Griff Carver, Hallway Patrol

by Jim Krieg

  Each one of them was working a different machine. The big one—I was pretty sure his name was Jace, but all eighth graders look pretty much alike to me—was at the band saw, cutting out the basic shape of the bogus hall passes. Another one, all pimples and stringy hair, operated the drill press, using it to engrave the painstakingly replicated letters onto the paddles. Dover Belton was there too, meticulously staining and artificially aging the wood by soaking it in what looked like tea and then scribbling on it in permanent Magic Marker. Messy work.

  “There’s our old friend,” whispered Tommy. “That shirt is ruined.”

  “The seventh grader always gets the worst job, even if he’s the kingpin’s lieutenant.”

  It was the best time of all. Time to get down to business. But before that could happen, words needed to be spoken. I didn’t like it much, but the air needed to be cleared.

  “Tommy, about what happened back there . . .” I started. I wasn’t much good at apologies or thanks, but nobody said life was going to be easy. Or if anybody did say that, they were full of it. “I guess I kinda freaked—”

  “What are you talking about?” Tommy said, interrupting me. It wasn’t really a question.

  “Back there, where the duct got tight—” I started to explain. I never finished. He cut me off again.

  “Nothing happened back there, Griff,” Tommy said, looking at me steadily. “Nothing happened at all,” he reiterated, very seriously. I knew he meant it. My freak-out was going in the vault. No one would ever know.

  There was nothing else to say. I nodded. Back to business.

  “What now?” Tommy asked. “Call for backup?”

  “Yeah, right?” I shrugged. “With what?”

  Tommy rummaged around in one of his camouflage pockets and pulled out what looked like a plastic lady-bug. It was red. It had spots. The whole bit. But it was a cell, obviously.

  “It’s a Snuggebug,” he explained. “I know we’re not supposed to have phones in school, but this is a special occasion. It calls my mom, dad, 911, or Delane.”

  I suppose he read a lot into the way I looked at his phone. “The only other choice was a bear.”

  “The look is not for the red plastic insect phone, Tommy,” I told him. “This is my ‘no, we’re not calling for backup!’ look.”

  “But the patrol regulations clearly state that when officers are engaging an equal or superior force—”

  “I’m not a hall cop anymore, remember?” I snapped at him. “So don’t go quoting regulations to me!”

  I immediately regretted my tone. Tommy was in this with me up to his Camp Scout neckerchief. “Anyway, there’s no signal,” I pointed out in a more conciliatory tone, indicating the screen. “Might have something to do with this metal coffin we’re sitting in.” I could see he was still a bit unsure. He glanced around the air duct. I don’t know what he was expecting to see.

  “Maybe I should crawl back out and call from there?”

  “Right,” I said. “If they pack up, I’ll just ask them to stick around until the cops arrive. It’s now or never.”

  Tommy took another look through the grid and put his math powers to the test. “But it’s four against two.”

  I shot him a half smile. “In my book, that means we just have a slight advantage . . . partner.”

  I could see that that had done the trick. He’d go in. But it’d have to be fast, before he got cold feet. I took a closer look at the grate. That was a lot of screws to take out, especially backwards from the inside. No telling what kind of shape Tommy’d be in by the end of it.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked, his voice as matter-of-fact as he could make it.

  “The plan is to land on your feet, think on your feet, and rely on the element of surprise,” I told him.

  “What surprise?” he asked, innocently enough.

  Instantly, I grabbed Tommy by the shirt and, with all my might, I shoved him forward. As his head and shoulders collided with the grate, his momentum kept him moving forward and he smashed through. I saw his legs disappear through the open vent. Somewhere below, I heard the grate clang against the floor. Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did. That’s what I had to do.

  I could just barely hear the sound of Tommy’s body landing in the pile of cardboard boxes below. It was drowned out by the sound of his screaming. I knew I didn’t have much time. I grabbed the lip of the air duct and pulled with everything I had.

