Chadwick's Epic Revenge

by Lisa Doan

  “Lucky you turned up,” he said. “I was just about to call your mom and let her know you were unexpectedly murdered by an auto mechanic.” Rory paused and stared at my jeans. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Pee your pants.”

  “I fell in the pool.”

  “Good thinking. That’s what I’ll say if anybody asks.”

  I realized Rory was trying to lead my mind away from his hasty retreat from Vance Auto Repair. “Thanks for the backup,” I said. “That’s the second time you’ve yelled, ‘Save yourself,’ and run away in the middle of an emergency. Pretty speedily, I might add, for somebody on the decline from starvation.”

  Rory shrugged. “I’m against scary people.”

  “Everybody is against scary people,” I said.

  “It’s in my notebook.”

  “Everything is in your notebook!”

  “Did you get the picture?” Rory asked through a mouthful of Cheetos. “’Cause I’m not going back there tomorrow.”

  “I got it,” I said, pulling up the photo.

  Rory leaned over my phone. The photo was a little blurry, but it was clear that Terry’s dad had all his original fingers. “We’ll see who’s talking about falling Jeeps now,” I said.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Rory asked.

  “I’ll do a little show-and-tell in group on Monday,” I said.

  My swagger came surging back into me like a tidal wave. I had come up with a plan and I had successfully executed the plan. Group was supposed to be confidential, but I knew that the revelation of Terry’s fraudulence would get a prime-time slot during one of Marilee’s news updates on the bleachers. Group was a gold mine for Marilee and she regularly included what was said there in her briefings. Jana or Bethany would have the information to her before I even walked to my next class.

  Just the day before, Marilee had heard from another group that Carol Halliday’s parents were getting divorced on account of Mrs. Halliday spending their whole retirement fund on designer shoes and that Jimmy Wasseldorf’s future plans included moving to Utah to get sister wives. I figured a story about a dad magically going from negative eight fingers to positive ten fingers was exactly the kind of story that Marilee would love. All I had to do was show the photo in group and let the rumor mill do the rest. With Marilee’s help, I was about to jump on the croc’s back and duct-tape his jaws shut.

  * * *

  I had spent the weekend practicing a gripping and spectacular reveal of Mr. Vance’s fingers. Now, Mr. Samson looked surprised when I raised my hand to go first. “Chadwick? Okay…”

  I stood up and pulled out my phone.

  “No phones on in class,” Mr. Samson said.

  “I know,” I said, “but this has to be an exception. I have evidence that everybody needs to see.”

  I opened the fuzzy photo of two hands, held it facing outward, and dramatically turned around 360 degrees. “Those hands belong to Terry’s dad,” I said. “Do we see any missing fingers? No, we do not. And why? Because Mr. Vance was never involved in a tragic Jeep accident.”

  Terry smirked. “That ain’t my dad.”

  “Is too your dad,” I said.

  “Prove it.”

  “It’s a photo,” I said triumphantly, “any court of law would admit that as solid evidence.”

  Suvi grabbed my phone from my hands. “First,” she said, “a digital photograph generally requires the agreement of all parties before being admitted as evidence due to the risk that it has been altered. Second, this is a picture of a man’s hands with no face, so how are we supposed to know whose hands they are?”

  Suvi! Stop with all the knowledge!

  “I saw him, Vance,” I said. “Your dad has all his original fingers.”

  “Chadwick kicked another dog,” Terry said, folding his arms.

  “I never kicked even one dog,” I said. “You’re just trying to get me off the subject of your dad’s fingers that are still attached to his hands.”

  “You aren’t making much sense,” Mr. Samson said to me. “Fingers are generally attached to hands, it’s part of the skeletal structure. Let’s move on.”

  I sank down in my seat. It had seemed like such a foolproof plan. Expose Vance, then Jana would forget all about him and the squirrel and the dogs and the fungus. How could I miss that I needed his dad’s face in the picture?

