Don't Get Caught (9 page)

“Yep, it’s for the big celebration in May. I have until then to get it looking brand-new.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know. A month? Two? That’s what’s nice about dealing with people who don’t know anything about what you really do—you tell them you need it now to get started, and then you can sit on your ass a lot and work when you want to.”

Wheeler clears his throat dramatically, and I introduce him to Boyd.

“You like AC/DC?” Wheeler says, pointing to the speakers playing “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”

“Shit, yeah. When I was eight my dad took me to see them on the Highway to Hell Tour.”

“Oh my God! With Bon Scott?”

“Absolutely. My life was never the same again.”

“How many times have you seen them?”

“Fourteen.”

“Oh my God.”

I’ve made a grievous error. I’ve just introduced Wheeler to himself twenty years down the road. I’m never going to get him out of here.

“Wheeler’s aiming for the lowest GPA in our class,” I say.

Boyd toasts Wheeler with his beer.

“I didn’t hit bottom,” Boyd says, “that would be John Mantooth—no, seriously, that’s his name—who’s been in jail the last twelve years, but I was close. And look at me now, living the dream. My own boss, a beer when I want it, no old lady dragging me down. I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried. So is this a social call or business?”

Isn’t it annoying how adults can sense whenever you want something?

I say, “Do you remember a bird attack happening at your senior picnic?”

“Oh man,” Boyd half shouts. “The bird-shit picnic! That was the highlight of senior year.”

“How did they make the birds crap on cue like that?” Wheeler asks. “I mean, how do you command a flock of birds to do anything?”

Boyd goes to his minifridge and pulls out another beer.

“Ah, one of the few things I learned in school. Is Mr. Huntley still there teaching psych? He explained it all to us on the final day. The trick, he said, was conditioning.”

Wheeler and I both make a face.

“You haven’t had psych yet? Oh man, you have to take it. It’s a total mind screw. Conditioning is used to train someone—or in this case, birds. Huntley said he figured someone went out to the intramural fields for months, spread birdseed, then blew a whistle. Eventually, the birds in the woods understood that the whistle meant food was available. So when the senior picnic came, someone blew that whistle and—presto!—birds doing what birds do, raining down shit.”

Wheeler says, “Man, that took some serious commitment.”

“Oh, they were serious about it all right. It doesn’t sound like the group now does nearly anything as elaborate. Cows on the roof? Seen it. Painting the water tower? Bush league, man. But the Chaos Club then, they were proud of that tradition.”

“Wheeler’s the one who set up the student body boner pic,” I say.

Boyd toasts our way. “See, that’s what I’m talking about—creativity and dedication. That’s what goes into an epic prank. But do you know the most impressive thing? I’ll bet if you asked people at my next reunion what they remember from high school, they’ll struggle to name their teachers or what classes they took, but they’ll know every last detail from those pranks. That’s what called creating a legacy.”

“Stranko’s probably never forgot it,” I say.

“Well, the thing you wouldn’t know is that for part of high school, Stranko was actually pretty cool to hang out with. He was a joker—not on the level of me or your dad, but funny, good to be in class with because he kept things light. He was an athletic beast too, especially at lacrosse. And, man, the girls loved him, probably because he was one of the few guys who would actually bust a move at the school dances. That guy could really get down. I was jealous as hell. Because if you guys haven’t figured it out yet, girls love a guy who will dance.”

“Wait a minute,” Wheeler says. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Dwayne Stranko? Tall, bald, looks like Sloth from
The Goonies
?”

“That’s the one,” Boyd says. “He had hair then, of course, but yeah, he was a good guy.”

“Well, that’s not the Dwayne Stranko we know,” I say.

“You can blame his parents for that. They were never what you’d call friendly people—you sure as hell didn’t want to go over to the Stranko house—but they mostly let Dwayne do his thing. Then at the end of our sophomore year, he got busted with some guys trespassing at the city pool, drinking beer and doing stupid stuff—throwing chairs in the deep end, raiding the concession stand, you get the idea. Supposedly when the cops showed up, Stranko was standing naked on the high dive serenading everyone with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

“Not an image I needed,” Wheeler says.

“No doubt,” Boyd says. “After that night, Dwayne disappeared for the entire summer. When we got back to school in the fall, he was different—buzzed hair, sitting up straight in class, paying attention and never joking. Some people thought he’d been sent to military camp. But his mom and dad didn’t have a lot of money, so I doubt that. My guess is his parents shut him down completely, molded him into exactly what they wanted.”

“Someone obedient,” I say.

“Right, and when parents try to do that to a kid, they usually win, unless the kid is really strong. Whatever happened to Stranko, he wouldn’t talk about it. I do know the lacrosse coach benched him for the first half of the season our junior year though, which hurt his scholarship chances. Stranko became super serious then and only got worse from there. By our senior year, man, the guy was unbearable. It was bad enough that he was so uptight, but it got to the point where he demanded it from everyone else. Flash forward twenty years, and I can only imagine how awful he is now that he has power. He wasn’t always that way though. Not that it excuses his being an asshole.”

“Which he is,” Wheeler says.

There’s more talk about Stranko and some talk about the Chaos Club, but not much. Mostly it’s Boyd drinking beer and showing us around the barn, telling us how he obtained certain junky items. We leave after twenty minutes, and on our way back to town, there’s no gushing from Wheeler about how cool Boyd and the barn are like I assumed there would be. In fact, Wheeler’s not talking at all. Instead, he has the radio on and doesn’t even bother changing the channel when commercials come on, like usual.

