I got a few laughs, which made me feel better. See, at my height and skinniness, I definitely don’t look cool. Especially after my face has lost its battle to a weekly zit attack. There are days when I wonder if having the ability to play first-string center on the team is worth the price of a geeky-looking body.
Even Mr. Jonathan smiled at my joke. He’s our physics teacher, a little guy with a receding hairline and a gardening hobby. Which is definitely not cool.
“If you don’t make it back to class,” he told me as I reached the doorway, “be sure to have the final three problems solved and ready to turn in by tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “flying cannonballs have always fascinated me.”
Laughter followed me down the hall.
It didn’t occur to me to worry about why I had been called to the principal’s office. I hoped it might have something to do with basketball or a scholarship or something like that.
Of course when I walked into the office, I knew it was about something else.
My first clue was finding Tom Sawyer sitting in a chair across from the secretary’s desk.
The second clue was the toilet seat stuck to his hand.
Yes. A toilet seat.
chapter five
Most people with a toilet seat stuck to their hand would have looked embarrassed.
Not Tom, Mr. Freckles with the awshucks grin. Tom gets away with just about everything because he’s so funny and because he never really means to cause harm. Like the net thing with the pigeons. He had explained himself by pointing out that there was no rule against trying to catch the pigeon. He’d made so much sense that several people said they wished they had thought of the same thing.
“Hey, Jack,” he said to me. Tom had reddish-brown hair to match his freckles. He wore jeans, canvas high-top running shoes and an Indiana Pacers sweatshirt. As he spoke—with his usual grin—he was tipping back in his chair. The toilet seat rested on the chair beside him. His right arm was stretched across to the toilet seat. “I’d shake hands, man, but my glove is a little big.”
He lifted his right arm slightly and wiggled the toilet seat. His entire palm was stuck to the top of it.
I groaned. Everyone knew Tom and I were close buddies. Tom was waiting in the principal’s office. I had been called down. There was an obvious conclusion. “Black doesn’t think I had anything to do with that, does he?” I asked, pointing at the toilet seat.
The school secretary coughed. She was about fifty years past retirement age, which made it even more of a joke that her hair was badly dyed mouse brown. Her face was as square as her body. And her faded flower-print dress was as old-fashioned as her name, which a little sign on her desk proclaimed was Enid Humphrey.
She cleared her throat with meaning, since I hadn’t picked up on her cough.
“That’s Mr. Black, young man,” she said to me in her ancient raspy voice. Nothing on her bulldog face showed that she was amused by or interested in Tom and his toilet seat. “And no, you have nothing to do with your friend’s problem. Mr. Black will speak with each of you separately when he gets off the telephone.”
I eased myself into the chair to the left of Tom. From where we sat, we could see the closed door to Mr. Black’s office. The blinds on his window that overlooked the waiting area were closed too.
Neither of us said anything for several moments. I was waiting for Tom to explain the toilet seat. Maybe he was waiting for me to ask.
So I finally did. “Okay, how did it happen? And why?”
“Krazy Glue,” he said. “You know, that super glue that sticks anything together.”
“Krazy Glue,” I repeated. “You decided to glue your hand to a toilet seat.”
“No,” he said. “I decided to glue Mad Max to a toilet seat.”
Mad Max is what we call our industrial arts teacher. Mr. Max has been known to yell at students and kick apart their projects on occasion.
“See,” Tom said, “there’s this kid in class with an allergy problem. He kept sneezing and Mad Max went nuts on him for interrupting. Mad Max threatened to take a hammer to the kid’s birdhouse, and it made him cry. So I figured...”
I nodded. In the back wing of the school, by the industrial arts shop, there is a staff rest room. Max is the only teacher in that wing—which is why he gets away with yelling and breaking projects—and would be the only teacher to use that restroom.
“Anyway,” Tom said, “everyone knows that Mad Max always takes an eleven o’clock break. I started working on the toilet seat at about a quarter to.”
“Working on it?” I said. I noticed Enid Humphrey was listening closely, although she was trying to pretend she wasn’t.
“Yeah,” Tom said, “it was a genius plan. I loosened the toilet seat bolts before I added the glue. That way when he finished using it and stood up, the seat would stick to...well, you know. I thought it would be hilarious to see him hopping around trying to unstick himself.”
Did I see a smile start to crack Enid Humphrey’s face?
“What went wrong?” I asked.
“My conscience,” Tom said sadly. “You know how I sometimes do things without thinking.”
“Really,” I said sarcastically. Tom’s family lives two blocks from mine. I’ve known him since kindergarten. On the first day I met him, he had tried to stand on his bicycle seat on a downhill run. I’d even gone with him to the hospital where we both cared more about the lollipops the nurses gave us than the stitches he got on his elbow.
“Really,” he said, missing my sarcasm. “I had to time it perfectly so the glue wouldn’t dry before he got there. So I waited until just before eleven. I had just finished spreading the last of the Krazy Glue when it hit me that maybe what I was doing was a little too much. Even to play a joke on Mad Max. So I grabbed a paper towel to wipe off the seat, but because it was so close to eleven, I was in too much of a hurry. I made the mistake of leaning on the seat with one hand as I reached to wipe with the other. And, of course, I leaned on a big spot of Krazy Glue.”
