And that’s why I’ve got to bring Archer down.
CHAPTER 12
I’m pretty sure every weekend has the same number of hours in it. So why does one spent reading comic books and watching TV seem to fly by, but a weekend on the Pile feels like ten years?
I reckon I can sort the entire thing by the time we close on Saturday, but I don’t want to give my dad a chance to come up with something worse for me to do on Sunday. My uncle Stosh once said, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” I think this is the kind of situation he was talking about. This devil has a horrible case of BO, but at least I can’t smell it after the first hour. No telling what might be in store with the next devil. Then again, I also overheard Stosh saying that to a freshly picked booger the size of a cornflake, so maybe I’m reading too much into it.
The trick to enduring this punishment is to finish up the Pile at the exact same time my dad is ready to go home. If I finish early, he’ll just come up with some fresh horror for me to deal with. But if I leave any part of it unsorted, I’ll end up right back here next weekend. I have to time it just right.
By noon on Sunday I feel like one of those marathon runners who poop their pants and have to get an IV after they crawl across the finish line. I haven’t even glanced at a comic book all weekend, and I’m having pretty severe TV withdrawal too. If I had played any part in the uniform fire, I probably would’ve learned my lesson by now and vowed to change my ways. However, I’m clearly the prime suspect and will probably get deported for something the Arch did, so the whole thing just makes me more determined than ever to take him down. I have no idea what game the Arch is playing. All I know is he isn’t backing down, so neither can I. I have to figure it out and stop him before I end up taking the fall for a crime I didn’t commit.
My dad hasn’t said a word to me all day. He’s probably waiting for a verdict from Mr. Mayer before he drops the real punishment. When he jumps the gun on discipline, he has to deal with my mom. It’s safer for him to make sure I’m really in trouble before he tucks a napkin into his collar and starts to feast on my backside.
At around three o’clock he leaves me alone at the shop to go run an errand. He can take all day, for all I care. I’m just tired of being watched like a prisoner.
I press my ear against the back door and listen for his car door to slam, then for his bumper to scrape as he pulls out of the alley. When I hear the sound of metal on pavement, I let out a deep breath. I’m finally alone.
I don’t get to enjoy my Fortress of Solitude for long, and I jump when the phone rings. The ringer is amplified so we can hear it over the machinery when the shop is running. With all the machines silent, it sounds like a fire alarm. I ignore it until it goes to voice mail. Whoever’s calling tries two more times before I’ve finally had enough of the noise and pick it up.
“Hello?”
The voice is familiar but I can’t place it. “Chub? Open the back door.”
My scalp flushes when I realize where I’ve heard the voice before. It’s not filtered through an electronic scrambler, but it’s the same voice I heard during the riot.
I try to sound menacing, even though I’m shaking. “Who is this?”
“Julius . . . Sizzler.” There’s a heavy knock on the door. “C’mon, open up.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve got it,” he whispers.
“Got what?”
“My membership thing.”
It dawns on me that I told him he needed to prove he wasn’t still with the Arch. He must’ve come through.
“What is it?”
“Umm . . . you kind of hafta see it.”
“Hang on.” I tap the phone on my hand and consider my options. It’s pretty simple. Trust him and open the door, or tell him to get lost. The way things are going, I need all the help I can get, even if it means taking a little risk.
“Okay,” I say, and hang up the phone.
It’s sunny, and my eyes have a hard time adjusting when I open the door. “It was you on the phone.”
“No duh.”
“Not now, at the assembly. You were the voice on the phone.”
He chuckles. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.” He twirls his cell phone. “That was, you know, before.”
I scan the alley to make sure he wasn’t followed. “Right.” I wave him in, then close the heavy door and lock the dead bolt.
He looks around, grimacing. “Nice place.”
It isn’t.
His eyes rest on what’s left of the Pile. “What’s that?”
“That’s my punishment for the fire in the locker room.”
He winces. “Yeah, I heard about that. Archer’s telling everyone you went crazy.”
I guess that shouldn’t surprise me, but it still makes me really mad. I step forward into the shaft of light coming through the back room’s only window so Sizzler can see my eyes.
“Do I look crazy to you?”
He takes a step back. “Uhhhhh.”
Suddenly I feel totally alone serving my unfair punishment. I need Sizzler to believe me. “I didn’t do it.”
“If I thought you did, I wouldn’t be here.”
For a minute neither of us speaks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic sandwich bag stuffed full of something—presumably his initiation dues. I reach for it, but he pulls it back.
“You sure you want this?” he says.
“What is it?”
Slowly he hands over the bag. I hold it up to the light but can’t tell what I’m looking at. I peel open the Ziploc seal, and Sizzler quickly takes a step back, like I just opened a box full of scorpions. He looks like he might barf when I reach in and pull out the contents. Then I realize what I’m holding.
In my hand is a pair of underwear so badly skid-marked, it looks like it’s been used to clean up a pelican after an oil spill. Had I pulled this out of the Pile, I would’ve thrown it straight in the trash.
