“I think I want to go home,” I say.
The Arch nods. “Yeah.” Apparently he feels the walrus too.
Without another word, the three of us find an exit and start walking up the hill toward home. The Arch finds a pebble and kicks it up the sidewalk, so I know he has something on his mind. Finally, he comes out with it.
“Megumi’s pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah!” Moby says, startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
The Arch laughs, then looks at me for my answer.
Maybe if I don’t elaborate he won’t realize how cool she really is, and he’ll lose interest. “She’s cool,” I say.
But he doesn’t let it drop. “Do you like her?”
I feel my pulse in my scalp. “Why would you ask that?”
“Well, you have been hanging around with her.” Technically she’s been hanging around with me, but I let it go. “I mean, you just went to Emerald Con with her.”
“So did you.”
“I know. But you didn’t know we were coming. Besides, I’m not the one getting all defensive about it.”
I stop walking. “Well maybe you don’t have anything to get defensive about.”
He kicks the pebble into the street, where a passing car promptly runs it over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Moby is directly in between us. If he had an uncomfortability meter on his head, it would be in the red.
Before I can stop myself the words are spewing out of my mouth. “It means you obviously know I like her. So why are you trying to like her too?”
He huffs. “I don’t know. She’s cool.”
“There are plenty of cool girls at Alanmoore.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Fine. I like that she doesn’t know about all the messed-up stuff I did last year. She likes the new Archer, or I guess I mean the old Archer. You know what I mean. Not ‘the Arch.’ ”
I know what he means. Megumi didn’t know me before, either. She likes me for who I am now.
He goes on. “What makes you think you have some kind of exclusive on her anyway?”
Moby backs up and does his best to blend into the brick wall behind him.
I throw my hands up. “Seriously, what do you have in common with her? She’s got taste; you’re wearing a Wolverine shirt. Do I really need to do the math for you?”
The Arch winces. That punch landed. Then he hits me with one of his own. “You gave me this shirt for my birthday. I wore it as a peace offering. I thought you’d think it was cool.”
Now I remember. I gave it to him back in second grade.
“I mean, didn’t you think it was weird how small it is on me?”
“I think it fits you good,” Moby says, then glances at me. “I mean well.” He throws me a wink that looks like he got poison ivy on his eyeball.
I take a deep breath. The next words are hard to say. “Archer, everything is easier for you than it is for me. Can’t you just leave Megumi alone?”
He jams his hands in his pockets and looks at the skyline of the city with a thousand-yard stare. “It doesn’t work that way, Chub.”
“What, is that some sort of threat?”
“It means you can’t just plot and scheme your way to what you want all the time. One of these days it’s going to catch up to you.”
“When, Monday?”
He shrugs, and the look on his face turns cold and cocky. I’m not looking at Archer any more; I’m looking at the Arch. “Let’s just put it this way: if one of us is at a different school, I guess this little issue is resolved.”
My stomach feels like it’s been impaled on an icicle. He doesn’t say another word, just turns and walks off down a side street.
What the heck just happened? Has he been playing me all along, pretending to be my friend so I wouldn’t suspect him, only to throw me under the bus in front of Lockhart? After what he just said, I’m positive he is the thief. The only question is how do I prove it to Lockhart?
“What a jerk,” I mutter to myself.
“I think you’re both being jerks,” Moby says. Then he turns and walks toward his house.
My parents are going to lose our house and their shop because of me. A feeling like hot acid rises in my throat, just like when I looked in the mirror and saw my bald head for the first time. Maybe it’s guilt, or maybe I just want to start conditioning myself to my new life of hard labor, but I decide all that’s left for me to do is to walk to my parents’ shop and throw myself on the Pile.
When I get there, as usual, my mother is happy to see me.
My dad gives me a suspicious look. “Did Jarek fire you?”
I’d forgotten I was supposed to be helping at the theater. Thinking quickly, I say, “No, I just did too good of a job. Got done early.” Before he can ask any questions I say, “I figured I’d get a head start on the Pile before it gets too deep.”
My dad gives me the suspicious look again, then nods slowly. “Good thinking,” he says, and then he goes back to bagging up a rack of freshly pressed shirts.
The Pile is a mountain of donated clothes that we clean and delouse before handing them out to local shelters. I guess I don’t have to tell you that people rarely donate really nice clothes. Therefore, the pile smells like the combined BO of about a hundred people. Once, during detention in the library, I searched “Worst smell in the world” on Mrs. Belfry’s computer. The top result was something called “Stinky Whale Syndrome,” which affects one in ten whales. I’ve never personally gotten a whiff of SWS, but I can’t imagine it’s any worse than the Pile at the end of a long summer. I’ve never tried the prepunishment-to-buy-mercy strategy before, but hopefully, this is bad enough to work.
I work the rest of Saturday, then Sunday morning. Sunday afternoon, I hear my parents arguing at the front of the shop. A minute later my dad comes to the back where I’m working. He rubs his neck.
“You need to go outside.”
At first I don’t know what he means, but then I connect the dots. They were arguing about me spending the whole weekend in the shop. My mom won, like she usually does, and my dad got to come tell me. At least one of them feels sorry for me.
