Don't Get Caught(52)

My feet aren’t tied, so I stand up but quickly bang into a table or desk or something. I fall back into the seat and work the ropes, my breathing coming faster. It takes a good minute to get one hand out. After that, the other’s out in seconds. My hands tear the mask off my head, and I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat off my face. It’s only then that I open my eyes.

Oh no.

I’m in the school.

In Stranko’s office.

Which has been painted neon pink.

The entire office—the walls, his desk, the ceiling, the chair I’m sitting on, even the state lacrosse trophy—all of it’s neon pink.

I barely have time to process everything when someone’s putting a key in the door, and suddenly I’ve broken the most important heist rule of all—I got caught.





Chapter 18


Of course Stranko has me arrested.

Handcuffs, police car, fingerprints, mugshot…all of it.

And yeah, Hale’s car isn’t an official cop car since he isn’t a real cop, but it has the mesh-wire guard and no latches on the inside of the back door. Hale even proudly tells me there’s no point in trying to call anyone because of the cell phone jammer he’s installed, so it might as well be a cop car. Or a potential rapist’s car, the creep.

Being arrested is just as humiliating as you might imagine, possibly even more so. The real cops don’t put me in a jail cell, thank God, but I’m locked in a room that’s probably used for interrogating real criminals. I almost wish I were in a cell because iron bars would make it harder for Mom and Dad to murder me, which they’re going to do.

I guess this is what happens when you try to write your name in the wet cement of the universe. It hardens, trapping you in place, then begins downpouring shit on you.

Not Max can kiss my ass.

Through the door’s window, I can see Stranko’s still here at a desk with Hale, the two of them relaying the story to a cop who’s hunting and pecking her way through my arrest report.

An hour earlier, when Stranko opened his office door and saw me, he held up a hand before I could say anything. His was eerily calm as he surveyed the room, then eventually, he stepped into the hall and called Hale. In the five minutes we waited, the only thing Stranko said in my presence was a quiet, “God, I’m not going to miss this.”

Stranko’s the least of my worries though, because my small window gives me a perfect view of Mom and Dad’s arrival. They look worried as they listen to Hale and Stranko explaining what happened, but they’re not fooling me. They have to be rage-filled, homicidal maniacs faking concern to ensure the police will release me. And once that happens, the bloodbath will begin. This room offers nowhere to hide, so I’m stuck sitting here like the penned-up convict I am. Dad, unshaven and looking like he’s just taken a hammer blow to the forehead, shakes both Hale’s and Stranko’s hands. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I already do, but seeing Dad’s embarrassment does it.

I have fifteen seconds until Mom and Dad get here. That’s fifteen seconds left to live. What should I do with those fifteen seconds?

Bang my head on the chair until I’m unconscious?

Punch myself in the groin to generate some tears?

Get a running start at the door so that when it opens, I can smash past my parents and race into the night to live a life on the lam?

But it’s too late. The door opens, and my parents appear in the doorway. They’re both slump shouldered and—oh man—what’s that look they’re giving me?

Rage?

Embarrassment?

No, worse.

Disappointment. Sad-eyed, slow-moving, tired-voiced disappointment.

I’d prefer rage.

“Let’s go home, Max,” Mom says.

That’s it. Not a “What were you thinking?” or “Do you know how much trouble you’re in?” Just Mom’s, “Let’s go home, Max.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s not even looking at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Nothing back from either of them. I can actually feel myself growing smaller.

“I said I’m sorry.”

Without looking at me, Mom says, “We heard you.”

I keep my eyes to the floor on my way out so I won’t have to see Stranko. I expect at least some talking once we get outside, but no, Mom and Dad just walk to the car, with me trailing behind. Even when we’re inside, away from the ears of anyone who might hear them laying into me, the silence continues. We drive home with no talking, no radio, no nothing. I’d prefer shouting instead of this terrible nothingness. If parents receive a How to Effectively Punish Your Children pamphlet, this has to be in the “Only for Professionals” section because, man, it’s brutal.

At home, the silent treatment mercifully ends with Mom saying, “Come sit down, Max.”

When they use your name it’s just the worst. The formality, the seriousness. That’s when you know you’re in atom bomb–sized trouble. Mom and Dad sit on the couch, and I’m across from them in the La-Z-Boy, exhausted and sorry, self-conscious and worried, all at the same time.

“Tell us everything,” Mom says.

Dad’s staring at the space where my chair touches the carpet.

“From the beginning,” he says.