Troublemaker

by Andrew Clements

  Clay latched on to the idea like it was a life raft.

  Mr. Dash set him up with a hall pass and a small work space in the back corner of the art room. There was a square mirror on an easel, a table to draw on, and a chair. A white sheet had been hung over the tall cabinets behind the chair to create a textured background. Clay had marked the floor with pieces of masking tape so he could put the chair in the exact same spot each time. All he had to do was sit in that chair, look in the mirror, and draw what he saw.

  Clay was doing his self-portrait in pencil, and Mr. Dash had found him a pad of really good paper. The only bad part was having to spend so much time looking at himself. He still wasn’t used to the way he looked. With his hair shorter. And his ears sticking out.

  But he understood why the self-portrait idea made for a good art contest. Even though every artist would be creating something completely unique, each would face the same problem. A self-portrait was an interesting challenge.

  And Clay was working hard at it. He wanted to have the finished drawing look like a high-quality black-and-white photograph. The last three sessions he had worked on the eyes, and had finally managed to get them looking just right. Overall, he was happy with the way the picture was coming together. Sometimes he was even able to focus only on the lines and the shapes and the shading—and forget whose face it was staring back at him from the mirror.

  By the time he got to the art room it was 7:40, so he’d only have about twenty minutes to work before homeroom.

  “Hey, good morning, Clay.”

  “Hi.”

  Clay stopped and looked. There were dozens of little pumpkins on the big tables near the windows.

  “What’re those for?” he asked.

  “I’m going to have the third graders decorate them today, and we’ll put them on the tables in the cafeteria tomorrow for Halloween.”

  Mr. Dash was next to the sink, stirring a five-gallon bucket of goo with a meter stick. Clay didn’t have to ask about that. It was wallpaper paste for a fifth-grade project—papier-mâché masks.

  Papier mâché . . . Clay remembered working with those gummy strips of newspaper last year. And he remembered slipping a bowl of paste onto Todd Tiber’s chair just before he sat down—so funny! That had cost him a trip to the office, but it was totally worth it . . . or it had felt that way, back then.

  Fifth grade felt like a hundred years ago.

  “So,” said Mr. Dash, “how’s the portrait coming along? Feel like you’re making progress?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ve got the face started, and I’m working on the background, too, trying to get the texture right. And also the depth.”

  Mr. Dash turned around and smiled. “Anytime you want another set of eyes to look it over, let me know, okay? There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t get a little coaching.”

  “I’m good for now,” Clay said, then quickly added, “But that’ll be great—thanks.”

  “Glad to help out.” The teacher went back to his stirring.

  Mr. Dash had given him some storage space in the wide metal cabinets along the wall, and Clay slid a drawer open and took out the large pad of Bristol paper. He got his sharpened pencils and gum eraser from his backpack and put them on the table next to the pad, checked the position of the chair, and sat down.

  Ready to work.

  He glanced up to check that the mirror was tilted correctly. There he was, framed up perfectly, still as funny-looking as he’d been yesterday. He shook his head and gave himself half a smile. He reached for a pencil as he opened the pad to his drawing.

  Clay blinked.

  Black marks were slashed across the paper.

  A dozen or more. Made with a thick marker.

  He blinked again, harder.

  They were really there. Random scribbles, and a crude mustache drawn below his nose.

  He clenched his fists, and the pencil in his right hand broke in two.

  The mirror could have broken too. The whole school and everyone in it could have been crushed by the raging red anger that swept through him. He wanted to steam out on the playground and start punching—it didn’t matter who had actually done this. He’d pound on everyone, every kid who’d been mean, every kid who’d put him down or sneered or teased him during the last week, all of ’em!

  When the crimson fog lifted a little, Clay saw Mr. Dash looking at him.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m—yeah. I’m okay. Just wish I was a better artist, that’s all. I’m gonna start over.”

  Mr. Dash smiled at him, his teeth bright in his thick beard. “That’s how you know you’re getting better, when nothing’s ever good enough.”

  Clay nodded and tried to smile back. He couldn’t quite do it.

  Staring at the ruined drawing, he could almost hear Mitch’s voice. Hey, little man—forget about it, okay? If you go and try to get even, you’ll just get yourself in big trouble.

  Yeah, that’s what Mitch would say.

  Forget about this? Never. This deserved some serious payback.

  And somebody was gonna get it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BIG LIST

  Clay ripped his ruined drawing loose from the pad, folded the stiff paper twice, and stuffed it into his backpack. He wasn’t going to tell anyone. Whoever had done this was not going to have the fun of seeing him be mad about it.

  All morning and right up to lunch on Thursday, Clay’s anger lay hidden just below the surface, and it sharpened his eyes and ears.

  He kept looking at kids, watching their eyes, their smiles, their nods, the way they said hi or the way they didn’t. He listened to their voices, trying to catch that mocking tone, that particular “hah, hah” of somebody in the know. Because the punk who had trashed his picture was out there, watching him, laughing at him.

