Don't Get Caught(76)

When Mom and Dad tag team the lectures, they’re on point with: 1. How lucky I am no one else was injured or arrested.

2. How I’ll have to rebuild their trust.

3. How sex is nothing to be taken lightly.

4. How they hope I take the summer to really do some soul searching, which is ironic since that’s what led me to finally toppling the Chaos Club.

But privately, one-on-one, when the other is out of the room, both Mom and Dad tell me they understand why I did it. Both even say the identical thing, “I’m not saying what you did was right, but I understand,” followed immediately by, “but don’t tell your mother/father I said that.”

I’m not officially grounded—it’s not like there’s a proclamation nailed to my bedroom door—but it’s an understood grounding. Asking to go out would only incur another lecture, so I lay low a couple days, sticking around the house and getting adjusted to the laziness of summer, which means sleeping in late and binge watching Leverage with Dad at night.

It’s on Monday evening, two days after the celebration and our complete destruction of the Chaos Club—hold your applause, please—that I receive an email from Mr. Watson.

I’ll be in my room all day tomorrow. Come see me if you get a chance.

Mom and Dad have a private conversation about my request before agreeing to let me go. The next morning, I find Watson in his room, loading books into a box on his desk. The room looks like a tornado hit it, with files and poster boards from old projects covering the floor. Sitting atop most desks are boxes—some empty, some half-filled, some taped and ready to be moved. I join in at a bookshelf, packing up books from his personal library.

“So you got fired?”

“We’ve agreed to early retirement. Easier on this district publicity wise, and it allows me to keep my entire pension. Everyone wins this way.”

He doesn’t sound sad when he says it, only resigned.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I thought you might be feeling guilty. That’s why I asked you to come. You don’t need to apologize to me, Max. My actions are my responsibility, not yours. In fact, I’m proud of you for doing what I suggested you do at the beginning of the year—you made your mark in the wet cement of the universe. You ended a tradition that’s lasted for almost forty years. How many people can say that?”

“Then why don’t I feel better about it?”

“Because most triumphs are never clean. Have you ever heard of a Pyrrhic victory?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a victory that comes at a great cost. You win, but you pay a great price. For you, it’s the guilt you’re feeling that I’m finished here. That’ll pass though, especially since I assure you none of this is your fault.”

“Well, I’m sorry just the same.”

“I accept your apology, Max, as unnecessary as it is.”

This is likely the last time I’ll ever see Mr. Watson. If that’s the case, I have one question that has been bothering me for months.

“With all the running around that’s happened in this building after hours, how did you work it that the Chaos Club was never caught?”

“That’s a great question, Max. You’re definitely my kind of thinker. Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Well, so can I,” Watson says and winks. “Let’s just say that Becca and Benz aren’t the only ones I protected by confessing.”

Great, just what I need—a new mystery to solve.

“What will you do now?” I say.

“Oh, I have friends across the country I plan on visiting for the next couple months. After that, who knows? Now that I’m no longer a teacher, I’ll have to discover a new me.”

We spend the next half hour packing boxes together. Thirty-nine years of teaching in the same classroom can amass a great deal of junk, a whole lifetime really, and Watson’s room is evidence of that. I find reports written in the eighties, pictures of Watson at least twenty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, football programs with yellowed pages, and files of newspaper articles about individual students Watson taught going back to his first year. There’s so much to pack that it seems as if we’re not making any progress, but I’m fine with that.

“You don’t need to stay here all day, Max. I appreciate the help, but I’d sort of like some time alone with my memories.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling awkward. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“You have my email, Max. Feel free to use it anytime.”

We shake hands, and Mr. Watson returns to his closet—itself a cluttered mess of memories. I head for the door, and really, this is where the story should end—with the Chaos Club destroyed, Stranko leaving, Watson retiring, and me discovering who I really am. But it’s not the end.

I’m on my way to the door when Watson stops me.

“Max, before you go, there’s one more thing.”

I look back.

“I’ve debated whether or not to tell you this, and I’m still not sure I should, but I’m going to anyway. As ironic as it sounds, I believe in the truth, and I think you need to know it in this case.”

Then Watson tells me, and my world turns upside down.