by Jim Krieg
He immediately shoved his arm into the small gap between the snack machine and the pop machine and reached around in back. It was a struggle, since he couldn’t see what he was doing.
“Hit your buttons,” he told me, and as soon as I figured out that he meant for me to make my snack selection, I did. “And keep holding them down.”
Suddenly, the big device shook and all the lights went out. When they came back on, the vending machine seemed to take a minute to figure out what was going on, then one of the big screws inside started turning and it dropped the requested package of Chile Picante CornNuts into the slot.
“That wouldn’t work on one of the new machines,” Volger explained, “but this one is an old friend.”
And, before you say anything, the answer is NO, I don’t consider 1.4 ounces of corn, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, salt, and maltodextrin to be appropriate nutrition for a growing boy, but survival sometimes means making do with the resources at hand.
Then I had another thought. “It never took my dollar.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Tommy,” Marcus said. “But let me ask you this: How many times have you inserted money into a vending machine and not gotten the right change, if any? This just evens things out. Besides, just you carrying around that package of CornNuts is like free advertising for Kraft Foods, which is worth way more than the chump change you tried to give them and they wouldn’t take anyway.”
Marcus has a great way of putting everything into perspective. And, man, as soon as he saw I had a problem, he stepped in with a solution.
“Tommy,” he said, sighing like a dude with something on his mind, “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got a little problem, and maybe you can help me with it.”
I have to admit that I was flattered. It’s gratifying to have a reputation as a problem solver.
“Look,” Marcus continued, “I hesitate to bring it up, because it’s about your new buddy.”
“Griff ?!” I immediately knew where he was going with this. “Carver is not my buddy, at all!”
“Really?” he said. “I gotta tell you, Tommy. That’s kind of a relief. I’m not so sure about that guy.”
“Well, I’m sure!” I told him. “I’m sure he’s dirty. He was kicked out of his last school for who knows what, and he let this class skipper go after he caught him, and I overheard—”
I was about to say I knew about his vague threats to Volger from under the cafeteria table but decided against it. Marcus might not like the idea of my electronic eavesdropping, even if it’s in the service of the greater good. People can be touchy about that stuff. I quickly steered the conversation to safer waters.
“Look, I even talked to Verity about him,” I explained. “She says we can nail this guy to the wall as soon as I can get enough evidence to expose him in the Liberty Bell.”
Marcus was quiet for a minute, and I could tell he was thinking.
“You know what, Tommy . . .” he started. But then he waved off the idea. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. You’re a Hall Monitor and I’m just some guy.”
“No, no,” I told him, not wanting him to feel inferior. “You’re one smart, together dude. I’d love to hear what you think.”
“I’m sure whatever you want to do is fine,” Marcus told me. “I just wondered if trying him in the press, publicly like that, is the right thing to do. I mean, he is a brother officer and everything, right?”
“I guess . . .” I said, kind of uncomfortably.
“Verity’s cool and everything, but she’s only worried about her byline in the Bell. And besides,” Marcus continued, “you would really need some rock-solid proof to put in print, and how likely is it that Carver is going to hand that to you on a silver cafeteria tray? You might be waiting a long time for that. Maybe forever.”
“What else can I do?” I wondered.
Marcus seemed to give this some thought. “What’s that fat kid’s name? Your captain.”
“Delane?” I ventured. Then I set him straight about the “fat” comment, explaining that you are merely husky, burly even.
“Yeah, Delane.” Marcus nodded. “You should go to him with this. Tell him everything you know. Your suspicions, gut feeling, anything. Make sure he knows any shady thing Carver’s been up to.”
“Well, how is that any better than the newspaper?”
“Because Delane can act immediately, without you waiting around for some evidence that might never come,” Marcus explained. “Especially with the principal breathing down his neck. You know how Sprague is about this stuff, terrified he’s going to lose his job if the school bus tires aren’t properly inflated. You might even start by dropping him an anonymous note.”
