I Am Fartacus

by Mark Maciejewski

  “Huh?” I pull my eyes away from the window and look at him.

  “Oh, did I get your attention?”

  I’m about to say something, anything to stall for time, when the walkway door opens again. This time it’s just like I planned.

  Mr. Mayer doesn’t notice my reaction and goes right on with his lecture.

  A hatless McQueen comes through the door first, followed by the Arch, then the one in the hat. The bareheaded one stands with his back to the door so no one else can walk in on what’s going on.

  The phone on Mr. Mayer’s desk beeps and he picks it up. “Yes . . . but the district doesn’t need the TPS reports until Monday.” He gives me the One minute sign and then goes back to explaining why the reports aren’t done yet. I’m too wrapped up in the scene outside to listen to his conversation.

  The hatted one stops the Arch in the middle of the walkway and puts an arm around his shoulder. The Arch looks at his arm like a seagull just pooped on him, but he doesn’t do anything about it. They both look over the railing to the courtyard below. When the McQueen gives a signal, the third triplet appears in the yard and walks straight to the flagpole. He’s holding the bag containing the Arch’s badly stained, undeniably personalized underwear.

  The Arch’s cocky grin fades as Darwin (?) calmly explains how things are going to go. When the one by the flagpole has his rubber gloves on, he reaches into the bag and takes out the awful garment, holding it up so the Arch can see it in all its skid-marked glory.

  That’s when the Arch goes mental.

  It takes both McQueens to stop him from charging off the walkway. Mr. Mayer keeps blabbering and rubbing his forehead, completely unaware of the scene behind him. I resist a grin. Clearly, the underwear is the right approach. The Arch’s reaction is better than I could’ve hoped. I glance at the clock on the wall. Any time now.

  Delvin (?) clips the Skivvies to the flagpole’s rope and attaches a paper banner with the words ALL HAIL THE NORRISTOCRACY below it. The first bell will ring soon. That’s when everyone reluctantly walks through the entrance to Alanmoore to start another week of drudgery. The courtyard will be crammed with kids rushing to homeroom, and they will all see the official flag of their new student body president. My only hope is that he cares so much about his reputation, he’ll do exactly what the McQueens are . . . requesting.

  I jump when the first bell sounds. The triplets must be a lot stronger than they look, because he tries to get away, but they hold him back. The Arch just watches, a defiant look on his face, as the third McQueen begins hoisting the undies up the flagpole. Time stands still. He needs to make up his mind before anyone sees his underpoos flapping in the breeze, or the story will spread faster than lice.

  Maybe it’s already too late. Carson and Tawny walk back the same way they came a minute before, and the Arch stops struggling as the two lovebirds smirk and tap away at their phones. I grip the arms of my chair, half hoping they’ll see the underwear and text a picture of them to everyone they know. The Arch eyes them nervously as they pass, oblivious to the underwear, and they get to the door without ever once looking up.

  Mr. Mayer hangs up the phone and is looking at me like he expects me to say something.

  My future will be decided in the next few seconds. My scalp gets hot.

  Mr. Mayer throws his hands up in frustration. “Well?”

  I look back outside and read the hatted one’s lips as he leans in close to the Arch’s ear: “Well?”

  This is the moment of truth.

  “Maciek, were you even listening to me?”

  Outside, the doors leading into the courtyard start to open. The Arch must hear this, because his eyes get wide, then he nods hard like he’s trying to shake spiders out of his hair. The hat signals to the one by the flagpole, who quickly lowers the battered banner and tears it off the line just in time. The two McQueens lead the Arch back inside, weaving their way through the herd of kids trying to get to homeroom before the bell rings.

  “If you aren’t going to say anything, I don’t see that I have any other choice.” Mr. Mayer removes a very official-looking binder from his desk drawer and pulls out an even more official-looking form.

  “Mr. Mayer?” I stall. I should just tell him I suspect the Arch is up to something bigger than the pranks during his speech and hope he believes me. “The truth is . . .” I stall with a dramatic sigh, stretching the moment as long as I can.

