by Kurt Dinan
“Who is that?” Ellie asks.
“Mark Richardson,” Wheeler says. “He’s shooting a picture for H8box.”
“But Mrs. B asked you not to do that.”
“Right, but she didn’t say anything about someone else doing it, did she? Semantics, man. They’ll get you every time.”
We all hold up our paint brushes in Mark’s direction and pause for a picture before dipping our brushes and slathering the water tower with blue paint. I’m standing next to Ellie on the end, which, if I have to risk my life up here, is the best place to be. Up until last year, Ellie’s parents forced her to wear long skirts to school. She eventually won the battle to dress more like a normal teenager, but in her parents’ minds, that means loose jeans and shirts buttoned high. Still, if anyone can rock the Puritan look, it’s Ellie.
What’s awesome is the paint we’re using isn’t a perfect match for the original blue. The district will inevitably have to pay someone to repaint the entire tower, which is a small but excellent consolation.
“So you made it back into your house without getting caught?” Ellie says.
“Luckily. What happened to you?”
“I just got a—quote—stern talking to—unquote—about temptation and the importance of our family’s reputation.”
“But they didn’t ground you?”
“No, my parents don’t do that. I think they’re afraid I’ll become like other PKs.”
“PKs?”
“Preacher’s kids. Haven’t you heard? We’re the biggest drunks, druggies, and sex fiends out there. Did Stranko call your parents yet?”
“No, not yet,” I say. “I’m betting it’ll come in the next couple days.”
“Well, if he tries, he’s not going to have much luck.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“You know how I’m an office aide second period? Today I changed your parents’ phone number in the system to the childcare room at my dad’s church. It’s only used on Sunday mornings. So if Stranko does call, the phone will just ring and ring.”
“You did that for me?”
“Sure. Why not?”
It’s official. I’m in love.
From somewhere down below, someone shouts, “Hey, you missed a spot!”
Clever.
“You know what pisses me off?” Malone asks. “Knowing the Chaos Club is probably down there laughing at us.”
We all stop painting and look over the side again.
“I’m going to find ’em and kill ’em,” Adleta growls.
“And who exactly are you going to kill?” Malone asks. “No one knows who’s in the Chaos Club.”
“Oh, someone knows. I’ll find out who,” Adleta says.
“How? By beating people up until you get a confession?”
“It’s an idea.”
“Yeah, a dumb one.”
“Like you’re one for good ideas. What’s your answer? Text everyone another nudie?”
Malone holds Adleta’s eyes a lot longer than I’d be able to. Or maybe he’s holding her eyes. Regardless, I haven’t heard Adleta say that many words in all the years I’ve known him.
“Look, everyone just needs to chill out,” Wheeler says. “This isn’t a big deal.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Ellie tells him. “You don’t care about how this’ll look to prospective colleges.”
“Or how Stranko’s going to make your life hell during practice,” Adleta says, then adds, “with your father’s blessing.”
“Or what it’s like to give everyone another reason to make fun of you,” Malone says.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Wheeler says. “But let’s remember that if Ellie hadn’t given that quote to the paper about how we didn’t paint the tower, they would’ve thought we were the Chaos Club. We’d be gods. But noooo, now we’re just assclowns.”
“You’re used to being an assclown though,” Malone says.
“Yeah, but on my terms, not someone else’s.”
“What I can’t stop wondering is why us?” Malone says. “Of everyone the Chaos Club could pick for this prank, why the five of us?”
“Because we’re stupid,” Adleta says.
“Thanks for sharing. But seriously, hasn’t anyone else thought of this?”
I have. A lot. If there’s anything positive about my self-imposed isolation in the theater, it’s that I’ve had a lot of time to think. And all those thoughts haven’t been bad. I feel different, like whoever went up the tower isn’t the same person who came back down. And I do have an answer for Malone. I’m just not sure how to answer her without someone tossing my body over the railing. But regardless of the shameful way Just Max had me hiding out today, Not Max has definite opinions on what needs to be done in this situation, and he’s not about to shut up. So while I’m nervous to say anything, I have to.
“We were picked because we’re easy targets,” I say.
Malone stops painting and looks at me.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re easy targets,” I repeat. “Adleta’s right. We were stupid. We made it easy for them.”
“How am I an easy target?” Malone says. She’s not holding the paintbrush like a knife, but considering her tone of voice, she might as well be.
“Because of what happened last year with your picture. It made you a victim, so of course you’d want to join the Chaos Club.”
Now Malone’s coming at me, ready to paint me blue, and I back up with my hands out.
“Whoa, hold on,” I say. “We’re all that way. We all have reasons we’d fall for that invite. I went because I don’t have shit going on in my life. Ellie’s in the same boat as you, but with her dad and the book thing.”
“What about him?” Malone says, pointing to Wheeler. “How’s he a target?”
I don’t have to answer because Wheeler does it for me.
“Are you seriously asking that question? An invitation to join a club known for pulling pranks and, by their very name, causing chaos? They could’ve written ‘This is all a setup’ on the card and I still would’ve shown up.”
