by Jim Krieg
There it was! I saw a tiny droplet of sweat drip out of Belton’s hairline and across his temple. And, like I said, it was not that hot. Bingo.
“I don’t think so,” I said nonchalantly. Then, like a slap, I followed it up. “It’s a fake.”
“Wha—”
Belton sprinted down the hall before Tommy could get a shocked word out. The look on his face was worth all the easygoing camaraderie I’d had to endure before.
“How—how’d you know—?”
“We got a runner,” I interrupted. “Let’s go.”
Just as I tensed to run, I felt a hand grab my arm. “The zero tolerance policy on running . . .” he started.
“Issue me a warning . . . later,” I said as I wrenched my arm free and took off after Belton.
I won’t lie. It felt great to tear down that corridor after a perp. The adrenaline was pumping, my feet were flying, and suddenly I remembered why I strapped the red reflective belt on in the first place. I was gaining on him.
I heard Belton’s sneakers screech as he rounded the corner into a connecting hallway. He left marks on the school floor, but that was the least of his problems. I’d be on him as soon as I got around this corner . . .
I saw the blue liquid sluice across the linoleum. My mind knew it was the sports drink from the netting on Belton’s book bag long before it could get the message to my feet to stop.
I instantly lost traction as soon as my sneakers hit the sports drink. I can’t tell you exactly what high-fructose corn syrup is, but I can tell you that it’s very slippery.
My inertia kept me moving forward as I slid through the supposedly “berry”-flavored thirst quencher and careened into a stack of eighth-grade lockers. The crash was so loud, its echo covered the relatively quiet thump of my body hitting the floor.
I looked up and saw Belton smirk as he dropped the empty squeeze bottle onto the floor. Pretty cocky of him to stop and gloat. I’d caught up to him easily and would do so again as soon as I climbed up to my—
Belton wasn’t gloating. He was fiddling with the bottom of his sneakers. Why would he . . . ? Then I saw the wheel. He was fast. He had popped the wheels into both sneaker skates before I closed the distance between us. After that first push, his acceleration was impressive.
Now we had a ball game. I poured it on. I was breathing hard. I could hear my heart pounding against my ribs. The fastest I’d run since . . . it didn’t matter. His wheels were faster than my feet. Belton got smaller and smaller in the distance.
My heartbeat was sounding louder. Too loud to be my heartbeat. Turned out to be footfalls, behind me. Suddenly, Tommy raced past me like a bullet train.
“You’re slow, old man!” he shouted as he passed. I remembered the track-and-field badge on his scout sash. He could probably throw a discus better than me too, in the unlikely event that would become necessary in a high-speed-chase scenario. I don’t think he was even sweating.
I slowed down. Maybe it was the new school. Or the move. Or everything that went down at St. Finbar’s. Heck, who was I kidding? I’m in seventh grade—I’m not getting any younger. Maybe I’m past my best years as a hall cop. . . .
I was a dinosaur. Learned Hall Patrol from the old-timers, my brother and his pals, before they went to high school and everything went nuts. Guys like Tommy were probably the future. All those book smarts. And the obeying the rules down to the letter. Maybe he was using his head—
I stopped the pity party right there. He wasn’t using his brains. He was using his legs. I was the guy who needed to use his head.
What would I do? On wheels. Being chased by a Terminator. On the second floor. I’d be totally trapped. Or would I . . . ? Could he be that good?
I quickly reviewed the mental map of the floor plan I’d been assembling all morning. If he took the main stairwell, I had a chance. I turned into a small stairway and raced for the ground floor two steps at a time.
The main hall was deserted. I might have thought I was the only person on earth if it weren’t for the student election posters. DINNE FOR 6TH-GRADE SECRETARY! Like I’d vote for anyone who used a heart for the o in her name. Sorry, sister, it’s a totally different shape.
I got my bearings and ran to the main stairs. Not all out. I’d need to be able to operate once I got there. My slower gait allowed my brain time it didn’t really need. What if I was wrong? He could be anywhere. I had pretty good cop instincts once, but that was another school. Another lifetime. And look how that turned out. Maybe I was just fooling myself, even back then.
