“Exactly,” I say, relieved his mind is no longer on whoever might be joining the Cadre.
“How are we going to do that?”
“I need to get on Mrs. Belfry’s laptop. I bet if I can get back into the school’s main system I can get to the camera.”
“But you only go to the library for detention. And if you get a detention, Lockhart won’t—”
I cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna have to get in there a different way.”
“How?”
I look him in the eye. “It’s just like the Colonel always says.”
“ ‘Don’t put the spoon back in the mayonnaise after you licked it’?”
“What? No!” I force back a bit of puke that rises in my throat. “ ‘If you want to dance . . .’ ” I leave it for Moby to finish.
He points at me when he has it. “ ‘. . . You gotta pay the guy with the accordion!’ ”
“Exactly.”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go break into the music room before lunch is over!”
“No, Mobe. I didn’t mean that literally.”
He looks disappointed. “You aren’t making any sense, Chub.”
“What I mean is, you are looking at Alanmoore’s new library volunteer.”
• • •
At the final bell I fight the river of kids going down the stairs and make my way up to the library. Mrs. Belfry’s been busy since last year. Construction paper leaves are taped up all over the place and there’s even a small scarecrow sitting on a bale of hay right by the main door. I don’t remember her ever putting up decorations before, but I guess if you have to pick up a hobby during your second century, cutting up construction paper is probably pretty safe.
The place looks abandoned. That is, until Moby flies through the door a second later.
“Am I late?” he says loudly enough to be heard over a jet engine.
I put a finger to my lips and shake my head. “Just talk normally,” I say, knowing it will be quieter than if he tries to whisper.
He straightens up. “Oh good, whispering is exhausting. Did you talk to her yet?”
“No, I—”
“Who’s there?” Mrs. Belfry calls from the back office.
“Hi, Mrs. Belfry. It’s Chub,” I call back. Then I turn to Moby. “Just let me do the talking.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and we stroll to her office.
She’s almost hidden behind all the cat figurines and pictures cramming her desk. She pokes her head above the clutter looking like she just woke up. “Chub?”
I wave from the doorway. “Hi, remember me?”
She pats her head searching for her glasses, then realizes she already has them on. She peers at me over the top of the frames. “Are you a student?”
Great. I’m going to have to rebuild all the trust I built last year to be able to trick her into letting me on her computer again. “I helped you with your computer last year during detention.”
She studies me for a moment, then something clicks. “Maciek Trzebiatowski. You updated my Tardis driver and cured the Dalek virus for me last year!”
Moby giggles and I have to force myself not to.
“Yep, that was me.”
Her smile fades as quickly as it came, and she clasps her hands together over her heart. “Did you get detention already, dear?”
“No, no. I just figured you might want someone to have a look at your computer and—”
“He’s here to volunteer,” Moby says before I can finish.
Then the smile is back on her face. “Volunteer? How wonderful!”
Faster than I thought possible she jumps out of her seat, grabs my hand, and pats it. “Just wonderful.”
I move toward the computer on her desk. “So I guess I’ll just see . . .” But she doesn’t let go of my hand. I try to pull away, but she has superhuman old-lady strength, probably from scooping out a hundred litter boxes a night.
She shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t need you to do that.”
I shoot a nervous glance at Moby, then look up into her folded leather face. “You don’t?” I stop trying to pull away and she lets go of my hand.
“That’s what I have Kyle for.”
A vision flashes to mind of one of her cats tapping away at her keyboard. Moby raises his eyebrows and twirls his finger around his ear in the universal sign for “crazy.”
“Kyle? Who’s Kyle?”
Then there’s another voice from the closet in the back of her office. “Did someone say my name?”
The person who must be Kyle emerges holding a stack of books. He’s about Jarek’s age, but that’s where the similarities end. Jarek always looks like he woke up three minutes before you saw him. Kyle looks like he just came from a photo shoot for a clothing catalog. He sets down the books and walks over to me.
Mrs. Belfry beams. “Kyle, this is Maciek.”
Kyle extends his hand and I shake it.
“Maciek. Polish, right?”
I narrow my eyes, waiting for the inevitable joke, but he doesn’t make it.
“Right.”
This is going bad quickly. It’s time for what the Colonel calls a “tactical retreat.”
I jerk my thumb at the door. “I was just—”
Mrs. Belfry interrupts. “He came to volunteer!”
Kyle is impressed. “Neat-o! I’m brand spanking new to student teaching, so I can use all the help I can get. I’ve got another shopping bag full of leaves to put up.”
Forget retreat, I need to escape. “Actually . . .”
But before I can finish Kyle picks up the stack of books and dumps them in my arms. “Let’s start by introducing you to your new best friend, Dewey.”
If Dewey is anything like Kyle, I will have to jump out the window and figure out the rest of the plan during the four-story plummet to the ground. This is what I get for rushing in without planning. At least I’ll have Moby here to serve my self-inflicted sentence with me.
“We don’t really know how to . . . library,” I say, hoping to throw the brakes on Kyle’s enthusiasm.
