The Quick Fix (11 page)

The bell rang. Kids filtered into their classrooms. For a moment, I considered doing the same. I had enough heat on me from classmates … I didn't need to add any from
teachers. But I had a feeling if I let Will go, I'd be letting the first real lead of this case slip right through my fingers.

I caught up to him two hallways later, in a section that led right into a stairwell. There were lockers there but no classrooms. I ducked back around the corner without him seeing me. I could hear his sneakers squeak as he paced. When I heard his steps moving away from me, I snuck a peek. He was walking with his head down, staring at the floor. I heard footsteps echoing through the stairwell at the end of the hall. Will stopped short with a loud squeak. I wasn't sure if it was because of the footsteps on the stairs or because he had spotted me. I held my breath.

“Pete,” he said.

From the other end of hall, I heard “Will.” The voice belonged to Peter Kuhn, ex-teammate and former tandem superstar on the Franklin Middle School basketball team.

Last winter, the basketball team had been piling up wins, rolling along unbeaten and seemingly unbeatable. Most schools had one player that no one could handle; the Frank had two: Will Atkins and Peter Kuhn. Will had sprouted at an early age and could dominate the low post. Peter hadn't sprouted at all. He was small but wiry, fast, and agile. His court vision was incredible, and he made a
lot of passes that looked like optical illusions. He was also deadly from fifteen feet. This presented other teams with a whole host of problems. Have the defense collapse on Will, and Pete would kill you from the outside; contest Pete too much on the perimeter, and he'd just pump it inside to Will. Neither of them was selfish; all they wanted to do was win. And they did … until it all fell apart.

There were only five games left in the regular season, and talk had already turned to the state championship tournament. Our involvement was considered a given. The only question was whether we'd run the table or not. Because of Will and Pete, the prevailing opinion was that we would. It was assumed that we'd sweep our last five games and head into the tournament undefeated, the clear favorites to win it all. We were at home, facing Carver Middle School, a cream-puff team. Everyone was already talking about our next game, which was against Colgate, the only team that could possibly provide a challenge to our undefeated season. As so often happens when you're looking too far in front of you, someone creeps up from behind and whacks you in the head.

About five plays into the Carver game, everyone knew something was wrong. Pete wasn't passing to Will. Carver's
best defender was covering Pete, which meant that Will was completely open, but Pete refused to pass to him. At first, everyone thought it was a strategy, that our team knew that Carver was planning something to combat Will on the inside … all they had to do was trick Pete into passing to him and we'd fall into their trap. But then we'd look at our coach, who was trying frantically to get Pete to pass to Will. Pete wouldn't do it. Instead, he'd pass to Charlie Hutchins, who would promptly turn it over. Or he'd hoist up an off-balance three with a hand or two in his face. When Carver figured out that this wasn't some scheme, they pulled their guy off Will and started double-teaming Pete, forcing turnovers, getting him to make bad passes or off-balance shots.

Will still scored twenty that game, but most of them were on put-backs or the result of hustling after the latest air ball that Pete threw up. It wasn't enough. Carver won by fifteen. Everyone was stunned as they filed out of the gym that day, the same question on everyone's lips: What the heck was up with Pete?

Shortly after the Carver debacle, several kids saw Pete talking to Vinny Biggs. Actually, it was more like arguing. A rumor started to spread: Pete was in with Vinny and had
thrown the game. Because Carver was a heavy underdog, the payoff would've been substantial. There was no hard evidence, but it was the best explanation for Pete's performance. People couldn't believe it. Not
Pete.

Then came the disclosure of Pete's addiction to Pixy Stix, followed rapidly by the revelation that he was stealing cameras from his classmates to pay for that addiction, and suddenly the idea that Pete would throw a game for a big payoff didn't seem so far-fetched.

The basketball team had earlier proved to be a unifying force in a school that was becoming more and more fractured, but all of that was getting wiped out as news about Pete spread. Kids were losing hope that there was anything left at the Frank not tainted by corruption.