  I’ve played the only hand I can. It has to work.

  There’s a gentle knock on the door. I release my death grip on the chair and take a deep breath.

  “Come in.” Mr. Mayer puts down his pen.

  Mrs. Osborne sticks her head around the door. “Mr. Mayer? There’s another student here, Archer Norris. He says he has some new information about the fire.”

  I smile but then quickly go back to my serious face.

  Mr. Mayer’s shoulders drop and he shoots me a look. I shrug.

  “Bring him in.”

  The Arch’s face is beet red. I don’t think he likes the position I’ve put him in.

  I stand up. “You two probably want to talk alone.”

  “Sit down, Maciek,” Mr. Mayer says. “You too, Archer.”

  The Arch takes the seat next to me and stares at his toes. I fight the urge to look over at him. I don’t want him to look up and see how sweaty my head is right now.

  “Do you have something to say, Archer?”

  The Arch mumbles something and Mr. Mayer shifts in his seat.

  “This is a very serious incident, and I have two students with different versions of what happened. Suspensions are my only option until I find out the truth.” He looks back and forth between us. “Look, I don’t know what the deal is with you guys, but it has to stop before someone gets hurt.”

  I chance a look at the Arch. He chews on one of his fingernails like he used to when he got nervous. I need him to tell the story the McQueens told him to tell. “It’s okay, Archer. Tell him what happened.”

  His lip curls like he caught a whiff of a fart. He rolls his neck once and says, “The fire wasn’t Chub—I mean Maciek’s fault.”

  Sizzler is right. The Arch is willing to do almost anything to hold on to his office and his reputation. It makes him vulnerable, but it also makes him unpredictable until I figure out why it means so much to him.

  “I had to cut the string on the waistband of my track uniform. Maciek was helping me burn the ends so it wouldn’t fray, the way Coach Farkas taught us to do to our shoelaces.”

  Mr. Mayer looks at me, expecting me to add something.

  “Shoelaces.” I nod, not wanting to interrupt the Arch’s story. He threw in the bit about Coach Farkas on his own; it’s a nice touch.

  “The lighter got hot, and I dropped it in the cart and it just . . . burned.”

  Mr. Mayer lets out a deep sigh. He looks from me to the Arch and back. “So it was an accident?”

  “Yup,” we say.

  He considers it for a moment, then puts the form back in the folder.

  “There will have to be detention.”

  “Of course,” I agree.

  The Arch just grumbles.

  Detention I can handle. Plus, it will give me the chance to get Sizzler’s embarrassing picture of Archer off Mrs. Belfry’s e-mail.

  The bell rings to start the school day.

  “Shouldn’t you boys be getting to homeroom?”

  We spring to our feet and scurry out before he changes his mind. A weight is lifted off my chest, and I can’t wait to get the cadre together to start figuring out what the Arch is really up to.

  In the hall he turns to go to his homeroom, in the other direction.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” I say as he walks away.

  He stops in his tracks, then slowly turns and walks back toward me. The top of my head isn’t even up to his chin. The graceful, gravity-defying spikes of his overgelled hair taunt me—a constant reminder of what he has and I don’t, than
ks to him. But when he gets close, I see past the cool hair and grown-up-looking face. His eyes remind me of the look Mr. Mayer has. Desperation?

  He leans in close, and the cloud of Axe body spray makes it hard to breathe. “Savor the flavor, Chub. This isn’t over. It’s only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Mr. Funk’s face is buried in his newspaper, so he doesn’t see me sneak into homeroom after the bell. I’m bursting at the seams to tell Moby about the untidy-whities plot the McQueens and I just pulled off, but he and Shelby don’t even look my way. I can’t tell if they are upset or just playing it cool.

  Word of the fire has obviously spread, and I get more than the normal amount of dirty looks from some members of the track team.

  As Mr. Mayer reads the announcements, someone behind me whispers, “Nice of you to make it, Matchstick—uh—I mean Ma-chek.”