I wasn’t so sure about Marcus’s suggestion. Verity’s usually pretty smart about these things. Besides, there was the article to consider.
“How would you feel,” Marcus continued, “if Carver got caught doing something heinous while he’s still in Safety Patrol? It would besmirch the entire force and all because you failed to act immediately.”
I nodded, making a mental note to Google besmirch.
“Jeez, would you listen to me yack?” Marcus laughed. “Just like a politician, huh? Look, I’m sure whatever you figure out will be great. I’m just happy to have a friend like you I can unload on. Thanks, man.”
I finished off the bag of CornNuts and watched him vanish into the traffic of students. He was right, of course. I should’ve come to you with my suspicions immediately, Delane. I regret not doing so. And I hope you appreciate that it takes a Big Man to admit his mistakes.
Leave it to Marcus Volger to put me back on the right path.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HELEN NUTTING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL
Continuation of the RECORDED INTERVIEW with seventh grader Griffin Carver.
GRIFF: “Rise and shine!” That was the Old Lady. No surprise there.
“I’ll rise, but I won’t shine,” I answered. It wasn’t really a response, it was a ritual. I pulled a shirt out of the laundry pile and gave the armpit the sniff test. Musty, but not too ripe for school.
As I woke up, the weight of the murky depths of Rampart Middle settled on my shoulders again and I had an overwhelming desire to crawl back under the covers for another year or two.
Instead, I headed for the can and I splashed some cold water across my freckles and pulled it together some, then got an eyeful of myself in the mirror. Is that what I looked like now? Twelve. Man, eleven feels like a lifetime ago.
“I’m getting too old for this junk,” I said aloud to no one, shaking my head. Then I slipped the rolled-up red belt into my pocket and I was myself again.
Like always, I passed the Creature’s door on my way down the hall. It was covered in bumper stickers and pictures of rock bands I’d never heard of and topped off with a chunk of traffic barricade including the warning light, which was always flashing. City property. The Creature was a regular collage artist. I heard the music start up and took off down the stairs.
The cereal bowl was waiting for me. So were the questions.
“How did band practice go yesterday?” asked the Old Lady.
“Band practice never goes well this early in the year,” I answered without hesitating.
It wasn’t exactly a lie. I never lie. I equivocate. I answer questions with questions. I’m vague. But I don’t lie.
In my experience an outright lie is a death trap you set for yourself. It starts out as a tiny thread, but you have to keep weaving more and more supports for that first strand until it becomes a huge, inescapable web. And in my line of work, I can’t afford to be trapped.
But I was certainly misleading the Old Lady and, necessary or not, it made my Golden Os sit in my gut like a pile of sharp-cornered Legos.
She let it go at that. I was lucky. If her radar was on, she wouldn’t let up. Everything I know about interrogation, I learned from her.
“G
riffin,” she said tentatively, “I know you must be disappointed about not doing patrol this year—”
“I’m not,” I answered, trying to nip this in the bud.
“It’s just . . . well, you know what it did to your brother.”
I HAVE NO BROTHER.
That’s what I wanted to shout. But I didn’t.
Best thing I could do was get out of there. And fast.
With the new school allure now scraped off of Rampart, the Old Lady no longer insisted on dropping me off. Like some disaster was more likely to occur on day one than on day thirty-two. Mom logic. Go figure.
I headed out to the wheels. My bike is a Marley Carson, a knockoff Schwinn manufactured in Micronesia (which is a real place, by the way . . . I hear Micro-nesia and I immediately think it’s a comic book world where everyone is tiny). Anyway, the Marley may not be pretty to look at, but I’ve done a few mods on it over the years and, underneath the deceptive rust patches and partially peeled-off stickers promoting canceled cartoons, she’s a gearhead’s dream. I also added some pretty spectacular aftermarket items across the handlebars, which I keep under wraps, hidden by a long-unused paperboy sack. Rollers. Siren. I even have a PA system. Sometimes a loud noise or flashing lights is all it takes to shock a kid back into socially acceptable behavior.