I twirl the stained chunk of fabric in the air between us. “Is this a joke?”
He leans back to avoid the swinging mess. “No! It’s what you wanted.”
“I don’t remember asking you to steal a pair of Skivvies from a crime scene.”
“Read the label.”
I reluctantly touch the little biohazard with my other hand just enough to straighten out the waistband and see the label. To my surprise, Sizzler has come through after all. There is no way I can question his loyalty after this. Sewn to the band is a small white label, which reads: PROPERTY OF ARCHER NORRIS.
Jackpot.
I remember now. Archer’s mom used to sew name tags into all his clothes after his coat was stolen on the playground. I try and fail to suppress a grin, and Sizzler relaxes.
“So?” he says.
“This is pretty good. You must really want in.” I lower the underwear back into the bag and zip it shut. “Is there anything else?”
“Well . . .”
I tuck the bag into my pocket and fold my arms.
“Okay. There’s one more thing.” He pulls out his phone again and fiddles on the screen for a minute. When he finds what he’s looking for, he shows it to me.
It’s a picture of a sleeping Archer cuddling a plush doll and wearing the most severe piece of orthodontic headgear I’ve ever seen. The room looks pretty much the same as it did the last time I was in there years ago, except now trophies and sports memorabilia clutter shelves that once held comic books and action figures. He still has the same Harry Potter sheets I gave him for his birthday in first grade and the stuffed Wolverine I gave him for his birthday right before we started second grade. I didn’t pick it, my mom did—don’t judge me.
“I’ll e-mail you the picture if you want it,” Sizzler says, shaking me out of my fog.
Uncle Stosh always said, “Better to have and not need than to need and not have.” I’m pretty sure he was referring to having picking fingernails long enough to scrape your brain, but it seems like
pretty good advice in general.
“A couple of us stayed at his house Friday night. That’s when I took the picture and got the . . .” He shudders a little. “I’m just glad to have them out of my pocket. What’s your e-mail?”
The only e-mail account I have access to is Mrs. Belfry’s. So I give it to him. “[email protected].”
He gives me an odd look as he types it in, hits send, and then pockets the phone.
“So, am I in?” he asks. The truth is he’s come through bigger than I could’ve hoped, but I don’t want him getting too big of a head about it.
“Are you sure this is what you want? I don’t know anybody who’s ever chosen to be unpopular.”
Sizzler thinks it over. “I never really thought much about any of this stuff before. I figured Archer treats you the way he does because he’s cool and you’re not—no offense.”
I wave off the comment.
“I guess I had to get beaten at the only thing I’ve ever been good at to realize that cool isn’t always what it looks like. There’s always somebody cooler, or faster, or whatever.”
“I saw the tryouts.”
Sizzler shrugs. “Everyone did. He beat me in my best event.”
“By a lot.”
Sizzler hasn’t been picked on and whispered about in the halls for years like the rest of us, but he still has a pretty good reason to take down the Arch. As the Colonel says, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” and I can definitely use a friend like him.
I make a show out of deliberating before extending my hand.
“Welcome to the cadre.”
He hesitates and stares at my hand. I get nervous for a second, then remember what I was holding a moment before.
He makes a fist. “Let’s do this instead.”
“Okay, better idea,” I say, bumping knuckles with him.
As I lead him to the back door, the possibilities that the underwear offers whip around in my mind like cows in a twister. If I play things right, I might even be able to use it to make the Arch confess to starting the fire.
I’m about to send Sizzler off when something else occurs to me. “One more thing,” I say as I unlock the door. “Can I use your phone to look at a website?”
After a shot of Purell he hands me his phone, and I quickly search “poker Mace.” The first result is a blog for a local poker league. I click on it. I can’t risk my dad catching me slacking, so I just skim the home page.
Last night’s post headline reads, The Mayor impeached by Mr. X, Mr. X taken out by the Mace again. I scroll down to a picture of my principal wearing a horrible white fedora. One hand holds a fan of cards over his face, the other is on a pile of poker chips. Next to him is a guy in a cowboy hat with a blue ostrich feather stuck in the front of the band like a hood ornament. The brim of the ridiculous hat casts a shadow over his face that covers everything his rug of a mustache and his sunglasses don’t. I remember Mr. Mayer describing this guy in the stairwell. This has to be Mr. X.
I hand the phone back. It looks like Mr. Mayer’s luck isn’t improving any.
I stick my head out first to make sure the alley is clear, then hustle Sizzler out the door. My dad will be back soon and I still have some Pile left, but the work goes much quicker knowing what I know now. I have some excellent dirt on the Arch and Mr. Mayer, and my network of associates is growing stronger by the day. As much as I don’t want to admit it, it looks like I really do have a cadre after all.
I sort the rest of the donated clothes at record speed but leave two items on purpose (an old blazer that smells like used cat litter and a gigantic bra I really don’t want to touch) so my dad can witness me “finishing” my task right when he gets back.