Kyle chuckles and gives me a questioning look. “Who’s we?”
I spin to nod at Moby, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
My first half hour with Kyle is a working lecture on the Dewey decimal system, followed by an aerobic reorganization of the encyclopedia shelf. After forty-five minutes that feel like about 127 hours, Kyle takes a break from talking to run to the bathroom.
This is my chance.
I figure I have three minutes at the most to get on the computer before he returns and starts in again. As soon as the library door creaks shut I dash to Mrs. Belfry’s office. She’s sound asleep in her chair, but there’s enough room for me to get at the computer if she doesn’t move.
I open the Admin icon and type as quietly as possible.
Username: IrmaBelfry
Password: MRDARCY
I do a tiny fist pump when the welcome screen comes up. I scroll through the entire menu, but there’s nothing about cameras or surveillance.
I minimize the window and scan her desktop for the link to the security system. There isn’t one. The clock on the wall ticks away. I have maybe thirty seconds before Kyle comes back and I have some explaining to do.
I open the Finder and type Camera.
No results.
I’m punching in Surveillance when the main door of the library creaks open. Kyle’s footsteps pad across the carpet toward the office.
“C’mon,” I beg the machine through gritted teeth.
The chasing circle completes one more loop, then a blank box appears on the screen. Belfry’s machine is a dead end. I flick my fingers over the trackpad, closing all the windows, finally hitting the X on the Admin window just as Kyle rounds the corner.
He pats his stomach. “You know what they say, you don’t buy green tea, you rent it.”
I jump to attention, then try to look as casual as possible.
Kyle narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”
I try to think of a good reason, any reason, why I’d be on the laptop when Mrs. Belfry lets out a snore like a bantha with a sinus infection.
I point at the computer. “It was beeping so I muted it.”
Kyle’s eyes stay narrow. Then Mrs. Belfry snorts again and his face softens.
“Poor thing. I guess she really needs a nap.” He laughs and I quickly laugh too so he doesn’t ask any more questions.
Fifteen minutes later I say good-bye to him and race down the stairs. The camera thing had sounded too good to be true when the Arch told me about it. I’m not surprised I didn’t find anything.
I’m almost to the first floor when something occurs to me: I’ve never actually seen this camera. I only have the Arch’s word it actually exists. When I get to the landing between floors I crouch down and look down the stairs toward the first-floor hallway. From this angle I can see most of the trophy case, but my view of the top of it is blocked by the second-floor landing above. I walk down a few steps, careful not to go too far and get caught on camera sneaking around the halls after hours. When I get far enough down the stairs that the whole trophy case is visible, I’m too low to see if there’s anything on top.
I need a higher angle with nothing blocking the view. A quick glance around tells me what I have to do. If I can balance myself between the railings of the two staircases I’ll be able to see what I need to see.
I strain against my jeans and barely get my foot up on the railing, then grab the railing pointing up to the second floor and pull myself up. I have to put one foot on the up railing and one on the down to be able to balance. When I look down at the first floor, half a story below, my vision narrows. Suddenly my heartbeat in my ears sounds like Moby’s legs rubbing together in a pair of corduroys. Apparently, I’m afraid of heights.
I inch my way down the railing. When I get to the point where I can’t stretch any farther I still can’t see the top of the case. But if I can just move one foot a tiny bit closer, I know I’ll be able to see the top clearly from this angle.
I summon all my tai chi training and breathe deeply as I stretch. My jeans do not have any martial arts training, but they decide to suck in a deep breath too. Cool air rushes in as the crotch of my pants splits wide open. I don’t know which is worse: focusing on not becoming a real-life Humpty Dumpty, or the prospect of someone walking under me and looking up. But this is a matter of life and death, and I’m almost there.
I push myself a little farther, finally getting an unblocked view of the top of the trophy case. Other than a couple of inches of dust, it is completely bare.
The Arch sent me on a wild-goose chase.
I’m about to figure out how to get down when something occurs to me. The Arch said it was pointed at the case. That means it’s on the other side of the hall.
Still gripping the upper railing for dear life, I crouch down to look at the other side of the hall. Next to the door to the office, facing the trophy case, is another cabinet, the one Mrs. Osborne decorates for different seasons and where the theater club advertises their latest production.
Then my seventh worst fear comes true.
The door directly below me opens with a jerk. I don’t have to look down to know who it is. There’s no mistaking the metal clack of Lockhart’s heels on the floor.
I have no choice but to freeze and pray.
As the footsteps pass below me I force my eyes down. Her flattop passes just below my left foot on the lower railing. She’s almost in her office, and I’m about to let out the breath I’m holding in, when she suddenly stops.
No amount of aerobic library reorganization training can prepare you for holding in a breath and a nervous fart, while straddling an abyss, with a huge hole in the crotch of your pants while your pit bull principal stands below you.
I’m about to yell “I give up” or just let the fart go, when she walks to the trophy case. Her reflection is crystal clear in the glass. She stands there for a moment, probably tearing up over her precious Wahoolie. She straightens her blazer and turns to go, but then something stops her. She turns slowly and returns to where she was. She leans in, trying to see something in the glass.