Other times . . . well, let’s just say that sometimes you’ve gotta lean on the pedals. Fortunately, the Marley delivers. I can’t tell you how many glittery, hot rod flame-covered crotch rockets I’ve dusted. They never saw it comin’.
These incidents were, of course, in the line of duty. For the most part.
I rolled onto campus and automatically went into assessment mode. Near the baseball backstop there was some interaction between a Neanderthal with some un-diagnosed glandular problem receiving papers out of a brainoid superachiever who looked like he was about eight. Coercion? Homework for hire? Impossible to tell from this distance and, yes, everything in me wanted to aim my Marley Carson in that direction and find out. But that would blow everything. So I just rolled by.
Two minutes later, my ride was locked (at the end of the bike racks, for immediate access) and I was walking into the school with the usual pack of stragglers when I caught Verity’s eye. She looked at me in a weird way, half concerned, half confused.
“Hey, Fourth Estate,” I called to her, “what’s news?” Wasn’t sure if I was going to get a tart comment. Then I saw her jaw tighten and she looked the other way. For all her attitude, Verity’s a true-blue goody-goody and news travels fast even in a school this size.
Poor Verity. Don’t get me wrong. She’s great, obviously. But she is very by the book. Maybe even more than Tommy, in her own way. Journalists don’t think outside the box, because the box has their byline written on it, right under the big block-letter headline.
“Griff!” This was Delane, calling after me. His voice echoed down the hallway despite the throng of students. I turned and he looked at the floor awkwardly just before he pulled it together.
“My office,” he barked. “Now!”
Delane must be taking speech classes, because the mean voice was working. I got a cold chill, if just for a second. Then I shrugged it off, of course.
“Don’t look so worried, man,” I told him as I passed him and entered the Multipurpose Room. “It’s not like this is the first time I’ve ever been in trouble with my CO.”
“No,” he answered me, his voice heavy and serious, “but it is the last.” It was quite a delivery. Maybe he was in Drama Club to boot.
The Multipurpose Room was full of off-duty peace officers. I didn’t know the squad yet, of course, but all the usual types were there. The husky kid looking for friends. The joker. Tough girl with something to prove. Meat, Reams, and Ciardi. There was also a set of twins who I mentally named Good Cop/Bad Cop. They stopped talking and gave me the stink eye. Nothing too strange about that. Standard new-guy scenario.
Or was it? Was something else going on here? Something more than met the stink eye?
Delane ushered me into his office, which was really a converted broom closet. Still, not bad. Most COs didn’t even rate that. Maybe Delane was more resourceful than just the transcript packer I’d originally sussed him up as. He’d done the place up like a real office. Desk, flags (U.S., state, and school), Ionic Breeze fan.
“So, Griffin Carver,” I hear a voice say, “we meet again.”
The swivel chair behind Delane’s tiny desk spun around and there Sprangue sat in all his glory. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking surprised.
“Ah, Principal . . . uh, Sprangue, right?” I added the stumble on his name. It’s important to remind our elected officials that the world doesn’t revolve around them. “So, what brings the big man down here with the plebes?”
“You do, Carver,” he said, sizing me up. “Let’s just say a little bird told me that—”
“Seriously?” I interrupted. “You’re going to lead with ‘a little bird told you’? You really kick it old school.” I figured I was already on his naughty list. Might as well get the shots in while I could.
“Sit down,” he snapped. It was an order, not a request. He must’ve forgotten that we weren’t in his office.
“We’re in a supply closet,” I helpfully reminded him. “If I sit down, I’ll be outside.”
“I don’t usually interfere with the affairs of the student associations, but I received an anonymous note informing me that I might have a troublemaker on my hands.”
“Obviously, you do,” I noted. “Troublemakers are always sending anonymous notes.”
