The Quick Fix (4 page)

“Timothy Thompson,” I said. “You handsome devil! When's your book on beauty tips coming out?”

His sneer widened, showing a little more of his corn-colored teeth, but he didn't say anything.

His sister, Tina Thompson, came sauntering toward me. “Matthew Stevens,” she said, dragging out every syllable.

Tim and Tina were fraternal twins who were sure that nature had made a mistake by not making them identical, so they tried to correct it. They wore the same clothes and
the same shoes, and had the same black hair (his was dyed), cut in the same short, head-hugging manner. If it wasn't for the fact that they looked nothing alike, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart. They were twice as creepy as they looked and four times as shady.

In some ways, they were like me: kids who didn't have any allegiance to any group. The difference was that I liked to think I had some morals … maybe even a little bit of honor. The Thompsons were ruthless. They wanted money, and a lot of it. And they didn't give a damn how they got it.

“Tina,” I said. “Tell your brother he can hug me all he wants, but pretty soon I'm going to start charging him.”

“I think he heard you just fine,” she said. Tim squeezed my throat a little to show me that he had. “We have a job offer for you,” she continued, “and we want to make sure we have your attention.”

“Do you always rough up your potential employees?” I asked.

She stopped to think. “You know, we've never had employ
ees
before … only employ
ers.
You treat people so much better when they give you money, don't you think?”

“Are we going someplace specific,” I asked, “or are we
just going to wander around all day, waiting for one of you to say something witty?”

Tina looked at me. Her face was twitching. It took me a minute to realize that she was trying to look sad. “We lost something,” she finally said. “And we'd like you to find it for us.”

“If it's your individual identities, I think you're out of luck. Nobody's seen those in years.”

Tim squeezed my throat again. I thought about biting his arm, but I didn't want to risk catching any diseases. His sister put her hand up. Tim loosened his grip.

“It's a piece of wood with a pretty design carved into it,” Tina said.

I clenched my jaw and tried not to blink.

“Our grandfather gave it to us,” she continued. “Right before he died, and … well, we do miss him so.” She started to cry, but apparently her tears were the kind that evaporated on contact with oxygen. “We can't understand why anyone would want to take it from us, seeing as it has absolutely no value except for sentimental.” Her breath hitched, and she cut off the flow of invisible tears.

“Someone took it from you?” I asked. “I thought you said it was lost.”

“It is. We suspect it may have been stolen, though.”

“What makes you suspect that?”

She looked at her brother, who gave her a subtle headshake. “I really don't feel comfortable talking about it until we have an agreement,” she said. “Will you help us, Matt? Please?” She tried to make a sympathetic face, but all she could muster was one of hunger and desperation, with a little bit of disgust for having said the word “please.”

“Sorry. I'm in the middle of a couple of things right now.” I reached up and grabbed Tim's forearm with both hands, then twisted my hands in opposite directions. “Rope burn!” I yelled, apparently unable to contain myself.

“Gah!” he shouted, and let go of me. I took hold of the front of his shirt with my left hand, and cocked my right in the ready position. His eyes went wide, anticipating impact.

Then I heard the squirt gun click in front of me. It sounded like a big one. I looked up. It was.

“Thank you for your time, Matt,” Tina said. “Come along, Tim.”

I let go of Tim's shirt, giving him a little push as a good-bye. He gave me a sneer for the road, then walked toward his sister. Tina pulled a couple of thin, brightly
colored objects out of her back pocket. She tossed them to me; they landed at my feet. They looked like straws in homemade wrappers. “If you happen to come across our memento,” she said, “reward is in the
triple
digits.”

She held out her arm. Tim took it. They walked off without looking back.

I waited until they had disappeared before I bent down and picked up the straws at my feet. They were Pixy Stix … containing the Thompsons' own special blend. There was a phone number printed on the side of the wrapper.

I tore one open, dabbed my pinkie finger into the powder, then put the powder onto my tongue. My head almost exploded. It was pure sugar, but with hints of watermelon, strawberry, and bubblegum. It was easy to see how someone could get addicted.

I threw the opened straw in the trash, then put the unopened one in my pocket and started running toward the gym. I had to get to Melissa.

girl who answered the practice room door stared at me with a look that was teetering between curiosity and annoyance. Her name was Cynthia Shea, and she was the head cheerleader. “May I help you?” she asked at last.

Behind her, I could hear the sounds of cheerleaders warming up. I tried to get a glimpse of Melissa, but Cynthia had only opened the door wide enough for her face to peek out.

It was a flawless face. Dark and smooth, it was the kind of face you could stare at for hours, even if it meant
you'd be labeled “the creepy kid who stares at girls' faces for hours.” Her curly black hair was pulled through an elastic that looked overmatched. I knew how it felt.

“I need to talk to Melissa Scott,” I said.

Her smile was stiff and polite. “I'm sorry. We're a little busy right now. You can talk to her—”

“It's important.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Lots of things are important,” she said.