  At lunch Clay sat alone at a table in the far corner, his back to the wall. He had a view of the whole cafeteria, and he chewed on his chicken fingers and sipped his chocolate milk, and he watched.

  Tobin spotted him and smirked, then said something to the kid sitting beside him. They both looked Clay’s way and laughed.

  The big, red-haired kid went on his list of suspects.

  Hank caught his eye from across the cafeteria, then pointed at some girls and gave him a thumbs-up. Clay almost waved for Hank to come over. It’d be great to have some help tracking down the creep who had ruined the drawing. But he didn’t want anybody feeling sorry for him, not even Hank. He just smiled back the best he could and gave Hank a nod. Then he went on with the manhunt.

  James Lawler was standing in the ice-cream line. He looked around and caught Clay’s eye for a second, then looked away. Clay remembered shoving James into a huge mud puddle during gym class about a month ago. Maybe the kid was still mad about that. James also had art the same period he did . . . James could have seen him putting the self-portrait into that storage cabinet. So he had a motive, plus access to the crime scene.

  James went on the list.

  Allie and the new girl from Florida scurried past, whispering. Then they both glanced over their shoulders at him and smirked. Clay hadn’t thought about accusing any girls . . . and he didn’t even know that new one yet. Was Allie mean enough to do something like this? If she was mad about something? Or if someone had dared her? Absolutely.

  Allie went on the list.

  Once Allie made it onto the list, it grew fast. There were so many kids who had a reason to get back at him for something—dozens and dozens. He’d been teasing and bothering and tormenting almost everyone for years.

  Didn’t they get that it wasn’t like he was after them, that it wasn’t personal? Because it wasn’t . . . not most of the time. Most of the time, he was just having some fun.

  Halfway through lunch Clay gave up on the list. He had tons of suspects, but nothing solid. And really, did he even have the right to be mad? How many times had he been the one secretly smiling while someone else got upset or embarrassed
or laughed at?

  He returned his tray and looked at the clock. Mr. Dash had told him that he always ate his lunch in the art room. So he could go there right now, start on a new self-portrait.

  He turned around and headed for the doors to the playground.

  He didn’t want to go and have to look at himself, not right now.

  Maybe later.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NO TRICK, NO TREAT

  For the week leading up to Halloween, Mitch had been reminding Clay every day. “You know you’re not goin’ out to trick-or-treat with your buddies, right? It’s not happening, not this year. You understand?”

  And all week Clay had been nodding and saying, “Sure, I get it. No problem.”

  But now Halloween day had actually arrived, and it was on a Friday, too.

  Across the breakfast table that morning Clay said, “How about if I just go out and trick-or-treat around our neighborhood for an hour or so tonight, just to get some candy? That’d be okay, don’t you think?”

  Mitch narrowed his eyes. “Sure. You can go out from five thirty to six. As long as you’re back here in the house with me before dark, no problem. Knock yourself out.”

  Clay left for school, slamming out of the house.

  Sure, he was supposed to trust Mitch—trust, trust, trust! But what about the flip side? When was Mitch going to start trusting him?

  Because he was not going to go walk around and beg for candy when all the kindergartners were out with their mommies and daddies. Better to have no Halloween at all.

  School was buzzing. There was going to be a parade in the lower grades hallway, and a lot of the little kids arrived wearing their costumes. Some of the teachers were dressed up too, even in the upper grades. Mr. Dash was wearing a huge metal helmet with horns out the sides. That, plus his red beard, made him look exactly like a Viking warrior.

  Clay felt like he was watching all of it from a distance. Halloween hadn’t ever felt like this before. It had always been fun—and Halloween week was the perfect time for new pranks at school. He and Hank had pulled off some good ones, too—and they’d never been caught.

  There was the time in fourth grade when they glued Mrs. Moss’s math book to her desk. Watching her try to pick it up? So funny!

  Back in third grade they had hidden a bunch of cheap digital watches around the room. Their annoying little alarms were set to go off the day before Halloween during a state assessment test—beep-beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep-beep. Almost drove Ms. Fiori crazy. She never did find the watch behind the big metal bookcases. That thing beeped every day at 9:47 for the whole rest of that school year, plus half the next—until its battery finally died.

  And just last Halloween? They had squeezed sticky ink from a ballpoint pen onto the back of the doorknob to the teachers’ room, and then spent the rest of the day trying to count how many teachers had dark blue spots on their fingers: nine—ten, if you included the principal.

  Clay remembered these past Halloween pranks in bits and pieces while he sat in homeroom staring out the window. He also remembered going pumpkin-smashing with Hank, and going out once with Mitch and his buddies for some late-night toilet paper attacks.

  Homeroom ended, and he shuffled along with the crowd out into the hallway. A sudden thought stopped him in his tracks—he actually stood still just outside his science room: Yesterday, someone had pranked him—ruined his drawing! And it made him want to get back at everybody, go out and trash the whole town.

  But if he did go out tonight, would he really want to do that kind of stuff? And if he didn’t, would it even be fun to be out after dark—if there wasn’t going to be any danger or adventure in it? Well, no matter what, it wasn’t fair for Mitch to completely kill Halloween—Clay was sure about that.