“Okay, that was dumb of me,” Malone says.
All of us have stopped painting now, and from the base of the tower, Stranko shouts up, “Get back to work!”
“Asshole,” Wheeler says.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Adleta says. “So what about me? How am I a target?”
Actually, the answer to Adleta’s question is simple. But answering him is hard. No one wants to die young.
Still, Heist Rule #8 says, Recruit a strong crew, and no one is stronger than Adleta. Literally.
“People have been talking about you behind your back ever since you screwed up in the tournament game last year,” I say, then brace myself. If death comes, I hope it’s quick and painless.
But Adleta doesn’t murder me.
At least not yet.
“What do people say?” he asks.
Wheeler says, “That you have anger-management issues that would make the Hulk jealous.”
“Is that so?”
“Sorry, dude. It’s the truth.”
Last year during the state lacrosse regional semifinals, Adleta, doing his best impersonation of his father, screamed at a ref and got thrown out of the game. The team was already playing shorthanded, and losing him sealed their fate. I didn’t see the game, but supposedly, his dad had to be restrained by security from murdering the ref, then Tim.
“Why does getting thrown out of a game make me an easy target?” Adleta says.
“Because when you feel powerless, you’ll do anything to feel better about yourself.”
Thank you, Psychology 101.
“You may be right, but that’s not why I showed up.”
“Then why did you?” Malone asks.
<
br /> Tim doesn’t answer; instead, he turns his back and resumes painting the tower.
“So let’s say you’re right, Max,” Ellie says. “What if all of us were chosen because we were easy targets. What are we supposed to do about it?”
It’s all been leading up to this. If you’ve never seen Ocean’s Eleven, there’s a scene where Danny Ocean, the group’s mastermind, gets everyone together and pitches the impossible heist of robbing three casinos in one night. I’m no Danny Ocean, but I did watch that scene three times today on my phone in study hall, planning for this moment. Steal from the best—that’s my motto. It’s time for Not Max to step up.
“I think we’re all pissed about what happened to us,” I say. “And we should be. We look like idiots up here, and no one’s going to let us forget about that. But I think the Chaos Club messed up. We’re not the type of people to just roll over and take it. I might have been, but I’m not going to be anymore.”
“Me either,” Adleta says.
“Yep,” Wheeler says.
“I agree,” Ellie says.
“So, revenge?” Malone asks.
“No, not just revenge,” I say. “That’s too shortsighted. I don’t want to just get back at the people who pranked us. Anyone could do that.” I throw in a dramatic pause here—the result of watching way too many movies. “What I want is to nuke the Chaos Club out of existence, to be the ones to end their secret society forever.”
Go big, right?
Ellie claps her hands once.
“Excellent!”
“Abso-freakin’-lutely, dude!” Wheeler says.
Even Adleta’s smiling.
And, of course, Malone’s shaking her head no.
“Nice goal. But like you said, we don’t even know who they are.”
“Right, I have a plan for that. But before I get into it, what I’m thinking could get us in a lot of trouble. If I explain everything and someone wants out, that’s cool.”
“Oh, I like the sound of this,” Ellie says.
Of course she does. It was her whispered “we need a plan” last night that really made me take this seriously. If getting to spend time with Ellie means having to risk Stranko’s wrath and possible grounding by my parents until I’m eighty, then I’ll take that chance.
“How do we start?” Wheeler says.
“We need as much info on the Chaos Club as we can get,” I say.
Heist Rule #9: Know your enemy.
“Do you have a plan to do that?” Malone asks.
“I do.”
And I tell them my idea. It’s so ridiculously dangerous that once I’m finished explaining, even Wheeler is slack jawed.
Ellie finally breaks the silence by bursting into heavy laughter. Soon all of us are in hysterics at the absurdity of the proposal. From the base of the tower, Stranko shouts repeatedly at us to get back to painting, but we ignore him.
“Game on,” Ellie says between gulps of air, her eyes full of tears. “Game. On.”
Chapter 6
Ellie calls it Operation Stranko Caper and gives each member of the Water Tower Five code names related to his or her role.
Adleta is Goon.
Malone is Shadow.
Wheeler is Potatoes.
Ellie is Crybaby.
And I’m Bleeder.
But at the moment, waiting for zero hour while standing in the back hallway where I can view the busy cafeteria, I’m feeling more like Puker because I want to sprint to the bathroom to vomit up my guts.
And to think this was all my idea.
Here’s Heist Planning 101:
1. Identify your target. In this case, the target is Stranko’s phone. Clearly he’s investigating the Chaos Club; the pictures he took in the office prove that. Who knows what other evidence against them he might have?
2. Formulate a plan. It took a week of observing Stranko during school (all of us) and after (thank you, Adleta) to realize he’s most separated from his phone during lunch duty. It sits on a table on the stage next to where Stranko polices the cafeteria. Now if he were to be pulled away from the stage…
3. Practice, practice, practice. The five of us rehearsed our roles for more than a week. The plan isn’t the most complicated, but we only have one shot at this.
