Don't Get Caught(68)

Chapter 22


Life sucks.

At noon the next day, I’m still in bed with the shades drawn. Since sneaking back in last night, I’ve barely moved or spoken, and if I have it my way, I won’t until I’m thirty. Unfortunately, Mom won’t shut up about me going with them to the Asheville Celebration.

“Are you sure?” she says. “From what I saw driving by this morning, it looks like a great time.”

And return to the scene of my greatest failure? Why would I do that? Did the guy who captained the Titanic ever sail another ship? Of course not. Okay, so yeah, he was among the fifteen hundred plus who drowned that night, but if he’d lived he wouldn’t have stepped foot on another boat. Shit, I doubt he’d even want ice in his drink ever again. Failing sucks that much.

“I’ll be okay,” I say to Mom. “You guys go. I just want to sleep.”

That’s me—Max Cobb, sore loser.

Of course, Ellie, who pulls up out front ten minutes later, proves to be more of a motivator than Mom.

“Oh, you’re going,” she says on the phone. “Get out here.”

“I don’t want to. Why should I?”

“Two reasons. Number one, I look supercute today. And number two, if you don’t go, Wheeler said he’ll help me ruin your life on H8box.”

“How will you do that?”

“Let’s just say whatever I do will guarantee you never get any action with the opposite sex ever again.”

“Ever again? I haven’t had any action.”

“And you won’t for your entire life unless you get out here. So stop being a sourpuss and let’s go.”

The transformation the school property has undergone since last night is amazing. The once-empty booths are now filled with local food vendors, stuffed animals likely made in Thai sweatshops, and students from clubs like National Honor Society who will paint your face for a dollar. The rides are up and running, the two most popular being a Ferris wheel–like contraption with flipping cages that’s pretty much guaranteed to make you puke (no ipecac required) and the Scrambler, which looks like it was designed by chiropractors hoping to induce whiplash.

Ellie and I stand near the front of the stage with the growing crowd. My parents are around here somewhere, which doesn’t matter anymore now that we have zero chance of exposing the Chaos Club in public. We spot a few teachers around, and like always, it’s weird seeing them out of the classroom. Seeing them in shorts is even weirder—even wrong in Watson’s case, with his aqua-blue shorts, sandals, and pasty legs. I love the guy, but, man, there ought to be a law.

“I can’t believe how many people are here,” I tell Ellie. “There have to be a couple thousand.”

“The goal’s five thousand over the course of the day,” Ellie says.

“Yeah, and just imagine the show we could’ve given them.”

“Oh, cheer up. What’s done is done. Besides, in a few minutes, I’ll be on stage and you can ogle me with the rest of the men in Asheville.”

At least there’s that.

From where we stand, we have a clear sightline to Malone at the LGBT booth, where they have a long line of people waiting to get rainbow braids in their hair. Malone’s with some of her friends from the art department wearing orange “Some People Are Gay, Get Over It” T-shirts. She waves to us, not looking at all like someone who was part of a failed operation last night.

“So is Malone gay?” I say to Ellie.

“I don’t think so. She’s just very pro-people. Why? Would it matter?”

“Of course not.”

“Right answer,” Ellie says.

Nearby, two cameramen shoot footage of the crowd while another has her camera trained on the statue or, more accurately, the curtained tower hiding the statue.

Oh, what might have been.

Or still could be.

Because here’s the thing, my prank is still set up and ready to go. I don’t see the point though, especially since the Chaos Club didn’t vandalize the statue as expected. Finishing my prank now would not only get the five of us in übertrouble but would also leave Boyd with a lot of explaining to do.

At two o’clock, the town dignitaries make their way through the crowd and take the stage. Most of them I don’t recognize, but Mrs. B’s up there, wearing a bright-blue dress and looking like she’s had her hair done for the occasion. Stranko is in an Asheville button-up but is probably dying to get into the yellow-and-black Asheville lacrosse shirt he always wears while coaching. Tonight’s the state semifinal, and he has to view this public relations event as a massive inconvenience. Not as inconvenient as being trapped on the water tower, but I doubt much trumps that. I wonder how long he was trapped on the tower. Hours, I hope.

Once everyone is in place, Mayor Hite comes to the front of the stage and taps the microphone.

“Hello, everyone!” she says. “I’d like to welcome all of you to the first annual Celebrate Asheville Festival!”

People applaud, and I roll my eyes. What are they applauding? The festival itself? The mayor? Themselves for showing up? And before you say it, yes, I’m bitter. Sue me.

Mayor Hite drones on about how wonderful Asheville is, what a wonderful history it has, blah, blah, blah. It might as well be a campaign speech. Get to the statue already and put me out of my misery. She welcomes a kids’ choir from the elementary school to the stage, and they sing a couple songs that has the crowd aww-ing their heads off. Stranko is smiling behind them, but like all his smiles, it’s forced. Off to the side of the stage, Officer Hale is in full security-guard gear. I was hoping Hale had to gnaw off some fingers to survive in the back of his cruiser, but all ten are there. Life’s just one disappointment after another.