Electric Boogerloo

by Mark Maciejewski

  My scalp flushes. All of my tai chi Zen is officially spent.

  Shelby gives me the smug look again. “—And that’s the rest of the surprise.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Last year Mr. Mayer couldn’t afford for the school board to find out about his poker habit, so he kept me quiet by letting me serve my detention in solitary confinement, aka: the library. But just because my relationship with Mr. Mayer was built on a foundation of blackmail and the threat of mutual destruction doesn’t mean I didn’t like the guy. Our arrangement allowed me to carry out my plots against the Arch without getting in serious trouble, while I provided him the ability to keep his job by not tattling about his gambling to the school board. It wasn’t the ideal relationship, but it worked for us. I suppose what I liked most was that it was comfortable. I knew exactly where I stood with Mr. Mayer, even if I was usually standing in a giant pot of knee-deep hot water.

  Alanmoore getting a new principal changes everything. I don’t have the energy to train a new one to do things the way I like them done. Not that Mizzzz Whatever sounds especially trainable, anyway. Then again, I’m not planning on getting in trouble this year, so hopefully, it won’t be that much of an issue.

  Still, you can be sure I’ll open every single piece of mail from the school district from now on.

  The smart play is to do a little recon on our new principal and determine if she is really as tough as she wants us to think or if she’s just trying to make a scary first impression. I don’t want to get myself on her radar right away, so I drop a note in one of the McQueens’ lockers. I hang a paper clip from one of the vents in their locker door to let them know there’s a message inside before I head off to my first class of the new year.

  The McQueens are a set of triplets I use for special missions that I can’t afford to have traced back to me. They prefer to work on a contract-by-contract basis, so they aren’t official members of my Cadre. In the past they’ve plugged a lot of toilets and even blew one up with a cherry bomb as a distraction for a plot I was carrying out. The three of them share this old-fashioned cap, and only the one who’s wearing it will speak. It takes a little getting used to, but who cares when you get three for the price of one?!

  After spotting a Ronin Girl number one in the hall this morning, I’d hoped to spend the day figuring out how to get a look at it. But with the new principal making veiled threats during the announcements, I have more than enough to keep my mind busy during homeroom.

  The morning’s classes feel like they take forever. By the time the lunch bell rings I’m dying to get with the McQueens and send them on their first task of the year. I race down the stairs and out the back door as quickly as I can.

  I wait and wait and wait with nothing but the marshy funk of the Dumpsters to keep me company, and before I know it the bell rings signaling the end of lunch. It isn’t like them to miss a meeting. They all have access to the locker, so I’m pretty sure they got the message. Something must’ve come up. I’ll just have to wait until after school to meet up with them.

  It occurs to me that I have no idea what this Mizz Lockhart even looks like. I walk around to the front of the school so I can cruise by the principal’s office and at least get a glimpse of her. As I approach the door, I slow my stroll and casually glance inside. The school secretary, Mrs. Osborne, taps away at her computer. She looks up when she senses my presence, but she just shakes her head and goes back to her work. Usually when she shakes her head at me it’s out of disappointment, but this time it almost looks like a warning.

  The door to Mr. Mayer’s old office is open. I move to the opposite side of the hallway and slide into the hollow next to the large glass trophy case. I scan the interior of the office as best I can from my vantage point. I can’t see the other side from here, so I slide down to the far end of the trophy case for a better view.

  What I see sends my pulse into overdrive. All three McQueen triplets are standing off to the side of the desk, and their faces look like they’ve just seen a monster.

  Besides the Arch, the triplets are the most unflappable kids in the whole school. No matter what kind of stunts they pull, they have the unique gift of never appearing guilty. But that isn’t the case now. Now they look like three men who’ve been caught red-handed. And there’s something else wrong with their appearance that I can’t quite place.

