Don't Get Caught(54)

“Well, Max, we’re here today to discuss what happened the other night and what to do about it,” Mrs. B says. “Mr. Stranko has already filled me in on what he saw, but I’d like to hear your version of the events, please.”

Déjà vu all over again.

My right knee bounces spastically underneath the table as I repeat the story I told my parents, about finding the note in my locker and what happened after meeting the Chaos Club at the baseball field. My eyes are glued to the table as I talk, not because I can’t look at Mrs. B but because the three goons sitting beside her are as intimidating as hell.

“I know I shouldn’t have gone, especially after what happened at the beginning of the year, but I felt like I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because I hoped it would give me some clues as to who’s in the Chaos Club.”

“And did it?”

“It’s a boy and a girl,” I said. “I know that.”

“Anything else?”

I shake my head.

Stranko whispers something to Hale while Barber taps her pen on the folder in front of her.

“So your story is that members of the Chaos Club invited you to meet, then blindfolded and transported you here to the school, where they put you in Mr. Stranko’s office so that if you turned them down, you’d get in trouble.”

I see where this is going, but it’s too late.

“My question is—why would they do that?” she says.

“Do what?”

“Why would they set you up to get in trouble a second time? What would their motivation be? Why not just invite you? What’s the purpose in vandalizing Mr. Stranko’s office and getting you in trouble for turning them down?”

There’s no safe answer. I can’t tell them that the Chaos Club blackmailed me into coming with threats of showing the picture of me at the football stadium because it proves I was working with Ellie. And once that gets out, the other three would eventually fall too. I just hope the Chaos Club didn’t keep their promise of sending Stranko the picture.

“Max?” Mrs. B says, bringing me back.

Everyone is looking at me, waiting for my answer. Nothing to do but give the standard response every guilty teenager is programmed to give when they know they’re busted.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Did you do anything to upset them?” Mrs. B says.

I shake my head.

“Do you have the note?” Stranko asks.

I do, but it’s too incriminating.

“I lost it.”

“Convenient,” he says, then opens the folder in front of him and removes a piece of paper, looking at it for a few seconds before sliding it over to me. It’s the picture of Ellie and me at the football field. The corners of my vision gray, then blacken as the room begins to collapse in on me.

“Who’s this in the picture with you?”

“It’s no one,” I say.

“No one?”

There’s only one option here: make up something absurd.

“I filled the costume with newspaper to fill it out. I did everything by myself.”

“Newspaper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get the mascot costume? It’s been missing for months.”

“Um, I found it?”

“Of course you did,” Stranko says. “So then who took the picture?”

“The Chaos Club.”

“Right,” Stranko says. He has a smug, condescending smile I’d love to punch off his face.

I refuse to look at Mom and Dad because I’m sure I can’t take the looks of disappointment they’re giving me.

“Jim, Beth, do you have anything you’d like to add?” Mrs. B says.

“Just that we’ll obviously pay for any damages,” Mom says.

“Thank you for that. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk this over with my administrative team before moving forward. Could you give us a few minutes, please?”

We move to the chairs right outside the conference room and wait without talking. First period doesn’t start for twenty-five minutes, but already the halls are starting to fill. The three of us sit outside the office for five excruciating minutes.

I hate all of it.

I hate the quiet.

I hate the looks the secretaries and guidance counselors give me as they pass.

I hate that I’m being talked about by people I can’t hear.

When the office door opens and Mr. Watson enters with a coffee cup in his hand, I have a new hate to add to my list: I hate that my favorite teacher is seeing me like this.

Watson slows as he passes, saying, “Max, Jim, Beth,” before stopping outside the conference room. He gives a light knock, then enters without being invited inside.

“He still remembers us,” Dad says to Mom.

“I always liked him.”

They both sound somewhat happy in the memory. Time to take advantage of that.

“Mr. Watson’s really cool,” I say.

And we’re back to the silent treatment.

Mr. Watson isn’t inside long, three minutes tops, before reappearing.

“They’re ready for you,” he says. “Max, you hang in there.”

Hopefully, I’ll never have to face a jury in real life, because if walking back into court to hear the verdict is anything like walking back into that conference room, I’ll just have to off myself in my cell. I sit between Mom and Dad and swallow down my bile.