Don't Get Caught(20)

This is what we’re up against.

“Awesome,” the guy next to me says.

I can’t argue with that.

“Hey, you’re one of those Water Tower Five idiots, right?” he says.

I can’t argue with that either.

Fifty yards down the sidewalk, Mrs. B, Stranko, and Officer Hale look up at the distraught cows, probably discussing how to get them down. Mrs. B has a small smile as she assesses the situation. But Stranko looks biblically constipated as he watches, and then unconsciously, pointlessly, reaches to his hip for the cell phone that isn’t there.

Heh, heh, heh.

In Watson’s first-period philosophy class, we have prime seats for the cow show. Having taught since before the wheel was invented, Watson knows we’re useless until the cows are rescued, so he keeps the blinds open so we can watch. Watson’s at his desk, wearing sandals, baggy pants that haven’t been washed since the ’90s, and an untucked short-sleeved shirt with a coffee stain on the stomach. All teachers at Asheville are required to wear dress pants and a shirt with the school mascot on it, but I guess when you’ve taught for more than thirty years, rules don’t mean that much. Talking with Watson is Jeff Benz, Watson’s senior aide. Students go all Hunger Games to become Watson’s aide because it means doing little more than goofing off and joking with Watson.

Everyone watches as two trucks—one hauling a long metal ramp, and the other with an attached trailer—arrive out front. The ramp is extended to the roof, and two agitated men in cowboy boots ascend the ramp.

Watson says, “Jeff, do you know what it would be called if those cows all suddenly jumped off the roof?”

“Why no, Mr. Watson,” Jeff says. “What would it be called if all the cows jumped?”

“Mooicide.”

Groans fills the room.

“Don’t mind me,” Watson says. “I’m just milking the situation for your entertainment.”

For the next thirty minutes, we witness the Great Cow Rescue until the men finally coax the animals down the ramp. Once on the ground, they’re led past the Zippy the Eagle statue, an Asheville High landmark that the school paper recently reported will be removed for renovation. It’s a good thing too. After years of numerous neon paint jobs and even the welding of a mauled metal squirrel into his beak, Zippy’s just plain trashy looking.

Ellie and Malone are in this class with me, but we’ve all agreed it’s best to play it cool. There’s no reason to give people suspicions about who’s behind the hell we’re hoping to unleash. But speaking of hell, Libby Heckman’s in here too. She sits three rows over from Malone and has spent the year giving her a death glare. But Malone pays Libby zero attention, something that only intensifies Libby’s hate-generated stare. The fact that room is still standing is a miracle.

“Mr. Watson?” Tami Cantor says. “Do you get pissed when things like this happen?”

“You’re asking if I get mad cow disease?” Watson says.

“Come on, I’m being serious. Don’t interruptions like this bother you?”

“Well, if you’ve been paying attention, Ms. Cantor, you’d realize I’m all for the tearing down of symbols and making your mark in the world.”

“Sort of like that right there?”

“Exactly,” Watson says pointing to the Write Your Name in the Wet Cement of the Universe banner over the board. “Learn it. Know it. Live it. The Chaos Club may live up to its name, but I think it’s good for a system to be shaken up at times. Of course, if you repeat that, I’ll deny ever having said it.”

With five minutes remaining in the period, the trailer gate is closed as the last cow disappears inside. Cheers erupt in our classroom and throughout the rest of the building.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve herd that much enthusiasm,” Watson says to Benz, loud enough for all of us to hear. “It’s hard to have a beef with their interest though.”

“Okay, but cud you ask them to stop?”

Over our groans, Jess Galley says, “Have the two of you have been thinking up cow puns the entire time?”

“You are udderly correct,” Watson says.

? ? ?

On the way to second period, Malone sidles up to me, with Ellie following closely behind. Malone has us follow her to an empty locker bay, where she pulls a black Chaos Club card from her book bag.

“How did you do this so fast?” I ask.

“It didn’t take too long, not once I found the right font. And we have a great laser printer at home,” she says.

“How many did you make?”

“Just this prototype for now. I wanted to make sure it was okay before I printed more.”

I look around to make sure no one can see us, then examine the card more closely.

“It’s perfect. Looks exactly like the real ones.”

“With one small addition,” Malone says.

She points to a small white ink drop in the bottom left-hand corner. It takes me holding it inches from my eyes to see what it really is: a small water tower icon with a miniscule 5 on it.

“You know, sort of an extra f-you to the Chaos Club,” Malone says.

“You don’t think they’ll notice?”

“Who cares if the Chaos Club notices? What are they going to do, prank us again? And if Stranko sees the change, he’ll first have to figure out what it means, and even if he does, it’s a long shot he connects it to us.”