Made You Up(50)

“Yes.”

“Are you male?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a TV show?”

“No.”

“Did you have a TV show at any point in your life?”

Art’s smile never got very big, but it gave away every single thought in his head. “Yes.”

“Did you wear bow ties?”

Art kept smiling. “No.”

Miles had to tilt his head back against the bleacher to see Art. “Really? Interesting.”

“Give up?” Art asked.

“No. You’re Norm Abram. It was either Bill Nye or someone involved in woodworking.”

Evan, Ian, and Theo let out a collective groan. Jetta fed Miles another grape. Art shrugged and said, “My dad got me hooked on This Old House when I was a kid.”

Miles waved his hand toward me. “You go.”

I hadn’t had a turn at this since that first time, with the Aztec emperors. He’d never invited me, before now. “Okay, I have someone.”

“Are you alive?”

“No.”

“You’re a historian; of course you’re going to pick a dead person. Are you male?”

“Yes.”

“Are you from North America or South America?”

“No.”

He turned his head to stare me straight in the eye, like he could read my thoughts if he only focused hard enough.

“Europe is a trap . . . are you from Asia?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a significant effect on the development of some strain of philosophy that profoundly impacted the world?”

“Why don’t you ask us questions like that?” Theo blurted out.

I stifled a laugh. “Yes.”

Miles sat and thought for a moment. He was only at five questions, and he was already getting pretty close.

“Are you from China?”

“No.”

“Are you from India?”

“Nope.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you from the Middle East?”

“Yes.”

“Did you practice Islam?”

“Yes.”

“Were you born before 1500 AD?”

“Yes.”

“Did you contribute to the field of medicine?”

“Yes.”

Miles turned to the ceiling again and closed his eyes. “Are you also known as the father of modern medicine?”

Ian frowned. “Hippocrates was a Muslim?”

“I’m not Hippocrates,” I said. “I’m Ibn Sina.”

“You know, part of the game is not telling Boss who you are before he guesses it,” Evan said.

I shrugged. “He already knew.” I turned back to Miles. “And we got to twelve. But hey, at least you didn’t drag it out just to show off, like you did last time.”

He grunted.

Jetta looked up to the gym doors, then back to Miles. “Mein Chef. Der Teufel ist hier.”

We all turned to look. Mr. McCoy strode into the gym, straightening his jacket and tie, his gaze zeroed in on our group. He edged around the basketball practice and stopped at the foot of the bleachers. “Mr. Richter,” he called up. He sounded like his jaw had been wired shut. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes,” Miles said. He didn’t move.

McCoy waited a total of four seconds before he added, “In private, Mr. Richter.”

Miles pushed himself to his feet, stepped past me, and climbed down the bleachers. As he and McCoy walked to the far end of the gym, out of earshot, Evan and Ian gave identical exaggerated shudders.

“Careful, don’t let them out of your sight,” said Evan.

“Yeah,” Ian added. “McCoy might pop out Boss’s eyes with a melon baller and use them like olives in his martinis.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“Der Teufel hasst Chef,” Jetta said.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“McCoy hates Boss,” Theo explained. “I would say my brothers are being obnoxious, but there’s a good chance McCoy actually has a melon baller in his desk drawer with Boss’s name on it.”

“Seriously though,” I said. “Is it just the way everyone else hates him? Because it probably sucks to be the principal who has to deal with him.” Please let it only be that way. Please let it not be anything out of the ordinary.