Don't Get Caught(13)

“What if we get caught?”

“Then we do what you should do whenever you get busted,” Wheeler said. “We lie our asses off.”

I don’t mind Malone’s concerns. In fact, I appreciate them. The more I’m around her, the more I depend on her skepticism. Every heist crew needs someone to point out the weaknesses in a plan. Malone’s perfect for that. She’s also tech-savvy, a brilliant artist, and athletic as hell. A jack-of-all-trades really. Or more like a jill-of-all-trades.

A heist can go wrong for any number of reasons, the worst of which is the double cross. You can just never be sure if everyone is really on your side or if they’re working an angle. I don’t necessarily think anyone in my crew is behind the setup at the water tower, but the hint of doubt is there. Still, why would someone set us up to get busted and include him or herself in the busting? It makes no sense.

However, if one of the crew did it, my bet is on Adleta. He’s the one I know the least. If he’s setting us up for an even bigger fall than the water tower, the Stranko Caper is the perfect time for a double cross. But Heist Rule #10 is Trust your crew, so that’s what Not Max is going to do.

We picked Monday for our heist because that’s the school day where everyone, even the administration, just slogs through until the final bell. At the time I was excited, but now it’s nausea city. Reality sucks that way. But I’m not going to back down and hide in the theater again like I did the day after the water tower. Not that I could put a stop to our plan if I wanted to. Everyone’s in position. The pin’s pulled and the grenade heaved. All I can do is try not to get my head blown off.

On stage, Stranko reads something on his phone, then places it on the table beside him before returning to his surveillance. In a lot of ways, thinking of him as a prison guard is dead-on. The entire building is a prison, with the staff as guards, students as prisoners, and rules that dictate when we can stand up and leave, talk, and even go to the bathroom. The school even has security cameras, which are positioned in all corners of the cafeteria. I’ve seen the room with the video monitors though, and I’m not as worried as I might be in a newer school. The monitors here are in black and white and the images blurry, like it may be the first security system ever created—maybe used back in the Garden of Eden where God watched a grainy image of Eve heisting that apple.

Then, right on cue at 11:45, Crybaby, sitting at her usual table near the front of the cafeteria, pushes her tray aside and puts her head down in her arms.

Step One, the Split, has begun.

? ? ?

Crybaby’s friend, Vickie, is the first to notice the weeping and puts a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, leaning in to check on her. Crybaby goes for the Academy Award then, shoving away her friend’s hand and now quaking, refusing to lift her head. It isn’t long before three girls are rubbing Crybaby’s shoulders, begging her to tell them what’s wrong. And still she refuses to lift her head.

It’s beautiful.

Ellie was right—all those skits she was forced to perform in front of the church honed her acting chops. She could make a killing as a professional grifter.

Vickie, panicking now, searches the cafeteria for help, and her eyes fall on Mrs. B and Stranko at their posts on the stage. She runs to Mrs. B—no girl would ever go to Stranko with an obviously girl-related problem—who wastes no time hurrying to Crybaby.

Others in the cafeteria notice the drama at this point and watch as Mrs. Barber convinces Crybaby, her face scarlet and tearstained, to accompany her to the office. The two leave the cafeteria, successfully splitting up Mrs. B and Stranko, who’s about to fall victim to: Step Two: the Diversion.

? ? ?

Fake it till you feel it.

That’s what I tell myself as I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

Then I step into the cafeteria holding over my head Stranko’s greatest possession: the lacrosse state championship trophy. Stranko doesn’t have any children, but if he did, I’m pretty sure he’d save the trophy first if there were a fire. He carts that stupid thing out at every start-of-the-year meeting as an example of Asheville’s excellence. Only ten minutes earlier I waltzed into Stranko’s coaching office in the athletic wing and took the trophy I now hold high over my head.

There’s no turning back.

I’m on a suicide mission as I approach the first set of tables while trying to remain calm. Which is impossible. Every step I take is one step closer to the complete batshit chaos that we’ve planned. I weave my way toward Stranko at the front of the stage, a few heads turning toward me but no one important. My throat gets drier with each step because I’m about to find out Adleta’s real intentions. If he really is working with the Chaos Club, he’ll screw this up on purpose. If that happens, there’s a good chance I’ll spend the next year being traded for cigarettes in jail.

I’m watching the lacrosse table, waiting, when Goon, right on cue, stands up, points, and shouts, “What the hell?”

The team members jerk their heads my way, and I’m filled with complete crap-your-pants fear when I see the menace in their eyes. But none of it matches the pure hatred on Goon’s face. He’s on his feet, stalking toward me, fists at his sides and the rest of the team following, hungry to tear my head off for daring to touch the symbol of the lacrosse team’s dominance.

I never should have trusted him.