A minute later I hear the telltale scrape of his bumper. I’m actually feeling pretty good, but when I open the door and let him in, I do my best to look like the weary, high-character kid he expects to find. I think he buys my act, because I swear he looks a little bit sorry for me as I make a show out of picking up the bra and tossing it in the trash.
CHAPTER 13
Normally, the McQueens look happy to see me, but this Monday morning all three of them look concerned. The head McQueen tips the hat at me. “Thought you were down for the count, boyo. What with the fire and all.”
“I still might be. Mr. Mayer’s in his office waiting for me right now.” I’m actually surprised the McQueens are even willing to meet with me after the fire. It’s the kind of thing people get kicked out of school for. It could generate the wrong kind of attention for anyone caught associating with me. They deserve some reassurance for their loyalty. “I didn’t set the fire.”
The one in the hat winks. “And I don’t remember any of us asking if you did.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “Guys—”
He interrupts, “As far as we’re concerned, there’s no further discussion required. Now, I believe you said something on the phone about dealing with the Arch?”
“It has to be done before Mr. Mayer suspends me. Otherwise, no deal.” I give him my most serious look. “Can you pull off what we talked about last night?”
“Oh, we can do it,” he says. “Question is, do we want to?”
I don’t have any other options at this point. I can try to barter, but if they walk away, I’m toast.
“What’s it going to cost?”
He glances over his shoulder at one of his brothers. “One of us, I’m not gonna say which, didn’t do so hot on last week’s history test. Doesn’t reflect well on the three of us.”
I see where he’s going. “I’ve never changed a grade before. This is new territory.” It will be the McQueens’ most expensive job yet but worth every penny if it works.
“Can you do it?”
I sigh loudly. “I think so.”
He looks back over each shoulder at his brothers, then slaps a hand on my arm. “We have faith in you.” The other two nod in agreement.
I’m glad they do. I, on the other hand, am sure I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
I run through the plan in my mind one last time to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. “Are you guys sure you can handle him? He’s not going to go along with this willingly.”
“There are three of us. I think we can handle one kid, even an oversize one.”
I reach into my bag and take out the item Sizzler gave me the day before. The hat reluctantly accepts the plastic bag and quickly hands it to one of the others. The one he gives it to wrinkles his nose and does a Why me? shrug.
“Because the Magna Carta wasn’t Caesar’s go-cart!” the hat says. That answers whose grade I would be fixing.
“Remember, it has to be done before he decides to suspend me.”
“Fair enough.” He tips the cap at me, and the other two nod. “See you in detention.” He winks as the three of them turn and go.
I walk to the principal’s office as slowly as I can. The more time the triplets have to work, the better. Plus, I’m in no hurry to face Mr. Mayer. I’m not sure if it’s school stuff or his troubles with this Mace character and his underground poker game causing his hair to turn gray, but I feel sorry for him either way, since neither one is my fault.
Mrs. Osborne shakes her head in disappointment when I walk in. I go straight to my usual waiting spot and plop down. A few seconds later Mr. Mayer opens the door, looking like he’s aged about twenty years over the weekend. The headline I read on Sizzler’s phone pops into my head. Mr. Mayer had another rough weekend at the poker tables. According to the blog, Mr. X and Mace were taking all the fun out of his secret hobby. I didn’t have to read the whole story to know how bad a loss it must’ve been; it’s written all over his face.
In his office he takes his seat, and I take mine. I look past him through the window to the courtyard outside. I have a clear line of sight to the second-floor walkway. If the McQueens are as good as I hope they are, they’ll be out on the walkway any minute, and they won’t be alone.
Mr. Mayer pres
ses his hands in front of his mouth like he’s praying to the patron saint of middle school principals, or maybe he’s praying to the one for crappy poker players. He taps his index fingers nervously and studies me with bloodshot eyes. I touch my fingertips together and try my best not to look concerned. What is taking the McQueens so long?
After a minute he speaks. “Arson is serious.”
I nod. “I know, but Archer Norris started the fire, not me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He rubs his forehead hard enough to remove skin. “I’m not kidding. This is one I can’t just let slide.”
I need to stall. “What makes you think I did it?” I say.
He laughs as though I just asked the most ridiculous question ever. “The student body president and captain of the track team was the only other person there. What would you think if you were me, given your track record?”
He has a point. It looks pretty obvious what happened. After all my hard work making sure I never got in trouble for my pranks, the reputation I’ve built myself is about to get me convicted of something I didn’t even do.
On the elevated walkway that overlooks the courtyard, the door from the new wing springs open. The McQueens to the rescue! I sit a little higher in the seat, only to shrink back down when Carson Biggs and Tawny Phillips appear instead. Their eyes are glued to their phones. Carson and Tawny are the first kids in our school to admit they are “going out,” which apparently means texting each other all day even though they are never more than two feet apart.
Mr. Mayer drones on. “According to school district policy, blah . . . blah . . . blah . . .”
But I’m not listening. The McQueens have to come through or I’m a goner.
“Blah . . . blah . . . suspension . . .”
I Am Fartacus Page 9