“Imagine my surprise,” he said, ignoring me, “when I discovered the note was referring to you.” Surprise? He probably danced a jig on his desk.
He’d had enough of our snappy exchange—I could tell by the way he snatched up the manila folder on the desk. My old captain used to call them vanilla folders, and I never let him live that down.
“I had your permanent record sent up from St. Finbar’s, Carver,” he explained. They always start that way. Must be in the principal playbook.
They make a big deal over that permanent record. How permanent is it, really? What if society falls apart and we’re reduced to living like post-apocalyptic cave-men? What if international hackers destroy the world data-base? How long will those non-acid-free paper copies of my so-called permanent record last, anyway? Forever? I don’t think so.
“Lot of interesting reading material here,” Sprangue continued, leafing through the file, pretending to read it. This guy is exactly what you’d expect. Not smart enough to be a real teacher but slick enough to sweet-talk the school board into giving him a cake job where he can do what he does best: lord it over anyone and everyone. His job goal: Keep this sweet gig, whatever it takes.
“It says here you frisked the school superintendent?” It wasn’t really a question. He was smiling. Like a tiger.
It was true about the superintendent. But I had probable cause. I mean, why was she so vehement about going around the metal detectors? You’d think that the fact that she had a pretty serious set of nail clippers stashed in her purse would vindicate me, but no. I’m telling you, no airline on earth would let her on board with that thing.
But I didn’t tell Sprangue that.
“And you evacuated the cafeteria during the Booster Club’s bake sale?” he went on.
“The cookies were made with peanut oil,” I said. It wasn’t an excuse. I just got tired of hearing his voice, so I thought I’d volunteer my side. “We had three students with allergies so severe that just one whiff of those peanuts would send them into anaphylactic—”
“You’re a troublemaker, Carver!” he shouted, interrupting me. A real politician. I bet he never interrupts the school board. “And I hate troublemakers.”
Translation: He doesn’t like it when people make waves. Even if it’d take a tsunami to wash this place clean.
“And I won’t jeopardize Rampart’s spotless reputation for . . .�
� He kept going on and, yeah, I’ll admit it, it got to me. I lost my cool.
“With all due respect, Principal!” I interrupted, perhaps a little louder than necesary. “A reputation isn’t the same thing as the truth. This place has more skeletons in the closet than Zombie Palace 4! Under the happy facade here, corruption lurks. It’s my duty to—”
“Delane,” interrupted Sprangue. “Show him.”
I could tell Delane was not too excited about the prospect, but he obeyed, calling up a series of digital photos on his laptop. They were all close-ups of the floor. That ancient Rampart Middle linoleum.
“Notice the scuff marks.” Sprangue grinned. “Consistent with running. They weren’t there before your shift last Tuesday. You’re aware of our no-running policy. Anything you care to tell me?”
Yeah, not likely.
“I know how it is, Griff,” he baited me. “Some kid gets out of line. What choice do you have but to chase him down? Right?”
It was a simple interrogation technique. The Old Lady could run rings around this guy. I clammed up. The principal gave Delane the nod.
“At approximately 9:47 a.m.,” Delane read, “substitute teacher Marion Sood saw what she described as ‘a blur of motion’ followed by the sound of ‘running feet.’
“Maybe somebody takes off,” he went on. “You and your partner get caught up in the moment and—”
“No,” I bit. “Just me. Rodriguez didn’t run. Whatever reprimand you have to dish out is just for me to take—”
“Reprimand?” Sprague grinned again. His smile broke through his mask of shocked disapproval. “I don’t know how they did things at your old school, but let me assure you . . . here at Rampart Middle, we operate under the rule of law.”
He was happy. Too happy just to be handing me a pink slip.
“And I’m guy who puts the zero in zero tolerance.”
My mind was racing. What was he up to?
“If you think you’re getting a slap on the wrist here, Carver, think again.”