Don't Get Caught(42)

“You say that, but it’s become personal.”

“But it is personal, Max. How can it not be? The Chaos Club embarrassed us and has gotten me twice now. People are still slipping Hitler pictures into my locker. The Chaos Club needs to pay for what they’ve done. It’s almost like none of this is real to you because it was a couple months ago.”

“It’s still real,” I say but wonder if maybe she’s right. I can’t remember the last time someone called out, “Water Tower Five!” to me in the hall. And I’m sure not getting Hitler pictures in my locker.

“I’m worried the others are losing interest too,” she says. “It’s like every club here in the school. Have you ever noticed they all sort of die off in the winter, once kids have gone long enough to put it on their college applications? But I think with us it’d be too bad if we gave up. We have something awesome here.”

“Yeah, we should go into business.”

“One step at a time, Mongoose. So come on, will you help me?”

Guilty conscience versus time with Ellie?

No contest.

“I’m in,” I say.

“You don’t sound fully committed.”

“I’ll get there. It’s a good idea you have.”

“Wrong,” Ellie says. “It’s a great idea.”

“Right, a great idea. Let’s do it.”

“Game on!”

Ellie claps hard once and looks so happy I think she might kiss me. Call it horny-teenage-wishful-thinking.

“It’s going to take me a bit to figure out exactly how I want to do this, but I’ll let you know,” Ellie says. “Thanks a ton, Max.”

I figure I’ll just fake it until I feel it. It’s worked so far. Besides, it’s Heist Rule #17: Commit one hundred percent.

But it turns out I don’t need to fake it at all. Commitment suddenly isn’t an issue.

Not after I get to school the next morning.

? ? ?

Like most kids, once I get off the bus and enter the school, I go directly to my locker to get my books for the day. But today that’s easier said than done because Stranko’s standing at my locker bay in front of a line of yellow caution tape. A large group of students laugh and talk excitedly as I weave my way to the front to see what’s going on. It takes a few seconds to understand what I’m looking at. It’s like the Blob has swallowed one of the lockers. But not just any locker—it’s my locker. Yellowish, spongy dough, sticky and reeking of yeast, is bursting from the locker, spilling from the air vents, and dripping onto the floor.

“That your locker, Cobb?” Stranko says.

I’m speechless.

“I should’ve guessed.”

Mr. Jessup arrives and tiptoes to my locker, approaching it from the side. He wedges his hand into where he thinks the combination lock is and pulls away a handful of mucus-like dough. Then Jessup inserts a key into the middle of the combination dial and flattens himself against the lockers, backing away as far as he can and still reach the latch.

When Jessup lifts the latch, the door bursts open. My folders and books and black hoodie slowly erupt from my locker in a mass of smothering dough, oozing onto the floor like beige lava. The final item to seep out is a dough-filled bucket along with dozens of black Chaos Club cards. Even from ten feet away, I can see none of them have the small water tower graphic on them.

“How many other lockers are there like this?” Stranko says to Mr. Jessup.

“Four,” he says.

You can probably guess whose lockers those are.





Chapter 15


Ellie names it Operation Sex, Drugs, and Suicide.

My code name is Weegee, “after the famous crime scene photographer, duh,” Ellie says.

Her code name is Meryl, after actress Meryl Streep.

“I’m not sure she ever played a role like this,” I say.

“Because she couldn’t handle a role like this.”

Ellie and I stand on the high school football field on the eighth and final night of our photo shoot. I haven’t seen any of the other Water Tower Fivers since winter break started a week ago. That’s not by design but simply the result of busy lives. Schoolwork, sports, jobs, family responsibilities, and whatnot get in the way of what we’d all really like to do, which is work on destroying the Chaos Club. But no, Wheeler’s at the local tutoring center full time now, Malone’s busy anchoring people at the rock wall, and Adleta is in Orlando for a lacrosse tournament. That leaves Ellie and me to pull her prank, to which I say—excellent.

“Make sure you have the scoreboard in the background,” Ellie says, lying down on the fifty-yard line.

“The scene of the notorious Hitler-moustache prank,” I say.

“Exactly.”

I stand over Ellie and dump out a garbage bag. Condom wrappers, Bud Light cans, and an empty Maker’s Mark bottle spill onto the frozen field. I arrange them artfully around Ellie, the evidence of a wild night I’m certain neither of us has ever really had.

“Where did you get the alcohol?” I ask, shooting another picture.

“Out of my neighbor’s recycling bin. He has a real problem.”

“Like we’re ones to judge.”

“Exactly,” Ellie says. “Guilty of trespassing and possession of stolen goods. We’re headed for eternal damnation.”