“Home by seven,” I hear him say as the heavy steel back door to the shop closes behind me, and I hold my hand up against the blinding sun. That gives me a couple of hours to go make things right with at least one person.
• • •
Ten minutes later I’m ringing the Dicks’ bell. Moby’s dad opens the door. “Maciek!”
I flinch when he shoves his hand at me, then brace myself for the inevitable crushing my hand’s about to receive. “Mr—” He raises an eyebrow. “Jason.”
He pumps my arm like a well handle. “Cool, cool.”
His definition of “cool” is crushing people’s hands like they’re crackers he’s about to put in soup. As soon as he lets up the pressure, I yank my hand back.
“They’re upstairs.” He points with a thumb. “Tell them I just made a batch of kale chips if they have the munchies.”
I already know what the Colonel will say, and feeding Moby kale would be like throwing a water balloon full of gas into a campfire, so I will not be mentioning it. “Will do,” I say, then bolt up the stairs before he tries to get me to go to vegan CrossFit or something.
Moby and the Colonel are in the theater room. A football game is on the TV that takes up almost an entire wall.
“Private,” the Colonel says when he sees me. Moby glances at me for a second, then looks right back at the screen.
“Sir. Who’s winning?”
“I’ll tell you who’s not winning—the fans.” Moby rolls his eyes. Apparently he’s heard this one before. “So many rules; now it’s basically just a bunch of grown men playing tag.”
I look at the screen just in time to see a player get hit so hard his helmet flies off onto the sideline.
“When I was a kid, concussions were good for you.”
“They were?”
<
br /> He fumbles with the remote, finds the right button, and changes the channel. “Sure! I think . . . it was a long time ago.”
Usually the Colonel has some nugget of wisdom when I need help, but today I don’t think even he can help me. The most important thing I can do right now is make things right with Moby before the world falls apart tomorrow.
“Moby, can I talk to you?”
Moby grabs the lifeline I’ve just tossed him and jumps up out of his seat. When we’re in his room he lets out a deep breath. “Thanks. He gets pretty fired up watching football. He was almost to the part where he claims drinking water is for sissies.”
Before there’s a chance for an awkward silence I blurt out what I have to say. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Moby sits on his bed and tries to cross his legs. When his jeans refuse to yield after several grunting attempts, he gives up and settles for crossing his ankles instead. “Why are you so mad at the Arch? I thought you guys were becoming friends again.”
“I thought so too.”
“Are you mad he was there yesterday?”
“I don’t know. Kind of.”
Moby looks out the window. “Are you mad I was there?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, good.”
Now the silence I was avoiding happens. After a minute Moby says, “You think he stole the Boogerloo, huh?”
I nod. “I’ve gone over this a million times. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s been pretending to be my friend so I wouldn’t suspect him. Now that Lockhart’s ready to pounce, all he has to do is set me up, and he’s got his revenge for us taking him down last year.”
“I don’t know, Chub. You’re the mastermind and all, but I’m the one who actually took him out at the poker tournament, and he was pretty cool to me. I got lost yesterday, and he’s the one who found me.”
I’d meant to ask him about that before he stormed off. “Where the heck were you, anyway?”
“Well, since you might be moving away and everything, I wanted to get you something. You know, like a going-away present. I saw it and stopped to look, and when I looked up you guys were gone.”
I swallow hard. The thought of him getting me a going-away present makes it feel like I’m as good as gone. “What was it?”
“Well, I was going to wait until you were leaving for sure, but . . .” He goes to his desk drawer and pulls something out. “Maybe we can check it out together while you’re still here.”
Moby isn’t the best gift giver, so I prepare myself to look grateful for whatever it is.
When he turns around and holds out the gift to me I don’t have to pretend anything. There in his hands is a sleeved, mint condition, Japanese language copy of Ronin Girl.
“What?” is all I can manage to say.
“It’s that comic, right? The one Megumi has.”
My mouth is dry and my butt feels like it’s stapled to the chair. “What?”
He pushes it toward me, and I take it with a shaking hand. “Is that the right one?”
I stare, taking in every detail. “It’s the one,” I manage to say. I flip it over and examine the back cover, afraid to take it out of the sleeve. Then I remember the price tag. “How did you even get this?”
Moby takes a deep breath. “Well, it was expensive, and I know you guys are poor, so I called my mom. She talked to the guy and used her PayHub to buy it. It was easy.”
I’m so in awe that I have my own copy that I don’t question him. None of my relatives would ever get me a gift this good, but if they did, my mom would make me hug them. I don’t want it to get weird, so I just say, “Thanks, Mobe.”
He beams with pride. “Only problem is they didn’t have it in English. I’m not sure what language that is. It’s not Polish, is it?”
“No, this is the original. It’s written in Japanese.”
Moby’s shoulders sag. “Oh—”
“What’s written in Japanese?” The Colonel’s voice from the open door makes us both jump. For a senior citizen with bad knees he’s pretty good at appearing out of nowhere.
“Nothing, Grandpa. Just a comic book.”