Tom pointed with his left hand at the right hand stuck to the seat. He grinned. “But it wasn’t a complete waste. You should have seen the look on Mad Max’s face when he saw me with this thing stuck to my hand.”
“Look,” I said, “when Black—”
I heard another cough from Enid Humphrey.
“When Mr. Black asks you about this,” I continued, “make sure you tell him how Mad Max goes nuts in class. It probably won’t get you out of trouble, but maybe someone official will finally do something about him.”
Probably not, though. Mad Max is only a couple of years away from retiring. He hasn’t ever really harmed anyone, and I guessed it would be easier for the school board to ignore him until he retired. At least that was the way Dad had explained it to me once.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Tom said. He frowned. “What did you get called down here for?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
As if in response to Tom’s question, Mr. Black opened his office door. He was older, with white hair and a white goatee. He wore a dark blue suit and walked with a cane.
Mr. Black didn’t come out of his office; he just stood in the doorway. He looked at us, back and forth a few times, maybe deciding who to call first. He shook his head sadly at Tom, then moved his eyes to me again.
“Jack,” he said, “step into my office.”
I nodded and stood, suddenly worried.
Mr. Black’s voice had sounded a little too serious for my liking.
chapter six
Mr. Black shut the door behind me, pointed to a chair in front of his desk and sat down at his desk. It was cluttered with stacks of papers. A coffee mug had left a wet ring on the right side of the desk. On the left, a small statue of the Eiffel Tower held down a pile of papers. The statue was a souvenir from a trip he had taken to Paris with a group of high school students last year. I had been one of those students. A small plaque at the bottom read To Mon
sieur Black, the best of the best.
Although I knew what the plaque said, I read it again because I was nervous and I wanted some place to look other than at Mr. Black.
It didn’t help that he sighed a heavy sigh. Then another.
I finally looked up at him.
He ran his fingers through his hair and took another deep breath.
This was getting worse and worse. What could be so bad that even he didn’t want to discuss it?
He inhaled deeply through his nose. He opened his mouth to say something. Then he shut his mouth again.
I waited, only because I didn’t know what else to do.
He shook his head slowly from side to side. “That Tom Sawyer,” he finally said. “Can you believe what he did this time?”
“Um, yes sir,” I answered. After all, I knew Tom.
“I guess I can too,” he said. “I’ll miss him when he graduates. Life is always interesting with him around.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I didn’t think this was why he had called me into his office.
I waited some more.
Mr. Black opened his mouth again. And closed it again. He sighed once more, and then he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Jack,” he said slowly, “I wanted you to hear this from me, so you can prepare yourself. Because in a town this small, you won’t be able to hide it from anyone. And believe me, people will talk.”
“Talk?” I echoed.
“Let me be the first to say that there has to be a good explanation,” Mr. Black continued, staring at the Eiffel Tower on his desk. “I mean, if he did it, he must have had a good reason.”
“Talk?” I said again.
Mr. Black lifted his head and looked me square in the eyes. “And even if he didn’t have a good reason, you shouldn’t think any less of him. Everyone makes mistakes.
He’s a good man. Whatever happens, don’t forget that.”
“Who’s a good man?” I asked. If Mr. Black was trying to make this easier on me—whatever this was—he was doing a terrible job.
“Jack...” Mr. Black paused. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he tried again. “Let me say that I can’t even believe it myself.”
“Can’t believe what?” I asked. I was starting to really get worried.
“I consider you a friend,” he said. “We got to know each other on the school trip to Paris. I know you’re a smart young man with a bright future ahead of you. You must not let this—”
“Sir,” I interrupted, “can you just tell me what’s going on?”
He blinked a few times. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at his desk. He looked past my shoulder and out the window.
“It’s your father,” he finally said quietly. “He’s been arrested.”
I laughed. I guess I surprised Mr. Black, because he snapped his eyes right back to mine.
“You had me worried,” I explained. “The way you were drawing this out.”
“You expected this?” Mr. Black asked.
“No,” I said. “Of course not. It’s just that there is no way in the world my dad would do anything illegal. Unless it’s against the law to follow rules and regulations. He’s the last person in the world who would get in real trouble. I mean, if his dentist told him to brush his teeth with fifty strokes on each side, he would count those strokes as he brushed and make sure he did exactly fifty. So if Dad’s been arrested, it’s either a joke or a mistake.”
“Fraud,” Mr. Black said. “The charges against him are fraud and embezzlement. Half a million dollars are missing from the business accounts of Turner Chev Olds. People are already guessing he was desperate because of your mom’s hospital bills.”
My smile faded. Two weeks earlier, Mom had driven around a blind corner and almost hit a kid on a bike. She couldn’t stop the car quickly enough and had swerved off the road to avoid him. And she had hit a tree—hard. She had broken a number of bones and had spent almost fourteen hours on the operating table. Our insurance only covered half of the huge medical bills.