  As the day went on, he got grumpier and grouchier. He decided that his brother had turned into a royal pain in the neck. He decided that Mr. Kelling just might be a major jerk after all. He decided that getting all dressed up in costumes was definitely only for dumb little kids, and that Mr. Dash looked stupid in that giant helmet with the horns.

  He didn’t start on his new self-portrait during art class, and he didn’t go into the art room to work on it at lunchtime, either. Why bother? And he felt like smashing all the cutesy little decorated pumpkins in the cafeteria.

  He frowned his way through his afternoon classes, getting more and more annoyed at how excited all the other kids were.

  A minute before the final bell, there was a loud ding, and the principal’s voice came onto the PA system.

  “I want to remind everyone to be extra careful if you go out trick-or-treating later on. Take a flashlight or a glow stick, and watch out whenever you cross the street. Be respectful, and don’t get tricked into doing something you’ll be sorry about later. I hope all of you have a safe and happy Halloween.”

  Just what he needed—more advice. Clay gritted his teeth and scowled all the way to his bus. As it lurched out of the driveway and rumbled toward home, he felt like he was being hauled from one prison to another one—Kelling ran his daytime jail, and Mitch was in charge everywhere else. The only thing missing was a set of handcuffs.

  When they got to Tobin’s stop on the ride home, the kid paused next to Clay’s seat on his way along the aisle, like he was going to make a wisecrack. Then he saw the look in Clay’s eyes. Tobin shut his mouth and hurried off the bus.

  When he arrived home, Clay stomped into the front hall, dumped his new book bag on the floor, went straight down the back hallway into his room, and slammed the door. He threw himself onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

  Happy Halloween.

  Yeah, right.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AND A MUSTACHE

  Mitchell—just leave him alone!” Mrs. Hensley stood in the doorway to the back hall. “If he wants to stay in his room, that’s fine. And stop that racket—there’re a bunch of little kids coming up the front walk!”

  Clay hadn’t come out to eat dinner, and he hadn’t come out to see Anne’s costume before she left with her friends for a party and a sleepover.

  Mitchell had just banged on his bedroom door for the third time. He also tried to push his way into the room, but Clay had managed to block the door.

  “I’m not coming out, so just go away!” That’s all Clay had said, and he’d only said it once.

  As it got later, the bigger kids began coming. Mrs. Hensley was pretty sure Clay would come out when he heard some of his friends at the door. But he didn’t.

  A little after nine thirty, a group of older boys showed up. One of them lifted up a blood-spattered goalie mask. “Hi, Mrs. Hensley—it’s me, Hank. Is Clay around?”

  “He’s been in his room all night. I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

  “Oh. Well, like, can I say hi to him?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Hank walked back to Clay’s bedroom and knocked.

  “Hey,” he called, “yo, Clay, it’s me—just wanted to say hi.”

  There was no answer.

  Hank came back to the door and saw Mitch in the living room.

  He nodded. “Hi, Mitch. So, Clay didn’t go out at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, say hi for me, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Hank flipped his mask down, then took a few pieces of candy from the basket. He mumbled, “Thanks, Mrs. Hensley,” and left.

  The flow of kids coming to the door slowed to a trickle. There was a large group of high schoolers at ten o’clock, and then it got quiet. Mitch and his mom settled in on the couch to watch Halloween 4 and eat leftover candy.

  About a half hour later, just as the faceless killer cornered a girl in a deserted drugstore, someone knocked on the Hensleys’ front door. Mrs. Hensley jumped and let out a little yelp.

  Mitchell laughed, and she swatted his arm.

  “It’s not funny!”

  She grabbed the candy basket—but it
was awfully late for trick-or-treaters. She peeked through the narrow glass panel, then quickly opened the door.

  Two police officers stood on the front porch, a man and a woman.

  The woman tipped her cap. “Are you Mrs. Hensley?”

  “Yes—did something happen?”

  “Is your husband at home?”

  “He’s working night shift at the water plant—is he all right? Is this about him?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not about him. There was an incident over on Nichols Street, and we’d like to talk to your son about it.”

  Mitch stepped into the front hall.

  “I’m her son. I’m Mitchell Hensley.”

  The woman hesitated, and the man looked down at a notepad.

  “We need to talk to Clayton Hensley,” he said. “Is he here?”

  “He’s been in his room all night, Officer,” said Mrs. Hensley.

  “Do you have a warrant?” asked Mitch. “Is he being arrested?”

  “No, he’s not being arrested,” the woman said, “not yet.” She looked Mitch in the eye. “Unless you’re Clayton’s legal guardian, I want you to back out of this conversation that I’m having with your mother. Are you Clayton’s legal guardian?”

  Mitch shook his head.

  She turned back to Mrs. Hensley. “We need to talk to Clayton. We’ve only got a couple questions for him.”

  “Mom,” Mitchell said, “just shut the door. Don’t say anything else. They can’t come in without an invitation or a warrant, and you don’t have to talk to them or answer any questions. And neither does Clay. That’s the law.”