  What could I do now? That had been my only plan to expose the crocodile.

  * * *

  I was getting the feeling that I was no longer welcome on the dance committee. The powers that be, meaning Jana, Bethany, and Carmen, pulled their chairs away from me. I guessed they were worried about catching the fungus. Terry stared at me with his crocodile smile.

  Suvi didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, but then, she was pretty busy campaigning to rename the whole event.

  “I simply feel that we have no need to harken back to colonialism,” she said.

  What was harken?

  “Why have a king and queen,” Suvi continued, “when the history of kings and queens is replete with violence and subjugation? Why not have a top eagle instead? It honors our school mascot, more closely represents what it is we really stand for, and is gender neutral.”

  “This is why you joined the committee, isn’t it?” Jana asked. “To get king and queen changed to top eagle.”

  “Yes,” Suvi said. “My mom has insisted that I spend time with peers of average intelligence, so I considered how I might meet her demands while also contributing to society in some meaningful way.”

  “It’s a little late to change everything now,” Jana said. “The ballots have been printed and the king and queen nominations will be held tomorrow during lunch.”

  Suvi considered this and said, “Then we should at least stop referring to it as king and queen and change it to queen and king to indicate the strides we’ve made in women’s rights. There is no reason for the male to take precedence.”

  “Girl power,” Jana said. “I like it—queen and king it is.”

  Bethany held her hand up to high-five Suvi. Suvi initially appeared confused, but then seemed to remember that she had seen this sort of behavior somewhere before. She tentatively met Bethany’s high five and then sat back, looking both pleased and embarrassed.

  Jana began to talk about various duties to be assigned for the nominations. I decided to test the waters.

  “I could help with the ballot boxes,” I said.

  “Terry has already volunteered,” Jana said, “and he can’t be expected to work with an individual who constantly insults his family.”

  “Not his whole family,” Rory said. “Just his dad. And not even his dad’s whole body, just his fingers. Though I wouldn’t say he insults the fingers—he just says that they are there.”

  Thanks for helping, Rory.

  It was decided that Bethany would help Terry, after she promised not to campaign for votes while she was on official dance-committee business.

  “All right everybody,” Jana said. “We all have our jobs to do. You two,” she said, pointing at me and Rory, “get working on the sunset.”

  * * *

  Rory and I rolled out craft paper on the sidewalk in front of the school. We opened the cans of paint Bethany had shoved into our hands. Yellow, red, and orange.

  “How can I paint when my cleverly crafted plan to outsmart the crocodile went up in flames?” I asked. “If I even knew how to paint an inspiring sunset, which I don’t, I’m too distraught.”

  “Distraught sounds like something a girl would get. Let’s just get started and then I feel like our artistic skills will take over,” Rory said, pouring yellow paint in the middle of the paper.

  Despite my distraught state of mind, I grabbed a paintbrush and swirled the orange and red paint around the yellow. I remembered that Jana was counting on me. For all I knew, she might be a major art fan. If the sunset was good enough, she might be impressed. She might even begin t
o think to herself, could a person who painted such an inspiring sunset really have kicked two dogs?

  “We have to fill the whole thing in,” Rory said. “It won’t look majestic if we leave white spots all over the place.”

  We filled in the whole paper and I used extra red as a tip of the hat to Jana’s hair. But when I examined our effort, I was not convinced it was museum quality. It could either look like a sunset or look like Earth had been attacked by aliens and the planet had exploded into a yellow-and-red fireball. I cheered myself up by remembering that not all art had to look exactly like what it was supposed to be. My mom brought home a painting from a yard sale once that was just a bunch of white squares floating around in black space. She said it depicted the angst of the human condition. What Rory and I had really created was not a sunset but an homage to a sunset. Jana might admire that level of sophistication. After all, she liked goat cheese.

  Jana strode down the sidewalk and stared down at our original interpretation of the sun setting over the shores of Waikiki. As I searched my mind for something to say that sounded knowledgeable about the arts, she said, “Start over.”

