Jake is slumped in a chair, his back to me, and I realize just how screwed he is when I notice his right hand is handcuffed to the chair’s arm. In the center of Mr. Braun’s desk, where my bloody German book sat before, is Jake’s book bag. I recognize it immediately because, like all of Jake’s clothes, it doesn’t look like any of the book bags the other kids carry at school. It’s black and strangely square, with the red logo of a horse’s head on it.
“Have a seat, Kirby,” Mr. Braun says, all business. He is not a happy hobbit. He’s Hans Gruber and he wants to know, Where are my detonators?!
Mr. Hartman blocks the door behind me, arms crossed, the buttons of his polyester shirt straining against his bulging chest. He breathes loudly through his mouth, and it’s kind of gross.
Briefly, I consider offering him my inhaler, but instead I perch on the edge of the chair next to Jake and sneak a glance at him. He doesn’t return the look. He just stares at the ground, and it hurts me to see him like this, like a wild horse that’s been broken.
Mr. Braun studies my face carefully as he holds both hands up on either side of Jake’s book bag, presenting it to me. “What is this?” he asks.
Wait . . . what? Why isn’t he asking me about the fight?
“Uh . . . that’s Jake’s book bag, I think.”
Mr. Braun’s bushy eyebrows draw together as he peers at me like an owl. “Yes. And what’s inside it?”
Is this a trick? I don’t know what he wants me to say. “Books?” I offer.
Mr. Braun drums his fingers on the desk while he considers me. His shrewd eyes flick over my head to Mr. Hartman. “You checked Kirby’s locker too?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Hartman growls. “I’m telling you, he’s stupid, but he’s not that kind of stupid.”
Now I’m really confused. “Wait, you checked my locker? For what?”
“You honestly don’t know?” Mr. Braun studies me again, the wrinkles around his bright eyes folding up as he squints, then suddenly relaxing. “No, maybe you don’t.”
He reaches into Jake’s book bag and pulls out a big ziplock bag of white pills.
Oh. Right. That.
Jake winces and looks away like Mr. Braun pulled a stack of porn out of his backpack. “Those are my dad’s pills. I guess he put them in my bag by accident.”
Mr. Hartman sputters, “Oh yeah! Right! That makes sense!”
Mr. Braun holds up his hand. “Frank, relax. We’ll let the police sort it out.”
Mr. Hartman snorts. “You’re damn right we’ll let the police sort it out, and I can tell you what they’re going to say: five hundred milligrams of oxycodone? That’s a misdemeanor.”
A misdemeanor? I finally understand Trey’s comment. Jake’s not getting expelled. He’s getting arrested.
Mr. Braun sees the alarm on my face and softens a little. “Don’t worry, Kirby. You’re not in trouble. We’re sorry to bring you in, but after the altercation this morning with Tommy and your book—”
“Which we know you lied about,” Mr. Hartman grumbles.
“Uh, yes, which we assume you were lying about”—Mr. Braun scowls at him—“we thought perhaps there might be a connection between you and the drugs we found in Jake’s locker.”
Jake shifts in his chair, and the handcuffs rattle. “I told you there wasn’t.”
Mr. Braun gives him a bland look, like, Sure, we should have taken your word for it. He opens his desk drawer and drops the big bag of pills inside as Mr. Hartman slaps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Mrs. Tews will write you a hall pass to go back to class.”
I start to panic. They can’t send Jake to jail! “Look, you don’t understand,” I say. “Tommy and those guys have been messing with us all day!”
Mr. Braun dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Look, we’re not even talking about the fight yet, although, yes, that was Mr. Grivas’s fault too, and I’m fairly certain the boys’ parents will be pressing charges for that as well. Kirby, you seem like a smart kid.” He slams his desk drawer shut and locks it with a small key, which he points at Jake. “Do yourself a favor and stay away from this guy. He’s poison.”
Mr. Hartman’s walkie-talkie crackles to life. “Hartman, this is County. Do you copy, over?”
Mr. Hartman picks it up and presses the receiver. “I copy. Over.”
“Hit a little snafu, two-eleven on Main Street. We’ll be fifteen minutes late. Do you have a secure location to hold the perp?”
