Don't Get Caught(43)

I move to another angle and get low to the ground. Each camera flash is like a lightning strike.

“That should do it,” I say. “Unless you have any others we need to take.”

“No, we’re good. That’s the last one. No point in pushing our luck.”

Back in Ellie’s car, she changes her outfit in the backseat, threatening to decapitate me if I sneak a look. I take my chances anyway. Even with the heater going full blast, it takes a couple minutes for the car to warm up.

Ellie says, “So what about your prank?”

“What about it?”

“Have you thought of one yet?”

“I’m working on it.”

“You don’t seem at all interested in the guaranteed yes. I would’ve thought you’d jump all over that.”

“I’m going to do something. I promise.”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll run out of time.”

“Schools not out until May.”

“It’ll come faster than you expect.”

“Like my balls. Unfortunately.”

Ellie’s laugh is a sunshine-y sound I’ve come to depend on in the last week. It’s one of the few things giving me a break from my perpetual pissy-ness from the dough-in-the-locker prank. (Yeast, water, and dough in a bucket overnight, in case you were wondering.) Worse was that Stranko had the nerve to imply we’d played the prank on ourselves. Ellie’s crying at the suggestion put an end to that line of thought quickly, but it made me even madder than I already was.

We pull into my driveway shortly before ten o’clock. Except for our Christmas tree lit in the family room window, the house is dark. I don’t want to go in yet. The more time I’ve spent with Ellie, the more comfortable I’ve gotten with her. And the more comfortable I’ve gotten with her, the more I joke-flirt with her in a not-so-subtle-yet-safe way.

“Maybe we should celebrate the end of our photo shoot with a kiss,” I say.

“Oh, you think, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s bad luck not to.”

“We’ll just have to risk it.”

You can’t blame a guy for trying.

“What did I tell you about us?” Ellie asks.

“You said after.”

“Maybe after, yeah. We have a lot to do still.”

“But are my chances getting better?”

“Oh, absolutely. With each passing moment.”

“Then I’ll be strong and soldier on.”

I go to get out of the car when Ellie says, “I do need one small favor on Monday.”

“What’s that?”

“A favor? It’s a small act of kindness. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Tell me.”

“I want to see his look when it goes live. Can you make that happen?”

“How in the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“You? Maxwell Cobb? The mastermind behind the Stranko Caper? I think you can come up with something.”

Ellie does that bat-her-eyelashes thing that the female species has perfected through thousands of years of evolution. Like all males, I’m defenseless against it.

When I think later about what Ellie wants, I realize the difficulty isn’t in the execution but in having the balls to do it. I will because Ellie’s the asker, but I keep thinking of a quote I once heard about how there’s a fine line between courage and stupidity. In this case, it’s a very, very fine line.

? ? ?

The rest of the week is spent suffering through exam prep and wondering just what sort of moron schedules semester exams for the three days following winter break. The only answer I can come up with is a moron who loves to ruin kids’ vacations. In this case, Stranko. He takes exams überserious, even sending out an email to every high school parent about how all classroom doors will be locked when the bell rings and how tardy students will receive zeroes. So imagine Stranko’s irritation when Monday comes and students and teachers are milling in the halls, unable to enter any of the classrooms because none of the doors will open. Zero. Not a single one.

We’re all loitering in the halls, watching teachers pointlessly enter and reenter keys in their locks while Stranko pushes his way through the crowds, yelling at Mr. Jessup over the walkie-talkie to “get these damn doors open.”

“Wheeler?” Malone says to Ellie and me outside Watson’s room.

“No chance,” I say.

By some miracle of the universe—or, in reality, a combination of make-up work, extra credit, and much pleading by his mom and guidance counselor on the defendant’s behalf—Wheeler’s pulled his grades to within striking distance of passing. The looming reality couldn’t be more mathematically simple: Pass the exams, pass the classes. Fail the exams, fail the classes.

“Maybe Tim?” Ellie asks.

“Not me either,” Tim says, coming up behind us. “I’ve made my entry in the competition. Unlike some people.”

“Mine’s coming,” Ellie says. “Sooner than you think, actually.”

“What about you?” Adleta says to me.

“Someday.”

That’s when my phone buzzes.

And Ellie’s.

And Tim’s.