  Six or seven kids chuckle, but I doubt their collective IQ is over a hundred, so I ignore it.

  After homeroom I go to the lockers, but Moby isn’t there. There’s only one place he can be.

  I check under the doors of all five stalls, but there are no feet. This is officially the longest I’ve gone without talking to Moby since second grade.

  I cut through the library and take the secret stairwell to avoid running into Archer or any other angry members of the track team. I want to feel good about the way things worked out this morning, but the look on the Arch’s face and his parting words have me shaken up. Now that we’re engaged in open warfare, one of us will win and one will lose. For the loser there will be no way to keep his defeat a secret.

  Moby isn’t in the cafeteria at lunch. The McQueens are sitting at a table, but it’s probably best we aren’t seen together for a while, so I go talk to Shelby instead.

  “Have you seen Moby?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” She’s more awkward and moody than normal.

  Why does every conversation with her have to be like pulling my teeth out? “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He disappeared before I had the chance to talk to him. Should we be talking in public?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Why?”

  She leans in and whispers, “Isn’t the cadre in trouble over the uniform fire? You know—rule five?”

  “What the heck is rule five?”

  She looks puzzled. “I assumed he disappeared because of rule five. If we’re ever in trouble . . .”

  I suddenly remember making up the thing about rule five, but I can’t wipe the confused look off my face fast enough.

  Shelby deflates a little and her bird gaze softens. “There is no rule five, is there?”

  “Shelby . . . ,” I say, not even sure how I’m going to finish the sentence. But I don’t have to finish it, because she pulls her own version of Moby’s disappearing act. Only hers isn’t as good, since she’s taller than everyone else in the lunchroom and her flamingo stride is hard to miss.

  I almost go after her, but I don’t want to cause even more of a scene. I’ll apologize for the rule-five thing next time I see her.

  As the day wears on, I get the picture. Moby is avoiding me.

  After school I go to the spot behind the Dumpsters where we usually meet to walk home. He isn’t there. I scan the street and catch a glimpse of his enormous backpack disappearing behind the building next door. I want to chase him down and ask him if I did something to tick him off, but I have to report to detention and I’m already late.

  Detention lasts an hour, but the drama club meets on Mondays for two hours. After I serve my detention, I’ll finally go to one of the meetings and hopefully Shelby will have calmed down a little. I’ve seen flyers trying to recruit actors for the new play. Maybe if I talk to her about that, I can get her to forgive me, so at least one of my friends will be talking to me.

  Mrs. Belfry puts her hands on her hips and gives me the kindest, most disappointed look ever. “You just can’t stay away, can you?”

  She has to pretend to be upset that I got in trouble, but I think she likes having some company after school. Not to mention my Laptop 101 classes.

  I shrug as she turns and waddles off to her office.

  I follow her because I need to get on her computer and pay some “bills.” She goes to sit in her chair as I say, “How’s the refraction on your keratometer? Are the levels normal?”

  She stops before her butt hits the seat and stands back up. She clutches her sweater closed and shoots the machine a suspicious look. “I’m not sure. How would I know?”

  “Oh, you’d know.”

  “Would you look at it for me?” Her voice has a hint of desperation.

  It’s so easy I almost feel bad.

  Almost.

  First thing I do once I’m logged in is pay off my debt to the McQueens and do a little bit of routine maintenance on my own record. Then I check the Arch’s grades. They’re good—a little too good. Why would someone as smart as he is choose to act like a brain-dead caveman? I make a few changes to his grades here and there, but not enough that anyone might notice. Just enough so that it will add up by the end of the year.

  Next I go into Mrs. Belfry’s e-mail and print the picture of the Arch asleep, drooling all over his headgear. I’m not sure if I’ll ever use it or not, but better to have a copy on me in case I ever get in a pinch. I pull it off the printer and stuff it into my pack. Looking at it, I get a twinge of sadness. At first I think it’s because of all the fun I used to have at his house, but then I decide it’s because of Wolverine. Archer and I always argued over who was better, Batman or Wolverine. I like Batman because he’s just a normal guy who got dealt a crappy hand and does what he needs to do to make it right. It figures Archer would prefer the mutant with special powers. Batman has issues; Wolverine has an indestructible Adamantium skeleton. Cry me a river.