“Roger, he’s secure here. Over and out.”
He clips the walkie-talkie back onto his thick belt and hoists it up under his gut. “Okay, Burns, let’s—” Mr. Hartman is interrupted by a yell from the waiting room. Even through Mr. Braun’s closed office door we can clearly hear a woman scream, “You made me get outta work and come here for this? A fucking RACCOON?!”
The voice is so piercing, we all jump. Mr. Hartman opens the door a crack and peeks out.
“Mrs. Ch-Ch-Chantry,” the secretary stutters. “It is against school rules to—”
The interruption fires Trey’s mom up even more. “Oh, there’s a rule in your school handbook that says ‘No raccoons on campus’? You know how far away I work? You know I get paid by the hour, which means if I’m not at work, I don’t get PAID, which means you’re costing me MONEY right now? Who’s gonna pay me back for this, because I want to talk to them RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW!”
“God, this day just won’t end.” Mr. Braun swears as he wearily gets out of his chair and rounds the corner of his formidable desk. “Keep them here for a minute,” he says to Mr. Hartman, then shuts the door behind him.
Jake looks at me. “Guess I won’t be going to California after all,” he whispers.
“No talking!” Mr. Hartman barks.
Jake swivels around in his chair, handcuffs rattling, to give Hartman the stink eye. “What are you going to do, arrest me twice? Are the cops gonna throw the book at me for being chatty?”
“Shut. Up!”
Jake smiles up at him sweetly, all sugar and spice. “Hey, why weren’t you in the cafeteria? I bet Mr. Braun was wondering where you were when the fight happened, huh?”
Mr. Hartman lets out a long, shaky breath and rubs his face, his big features smooshing like rubber in his hands. As he drops his hands from his face, he takes a step toward Jake, but then he gives me a guilty look and stops. I’m shocked to consider that if I weren’t there, he might actually do something to Jake.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hartman,” a quiet voice says politely. “Can I show you something?”
Mr. Hartman turns, and all of us are surprised to see PJ standing behind him, in front of the closed door. I didn’t hear the door open. How did he get in here?
Mr. Hartman is wondering the same thing. “How’d you get in here?” he asks.
But then I realize how PJ got in here. SECRET NINJA SKILLS.
PJ says nothing, just holds his phone out so Mr. Hartman can see the screen. There, visible in stunning digital clarity, is the video of Mr. Hartman smoking a joint on the school’s roof. His back is to us, but he’s still completely recognizable, broad shoulders under a tightly stretched checkered sports coat, free hand hooked in the waist of his tan pants. As a plume of smoke rises from his head, he turns and exposes the profile of his large face. He’s wearing a blissful expression, and I feel a twinge of pity as I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him happy.
As he watches the video, Mr. Hartman is the exact opposite of happy, his eyes getting wider and wider until I’m afraid they’re going to pop out and fall into my lap.
Jake shakes his head sadly. “Mr. Hartman, I’m surprised. I’ve always looked up to you as a role model.”
Mr. Hartman lunges for the phone, but PJ’s a beat ahead of him and hides it behind his back. Mr. Hartman grabs PJ and is about to throw him against the wall and slap a pair of handcuffs on him, too, but PJ blurts out, “I already uploaded it to YouTube. Right now the video is private—but it doesn’t have to stay that way. I can make it public.�
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Mr. Hartman pushes PJ away and takes a step back, bumping into the bookcase behind him. His high forehead glistens with sweat, his eyes darting back and forth between me, PJ, and Jake. “Okay, look,” he says shakily. “You boys are in a lot of trouble here. A lot. But if you delete the video right now, we can forget about this whole thing.”
Jake laughs. “You wish.”
“Jake, please,” PJ says diplomatically. “I agree with Mr. Hartman. We should forget about this whole thing. Mr. Hartman, I can give you the password to delete the video, and you can watch me delete it from my phone, too, but first I need something from you.”
Relief washes over Mr. Hartman. “Yes. Absolutely. I think that’s best for everyone. Okay, so, uh . . .” He tries to smile as he says it, but instead his lips curl back in a snarl. “What do you boys want from me?”