  * * *

  The nominations for queen and king had taken the school by storm. There was no way anybody could concentrate until it was over. The dance was for the fifth and sixth grades. It was a tradition that the sixth graders threw the dance, so the queen and king had to be in that grade, but the fifth graders could vote. Boys stood around the cafeteria checking out the girls, who in turn did a lot of hair flipping and whispering and checking out of boys. Even though everybody already knew who was popular enough to get nominated, the nominations were valuable because they were solid, tangible proof of popularity.

  I voted for Jana. Now I just had to find a way to let her know I voted for her, and that I didn’t eat a squirrel, don’t have a fungus, and didn’t kick two dogs. For king, I voted for Ajay Gupta, mainly because he was one of the few popular guys who always remembered my name. I still didn’t know who Rory voted for. All he would say was that it was like an insurance policy in his back pocket—if he wanted to tell the girl, he would. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. If I knew who the girl was, I would warn her.

  Just as I was getting comfortable in social studies and thought I might actually be able to take a nap, the loudspeaker went off.

  “Chadwick Musselman, please report to Principal Grimeldi’s office.”

  What? I never got called to the principal’s office. I always flew under the radar—never bad enough to get in trouble and never good enough to get an award. On the savannah of Wayne Elementary, I lived deep in the middle of the herd with the top of my head barely visible to the falcon eyes of school officials.

  Ugh, Mr. Samson had probably told the principal that I had used my phone in class. Why was this school so against technology? Didn’t they understand that the world was leaving them behind? Maybe this would be a good time to try to bring Principal Grimeldi into modern times. I could explain stuff like how she should get rid of the PA system and just text everybody.

  I walked down the empty halls, ignoring the kids who stared at me through the glass on the classroom doors. I supposed I shouldn’t mind since that was exactly what I did when other people got called on the loudspeaker. It was always interesting to speculate on what they did to get in trouble. So this was what it felt like to be that guy.

  The outer office was quiet, with just old Mrs. Jennings pecking at a keyboard with two fingers. She was staring at the letters like this was the first she’d heard of an alphabet. Modern times might have to wait until after she retired.

  She looked up, shook her head, and waved me into the principal’s office. As I passed by her desk, she muttered, “Troublemaker.”

  I charged into the office and said, “I had to use my phone to prove that Terry Vance’s dad has all his original fingers. And, anyway, phones run our lives now, there’s no use being against them. It’s totally futile.”

  “What?” Principal Grimeldi asked.

  “That’s about as much sense as he ever makes,” Jana said. “I’m starting to wonder if that fungus has gotten into his brain cells.”

  Why was Jana there?

  “Have a seat, Chadwick,” the principal said, ignoring Jana’s speculation that I had a fungal brain.

  I sat in one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. Jana paced behind me.

  “I really don’t know how you imagined you would not be caught. Was this some sort of prank or dare?” Principal Grimeldi asked.

  “Was what a prank or dare?” I asked.

  “I see,” she said, in a tone that made it clear that she did not see. “Chadwick, tampering with ballot boxes is serious.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I thought you were talking about me using my phone in class. What happened to the ballot boxes?”

  “When we went to count the votes,” Jana said, “there were two hundred and fifty-five votes for you, all in the same handwriting. Principal Grimeldi pulled your file and confirmed it was yours.”

  “But I didn’t do that! Why would I do that?” I said to Principal Grimeldi. “I only voted for Jana and Ajay Gupta.” I glanced at Jana to see what effect the revelation of my vote had on her. She looked like she had just thrown up in her mouth.

  “Your handwriting is on all of the extra votes,” Principal Grimeldi said. “There’s really no way to talk your way out of this. You’ll need to apologize to the school, Chadwick, or I will be forced to suspend you.”

  “I think he should get expelled,” Jana said, “permanently.”

  I wondered if I should point out that being expelled was permanent. Probably not.