Then I heard him. I was just reaching the bottom of the stairs and there was a metallic crash echoing upstairs. Only one thing makes that noise. A school trash can slamming against the floor as it spills across the laminate.
I heard Tommy cry out. Even from downstairs, I knew he’d tripped over the garbage that Belton had used to block his path. He was good. And he’d be coming down those stairs any second.
And I didn’t have anything. Except maybe surprise. Duh. Wake up, Griff!
I threw myself against the wall at the base of the stairs, out of sight. Just in time, the staccato scatting of Belton’s wheels bouncing down the steps got louder and louder. And fast! What was this kid? In the X Games?
I only had seconds and, as usual, I was unarmed. I felt a fleeting sympathy for English bobbies. “Stop! Or I’ll blow my whistle again!” Unless . . .
I reached into my pocket. The rubber band, the one from the patrol belt, was still there. I pulled it out and looped it over the tip of my right index finger and stretched it across the heel of my thumb, pinning it to my palm with my middle finger. Instant slingshot finger gun.
Only one shot. Better make it count. I steadied my arm with my left hand and pressed myself closer to the wall.
There was his shadow. He reached the bottom of the stairs, home free. Or so he thought.
I heard the wheels. It was now or never. I stepped out.
It happened so fast. I’m kind of amazed his face even registered my presence as I raised my hands, left hand steadying right wrist, and pointed my finger at him. Surprise.
I shot. No warning. The rubber band was off my finger instantly. Belton’s hands automatically flew to cover his face, but that wasn’t where I was aiming.
The rubber hit his shin at 11.71 mph. No permanent damage, but I can tell you from personal experience, it hurts. He made a satisfying yelp and gripped his leg. He still had plenty of speed as his wheels lost their connection with the ground.
The wipeout was spectacular. I could’ve sold tickets. After hitting the trash can, the twin of the one he’d knocked at Tommy upstairs, he careened past me, across the hall, and into the empty table of election baked goods. I’d love to say that it was still full of frosted cupcakes when Belton smashed into it, but life is never perfect.
But as Hall Patrol moments go, this was pretty darn close. I walked over to him shaking my head. He was rubbing his.
“Let’s go, Hot Wheels,” I said matter-of-factly. The perp doesn’t need to know that he’s an awesome bust. He needs to think you do this all day, every day.
“Uh-uh . . .” he stammered, on the verge of tears. “No way. I—I can’t get detention, man. Please!”
Everyone reacts differently to getting busted, and you’ve got to be prepared for it. Belton’s reaction was pretty typical. Panic. He’d beg, weep, do anything to get out of that long walk to the principal’s office.
“Come on, man! I can help you!” he pleaded.
See what I mean? “Oh, yeah?” I responded. “Help me how?”
“I can hook you up,” he told me. The tears were gone, replaced by the hopeful grin of a desperate salesman. “What do you want? Otter Pops? Baseball cards? A note for gym? From a real doctor? I’m the man, G.”
I had to hand it to Belton. If he didn’t end up in jail, he’d probably be great at selling stuff someday.
“I don’t need anything,” I said, to shut him down. He pulled out the big guns.
>
“Test answers,” he suggested, his voice much lower. “English papers, finished homework.”
I pulled him to his feet, but not too roughly. He could see that he’d piqued my interest.
“You’re a busy man, G.,” Belton said, suddenly my best friend. “Why waste time with all that busywork? They can’t expect you to risk your neck out here in these mean corridors and do math homework with fractions.”
I winced. He probably noticed that he’d hit a soft spot.
“My old man’s always on my back about the math grades,” he confided.
“I don’t have an old man,” I admitted, “but my mom . . .” I made a face to indicate just how nuts she was over my grades. No lie there. He smiled.
“I totally commiserate with you,” he said.
“You can’t help me,” I said flatly.