Pete rode the pine for the next game. The official word was that he had a pulled hamstring. It might have been more believable if he actually had a limp. That was the Colgate game. Will was able to keep it close. He put up thirty in a losing effort, almost all of it against a fierce double-team. After the game, Pete was thrown off the team. He'd been a mess ever since.

Will fought valiantly for the rest of the season, and
he got his points every game. The problem was that he was surrounded by subpar players. Teams let him score his points, but they didn't let him beat them. We won just two out of the last five games. It was enough to get into the State Tournament. It was also enough to give teams a glimpse of how to beat us. We got bounced in the first round.

The losing didn't affect Will's popularity, though. If anything, it made him even more popular than before. Kids looked up to him. When faced with an impossible task, he wouldn't quit. It's not an exaggeration to say that Will kept hope alive at the Frank; in fact, that might not be giving him enough credit.

When we started the new season, everyone soon realized that the team finally had some decent players to back Will up. Some kids came back taller and more coordinated. There was even a sixth grader who was a hotshot point guard with slick moves, reminiscent of a young Pete. Hope had been restored.

I stole another quick peek around the corner. Will had his back to me. Pete was at the other end of the hallway, facing me. His eyes drifted past Will, but I couldn't tell if he saw
me or was just having a hard time focusing. I ducked back.

“What did you give me to hold?” Will yelled.

“What do you mean?”

“What was in the box?”

“Box?” Pete asked. “It was a decorative piece of wood, worth a lot of money. My grand—”

I heard something slam into a locker; by the sound of it, I guessed it was Pete. “Stop lying to me!” Will yelled. “I swear to God, Pete, I still care about you. We were close, man … like brothers … But I will kill you. Don't think I won't. Melissa got put in the Outs because I trusted you! Now tell me what was in the damn box!”

“I need a little Stix, man … just a little …”

“Tell me what was in the box!”

“I need some Stix … give me some Stix and I'll tell you …” Pete's tone had changed. His breathing was shallower; his voice was oily with desperation. “Just one, brother … come on …”

Will sighed. “What happened to you?” His voice was filled with frustration and pity.

“What happened?” Pete asked. “What
happened
? Don't pretend like you don't know!”

“Shut up.”

“NO!
You
don't tell
me
to shut up!” he cried, like a little boy throwing a tantrum. “You hear me? You lost that right! Got it?”

“You're pathetic.”

“Yeah, I'm pathetic! That's right, Peter Kuhn is a damn pity case, but Will Atkins, hoo, boy! Will is a frickin' hero! That's the word around school! Have you heard? 'Cause I've heard it! I hear it every damn day!”

There were sounds of a scuffle.

“Tell me what you gave me to hold!” Will spit out through gritted teeth.

“It
was
a box. All right, I admit it. You happy?” Pete cried. “Go ahead and guess what was in it. Go ahead. Three guesses, and then I'll tell you. You want a hint?”

“You little scumba—”

“You want a hint? Here … I'll give you a hint. It's worth a lot of money to a lot of different people. Some of them want to pay to make it disappear. And some … well, some want to pay to—”

“That's enough,” Will said. There were sounds like someone was shaking a shirt that had just come out of
the dryer. “I'm through with you, Pete. You hear me? Through.”

“Oh,
you're
through with
me
?” Pete said. “No, no …
I'm
through with
yo
— Hey! Ow! OW!”

Will was doing something to Pete, but I didn't want to blow my cover by looking. Whatever it was, it sounded painful.

“If I go down,
you're
going to take the heat,” Will said. “All of it. You think it was bad before?”

“They won't— Nobody will—”

“Oh, no? Why? Who are they going to believe: Me? Or some burned-out Stixer like you? You're an ugly footnote to this school's history. That's
it
. And the only thing you'll have to worry about is what'll happen first: you getting thrown out of school or Vinny Biggs putting you in the Outs.”