  * * *

  Despite my arguing for another half hour that Terry Vance had to be at the bottom of it, because he was always at the bottom of everything and was currently gaslighting me, Principal Grimeldi was determined that I had to apologize or go home. If I went home, not only would I get a lecture from my parents, and maybe even get grounded, I would also get a couple of weeks of advice from Mark. Over the summer, he had heard my mom complain about the state of my room and had gone on a mission to help me “get my act together.” It had taken me a whole month to convince him to stop daily inspections like we had joined the army. I couldn’t imagine what he would come up with for this.

  I stood in front of the PA holding a piece of paper, waiting for my cue. Mrs. Jennings had paused her lightning-slow typing to turn on the power and stare at me with an expression I can only describe as glee. She wouldn’t be so gleeful after my announcement. Principal Grimeldi had leaned over me while I wrote out what I would say, but I planned to say a few things I didn’t write down.

  The principal pointed at me and whispered, “You’re on.”

  “Uh, hi. This is Chadwick Musselman. Sorry for nominating myself for dance king more than once. My apologies to the dance committee and the school.”

  Then I shouted, “It’s not true, I’ve been framed! I don’t know how, but Terry Vance did it!”

  Principal Grimeldi shook her head. She stepped in front of the microphone and said, “That’s quite enough, Chadwick. Now, on to the results for king and queen, excuse me, I mean queen and king. The nominees are, for queen: Jana Sedgewick, Tomiko Takahashi, and Lakeesha Jennings. Congratulations, ladies. And for king we have: Ajay Gupta, Jerome Smith, and Terry Vance.”

  I was convicted of voter fraud while Vance was nominated for dance king? It was like somebody had used a pair of scissors to shred the fabric of the universe.

  Principal Grimeldi turned off the PA and looked at me with her “I am sadly disappointed” face.

  Jana said, “Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  The principal sighed. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

  I left the office while Jana began her second bid for my permanent expulsion and Mrs. Jennings nodded enthusiastically.

  The office door closed behind me and I ran straight into Skip Hammersmith, the editor of The Eagle’s Eye. It was
an unofficial school newspaper that Skip printed out of his dad’s home office and handed out in the hallways. It was pretty influential, second only to The Marilee Marksley Show.

  Skip scribbled on a piece of paper and said, “Seriously, Musselman? How did you think you’d get away with it?”

  “I didn’t do it,” I said. “I never wanted to be king of the dance.”

  “Then why did you vote for yourself so much? Marilee said you voted seven thousand times. She saw it with Her Own Eyes.”

  “It was two hundred and fifty-five times and she did not see that with Her Own Eyes. I didn’t even vote for myself once! I’m being framed.”

  “By who?” Skip asked.

  “Terry Vance, aka the Nile crocodile,” I said. “I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he copied my handwriting.”

  “Did he have anything of yours that you had signed?” Skip asked, writing furiously.

  A lightbulb went off in my mind. My video-game essay!

  No, that wasn’t it, that paper was typed.

  “He must have,” I said. “I just don’t know what.”

  Skip looked up. “Seems like if a guy gets framed, he knows how he got framed. ’Course, criminals always claim they don’t know stuff.”

  “I’m not a criminal!”

  “Technically, you are. Principal Grimeldi convicted you.” Skip whipped out his phone and took a picture of me. “Is this gang related?” he asked in a hopeful tone.

  “No.”

  “Gotcha. Code of silence.”

  Skip was obsessed with gangs, though I was pretty sure we didn’t have any at Wayne Elementary. If we did, they met in a top-secret location, only tagged that top-secret location, and only robbed each other.

  Skip raced down the hallway with his notes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At dinner that night, Mark looked over my head like he was peering at some far-off vista and said, “Somebody got busted because somebody forgot to consult with somebody’s older brother.”

  My mom passed around the green beans, her opening gambit before we could have the mashed potatoes. “What are you talking about, Mark?” she asked.