  Falling through the air, I wrenched my body forward into a front flip. Didn’t want to land on my head. Like it was happening in slow motion, I could see the eighth graders turn toward the boxes below, alerted by Tommy’s impact with the boxes. I was probably in the air for about two seconds, but it seemed to me that these guys had a lot of time to move. I lost sight of them once my head was past the halfway point and I was looking back up at the rectangle entrance to the air duct. Maybe we were about to be surrounded by huge, hostile, criminal upperclassmen, but at least we weren’t in that chute anymore. Thank God for small favors.

  I hit the boxes harder than I thought I would. Since I was still conscious, I figured my hunch was right about the boxes being at least half empty. Coach Schnauz, who is also the wood shop teacher, is not renowned for his shipshape work environment. I looked across the crumpled cardboard to the next box, crushed by the impact, where Tommy’s body struggled to right itself. I’d taken a big chance. If he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him, he’d be useless in a fight and it’d be all over for us.

  Pain shot up the side of my arm where Tommy punched me. A pretty reasonable response to being thrown out of an industrial air duct eight feet off the floor. I felt a gasp of air leave my mouth, the giddy laughter of relief. He was okay. We had a chance.

  “Ben! Morgan!” I heard Belton shout. “Get in here!”

  The door flew open and two more goons ran into the wood shop. Now I was really glad Tommy wasn’t unconscious. “Tommy,” I said quietly to him out of the corner of my mouth, “forget what I said about not quoting regulations. You should do that.”

  But he wasn’t listening to me. He was staring at the two newcomers to the party. He recognized them. Tommy’s eyes narrowed like a man with a score to settle. We were both rolling off what was left of the boxes and landing in our fight stances.

  As the startled counterfeiters rushed to encircle us, I realized that this was the traditional moment for a snappy comment. I had a fleeting fear that it might be provided by Tommy.

  “Sorry,” he said sarcastically. It was too late to stop him. “Didn’t mean to drop in unannounced.” Clearly, there is a danger in unlimited access to television and movies.

  “That’s a wrap, gentlemen,” I announced. I tried to sound bored, like this happened all the time. That’s what airplane pilots do. Nothing to worry about, folks, just slip on those ol’ oxygen masks and buckle up. “Principal Sprangue’s giving a terrific speech just down the hall. I wouldn’t want you to miss it. Get going.”

  They hesitated. This was either going to work or blow up in the next few moments. I had to do something. I’d try the snappy comment. “Looks like you guys shoulda stuck to birdhouses and spice racks.”

  Belton got a weird look on his face, like he’d eaten brussels sprouts (no offense, brussels sprouts fans). Then he shot back the expected flip.

  “Carver, we’re gonna make a birdhouse out of you!” he shouted. Yeah, it didn’t make any sense, but his attitude was pretty clear.

  “Ben, Morgan,” he ordered, “you take the Camp Scout. Jace and Rico, get Carver.” The other two were already moving in on a nervous Tommy, separating us. Jace’s face broke into a big smile as he stalked toward me. Not a good smile, the other kind. Rico’s eyes narrowed as he rubbed his fingertips together. He took his job seriously. “You’re gonna be sorry you ever stuck your big nose in here, Carver.”

  To be honest, I was already sorry. These kids were big and, from where I stood, seemed to be getting bigger with every step closer. There was
only one thing left to do: stall. Stall for the most precious commodity of all—time. Fortunately, Tommy gave me a way in.

  “You rat!” Tommy hissed at Belton.

  “Oh, don’t be too hard on Belton, Tommy,” I told him, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s not his fault.”

  That got a reaction. And not just from Tommy.

  “How is it not his fault?” asked Tommy. From the corner of my eye, I saw Belton nod automatically. He wanted to know too.

  “Belton is nothing but a pawn in Volger’s game,” I explained. “He’s just a dumb kid who stepped into one of Volger’s traps. A victim.”

  I could see the “huh?” written all over Tommy’s face. “Belton had a problem. Most kids do. But Belton wanted help, and he went to the wrong guy.”

  “What was his problem?” Tommy asked as Belton looked on.

  “It’s right there,” I said, gesturing toward him with my chin. “It’s the reason he wears two shirts even when it’s hot.”

