Don't Get Caught(37)

“Subtle,” I say.

“Awesome, right?”

While Mrs. Hansen inflates the balloon, two students grip the metal ring at its base so the balloon doesn’t prematurely go off.

(Side note: prematurely going off is one of my biggest fears.) Mrs. Hansen says, “And what are we filling Larry with, everyone?”

“Helium,” Wheeler says.

We all gawk at Wheeler, who’s just volunteered his first correct answer in two and a half years of high school.

“But why not hydrogen, Dave?” Hansen says. “Wouldn’t that work just as well for Larry?”

“Because the reading last night said hydrogen’s too volatile. The Hindenburg was filled with hydrogen.”

“It was, Dave, and there’s no need to kill Larry before he’s fulfilled his destiny. His death is coming soon enough.”

“Why is he named Larry?” someone asks.

“After my soon-to-be ex-husband,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Sending him into space has long been a dream of mine.”

If all goes according to plan, Larry will rise into the air carrying a small camera mounted inside an orange protective case to record the flight. At around ninety thousand feet, Larry—poor, corpulent, unsuspecting Larry—will burst from the atmospheric pressure, sending the case plummeting to the earth until its parachute engages. Hansen plans on tracking the GPS signal inside the camera after school, and on Monday we’ll watch the footage. It’s awesomeness like this that is precisely why everyone signs up for Weird Science.

“This is safe for birds, right?” Becca asks.

“Unless there’s a pterodactyl up there big enough to swallow this, then yes, Becca, no birds will be harmed.”

“But what will happen to Larry after? Are you going to recycle him?”

Hansen starts to answer, but Wheeler does it for her.

“Weren’t you listening yesterday? She’ll bring the balloon back Monday so we can inspect the remains. Sheesh.”

Whoever kidnapped Wheeler and replaced him with this Wheeler-bot will pay dearly.

After double-checking that the camera and GPS are working and after another review session of FAA regulations and the earth’s atmosphere just to drive home that this is an educational experiment, we do an enthusiastic countdown. At zero, Larry the Balloon lifts into the early November sky at more than thirty miles per hour with the orange case dangling from its base. It’s a holy moment with no one speaking as Larry grows smaller and smaller before finally disappearing into the clouds.

“Godspeed, John Glenn,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Does anyone know that allusion?”

“It’s what they said to John Glenn as he lifted off into space. It was in the extra credit reading,” Wheeler says.

“Okay, man,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Who are you and what did you do with Dave Wheeler?”

“Dude, I like astronauts. Sue me. Haven’t you ever seen The Right Stuff?”

On the way back to building, Wheeler’s beside Hansen, asking questions and behaving like, well, a real student. The bell rings as we hit the inside of the building, but instead of going to lunch, Wheeler peels off toward the media center. I watch through the window as he takes a seat in the back and opens up an Algebra I book. He doesn’t even notice me until I sit down across from him.

“What in the hell is going on with you?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this,” I say, poking at the math book. “You’ve never opened a textbook in your life.”

“That’s not true. I used to look at my health book all the time last year.”

“Because of the vagina diagram.”

“Man, that was a great picture.”

“It was, yeah, but come on. You know what I’m talking about.”

Wheeler puts down his pencil and digs into his backpack. Shockingly, there are other textbooks in there. And folders. Honest-to-God folders. From one of them, he pulls a sheet of paper and hands it to me. It’s his school transcript, filled with line after line of Ds and Fs for both freshman and sophomore year. By the time he graduates, projected to be by his thirtieth birthday, Wheeler’s transcript will be a meme used to scare children into studying harder.

“Do you see it?” Wheeler asks.

I don’t.

“Look at my class rank.”

At the bottom of the page in the class-rank box, 508/509 is printed.

“Who’s dead last?” I ask.

“Joe Vogelsang.”

Ah, him. A year ago, Joe drank an entire bottle of Crown Royal when his parents were out of town, then took their car for a joyride. One ignored red light and two paralyzed people later, Joe’s now awaiting trial.

“I can’t beat him,” Wheeler says. “He’s still a student here and not doing any of his work, so I can’t beat him for the lowest rank. At least until he’s convicted and officially removed from the school roster.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Number two’s good enough for me, man,” Wheeler says. “I proved I can be the worst—at least the worst of the nonfelons—so now it’s time for the dramatic turnaround. Let’s see how good at this I can be. Who knows, maybe my brothers were onto something with the whole studying thing. Besides, you heard Malone the other day. Imagine what I could do if I really tried. None of this is that hard. I just have to do it. And seriously, who wants to end up living in a stupid barn like your uncle? I mean, yeah, he has money and stuff, but the guy’s pretty much a loser. No offense.”