“I’m telling you,” said Belton. “I’m connected. I run with this crew. We own this place. Always looking for guys who know how to handle themselves.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
CHAPTER FIVE
RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL Incident Report
TO:
Delane Owens, Divisional CO
FROM:
Thomas Rodriguez, HP 2nd Class
DATE:
Friday, September 18, 1:07 p.m.
INCIDENT:
Supplementary Information to HP Carver’s Report
After reading Hall Monitor Carver’s IR describing Tuesday’s high-speed chase, I feel compelled to submit my own version of the incident.
In essence, most of Carver’s report is pretty accurate, if short. Like many of my fellow officers, Griffin does not seem to understand the importance of good paperwork.
But even the fact that I did, in fact, temporarily ignore the school’s no-running policy is pretty much true. That I was caught up in the “heat of the moment” in no way excuses my totally uncool behavior. I’m willing to accept whatever disciplinary action you deem fit, Delane, but keep in mind that (a) I am already being punished by my own conscience and (b) Safety Patrol is terribly understaffed this year.
However, you should be aware that a few key details, either by oversight or subterfuge or whatever, have been omitted from Carver’s report. Both my duty and the fact that I consider us “buds” compel me to fill in the holes.
Despite his Heelys, I was gaining on the fleeing suspect (whom I believe to be Dover Belton, student ID #8376394) at an acceptable rate. As you know, I pride myself on my acceleration in a sprint as well as my endurance over long distances.
As we reached the east end of the upstairs hallway, the sun from the big window hit me right in the face and I was temporarily blinded. At just that moment, the suspect grabbed the large trash receptacle at the top of the stairs and yanked it over. The can’s top opened and the contents (mostly paper, contraband candy wrappers, and soda bottles) spilled across the corridor toward me.
As I mentioned, my speed was impressive. So when I hit that spilled garbage, I went flying. The loud clanging sound was my first indication that I’d collided with the trash can. The physical pain I felt hitting the floor was another indication.
By the time I sat up and looked over the trash can, the suspect was already more than halfway down the stairs, a pretty impressive feat on skates. Despite his lead, I climbed to my feet and raced after him, which I’m sure does not come as a surprise to you. You have often complimented me on my single-minded determination. At least, I think those were compliments.
Hurrying down the stairs, I heard a yelp of pain, then voices talking in low but emphatic tones. I was just rounding the corner when I caught a glimpse of the aforementioned HP First Class Carver pulling the suspect out of the remains of a collapsed folding table.
Griff had somehow guessed where the perp was going to run and beat him there. I was pretty impressed. Maybe his reputation is more than just hype. With the action over, I slowed down to a walk. Now I had all the time in the world to stroll over and pat Carver on the back for a job well done.
Well, maybe not literally “pat” him on the back. HM First Class Carver has a strong sense of personal space. Not exactly a team player.
“. . . This never happened . . .” At least that’s what I think I heard. It was Griff’s voice. I slowed down, hoping to hear more, to figure out what was “going down” here. I ducked behind the edge of the stairwell and strained to hear the conversation.
“Now get lost before the deputy Camp Scout shows up,” Griff said. THAT I heard. No mistake.
“Y-you won’t be sorry, man,” Belton stammered. Then I heard footsteps and decided it was time to make an appearance. But I didn’t just step out of my hiding place and walk up. No, I jogged up to Carver, puffing like I had just run down the stairs. I was pretty convincing. As you know, Delane, I also have a dramatics badge.
I didn’t see Belton (or whoever he was) anywhere. Griff looked up at me, but I couldn’t read his face. Was he scared, excited, nervous? Who knows?
“What happened?” I asked. Again, I was very naturalistic.
“Nothing,” he said. “He got away from me, that’s all.”
Wow, he was totally lying to me, but I only knew that because of my sneaking and eavesdropping. If I’d just been talking to him, instead of secretly testing him, I’d have believed the guy.
I pointed down the corridor. You could hear the sound of Belton’s running feet getting softer and softer. “That’s probably him,” I said. “We can still catch him.”