  All of their eyes shift toward the door. I think they’ve noticed me, and I press myself deeper into the shadow of the trophy case. But they aren’t looking at me. They’re watching the other person in the room, whom I can’t see. Their eyes grow wide a moment before a pale hand wraps itself around the edge of the door like a daddy longlegs crawling out of a box. With a flick of the wrist, the door slams, sealing my friends inside. The last image I have is the terrified faces of the normally cool triplets. It isn’t until the door is closed that I realize what else is wrong.

  None of them is wearing the hat.

  Moby and Shelby are already in their desks when I get to my math class. Julius “Sizzler” Jackson joined our Cadre and helped us take down the Arch last year. He used to be the fastest kid in school until the Arch joined the track team and stole the title. But people don’t call him Sizzler because he’s fast; they call him that because there are more food options available in his braces than there are at the Sizzler buffet. He shows up next and wedges his giant frame into the desk next to me. Mrs. Berry is chatting with another teacher in the hallway, so everyone takes advantage and carries on loud conversations.

  Shelby spins around in her chair, smiles hello to Sizzler, and examines me.

  “Where were you during lunch?” she says. “Did she get you?”

  “No, she didn’t get me,” I say. “Why?”

  Sizzler leans in. “I heard she pulled Derek Van Sant right out of English class today. They say when he came back at the end of the period he just sat in the corner crying.”

  Shelby gets a quizzical look. “Who’s Derek Van Sant?”

  “He’s the high jumper from the track team,” I say, looking back and forth between them. “He’s also the kid who jumped up onstage with the water balloon during the Arch’s campaign speech last spring.”

  Shelby points her finger at me. She says what I’m already thinking. “She’s rounding up known troublemakers. Trying to put the fear of God in them.”

  The terrified look on the McQueens’ faces as she shut the door flashes in my mind.

  “She got the McQueens,” I say.

  Moby and Shelby draw in sharp breaths. Sizzler shakes his head.

  “What does she want?” Moby asks.

  “Probably to prove how tough she is by crushing any trouble before it even has a chance to start. If she grabs one of us, we have to keep our mouths shut about the Cadre, agreed?”

  They all nod.

  “I wonder why she hasn’t grabbed you yet,” Moby says.

  I’ve been wondering the same exact thing.

  “Maybe Mr. Mayer didn’t rat me out since I helped him with the Mace situation,” I suggest.

  Sizzler shakes his head. “Or maybe she’s saving you for the grand finale.”

  I don’t want to admit it, but that thought occurred to me, too. Maybe she’s bringing in all the little fish one at a time and getting them to rat on me. Maybe she wants to be sure she’s built a file on me and my activities before she sits me in the chair and puts the hot light in my face. She won’t have to talk to too many people to get a complete list of every stink bomb, plugged toilet, and alleged arson incident I was involved in last year.

  Then something occurs to me: What am I nervous about? Last year is over. I haven’t done anything yet, nor do I intend to. Let her grab me if she wants; I’ve got nothing to hide.

  When the final bell rings I race through the halls looking for three orange heads. I finally catch them in the parking lot.

  “Guys!” I call.

  They stop and then reluctantly turn around. None of them is wearing the talking hat.
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  “Where’s your hat?”

  Their eyes are red, and their jaws are slack. The trademark McQueen swagger is gone. Now they look like men who’ve just been handed a life sentence. They glance around, then one of them ushers me over to the Dumpsters. The other two post up as lookouts, and the third unzips his backpack. I expect him to pull out the old-fashioned newsboy hat they all share. Instead, he pulls out a homemade knit cap with a big yarn pompom on top.

  I almost laugh, but they are clearly not amused, so I quickly wipe the smile off my face.

  “What the heck happened to you guys in there?” I ask.

  He can’t look me in the eye. “She knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “Everything, or at least enough. She knows who you are, she knows you’re the one to watch. She knows who your friends are. And she doesn’t plan on letting you get away with anything!”

  Is this the price of achieving infamy?