Our final run-through of the plan lasted two hours on Saturday, with Ellie and Wheeler the most excited. Even Adleta, who’s probably risking at least a thousand push-ups every day for the rest of his life, liked the idea. Malone, go figure, predicted failure.
“It won’t work,” she said. “Maybe in a movie, yes, but not in real life it won’t.”
“No, they won’t see it coming,” I said. “No one expects things like this to happen and especially not from us. We’re trying to stay out of trouble, remember? Why would we risk getting suspended?”
“Max is right,” Adleta said. “There’ll be too much going on for Stranko to realize what’s happened. It’s going to work.”
“What if we get caught?”
“Then we do what you should do whenever you get busted,” Wheeler said. “We lie our asses off.”
I don’t mind Malone’s concerns. In fact, I appreciate them. The more I’m around her, the more I depend on her skepticism. Every heist crew needs someone to point out the weaknesses in a plan. Malone’s perfect for that. She’s also tech-savvy, a brilliant artist, and athletic as hell. A jack-of-all-trades really. Or more like a jill-of-all-trades.
A heist can go wrong for any number of reasons, the worst of which is the double cross. You can just never be sure if everyone is really on your side or if they’re working an angle. I don’t necessarily think anyone in my crew is behind the setup at the water tower, but the hint of doubt is there. Still, why would someone set us up to get busted and include him or herself in the busting? It makes no sense.
However, if one of the crew did it, my bet is on Adleta. He’s the one I know the least. If he’s setting us up for an even bigger fall than the water tower, the Stranko Caper is the perfect time for a double cross. But Heist Rule #10 is Trust your crew, so that’s what Not Max is going to do.
We picked Monday for our heist because that’s the school day where everyone, even the administration, just slogs through until the final bell. At the time I was excited, but now it’s nausea city. Reality sucks that way. But I’m not going to back down and hide in the theater again like I did the day after the water tower. Not that I could put a stop to our plan if I wanted to. Everyone’s in position. The pin’s pulled and the grenade heaved. All I can do is try not to get my head blown off.
On stage, Stranko reads something on his phone, then places it on the table beside him before returning to his surveillance. In a lot of ways, thinking of him as a prison guard is dead-on. The entire building is a prison, with the staff as guards, students as prisoners, and rules that dictate when we can stand up and leave, talk, and even go to the bathroom. The school even has security cameras, which are positioned in all corners of the cafeteria. I’ve seen the room with the video monitors though, and I’m not as worried as I might be in a newer school. The monitors here are in black and white and the images blurry, like it may be the first security system ever created—maybe used back in the Garden of Eden where God watched a grainy image of Eve heisting that apple.
Then, right on cue at 11:45, Crybaby, sitting at her usual table near the front of the cafeteria, pushes her tray aside and puts her head down in her arms.
Step One, the Split, has begun.
• • •
Crybaby’s friend, Vickie, is the first to notice the weeping and puts a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, leaning in to check on her. Crybaby goes for the Academy Award then, shoving away her friend’s hand and now quaking, refusing to lift her head. It isn’t long before three girls are rubbing Crybaby’s shoulders, begging her to tell them what’s wrong. And sti
ll she refuses to lift her head.
It’s beautiful.
Ellie was right—all those skits she was forced to perform in front of the church honed her acting chops. She could make a killing as a professional grifter.
Vickie, panicking now, searches the cafeteria for help, and her eyes fall on Mrs. B and Stranko at their posts on the stage. She runs to Mrs. B—no girl would ever go to Stranko with an obviously girl-related problem—who wastes no time hurrying to Crybaby.
Others in the cafeteria notice the drama at this point and watch as Mrs. Barber convinces Crybaby, her face scarlet and tearstained, to accompany her to the office. The two leave the cafeteria, successfully splitting up Mrs. B and Stranko, who’s about to fall victim to:
Step Two: the Diversion.
• • •
Fake it till you feel it.
That’s what I tell myself as I swallow hard and take a deep breath.
Then I step into the cafeteria holding over my head Stranko’s greatest possession: the lacrosse state championship trophy. Stranko doesn’t have any children, but if he did, I’m pretty sure he’d save the trophy first if there were a fire. He carts that stupid thing out at every start-of-the-year meeting as an example of Asheville’s excellence. Only ten minutes earlier I waltzed into Stranko’s coaching office in the athletic wing and took the trophy I now hold high over my head.
There’s no turning back.
I’m on a suicide mission as I approach the first set of tables while trying to remain calm. Which is impossible. Every step I take is one step closer to the complete batshit chaos that we’ve planned. I weave my way toward Stranko at the front of the stage, a few heads turning toward me but no one important. My throat gets drier with each step because I’m about to find out Adleta’s real intentions. If he really is working with the Chaos Club, he’ll screw this up on purpose. If that happens, there’s a good chance I’ll spend the next year being traded for cigarettes in jail.
I’m watching the lacrosse table, waiting, when Goon, right on cue, stands up, points, and shouts, “What the hell?”