The Colonel steps into the room. “Let’s have a look.” I hand it to him and I’m relieved that he treats it with the proper reverence. He squints at the cover for a second, then pushes up his lower lip, impressed. “Ronin Girl, huh?”
I stare at the Colonel in shock. “How do you know that?”
He points at the lettering. “Says it right here.”
My mind struggles to catch up. “Wait . . .”
But Moby says it before I can form the words. “You can read Japanese?”
The Colonel looks offended by the question. “Course I can. Spent eight years on Okinawa. I used to own a—well, an establishment there.”
A quick glance at Moby tells me he hasn’t figured out what has to happen next.
“Colonel, is there any chance you’d read that to us?”
He looks at the book again. “It is almost nap o’clock.”
“Please!” Moby and I both say in unison.
“All right, but I want to put my feet up.”
A minute later we are settled in the theater room. The Colonel is reclining in his favorite chair, and me and Moby are in position over his shoulders so we can see all the panels as he reads.
He skips some stuff he doesn’t think is important, and I have to remind him to translate absolutely everything. He seems especially annoyed waiting for us to soak in all the drawings before flipping the page. Ronin Girl’s story is a maze of deceit and split loyalties, not unlike my own.
As he reads, my mind wanders to what’s in store for me tomorrow morning. I play back the past week in my head, sorting through all the details for the one clue that will confirm what I now know. By the time the Colonel flips the last page, I don’t need to go over it anymore. I’m more convinced than ever of exactly who the thief is.
And, as he has so many times before, the Colonel has come through for the Cadre without even realizing it.
CHAPTER 24
The next morning, I meet Moby at the corner way earlier than usual. I need to be at school before the thief to make sure they aren’t setting up a double cross. I can’t come this close only to get framed because I overslept.
“Did you stick to the plan last night, Mobe?”
He sighs. “Yeah. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday. Should be calm seas all morning.”
I asked him to skip dinner the night before so he wouldn’t be hit with any sudden urges when I might need him the most.
We stop a block away and peek around the corner of the building across the street from Alanmoore. The parking lot is deserted. There won’t be anyone there but teachers and the janitor for at least half an hour. It’s raining again, so I nudge Moby forward and we make our final approach. Running into Lockhart now could kill any hope of being able to confront the thief, so we press ourselves against the building and quickly move toward the door that leads down into the custodian’s basement office and the abandoned stairwell. My plan is to be hidden across from the thief’s locker so I can look inside when the door is open.
Moby and I slip through the unlocked door to the basement, and up the abandoned staircase. When we are through the library and safe in the fourth-floor hallway, we let out deep breaths. Moby also lets out something else.
He helps me fan it away. “Oh, man. Was your mouth open?”
I squint to keep it from stinging my eyes. “It’s okay.” Moby did not inherit the Colonel’s nerves of steel.
The hall clock tells us we still have about twenty minutes before students start to arrive. Plenty of time to stow our bags in our lockers and get into position. We creep down the main stairs to the third floor. With no students in the halls, Alanmoore is an echo chamber. We don’t drop our guard until we’re in the alcove where our lockers are. I spin the lock as quietly as I can and ease up the handle to avoid the signature ka-chunk of a for
ty-year-old steel locker popping open. I’m about to take my bag off my shoulder to stow it when something falls out of the locker and hits my foot.
I bend down and pick up the folded note off the floor. My hand is shaking as I open it and read the block-printed words:
DUMPSTERS. IT’S OVER.
Someone got up even earlier than me.
I’m too impatient to go back the way we came, so we take our chances with the back stairs. When we get to the ground floor and open the doors out to the parking lot my heart is hammering. I ignore the cold rain hitting my scalp as I march toward the Dumpsters, ready to finish this once and for all. When we get to the opening between the Dumpsters I stop to make sure Moby is still with me. He gives me a quick nod, and we go in.
Someone else is already there. Standing in the thin beam of gray morning light is the Arch. On the ground in front of him is the Boogerloo.
“Chub?”
“Archer.” I try to sound cool, but my stupid voice cracks at the end.
Moby tries to snap his fingers. “I knew it!”
The Arch gives him an annoyed look before focusing on me again. “I didn’t—” the Arch starts to say.
I wave a hand, cutting him off.
“Don’t bother. This is over.”
He chuffs out a defeated breath. “Yeah, so the note said. And I see you brought a witness to say you caught me with it.”
“I’m not going to lie; that would be a pretty good plan, except for one problem.”
“What problem?”
“The only way that plan would work is if I was the thief. And I’ve told you a million times: I. Didn’t. Steal it.” I give him the supercool look I practiced in the mirror last night.
He leans away from me. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s weird.” Then he points a finger in the air. “Well, the same goes for me. The only way I could’ve framed you would’ve been if I had stolen it, and then had my own witness here.”
There are whispers and shuffling in the gap between the Dumpsters, and my heart revs like a chain saw. Are those his witnesses?
But a second later Shelby, Sizzler, and the McQueens appear in the tiny space. When they see me and the Arch squared off, they all freeze and stare at us, trying to figure out what they’ve just walked in on.
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