  After business is done, I bring up the blog for Mace’s poker league. Mr. Mayer’s losing streak is worse than I thought, which explains all the new gray hair. There’s post after post about Mr. X taking Mr. Mayer down, only to lose in the final round to Mace. The thought of having to give away money you’ve earned because someone flipped over the wrong card makes my stomach hurt. No wonder Mr. Mayer is aging so fast.

  Mrs. Belfry sticks her head around the corner as I’m closing everything down. “Is it working properly?”

  “It is now.” I stand and head toward the door. “Good thing I was here today.”

  She clasps her hands together and sighs.

  “I’ll check on it again tomorrow, just to be sure,” I say.

  “Such a nice boy,” she says as I walk out of her office.

  I head to the fire extinguisher case and fish around behind it for something to read. I pull out a copy of Scott Pilgrim I’ve read a million times before and flip through it to pass the last half hour of detention. I don’t actually read it; I’m too distracted wondering what’s up with Moby. He’s disappeared on pretty much everyone at one time or another, but he’s never done it on me before and I don’t like it. I’m starting to understand why Shelby was so upset when we rule-fived her.

  Three thirty feels like midnight when it finally arrives. I wait an extra ten minutes after my official release to give the Arch time to leave the school after his detention. The last thing I need is to run into him face-to-face. I wave good-bye to Mrs. Belfry and head down the stairs to find Shelby and the drama club.

  There’s a note taped to the door in Mr. Mayer’s writing: “Drama club canceled.”

  That’s weird; it must’ve been a last-minute cancellation. Shelby would’ve said something about it if she’d known earlier. So much for that plan.

  My parents will be at the shop for another couple of hours, so I take a detour on the way home. I’ve never been to Shelby’s house, but I know which one it is. I walk up the path and ring the bell, scanning the street. I can’t be too careful.

  When the door opens, I’m looking through a portal into the future. Shelby Larkin is standing in the doo
rway, but her hair is gray, her face is wrinkled, and although I would’ve thought it impossible, her glasses are even thicker.

  “Yes?” says old Shelby. She leans down to inspect me and pushes her glasses up just like normal Shelby does. Everything about her is familiar, including the sweater she wears over her shoulders like a cape. I’m pretty sure normal Shelby wore the exact same one to school last week. I don’t want to offend this person, or cause a tear in the space-time continuum, but there’s business to attend to. “Is your . . . is Shelby here?”

  “Who would like to know?” She has the same I’m smarter than you tone as Shelby.

  I look around, not sure why she’s asking that, since I’m the only one here. I guess weird runs in the family. “Me, Chub.”

  She wrinkles her nose at me, then turns and calls for Shelby.

  Old Shelby and I share an uncomfortable silence waiting for the real Shelby to come to the door.

  “Thanks, Grammie,” Shelby says when she comes down the stairs.

  The old lady walks off and Shelby waves me in.

  “I thought that was your mom,” I say.

  “My mom . . . doesn’t live here. It’s just me and Grammie.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. “That’s cool.”

  Shelby stares at her feet. She must still be upset about the rule-five thing. I think back to the morning after the Shanghai sucker punch assembly and how mad she got at us for ditching her. I need to tell someone about what happened this morning, but I need to apologize first.

  “So,” I casually say. “I’m sorry.”

  She folds her noodly arms and looks up from her toes. “Excuse me?”

  Saying it once was hard enough, and now I have to say it again? I take a breath and look her in the eyes. “I said, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, exactly?” She taps her foot.

  Seriously? “For ditching you and making up rule five, okay?” If she doesn’t accept that, I’m gonna have to find someone else to brag to.

  “And you won’t ditch me again?”

  I suppose that’s reasonable, now that the cadre is actually a thing. I nod.