Don't Get Caught(21)

It’s flimsy logic and a risk, but I like the addition and tell Malone so.

“Cool, thanks,” she says. “So run a bunch?”

“Absolutely.”

“I have a late shift at the climbing center tonight, but I should be able to get these finished after that.”

I’m still amazed all this is happening. I ask people to do things, and they do it. If I’d known it was this easy, I’d have started speaking up years ago.

“So have you two figured out your pranks yet?” Ellie asks.

“I have an idea percolating,” Malone says. “I just don’t know how to pull it off yet.”

“You’ll come up with something,” Ellie says, then turns to me.

I look at my feet.

“I’ll take that as a no. I’m not worried though. You’re good at planning things like that.”

“Really?”

Ellie cocks her head.

“Are you fishing for compliments, Maxwell Cobb? Okay then, yes, you’re good at plotting. Remember in Mr. Hubbard’s seventh grade history class how our group’s army beat everyone else in that military battle game? That was all because of you. And your Rube Goldberg device in science last year that maneuvered an egg across a table and cracked it into a bowl? Or what about that extra credit assignment you wrote about Gatsby for English? Is that enough evidence for you?”

“All right, I’ll come up with something,” I say.

“Make that something good enough and all your dreams can come true,” she says.

Believe me, I’ve given the reward of a guaranteed yes more thought than the prank itself. I’m not exactly sure what I would do with the prize, but it would definitely be a strong test of my already-questionable morality.

“And even if you don’t win,” Ellie says, “at least make sure you don’t lose. Because remember—dire consequences.”

? ? ?

After school, Adleta, Wheeler, and I serve our first of five work crews, and to get straight to the point—work crew sucks. It’s three hours of humiliation, sweeping the halls while kids deliberately toss garbage in our paths and chipping at crusty toilet bowls with a Spackle knife. Do me a favor and remind me of this day if I ever consider full-time employment in the custodial arts.

The only positive in the experience comes after an hour and a half of slave labor, when Mr. Jessup leads the three of us down a back hallway and through a set of heavy doors into an area marked Restricted. Along the walls are desks stacked three high. A mountain of boxes waits for us at the end of the corridor by the loading dock.

“What are all these?” Wheeler says.

“What the food comes in each week,” Jessup says. “You need to tear the tape off the bottom of each and flatten them for the recycling bin out back.”

“Can we have box cutters or something?” Adleta asks.

Jessup doesn’t even bother replying. He leaves us staring at the mountain of brown boxes, unsure where to start.

“This blows,” Wheeler says.

“No doubt,” Adleta says and kicks at the pile.

In the next ten minutes, we each suffer a dozen paper cuts, and our shirts are soon covered in streaks of blood, like we’re been sprinting through thornbushes.

“Screw this, man,” Wheeler says. “I can’t even feel my fingers anymore. It’s break time.”

We follow Wheeler back down the corridor, where he stops halfway to the door and takes out his phone, opening a map I’ve never seen before.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Wheeler ignores me and uses his shoulder to shove aside a series of desks, moving them just enough to expose a small cubbyhole door in the wall.

“Bingo,” Wheeler says.

“How did you know that was there?” Adleta says, coming forward and moving the desks even farther.

“Stranko’s files. There’s a great map that shows a lot of the older parts of this building that are blocked off or hidden from us.”

“You mean, like secret passages?” I ask, now getting out my phone to see what Wheeler’s talking about.

“Not that cool, no, but there are shortcuts through this building and rooms that are closed off like this one.”

Wheeler drops to his knees and slides a rusty latch on the door that sounds like a cat whose tail is being stepped on. The door opens with an equally painful shrieking noise, and Wheeler crawls through, disappearing into the dark.

“What do you think?” I say to Adleta.

“I think…uh-oh,” Adleta says.

I turn, and coming our way is Becca Yancey.

Becca is a junior like us and could easily be class president, but she’s too busy saving the world through organizing blood drives and raising money for leukemia victims. She also wears the Zippy mascot costume at every home football and basketball game, not that it helps us win. Right now, she’s carrying a green recycling bin filled to the top with plastic bottles. If the rumor’s true that she’s moving at the end of the school year, I’m not sure who will fill her place. Is Gandhi still alive?

“Hey, Becca,” Adleta says.

“Hi, guys. Find anything good?”

“Just goofing off,” Adleta says. “Work crew and all.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Funny.”