I was just about to run after the sound when Griff caught my arm and stopped me dead in my tracks. Yeah, it kind of hurt, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. “That’s not him,” he told me matter-of-factly.
“Let’s catch him and find out,” I said accusingly.
“I told you,” he almost growled, “that isn’t him. Let it go. That kid’s long gone by now.”
I sensed something was really wrong here. My famous Hall Monitor instincts were going haywire. But I wanted to give a fellow officer the benefit of the doubt. Just then the class bell rang. The classrooms were about to burst open. I thought I’d better give it one last try.
“If you ask me, it’s our duty to make just one more round of the halls and see if he turns up anywhe—”
“I didn’t ask you,” he interrupted. He stared me in the eyes, threateningly, like You better forget this whole thing ever happened, kid. At least, that was my impression. I know that wouldn’t hold up under a disciplinary review or anything.
Suddenly, kids were pouring into the hall. I turned back to Griff. I wanted to give him one last chance to level with me.
He was gone. Like Batman.
P.S. I wanted to end there, Delane, but I should clarify what I meant. You know how when Batman is talking to someone and they look away for a second and when they look back, Batman has disappeared mysteriously? That’s how Griff took off. It was just like that.
It got me to thinking about how, if you wanted to pull that off, you’d have to always be waiting for the person you’re talking with to look away so you could melt into the crowd or the night or what have you and it would be really hard to keep up your end of the conversation.
CHAPTER SIX
Dear Diary,
I cannot believe I just wrote that. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Seriously? “Dear Diary”? Who am I? Holly Hobbie? Polly Pocket? Laura Ingalls Wilder?
Okay, maybe I’m a little out of line, lumping Laura Ingalls Wilder in there. She was a real person, not a doll specifically targeted at impressionable young girls. For all I know, she didn’t even like pink. And I should really cut her some slack for freezing her butt off on that godforsaken prairie.
Well, Diary, what do you think of my first entry? Can you tell that I’m just writing to look like I’m writing? Are you somehow aware that Aunt Dede is sitting across the living room with her English Breakfast tea? Can you feel her smile every time she looks up at me and sees that I’m actually writing in this thing?
“Oh, look at this darling little diary!” she must’ve said when she saw you in the store. “Verity would just adore you! She’s quite the little writer, you know!”
I have to hand it to my mother. She’s a pretty amazing nonverbal communicator. With one look she told me, “I don’t care how pink and girly that diary is, you start writing in it now! You do it in front of my sister. And you keep writing in it until her visit is over or you can kiss the Internet goodbye for the foreseeable future.”
That’s a lot of information to deliver with one eyebrow raise. I guess there’s still a thing or two she can teach me.
Okay, hideous pink-lined paper with the kitten in the corner, what now? Mom and Aunt Dede are still yacking away, so I’d better think of something to write about.
Tell you about my day? Why, sure! I’d love to. Mr. Button made me rewrite my piece on Spirit Week. He said it was a little flat. Really? My article on float building and pep rallies was a little been there, done that? Excuse me! It’s still better than anything Tia Summers would hand in, and you’d pat her on her head and say, “Nice work, Tia!” And you know what? Telling me I’m capable of more than other students in no way makes up for the fact that I have to do the whole thing over.
Oh, and I might have a story. A real story, on the off chance that Tommy isn’t just talking because he’s . . . well, being Tommy.
I noticed him in the cafeteria today, just standing there looking like he’d swallowed something horrible, for instance, anything produced in that cafeteria, as I was giving the Apathetic Five their marching orders.
“All right, listen up,” I announced to my alleged team. “Nino Coluni just got suspended from the team. That makes a noise like news. Talk to me.”
“Nino Coluni, the captain of the football team?” asked the brilliant Ms. Summers.
“Yes, Tia,” I answered, trying to keep the snarky attitude out of my voice, “that Nino Coluni. Not one of the many other Nino Colunis we have wandering around here. What’s the story?”