'm pretty sure it's filled with rage. So quit stalling.” She took the flash drive from me.

“I made ants on a log,” said Jonathan, kneeing the door open and balancing a tray with two plates of celery, peanut butter, and raisins.

Oh boy. It was a fourth grader's idea of a snack. That settled it: he
was
going to get eaten alive in high school next year.

“Great, thanks,” said Ellie, showing Jonathan the door. “We'll just be a second.”

We couldn't risk him seeing nudie pics on the drive, if indeed that's what it contained. Ellie shut the door on him.

The drive was titled “M. Salvador. Tests.” Onscreen was a series of files, labeled by date.

We clicked on a recent one, labeled November 1. It was a grainy photograph of a Scantron test. The bubbles had been filled in with a number two pencil, and Maria Salvador's name was printed neatly at the top.

The document labeled November 3 revealed the same test, graded and returned, an A- circled. Viewed side by side, it was clear the bubbles of the two tests were slightly different. The pattern stuck out to the left or right where once it had been centered.

The test had been tampered with. Corrected.

We clicked on other files, other dates. There were a variety of tests, but most of them were Maria Salvador's. They dated from August through November of last fall. One or two other names cropped up, the images slightly blurred this time, as though Maria had taken the photos at a strange angle, on the sly.

She'd been collecting evidence all year. Every once in a while the tests were the same before and after being turned in, but only if the grade was a B+ or higher.

“How'd she take the photos?” Ellie wondered.

“Cell phone?” I suggested.

“In the middle of class? No way.”

“Key chain?” I said. I remembered Maria Salvador clutching a key chain at the hospital, rocking back and forth with it. It was sort of plain and clunky-looking, and she refused to let go of it.

“The Hello Kitty store.” Ellie snapped her fingers. “Same place she got the penguin sticker. They sell novelty key chains with cameras. But who's been changing the tests? Another student?”