There was a pause. Even the sounds of the struggle stopped. “I knew you were crazy,” Will said, “but I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try and blackmail Vinny.”

“Blackmail Vinny? What the hell are you talking about?”

“That's it. Play dumb. And while you're at it, you might as well play sick, too,” Will said. “Maybe take a few
days off … like a hundred and sixty …” I heard the meaty sound of two bodies colliding, followed by the metallic
bang!
of one of those bodies hitting a locker.

Then the squeak of Will's sneakers echoed through the stairwell as he walked away.

I peeked around the corner. Pete was sitting on the floor with his back against a locker. His knees were up, with his elbows resting on them. His eyes were closed, and he was wiping his face with the palms of his hands, over and over and over again. Then he stopped, his hands still covering his face. He sat there for a minute, then lifted his head up. I ducked around the corner before he could see me.

I heard him root around in his pockets, then pull something out. From the sound of it, it was his cell phone. I heard him punch in some numbers.

“Yeah, it's me,” he said. “So, uh … you … uh … you got any Stix?”

There was a pause.

“No, man … You know I'm broke. Come on! I was hoping you could—”

Another pause.

“No … My birthday's not for another three months.”
There wasn't just a note of desperation in his voice; there was a whole symphony. “Come on, man! You didn't even know that picture existed before I told you!”

My ears perked up.
Picture
.

“Yeah, but what you gave me wasn't enough!”

I could hear yelling coming from the other end of the phone, but I was too far away to hear who it was or what was being said.

“I can't! I don't have it anymore!” Pete yelled back in a loud whisper.

More yelling from the phone.

“I don't know who has it now! You're the ones who took out Melissa … and I didn't even know she had it!”

The Thompsons.

“I told you, I don't know who has it now,” Pete whined. “I just— I want some Stix. Come on … just give me a … just a taste and I'll … I swear, I'll— Hello? Hello?!?” His phone clattered to the floor. I heard him make a sound in his throat, full of frustration and helplessness. It was more animal than human.

He picked up his phone and started tapping on the keys. Judging by the number of taps, he was texting someone this time. Then he stopped. I thought he might leave, but he didn't; he just sat there, waiting.

I sat waiting, too. There was no point in trying to follow Will at this point. I'd have to pass Pete to do it. Plus, it seemed that the action had shifted from Will to Pete.

After only a couple of minutes, a set of footsteps echoed through the stairwell, then stopped echoing as they entered the hallway. “What do you want?” came a voice, strong, authoritative, feminine, and unmistakable.

“I'm in trouble,” Pete whimpered. “I need help.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Please don't do
this
.”

“Don't do what?” she asked. “Come running every time you call? I already did that. Apparently, I'll always do that, no matter what my better judgment tells me.”

“I need your help!”

“I can't, Pete. I can't. Because here's what happens every single time: First you take my help. And you promise you're going to change. Then you end up on another sugar jag, and then
I
end up cleaning up the mess.”

“Would you just listen? I need help getting something back that belongs to me.”

The girl let out a long sigh. “What is it?” she asked in a voice that didn't want to ask, but did so out of force of habit.

“I can't tell you. You have to trust me.”

Her laugh was short and sharp, like a bark from an unfriendly dog. “You make it easy to say no.”

“Please?” he pleaded.

“You're kidding, right? Trust you?” she yelled. There was a pause, then she continued, but much quieter. “After everything you've done to me? After everything you've done to yourself?”

“What about what we had? What we still feel for each other?”

“You slimy, little—” She stopped herself before she filled in that space. “I have to go. I shouldn't even be talking to you.”

“We liked each other!” he cried.

“I'll give you one deal. That's it.”

“Anything …”

“Tell me what it's about,” she said. “Official. On the record.”

“Anything but that,” he mumbled.

“Then I can't help you.” I could hear her sniffle as she started walking away.