Don't Get Caught(31)

“You guys want to do something?” Wheeler says.

“Like what?” I say.

“I don’t know, something. Does it matter?”

“I would but I can’t,” Adleta says. “Lacrosse conditioning and all.”

“You should just quit,” Wheeler says.

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

Adleta leaves us, and I tell Wheeler I know where we can go, thus independently putting an end to Mom’s I don’t want you hanging out with that Wheeler boy rule. We’re halfway down the hall on our way to freedom when we pass Mr. Watson. He’s like a rock in the middle of a stream, standing still as a river of students floods past him.

“Ah, Mr. Cobb,” he says. “Can I talk with you a moment? Relax, you’re not in trouble.”

Wheeler tells me he’ll wait, and Watson and I step into the doorway of his classroom.

“I just wanted to tell you I’ve noticed a marked difference in you these last couple weeks,” Watson says. “And I mean that in a good way.”

“Um, thanks,” I say.

“There’s no need to thank me. I’ve just noticed how you’ve been carrying yourself differently of late, like you’ve grown up somehow. I see it in class, how you participate more. And in the halls, where you’re talking with more people. I’m not sure what happened to you, but I think it’s a nice change.”

“I didn’t think teachers paid attention to things like that.”

“Let me fill you in on a little secret, Max. Teachers are a lot more aware of things than we let on. Seeing you these last couple of weeks, I’m proud of you.”

I can’t help but smile.

“That’s all I wanted,” Watson says. “Go have fun with your friend.”

? ? ?

Five minutes later, Wheeler and I are pulling out of the parking lot in his cruddy Chevy Concours, a car mostly held together by duct tape and gum. But at least Wheeler has his own car and isn’t stuck having to borrow the mom mobile. Wheeler hauls ass off school property like we’re trying to outrun a nuclear blast, the music pumping so loudly through blown speakers my ears are close to bleeding. Within fifteen minutes, we’re outside of town, pulling off the road onto a bumpy trail that marks the start of Boyd’s property. I have Wheeler park in front of a trailer with a splintered front door and windows covered in thick plastic sheets.

“Your uncle lives in that shit hole?”

“He’s not my real uncle, but no, he mostly lives in the barn.”

We get out of the car and head down the dirt path leading away from the trailer. Weeds grow high on both sides of us, and the faded red barn looms up ahead. The only bright spot, literally, is a fifteen-foot-high metal sculpture resembling a shiny, upside-down pyramid with mannequin arms and legs sticking out in all directions.

“So he’s a serial killer?” Wheeler asks.

“If he is, we’re safe.”

Boyd’s barn is a junkman’s dream. You name it, it’s somewhere inside. Old kitchen appliances, rusted tools, torn furniture, computer keyboards and towers, black-and-white TVs, and rusty farming equipment fill makeshift aisles. The floor is concrete but barely recognizable for all the rope, pieces of sheet metal, and lawn equipment covering it. Everything in the barn goes to his sculptures, which, despite how he lives, sell for outrageous amounts of money. Whatever he does with the money, he apparently doesn’t spend it creating a comfortable living environment.

Music blasts from the back, where Boyd stands with a beer in his hand, staring at Asheville High’s very own Zippy the Eagle statue. Here, away from home, Zippy looks smaller, even fragile, despite standing six feet high with a wingspan covering ten feet. Boyd’s so fully focused on the statue that he doesn’t notice us until we’re only a few feet away. When he finally sees us, he comes over offering a hand.

“So, wait, you’re the one doing the restoration?”

“Yeah, cool, right?” he says. “Mrs. B helped me set it up.”

“Is this what she was talking about when you came to get me at the school that night?”

“Yep, it’s for the big celebration in May. I have until then to get it looking brand-new.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know. A month? Two? That’s what’s nice about dealing with people who don’t know anything about what you really do—you tell them you need it now to get started, and then you can sit on your ass a lot and work when you want to.”

Wheeler clears his throat dramatically, and I introduce him to Boyd.

“You like AC/DC?” Wheeler says, pointing to the speakers playing “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”

“Shit, yeah. When I was eight my dad took me to see them on the Highway to Hell Tour.”

“Oh my God! With Bon Scott?”

“Absolutely. My life was never the same again.”

“How many times have you seen them?”

“Fourteen.”

“Oh my God.”

I’ve made a grievous error. I’ve just introduced Wheeler to himself twenty years down the road. I’m never going to get him out of here.

“Wheeler’s aiming for the lowest GPA in our class,” I say.