“All you have to do is drop the key for Jake’s handcuffs on the ground here,” PJ says. “Then follow me into the waiting room and don’t come back into this room for five minutes. Then you and I can delete the video, and it’ll be like this never happened.”
Trey’s mom is still yelling behind the door, but none of us is listening.
For a second I’m certain we’ve pushed Mr. Hartman too far and he’s going to throw us all into prison himself, video or no video. A vein beats in his forehead. One of his hands clenches into a fist and the other creeps up to his side, where he probably wore a shoulder holster, back when he was a cop.
“You’re suspended!” Mr. Hartman jabs a finger at PJ, spittle flying from his lip. “No. Fuck that. You’re expelled! Forever! ”
PJ doesn’t budge. “Expel me and I’ll post the video on the school’s Facebook page. Unlock the handcuffs and follow me into the waiting room and this all goes away. You have ten seconds to make up your mind.”
Jake starts to count down, fast. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six—”
“All right, all right! Wait! Stop!” Mr. Hartman pries a key ring out of his pocket, the keys jangling all over the place because his hand’s shaking so bad. It takes him four tries to get the key for the cuffs off the key ring. He holds the little key in the air for a second, daintily, between two thick fingers, then drops it.
The key falls silently onto the plush red carpet. Mr. Hartman looks down his nose at the three of us with the wounded pride of a good cop being forced to go dirty.
Jake picks the key up off the floor and unlocks the cuffs. He rubs his wrist, which is all red.
PJ points at the French doors behind Mr. Braun’s desk. “Go out that way,” he says to Jake.
“Oh, I was going to walk out through the waiting room, past Mr. Braun,” Jake says. “Do you think these doors would be better?”
Mr. Hartman is so angry he can barely speak. “This is blackmail!” he sputters.
“No shit it’s blackmail,” Jake says to himself, smoothing his thick hair back and straightening his shirt, which is somehow, even after all the mayhem we’ve been through today, still perfectly ironed and white. He brushes an invisible speck of lint off his sleeve and grabs his book bag off Mr. Braun’s desk.
Mr. Hartman points back and forth between me and PJ. “You two little criminals are gonna go along with this story, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Jake stole your key, and then he escaped.”
“Good, because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
He says it, and a second later we all realize he kind of means it. I think he’s shocked to realize it himself, because he doesn’t say anything after that.
Jake drops the key back on the floor, in the middle of the carpet, where it’s sure to be seen. Mr. Hartman and PJ open the door and walk out, and Trey’s mom’s voice blows in like a fierce wind.
“I can sue this school for costing me wages and for causing emotional harm. You know that, right?!”
“Now, now,” Mr. Braun says, “please, Mrs. Chantry . . . please calm down!”
As Mr. Hartman closes the door behind him, Jake hops up and crosses behind Mr. Braun’s desk. He tries to open the center drawer, where Mr. Braun put the bag of pills, but of course it’s locked.
“Fuck,” he says, looking around the room. “Do you think there’s a screwdriver around here?”
“Geez, Jake,” I say. “Forget about the pills! You’ve only got five minutes! Or less, if Mr. Hartman changes his mind.”
“Fine,” he says. “I just wanted to eliminate the evidence.” He opens one of the French doors and pauses on the threshold.
I follow him to the door and feel like I should say something, some cool last words, but all I can think of is, “Have fun in California.”
“How could I not? You know how much I love surfing.” I enjoy this classic Jake joke for only one second, because suddenly he pivots around on his foot and punches me in the face. My glasses fly off and I fall back, knocking a stack of papers off Mr. Braun’s desk.
“What the hell?!”
Jake puts his hands up. “Plausible deniability,” he says. “You tried to stop me from escaping, and I clocked you.”
Jakes runs out the door and across the lawn, lit blazingly by the sun for a moment, then disappearing into darkness as he enters the woods. I rub the blossom of pain on my cheek and linger in the open doorway. Someone is burning leaves, and the smell is a strong mix of crisp and sweet, dead leaves and smoke.
— — —
When the cops show up a couple of minutes later, they are super-duper pissed that Jake escaped. The magnitude of the situation is conveyed by their use of the word “escaped,” a verb reserved for prisoners and magicians. Jake qualifies as both in their opinion.