  Belton’s hands immediately went to his throat. He tried covering his neck with the shirt collar.

  “That rash on his neck?” Tommy asked incredulously. “What’s the big deal about that?”

  “It’s not a big deal, except in his own mind,” I went on. “But it is a big rash. Whatever that skin condition is, eczema or whatever, it covers his chest as well. And he’s embarrassed about it.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Belton finally snapped at me, tired of being an audience member in a conversation about himself.

  “I know what’s in your gym locker,” I countered. “And I know what isn’t. Didn’t you notice, Tommy?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “A bathing suit,” I explained. “Everyone makes such a big deal out of Rampart having a pool. Hooray for us. Only it’s not such a great thing if you’re all uptight and self-conscious about your red, scabby chest.

  “That first gym unit, swimming, hung over Belton’s head like the wads of toilet paper on the boys’ room ceiling. Everyone would be looking at him. Teasing him, maybe. At least that’s what he thought. Who knows, maybe he was right. Depends on who was in his gym period.

  “So who does poor Dover Belton go to with his problems? Who else: Marcus Volger, everybody’s best friend. And guess what? Good old Marcus has a solution! He . . . I don’t know, forges a note from a doctor. ‘Please excuse Dover from swimming due to his deadly chlorine allergy.’ Something like that. And all out of the goodness of Marcus’s heart.”

  Belton stared at me in amazement. How could I know? “Problem solved, right?” I asked Tommy, not really waiting for his response. “Wrong. Because Volger doesn’t have any goodness in his heart. He’s always working an angle. So when he needed something, something like Nino Coluni to pass Spanish, he called in the favor.

  “Whenever Señor Olsen sprang a pop quiz on them, Belton was to sneak out of class—not super-hard with Coke-bottle-glasses Olsen shuffling through his filing cabinet—hightail it over to a fire alarm, and pull.”

  “And he used the fake hall pass to get by the Hall Patrol,” Tommy filled in. Then, shaking his head, he added, “So how does that make him a victim? He’s totally guilty!”

  “Oh, Belton didn’t want to do any of that,” I said. This was total guesswork now. “Probably said no when Volger asked him. Then Volger kindly reminded Belton of the fake doctor’s note. You know the penalty for a forged doctor’s note, Tommy?”

  Of course he did. “Expulsion.”

  “Volger told Tommy that Principal Sprangue might get an anonymous tip about Belton’s note. Dover Belton was looking at a one-way trip to an inferior school district. Parents would have loved that, I’m sure.”

  “Why not just tell on Volger?” Tommy asked. “If Volger made the note, he’s just as guilty. He’s in just as much danger.”

  “Who would believe me!?” snapped Belton, reliving his desperation. “It’s my word against his and everyone loves Marcus Volger! A hundred students would back Marcus up.”

  “Belton,” I said calmly, “you’re not the only kid Volger is blackmailing. That’s what most of these hall passes are for. Sure, he sells some of them, but he mostly uses them to get the goods on poor unsuspecting saps like you.

  “Come clean and we’ll find other victims. Let us go and we can all take down Volger together.” It was as clean a pitch as I could muster. I’m not much of a salesman. Not like Volger.

  I saw the gears turning in Belton’s head. He was thinking it over. While he did, I quickly scanned the room, looking for an advantage. At least there was stuff at hand. I noticed a nearby heavy-duty shop vac and, near that, an industrial caulking gun. I made eye contact with Tommy, then glanced at the equipment. Did he get the message? Did he understand the message? No time to find out. Had to hope for the best.

  “You think you’re so smart, why don’t you join the Omicron League?” I saw Belton’s jaw tighten. His decision was made. “Volger controls everything,” Belton said, resolved. “He always has and he always will. Our job is to teach you what happens to kids who think they can stand up to him.

  “Hold him, Jace,” Belton ordered the big kid while looking at me. Clearly, Belton wasn’t going to take any chances with a fair fight. He needed me immobilized. I got ready for a last-ditch Hail Mary move as Jace came for me. It wasn’t a sure thing, just a sucker jab that, if Jace was as cerebrally challenged as he looked, had a fifty-fifty chance of working.