  He continues. “She expels one kid a year as an example to anyone considering bad behavior. She has a file of all the kids she’s taken out at other schools.” He makes a face like he’s going to be sick. “She showed it to us like it was some sort of trophy. She also told us she’s already got a list of candidates here. Then she—” The words catch in his throat.

  “What did she do to you?” I put a hand on his shoulder to let him know he’s safe now.

  “She took the hat, then she made us all talk.”

  How sick is this lady to put them through that?

  “She said if we cause any trouble . . . ,” he puts his closed hand to his mouth. “The hat goes in the incinerator. That’s Grandpa McQueen’s lucky hat! He wore it for all three of his not-guilty verdicts.”

  Who is this maniac? If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s trying to start some kind of war. Obviously, any little slip on my part will give her the justification she needs to make me the example she is looking for.

  It kills me to see them with their heads hung low. I walk the McQueen, Darby I think, out of the hollow behind the Dumpsters. Before we step out of the protective shadows, he removes the replacement cap and stuffs it in his backpack.

  The other two give up their posts and flank their brother.

  “I’m sure she’s just trying to make an impression on her first day,” I say, even though I have no idea if that’s true. “Don’t worry, I’m going to stay clean this year.”

  With the hat in the backpack, I don’t take offense when none of them reply. They just nod slightly and look at the ground. I look down too, and my own shadow catches my eye. It’s bigger than it should be—and it’s getting taller.

  Then my shadow grows one arm, and then another, each tipped with long, spidery fingers.

  When I look up again, all I see are the backs of the triplets sprinting for the bus stop. I don’t want to turn around. I know exactly what’s there.

  A voice like water dripping on dry ice hisses behind me.

  “Mr. Trzebiatowski. We meet at last.”

  CHAPTER 3

  You know those dreams where you’re somewhere you’ve been a million times, but it’s just different enough that you know something is wrong? Sitting in Mr. Mayer’s old office with Mizz Lockhart gives me that feeling, only stronger.

  The light coming in through the window glints off her steel-colored hair. It’s short on the sides and longer on top, like Gozer the Gozerian from Ghostbusters. I half expect her eyes to flare red when she talks, but she doesn’t say anything. She just sits broom-handle straight behind her desk and watches me. If Mr. Mayer was like a padlock with the combination written on the outside, this lady is like a jumbled-up Rubik’s Cube encased in a block of ice.

  This isn’t going to be easy.

  The Colonel says guilty people always talk first, so I settle into the wooden chair, drum my fingers on the armrest, return her gaze, and wait for her to say what she has to say.

  After what feels like hours, but is probably only a minute, she shifts. Her chair squeaks as she leans forward. I brace for whatever psychological torture she’s about to throw at me. No matter how heinous it may be, I promise myself not to end up crying in the corner, like Derek Van Sant.

  “Tea?”

  “Huh?”

  She folds her hands on her desk and slowly says, “Would you like some tea?”

  I know this trick. This is where the evil interrogator pretends like they’re doing something nice, but then slips something in your drink, or takes it away before you can actually drink it so you know they’re in control.

  I prop my elbows on the chair and steeple my fingers. “No.”

  “No—what?”

  “No tea,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “I think you mean, no thank you.”

  Maybe I do, but I’d rather get on with the interrogation.

  She stands, walks to the corner, and fills a mug from a hot-water machine and then spoons some leaves into a little metal ball on a chain. She comes back to the desk and gently dunks the little metal thing in the mug.

  I focus on the mug to avoid her gray-eyed gaze.

  “I see you’ve noticed my Wahoolie,” she says.

  “Nope.” I have no clue what a Wahoolie is.

  She removes the little tea ball and sets it on a saucer. “My mug,” she says, raising it for one-sided cheers.

  She takes a slurpy sip and then sets the cup back down.

  “You have a good eye. This is one of a kind.”

  I examine the mug. It looks like a miniature frozen tornado of vomit. “It’s nice,” I lie.

  “It was a gift,” she says. “From the artist himself.”

