Don't Get Caught(15)

“You sent me a note.”

Both administrators look confused. Mrs. B steps back into her office, saying, “Let’s discuss this in here. Ellie, return to lunch. If you need to talk more, I’m here.”

But Crybaby doesn’t leave.

“Mrs. Barber?” she says. Her voice is so thin and innocent I have a hard time keeping a straight face. “I think I know what Max is talking about.”

Mrs. B sighs and waves Ellie into the office with us. Crybaby and I are on one side of the principal’s desk, with Mrs. B and Stranko on the other.

“Do you want to call your parents first, Max?” Mrs. B asks.

“There’s no reason to. I didn’t do anything. I got a note from him to bring the trophy to the cafeteria.”

“I didn’t send you a note,” Stranko snarls.

“But I have it right here.”

I take the purple office note from my pocket and hand it to Mrs. B.

She reads, “Bring the lacrosse trophy to lunch. I want to teach you something.”

“That’s not my handwriting,” Stranko says. “He forged this.”

Mrs. B gives me a look that says, Well?

I go all Lifetime Movie on them, making my eyes bug out and trying to sound as pathetic as possible when I deliver my scripted line.

“But Mrs. Hansen gave me that note!”

Crybaby had me practice that line, coaching me on how to sound desperate. I don’t dare look at her now because I’ll start laughing.

“So Mrs. Hansen is out to get you? Is that it?” Stranko smirks.

“No, she just—”

“That Mrs. Hansen wanted to get you in trouble?”

“No, but—”

Then, Crybaby, right on cue, “I took the note to her.”

Stranko’s jaw almost drops off his skull.

“Second period,” Crybaby says. “This was one of the notes I delivered that period. It was in with the others. She told me she didn’t have Max until fourth, but when that happens, I just say to give it to him when he shows up. Mrs. Hansen said she would.”

I’d easily pay a thousand dollars for a picture of the shock on Stranko’s face during Crybaby’s explanation. His mouth is open, but nothing’s coming out.

“You didn’t find this note the least bit suspicious, Max?” Mrs. B asks.

“Why would I? It’s an official pass. Besides, I don’t want to get in any more trouble.”

“What would be the point of having you bring me the trophy?” Stranko says.

“I have no idea. Maybe you thought I’d feel some sort of pride if I carried the trophy and I’d join the team.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Because you told me the other day how much I could learn from the lacrosse team.”

This time, I’d pay two thousand dollars for a picture of Stranko’s face.

“I swear I didn’t write that note, Mrs. B,” I said.

This is the truth.

“Do you have any idea who did?”

“No.”

And this is a lie.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. If all is going according to plan, Malone has uploaded the contents of Stranko’s memory card to her computer and Wheeler has the phone back on stage. That’s a lot of ifs.

“Max,” Mrs. Barber starts, “this is the second time you’ve fallen for something like this. There’s a fine line between being legitimately tricked and simply being gullible. Your decisions, especially this one, are well on the side of being gullible. You have to be more careful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

Stranko may have a stroke right in front of me.

“However, it sounds like you and Mr. Adleta caused quite an unnecessary scene, and that can’t be dismissed as easily. What do you think, Mr. Stranko? Does a day of in-school suspension seem fair?”

Stranko shakes his head.

“I want him gone for a week at least.”

“That may be a bit much,” she says. “What about work crew instead? They wrecked part of the school; they’ll clean part of the school. We’ll make the punishment fit the crime.”

“Fine,” he spits. “But we add Dave Wheeler to that list too.”

“That’s fine. And I’ll have to call your parents about this, Max. They are in town this time, right?”

“Yeah, but here,” I say and pull out a pen. “Can I have one of those Post-its?”

On it, I write Mom’s and Dad’s work numbers. Another day of the school calling the unmanned phone in the church nursery is just asking for trouble.

“You can get them at those numbers. They’re usually not home until late.”

“Thank you, Max,” Mrs. B says. “You both can go. Thanks for your help, Ellie.”

“No problem, Mrs. Barber.”

We walk out of the office and into the hall, and it’s only when we’re around the corner that the both of us break into hysterics.

Step Four: the Getaway. Complete.

“The Ocean’s Eleven team couldn’t have done it any smoother,” Ellie says.

“You were quite the actress, Crybaby,” I tell her.

“No, Crybaby was a one-timer. Call me Puma.”