This is it. Game over.
But instead of whipping around and catching me doing my impression of a chandelier, she breathes on the glass, and then polishes the spot with the cuff of her blazer. Then she does a quick nod of approval and disappears into her office.
I wait for the sound of her door closing before I breathe. I let go of the upper railing and put my hand on the wall so I can slide down enough to see the top of the cabinet. Just like the Arch said, there’s a small webcam up there pointed straight at the spot where the Boogerloo used to be.
As gracefully as a drunk gymnast, I dismount the railing and take a deep breath. When my knees stop shaking I slink down the stairs, careful to stay in the camera’s blind spot. There are no wires coming off the camera. A trap door opens in my guts when I realize why I couldn’t bring it up on Belfry’s machine. It isn’t wired into the school’s system. The camera probably records directly onto Lockhart’s personal computer in her office.
If I want to see what’s on that video, that’s where I have to go too.
CHAPTER 10
After slinking home with my coat tied around my waist and changing my pants, I head over to Moby’s. The Colonel whips the door open like he’s surprising a machine gun nest full of enemy soldiers. I make the mistake of looking over his outfit, then say a prayer that I’m not around when that badly stressed seam on his boxers finally lets go.
He quickly scans the street, then waves me inside. “Who pooped in your mess kit?”
I drop my bag and take off my shoes. “It’s a long story, sir.”
The Colonel wrinkles his forehead. “It doesn’t involve crying or soccer or anything, does it?”
I assure him it doesn’t.
“All right. Extreme Alaskan Llama Ranchers is on at sixteen thirty hours.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve got twelve minutes. Step into my office.”
The Colonel’s “office” is actually the Dicks’ theater room. Moby is in there playing video games when we walk in.
He glances at me, but keeps playing. “Hey, Chub. How was the library?”
I throw my hands up. “Oh, it was great. Thanks for asking.”
“Did you get on the computer?”
“Just for a second when Kyle went to the bathroom.”
“Well?”
“Nothing there. Then Kyle made me move the encyclopedias to the other side of the library. Did you know they still had those?”
Moby makes a sour face and pauses his game. “That guy was scary.”
I take the chair next to the Colonel and flip out my footrest.
The Colonel shakes his head and laughs. “What do you need a computer for? You just said they have encyclopedias.”
Moby rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same thing, Grandpa.”
“Horse apples! Where do you think they found all the stuff they put on the Internet?”
I need just the right approach if I want him to help. “Sir, I have a question for you. It’s about tactics.”
The redness goes out of his face, replaced by a sly grin. “Tactics is my middle name. What have you got?”
On the way over, I came up with a way to grill him without letting him know what’s really going on. “Well, there’s this big capture the flag tournament and it’s really important that we win. But the other team has one player who’s amazing at defense.”
He nods. “I assume this kid is faster and more athletic than you?”
“Well, yeah,” I say.
“Makes sense. So even if you capture their flag, you probably won’t make it back without being caught.”
“Exactly.”
The Colonel rubs his steel-wool stubble. “This calls for the old honey pot. Reminds me of this one time back in seventy—I don’t want to get
too specific. This terrorist stole a bunch of missile launch codes and threatened to use them if we came after him.”
Here we go. I give Moby a slight chin-raise. He tries to do it back but he just looks like he got rear ended in a bumper car.
“Anyway, intel told us he had a thing for this actress, Valerie something.”
“A thing, sir?”
“He was obsessed with her. As far as we could tell she was the only thing he cared about, other than money, so we floated a story that she was in the same city we knew he was hiding out in. We made sure he knew she’d be at the disco at ten one night.”
I sit forward in my chair. “Did he go for it?”
“Like a fly to honey.”
Moby looks concerned. “How did you get her to go along with it?”
“She wasn’t there. He just needed to think she was long enough to let his guard down and let us capture his flag. He sent one of his bodyguards to scope it out. The bodyguard led us right back to where he was holed up. The rest is all gunshots and swear words. What you need to do is figure out who this other player’s Valerie is.”
He’s right; a plugged toilet won’t cut it with Lockhart. We need her to take herself out of the game long enough for me to get on her computer. And lucky for me, I think I know just who her Valerie is.
• • •
I spend most of the weekend at Moby’s house, which is nice for two reasons: I can plan out Monday’s operation without my parents looming over me, and it gets me out of having to sort the pile at my parents’ shop for at least a week. Before I go back to my house Sunday afternoon I use the Dicks’ phone to make sure everybody is ready for the next day. When Moby gets that look in his eye and excuses himself to go to the bathroom, I make the final call, the one I don’t want to make in front of him.
“Hello,” the Arch says over the sound of a very loud TV in the background.
“It’s Chub.”
There’s a rustling noise, then the sound in the background is gone. “Sorry, I was watching the game with my dad. I’m in a different room now. How did it go? Did you see the video?”
“I couldn’t get it. The camera is linked directly to Lockhart’s computer.”
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