I waited for her to say something else, but she didn't.

“I need to talk to her,” I said. “It'll only take a minute.”

“Okay, listen …” She paused so that I could fill in my name.

“Matt,” I said, as my ego took one on the chin.

“Matt,” she repeated. “We don't have a minute. The game starts in five, and we need—”

“Look, forget your stupid game!” I yelled, then immediately regretted it. The volume of the practice sounds behind Cynthia took a noticeable dip. The last thing I wanted to do was to draw attention to myself or the fact that I was trying to get in contact with Melissa. So what had I done? I had yelled at the head cheerleader and caused a scene in front of the entire squad. The smoooooth Matt Stevens strikes again.

A cheerleader came trotting up behind Cynthia. “You okay, Cyn?”

“Yeah, I've got this. Go run them through the opening routine.”

“Got it.” The cheerleader flitted off to her assignment. Cynthia stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “Listen … Matt,” she said, the annoyance in her voice unmistakable. “I'm sure you believe that whatever it is that you're worked up about is justification for you to yell at me, but I assure you that it isn't.”

“Sorry. Honestly. But I really need to talk to Melissa. Now.”

“I don't think you're hearing me, Matt. That's not going to happen.”

She was drawing a line in the sand, and in order for me to cross it, I was going to have to give up more information than I was comfortable with. I took a deep sigh. “Are you practicing right up to game time?”

“Yes. If you need to talk to her so badly, she'll have some free time a little after tip-off.”

That might be too late
, I thought, but didn't say it. I sighed again. “Fine.” I started to walk away.

“What's this about?” she called after me.

“I just bought a new pair of pom-poms, but I can't get
them to work,” I said, and walked away without waiting for her response.

When I entered the gym, both teams were in their layup lines. The bleachers were already full of kids anxious to cheer Will on to victory.

Even though the team had crashed and burned last year, there was a sense of optimism leading into this season, and almost all of that optimism was centered around Will. He was always the best player on the court, regardless of who the other team was. But there was something else, something beyond his athletic ability that made kids want to show up and support him: He loved the game. It was obvious from the way he played. And he had proved that no matter how much the odds were stacked against him, he would never stop giving his all. Even if his own teammates were clearly on the take, doing everything they could to prevent the team from winning, it didn't matter … He would
never
stop fighting. That kind of determination gave kids hope, and hope in the Frank was rare.

I walked into the gym, scanning the crowd for any sign of Vinny or the Thompsons. Instead, I spotted Liz
Carling. She was sitting at the end of the bleachers, fifth row up from the court. Her foot was dangling off the side. I walked over and stood below her, her foot even with my face. She smiled. “Matt,” she said. “I didn't know you liked basketball.”

“Doesn't everyone at the Frank?”

“Apparently,” she said, looking at the full bleachers. “I could scoot over if you want to sit down.”

I shook my head no, even though there was nothing I wanted more than to sit down next to Liz and forget about everything other than the fact that I was sitting next to Liz. She was Kevin Carling's younger sister, a year behind Kevin and me, but that never mattered. Liz was smarter and savvier than most of the teachers.

Her hair was so black that it was almost blue, and it was cut in a boyish bob that framed her face perfectly. She was wearing a dark purple velvet dress that managed to look fancy and casual at the same time, with black tights and black shoes. She was so cute that you might underestimate her, and that would be your downfall. Liz was a world-ranked chess player. You took her lightly at your own risk.

She and I had been friends forever, but lately our
relationship had drifted into new territory. We'd held hands—and each other—in a way that felt outside the boundaries of “regular” friendship. I had certainly never done either of those things with any of my other friends.

What did it mean? I had no idea, and I liked to think that she didn't, either … but I could never be sure. I always got the feeling that Liz knew something I didn't.

“You're on a job,” she said, this time giving me a quick glance.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Do you want the honest answer or the lying-but-supportive answer?”

“Your choice.”

“Okay … No! It is not obvious that you are on a job,” she said with fake stiffness.

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

“Anytime. No, really.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Anytime.”

The teams were huddling at their respective benches, getting last-second instructions. Will was looking at the coach with an expression of intense focus, as if the coach was revealing the secrets of the universe on his miniature dry-erase board.

The cheerleaders were performing on the sidelines.
They were in two rows, one behind the other. Melissa was in the front row, dead center. She was running through the routine with her eyes closed. Right before the end of the cheer, she opened them, and our eyes locked. She immediately stopped what she was doing and almost got a leg kick in the face from the girl next to her. Cynthia walked over to Melissa and started to give her an earful, but she didn't seem to be listening; her eyes stayed focused on me.

“Melissa Scott is staring at you,” Liz said.

“Is she?”

“Should I be worried?”

I shook my head but didn't say anything.

“Can you talk about it?” she asked, still looking straight ahead.

“Not right now.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

I shook my head again, but it was a slow shake, with a small hitch. To be honest, I wasn't sure if she could help or not; I was just saying no out of habit.