Deceiving Mr. Bevison
Page 19
Chapter 13
“Not really a beauty contest, is it, Ian?” said Prakash, tapping his chin as he stared sideways at our collection of sculpture-class creations.
Ian nodded. “They’d all be a bomb at the Smithsonian, though,” he said.
“Pull that lamp around so I can have some better light on these,” muttered Brookie through a pencil he held with his teeth. “What a bunch of gargoyles.” He was dodging around with his camera, getting a picture of each statue from different angles.
“You talking about my face, bro, or are you insulting my work of genius?” challenged Mort, hugging his sculpture protectively. Brookie looked around at us with a “Who, me?” face.
“We’re going to send these pictures to Miss Apples. We owe her, big-time,” said Brookie, clicking away. With her help, we had finished a ragging set of statuettes.
I gave Brookie a light shove to get him back on task.
“Watch it, don’t damage the objet d’art,” he said, carefully brushing an imaginary piece of dirt off his sleeve.
“Hey, you guys ready to vote?” asked Ian impatiently. We looked doubtfully at the sculptures. They were pretty bad, mostly, but not so different in the important parts, really, from the originals we were making copies of.
Ian formally cleared his throat as he began, “Congratulations, Rupert band. It has taken three weeks, but we’ve done it.” He stood, leaning one hand on the large common room table with a clipboard in his other hand. “Twelve examples of the finest phony archaeological artifacts of Mesoamerican art of the pre-Columbian period you’ll ever want to buy, I mean, see. You see before you the product of many hours of hard work. What am I offered . . . ?”
Jerrod glared at Ian as he squeezed past him to heave the largest of the fired monsters onto the common room table and turned it to face us. Brookie was fussily arranging the others to look like a gallery exhibit.
“Okay, then look for realism, guys,” said Prakash, handing out some photographs.
Realism? Criminy. If the ancient people of Mesoamerica really looked like this, they would have had me running scared, for sure. After hemming, hawing, and voting three times, we came to the agreement that a copy of a crouching ballplayer with his jaw wide open, tongue sticking out, teeth filed to wicked sharp points, and huge disks in his earlobes was our winner.
“So this is ‘The Candidate’?” It was Prakash’s little brainchild. He gave us a deep bobbing bow. “So what do I get for this?” he asked.
“Applause, Prakash, nothing more. Like I said, it’d be a bomb at the Smithsonian,” said Ian.
“Very talented, Prakash, very talented,” muttered Brookie through the pencil in his teeth, still snapping away with his camera.
“You, Prakash, should get the honor of placing your little brainchild in the Head’s office,” I said with my usual wit.
He looked at me petulantly. “Not on a bet or a dare, MacDonough. I’m not built for it.”
I looked at Brookie meaningfully. “Let me guess—it’s you and me again?”
“How are you going to get into the Head’s office, exactly?” asked Pete.
I sat down and propped my chin in my hand, waiting for the answer. Brookie looked so confident. Why didn’t that inspire me? I didn’t confuse his confidence with competence.
“Remember, I’m a klutz, Brookie.” Everyone snickered, remembering some of my moments.
“I don’t think you realize how whacked this facility is, Mac. St. Discount’s Boarding School. We all came here because it was cheap, not new, Mac. Check out these doorknobs,” Brookie said, pointing. “Not one of these even has a Yale lock, much less a key card or digital combination. I mean, you can open this one with a crooked hairpin from your classic twentieth-century mystery novel. The Head’s office is probably just the same.” He looked at me cleverly, like cleverness would convince me.
I looked at the brass knob wobbling on the side of the door. It had a key-shaped hole beneath it, for one of those old-style keys that they used a hundred years ago. I gave it a firm jiggle, and it fell off on the floor. That gave me some confidence.
“So are we going to do the nighttime thing again?” I blush to admit my voice trembled.
“I have a better idea. Everybody will be at the game on Friday afternoon, all the brothers of St. Rupert, everybody. Why don’t we sneak in then?” Brookie slapped his thigh like he’d bagged the idea.
“Huh? Don’t we have to play the pregame and halftime shows?” I asked.
“Yeah, but the rest of the time is just sitting around.” Not Brookie’s favorite thing to do. “After the halftime show, we’ll put ‘The Candidate’ in a bagpipe case, sneak out, do the dirty deed, and be back in time to lead the team off the field.”
It sounded easy. I nodded. “Just check out the lock thing, okay, Brookie?” I sighed in resignation.