Mr. Braun literally can’t believe it. He keeps asking Mr. Hartman, “What do you mean, ‘He’s gone’?” as PJ and I awkwardly stand in the corner of the office and watch Mr. Braun look under his desk, inside his closet, and even inside the filing cabinet drawers—not because he thinks Jake will be scrunched up inside a manila folder, but because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I told you to watch him!” he screams at Mr. Hartman.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you needed help out there.”
Mr. Hartman acts angry, but I can tell he’s relieved that our scheme seems to be going as planned. We’re all in the same boat, and he does everything he can to make sure our story stays afloat.
There are two cops on the scene, an old guy with a mustache and a younger cop whose uniform is one size too large and who is always adjusting his hat. Mr. Braun puts PJ and me back in the waiting room, where we’re questioned by the young officer while Officer Mustache, clearly the higher-ranking one, goes over some stuff with Mr. Hartman and Mr. Braun in his office.
I’m not nervous, because even though the lie PJ and I tell the young cop is pretty unbelievable—that Jake pickpocketed the key from Mr. Hartman, then knocked me out—it’s more believable than the truth, which is that we blackmailed the school’s head of security for smoking marijuana on the roof. Also, the fresh bruise under my right eye is pretty convincing.
Mr. Braun’s office door is cracked open, and I’m able to overhear their conversation and learn a few things. Someone has a broken nose. I’m not sure who, but I’m not surprised. I pick out a few other serious-sounding medical terms, including “fracture,” “contusion,” and something about teeth, which sounds bad. An ambulance has been called, although I’m not sure for who. Most importantly, though, I learn that Tommy, Jono, and Cigarettes (whose real name, surprisingly, turns out to be Xavier) have all been sent home, which is awesome, because it means I don’t have to worry about them hassling me—at least not until their bones heal. The Iron Pigs are gonna have a lot of benchwarmers playing in the game tonight.
When the discussion is over in Mr. Braun’s office, Mr. Hartman comes out to the waiting room and backs up our story to the young officer. “The kid pickpocketed me, I guess. I don’t know how he did it, but I guess he must have.” He shakes his head and frowns, perhaps laying it on a bit too thick. “The ki
d is good.”
Mr. Braun holds PJ and me in the waiting room a little while longer, for no clear reason except that he knows something strange is going on. He knows there must be a connection between me and Tommy and Jake, but if he thought about it for a million years, he’d never guess that the connection is that last night I painted Mark Kruger’s cows.
Speaking of which, the longer I’m in the office’s waiting room, the longer I’m safe from Mark, so I don’t mind if Mr. Braun keeps me here all day. I can’t imagine Mark is going to try to fight me today, not after all the insanity that’s already happened and the police being here and all, but I don’t know. The way he stared daggers at me as Herr Bronner dragged Tommy off Jake . . .
The police “search” the woods behind the school for Jake, but I watch the manhunt through the window, and all the two cops do is stand at the edge of the woods and hit a couple of bushes with their nightsticks. Mr. Hartman is out there with them too, and I bet he’s discouraging them from searching too hard. He wants Jake to get away and stay away.
I smile thinking about Jake headed to sunny California. I hope he has better luck out West than he did here. I hope he has fun with his sister. I hope I haven’t just helped a future serial killer escape.
Mr. Hartman huffs back into the waiting room from outside just as the bell rings for the end of sixth period. He gives PJ and me a look so dirty it makes me want to wash my hands.
“All right,” he growls. “Get outta here. We’re done.”
PJ and I exchange amazed looks. Holy shit, we’re getting off scot-free?
“We’re . . . done?” I repeat hopefully.
Mr. Hartman looks around the waiting room. It’s empty except for Mrs. Tews leaning down behind the counter, handling some paperwork, not paying attention to us. Mr. Hartman approaches our chairs and kneels down so we’re eye to eye. The smell of his cologne is sharp, but it’s not strong enough to mask the musky scent of his sweat underneath it. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. “We are absolutely, one hundred percent done. And if you ever tell anybody about what happened today, so are you. Got it?”
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