  Big deal—some five-year-old made her a craft project. And who names their kid Wahoolie? I glance around the office trying to avoid looking at her or her ugly little teacup. There’s a poster on the wall that wasn’t there last year. It’s a framed banner for a gala at some art museum downtown. Suddenly I realize what a Wahoolie is. It’s not a kid; it’s this guy who lost his arm to a crocodile or something, and then took up glassblowing. He eventually became superfamous for it. Supposedly, he lives in Seattle now.

  She slowly sips her tea and waits for me to be blown away by the name-drop.

  I try to look as bored as possible. “Do you know him?”

  I can almost hear the sound of a glacier cracking as she smiles.

  “Oh yes,” she says, looking lovingly at the mug. “We are—quite close.”

  Vomit rises in my throat at the thought of adults being “close.” I need to get out of here and get to my parents’ shop before they start to wonder what I’ve gotten into on the first day of school.

  “It’s a neat mug, Mrs. Lockhart—”

  She interrupts. “—Mizz.”

  I fight the urge to ask how many zs that izzzz, but I don’t want this to last any longer than it has to. “Sorry, Mizz Lockhart. But I need to get going.”

  “Oh, right. You’re probably expected at the shop.”

  Ghost fingers drag across my neck. She knows way too much about me.

  She looks at me over the top of the mug. “I’ll have to stop in there soon to have my pantsuits pressed.” Then she takes a long, loud sip.

  I don’t want her to see me sweat. Guilty people sweat. I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, putting my hands on the chair to push myself out of it.

  Her eyes flick at me.

  “Sit,” she says like she’s talking to a dog. “We haven’t finished our tea.” She picks up the mug and takes a long, wet slurp.

  She sets down the mug, rolls up the sleeve of her blazer, and slips a coiled bracelet with a key chain attached to it off her wrist. “I always like to get to know my new students,” she says. Her mouth smiles, but her eyes don’t. “Especially ones I’ve heard so much about.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I mumble.

  She selects a key and unlocks the top drawer of her desk, then reaches in and pulls out a stack of papers
.

  I recognize the papers as soon as I see them. They’re student files, four of them, and one of them is much thicker than the others. Without reading the name I know it’s mine. She isn’t the first principal to drop that file on the desk in front of me.

  She sets mine aside and opens one of the others.

  “Archer Norris.” She shoves up her lower lip like she’s impressed by what she sees. “Class president, captain of the football, basketball, and track teams. A small accident with some shoelaces and a lighter last year, but other than that quite an exemplary record. Do you know him?”

  The temperature of my scalp goes up about twenty degrees. I nod carefully so I don’t make the sweat on my forehead run into my eyes.

  She closes the Arch’s file and sets it aside, then opens the next one.

  “Shelby Rose Larkin.”

  I break into a full-blown sweat. There’s no way she has anything on Shelby.

  Mizz Lockhart looks at Shelby’s class photo attached to the folder with a paper clip, makes a sour face, then flips the file closed. “Perfect attendance, and an affinity for . . . let’s say vintage . . . sweaters.”

  She takes another sip of her tea, then drums her fingers on the final folder. If her goal was to bring me in and scare me straight, mission accomplished.

  She flips open the file too quickly for me to see the name. Her brow furrows in a confused look and she turns the file over as though it’s empty. “Hmmm.”

  I don’t want her to know how badly I want to know whose it is, but it’s getting impossible to look uninterested.

  After a pause she says, “Levi—Ethan—Dick.”

  My stomach falls and does a belly flop into the pool of sweat on my chair. I might deserve to be scrutinized, but Moby and Shelby, key members of the Cadre, are off-limits. I’m quickly switching from scared to angry.

  “Mildly lactose intolerant, aaaand that’s about it.”

  She looks up at me and our eyes meet.

  “Have I upset you, Mr. Trzebiatowski?” she says with a hint of taunting in her voice. She lifts my file and drops it on the desk in front of her with a thump. “I don’t think we need to go through all of this, do we?”