“Ike Bothwell himself called me, so I could tell you before everyone started talking,” Mr. Black said. “As head accountant, your dad was in a position to take the money, and Ted Bothwell tracked him through the accounting files.”
My dad stole half a million dollars? My dad, who grilled me every day on how much I should value my reputation? My strict dad, who made me come home early every night to keep me out of trouble? My rule-following dad, who...
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Black said, understanding the confusion on my face. “The state police have taken him up to South Bend. Chances are he’ll be out on bail in a couple of days. Until then, you should be able to visit him.”
“I see,” I said, not seeing at all.
Mr. Black stood up. “If I were you, I wouldn’t try to avoid this. If people ask you about it, tell them it’s true—the arrest part, at least. Tell them to wait until all the facts come out before they make any judgments.”
I stood up too.
As he showed me to the door, Mr. Black stopped and put his hand on my shoulder.
“The sad thing,” he said, “is that plenty of people are going to jump to conclusions. It’s human nature. They’ll be happy to have someone else’s trouble to worry about. Just remember that, all right? Because your next few days aren’t going to be easy at all. And if I can help in any way, let me know.”
All I could do was nod. I didn’t trust my voice.
Dad was arrested for stealing half a million dollars from his best friend?
This was horrible.
I wished I’d just had a toilet seat stuck to my hand.
chapter seven
It didn’t take long for people to hear about Dad.
At practice that afternoon, some of the guys wouldn’t even look me in the eye. As we gathered around Coach Buckley, the air seemed charged, as if he had just spent five minutes yelling at us for slacking off. It was like there was a bag of smelly garbage in the corner of the gym that everyone tried to pretend wasn’t there.
And what was I going to do? Bring it up myself? I mean, my dad was in jail. I didn’t want to think about it. Not until I had to, which would happen after practice when I drove up to South Bend to see him.
Things got better when we finished our drills and split up for a series of three-on-three scrimmages. Everyone concentrated so much on basketball that nothing else was a distraction.
Bill Davis, a short fast kid with a deadly shot, Chuck Murray and I went up against three freshmen—Ronnie Smith, Jarvis Marlow and Tim Carleton.
The fun thing about playing freshmen is that you have a couple of years on them and you can try some things you might not try against more experienced players. The not-so-fun thing is they have nothing to lose. Since everyone expected us to beat them, the win wouldn’t matter. But if they somehow managed to beat us, we would get razzed mercilessly. And with something to prove, freshmen always played extra hard against older players.
Coach Buckley’s way of setting up three-on-threes is to give us five minutes. He acts as referee, calling only the most obvious fouls. The rest of the guys on the team stand on the sidelines to cheer or jeer, depending on how the game goes.
Coach is a big dark-haired guy who always wears a blue shiny nylon tracksuit, which he’s had since the 1970s. Unfortunately for Coach Buckley, the tracksuit has not grown along with him. He fills it tight, like a water balloon. And, because of his size, he can’t move too fast.
He waddled to the center of the court, his whistle swinging like a pendulum from his neck. As he got ready to toss the ball to start the scrimmage, the gym door opened.
My stomach turned to a heavy rock as I recognized the man in the doorway: Ted Bothwell, Ike’s brother.
Ted walked into the gym, not caring that all eyes were on him. He wore his usual suit and tie, his dark hair combed straight back.
Was he here for me? Had he come about my dad?
Coach Buckley waved one of the players
over from the sidelines and gave him the whistle and the ball.
“Take over,” Coach said. Then he walked off the court to talk to Ted.
And our mini-game began.
I was rattled by the sight of Ted Bothwell and worried about the reason for his visit. That’s my excuse. Halfway into the five minutes, we were down by a basket to the freshmen; normally we would have been up by at least eight points.
Our opponents could sense a possible win, and they played even harder.
The guys on the sidelines egged them on, jeering at us seniors.
We scored two baskets to give us a lead, but with a minute left, and the score so close, even if we won, it would seem like a loss.
I had to focus. I finally managed to stop thinking about Ted Bothwell and my dad.
I called for the ball.
What we needed to regain some pride was a move that would stun the freshmen. A move that would make the guys on the sidelines turn to one another in astonishment.
And I knew who I wanted to try it against: Tim Carleton. He had scored the most against us. He was the cockiest freshman. He was the one with the biggest grin. He was the one who most wanted to be the hero. And he was the one guarding me.
At the top of the circle, I dribbled between my legs. Then through them again.
I faked a drive toward the baseline and pulled up as Carleton swiped at the ball. I bobbed my shoulders one way, then another, trying to play loosey-goosey, making it look like every part of my body was heading a different direction.
When I went up for my shot, I was wide open—Carleton had dived to the spot where it looked like I was headed. I double-pumped as one of the other freshmen leaped to block me, and I hit a soft shot as I faded back to the hardwood.
Swoosh.
Nothing but net as two of the freshmen went sliding across the floor, while the third freshman just stared.
For a second, there was a wonderful stunned silence on the sidelines.
Then, after that brief pause, came the whistles and shouts of glee.
Titan Clash Page 2