  Then, a miracle. The thing I needed most, a diversion, was delivered as if from nowhere.

  A blinding flash went off all around us. Jace and Rico, bless ’em, looked right up where the light had come from, their eyes wide open, just in time for the second flash. By the time I opened my eyes, the second light blast was just fading away, but I could see the eighth graders wincing and blinking. From their faces it looked like the rest of the gang was seeing spots as well, and the flashes just kept coming.

  “Smile, boys,” purred a familiar voice from above. “You’re my first real cover story of the year.” Verity was perched on the roof, her legs dangling through the open skylight. She squeezed off a few more shots with her digital camera, but by now, the shock of her flash had worn off and Belton and his eighth-grade buddies were regrouping.

  “Get her!” shouted Belton. Not that he had to. Several were already scrambling up the worktables to grab her. I didn’t waste any time. I slammed my heel down on Jace’s instep and dove away from him, shoulder rolling over to the stand where the caulking gun rested.

  “Tommy!” I shouted, snatching up the tool and taking aim. “Shop vac!” Focused as I was, I could just catch, out of the corner of my eye, Tommy executing a spectacular flip over Ben and Morgan, who were closing on him. Gymnastics badge, no doubt.

  Verity was struggling to worm her way out of the gap in the skylight. Being mindful of her camera, she took just a moment too long. Rico leaped from the tabletop and wrapped a meaty hand around her ankle. As he dropped back down, he unseated her, but still she held on to the window molding. She hung there helplessly as Rico landed on the worktable and coiled for another leap.

  I’d only have one shot at this.

  Rico jumped, reaching for Verity’s leg.

  I raised the caulking gun and exhaled, stilling my hands. I pulled the trigger. The sticky adhesive blasted out, arcing across the room and, amazingly, splattering right in the leaping Rico’s kisser!

  He cupped his hands to his face and came down unbalanced. The entire worktable upended when Rico’s body weight hit the corner. Now there was nothing beneath Verity’s kicking legs but kindling and linoleum. I kept pressing tightly on the handle of the caulking gun, dousing as many of the forgers as I could. The sealant is gooey and slippery at first. The counterfeiters were falling on their cans and scrambling up again like they were on a giant Jell-O-filled Slip ’n Slide.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Tommy reach the industrial-size shop vacuum. “Detach the hose from the—” I started, but he was way ahead of
me.

  “I’m on it,” Tommy called as he knocked the flexible pipe from the belt sander. I stole a quick glance and saw him flipping the switches. First, the on switch. I heard the powerful five-horsepower motor roar to life. Then the clincher. Tommy switched the toggle from suck to blow, and that’s when everything went nuts.

  The shop vac started hurling the contents of its twenty-gallon drum into the air. Tommy aimed the hose attachment like a sawdust bazooka, giving particular attention to Morgan and Ben. Within seconds the entire wood shop was enveloped in a sandstorm of tiny wood particles. It was hard to breathe and harder to see. Some of the sawdust billowed up into the air vent, making that venue even less appealing to me, if that were possible.

  By now, of course, the adhesive I’d sprayed onto the counterfeiters was starting to get tacky. And I’m not talking white socks with dress shoes here. I mean sticky. These guys were like human fly strips with the wood particles glomming onto them the way that girls latch onto tall guys during social dance unit in gym. Finding themselves turned into giant inside-out scarecrows seemed to take the fight out of the forgers. Before I knew it, these guys were headed for the door, running from Tommy’s sawdust shower and my glue gun deluge like the Olympic sprint team from the Land of the Sandmen. I was just about to join Tommy in a celebration when I heard the scream.

  “Griiiiiiiiff!” Verity cried. I looked up and saw the highest-awarded middle school journalist in the state hanging from the skylight by her fingernails. Something fell out of her pocket, a wallet, maybe. It seemed to take forever to hit the floor. She was that high up.

  She’d likely gotten an eyeful of that sawdust when she was climbing back up and lost her balance. I heard the snap of the old skylight molding breaking. She was falling.