Outside my house, I say, “Maybe we should skip the rest of the week, save ourselves the pain of more homecoming torture.”

Wheeler cracks a weak smile and says, “I’ll see you in the morning, man.”

He pulls away, and I’m left wondering: (A) what’s eating him, and (B) if I’d really ever cut school.

I decide (A) I don’t know, and (B) probably not.

Four days later, I’m happy as hell I’m not a school cutter, because if I were, I’d have missed out on what’s easily the most memorable pep rally in Asheville history.

Friday is the big homecoming game—a guaranteed loss—so class periods are condensed to forty-five minutes, allowing for two hours to celebrate school spirit, which by my calculation is only felt by six percent of the student body. We’re all herded into the gym, where I end up sitting in the top row of the bleachers with Wheeler and Malone. Adleta has some role in the pep rally, but he didn’t go into specifics. And Ellie, I’m not exactly sure where she is. Probably off kissing some guy who isn’t me.

“Any hits on the website?” I ask Wheeler.

He doesn’t answer because he’s staring off across the gym, his eyes unfocused.

“Hey, man. You alive?”

“Yeah, sorry. What’s up?”

I ask about the website again.

He pushes a few buttons on his phone and says, “Ninety-eight hits since we went live. That’ll go up once word gets out. We’ve gotten eight suggestions for future pranks though. We have some seriously screwed-up people in this school.”

“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” Malone says.

“I know, right?”

“What type of suggestions?” I ask.

“Lots of fecal-related pranks,” Wheeler says. “‘Shit in the cafeteria,’ ‘Shit in a library book,’ ‘Fill Stranko’s office with cow shit,’ stuff like that.”

“The future is going to be a dark place,” Malone says.

“Like I said,” Wheeler says.

“What about Stranko’s phone?” I ask.

“He’s not calling it anymore, but the cloud’s still active,” Wheeler says. “I told you he wouldn’t change the password. Adults are stupid that way.”

“Has he added anything lately?”

“Nothing worth mentioning, but I can tell he’s accessing it by the Date Modified column.”

“What’s he reading?” Malone asks.

“Mostly old prank reports from the nineties. I have this image of him drunk at his kitchen table in the middle of the night, reading over the files like a detective who can’t let a cold case die.”

“That’s sort of sad,” I say.

“If by sad you mean hilarious, then yeah.”

Ellie’s one of the last students to enter the gym and pauses in the doorway, surveying the junior section. Malone stands and gives her a wave, and soon, Ellie’s plopping down next to me. Next time, remind me to show up last so I can control where I sit.

“Where were you?” Malone asks.

“Talking with Mrs. B,” Ellie says. “I’m now officially on the Celebrate Asheville Committee.”

“So like instead of the Chaos Club, you’re in the Brownnose Club?” Wheeler says.

“No, it’s really kind of a cool idea. The plan is to make the event an all-day thing, with bands and rides and stuff. ‘A celebration of Asheville’ is how Mrs. Barber put it. They’re hoping to make it annual event.”

“When is it?” I say.

“They’re scheduling it for the Saturday after school’s out for the summer. So it’s a long way off.”

“That’s a lot of committee meetings,” Malone says.

“It’s okay. I like that kind of stuff.”

The cheerleaders enter the gym, and Wheeler and Malone start debating whether cheerleaders are demeaning to women. Go ahead and guess which side of that argument Wheeler’s on. Ellie and I sit awkwardly, neither of us talking and fully aware we’re not.

Eventually, Ellie says, “So how long are you going to stay weird around me?”

“What? I’m not being weird around you,” I say in a clearly weird way.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Maxwell Cobb.”

“I don’t—”

“Girls aren’t dumb, Max. You won’t talk to me; you won’t sit by me; you barely even look at me. And I know why, and I want you to stop. We’re friends, and friends don’t act like this toward each other.”

I pick at a piece of lint on my pants. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I get it. My main goal right now is taking down the Chaos Club. After we take them down, we’ll see.”

My heart hiccups.

“
We’ll see?
What does that mean?”

“It means what you think it means. Now stop being a stupid boy and act normal.”

Message received loud and clear. Not Max can definitely work with
we’ll see
.

With the gym finally filled, the pep rally gets started, with Watson’s aide, Jeff Benz, and Chloe Seymour, one of the hottest girls on the planet, playing emcees. They’re trying to get everyone excited, but because they’re reading from a preapproved script, they sound robotic. The seniors show the most enthusiasm, with energy levels decreasing by class until you get to the freshmen, who are so quiet they may be unconscious.

Wheeler might as well be sitting with the frosh because he’s back to his staring act again. If I didn’t know him like I did, I’d think he’s tripping on something. What snaps Wheeler back to reality is when Chloe overenthusiastically tells us to welcome the Asheville dance team. They enter from the side door with Malone’s nemesis, Libby Heckman, leading the way to center court. Then Wheeler’s on his feet, whooping and hollering until finally Ellie can’t take it anymore.

“Stop it.”

“What? They’re awesome. I love the dance team,” he says.

“You love how their outfits are short and tight,” Malone says.

“Right. Like I said, they’re awesome.”

The dance team stands at attention, hands on hips, asses out, chests forward, all with the same dumb duck face, waiting for their music to start. Trying to make the best impression I can with Ellie, I fake noninterest. I fail. Then the music explodes from the speakers, and I hear what song they’re dancing to—The J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold.”

“Oh no,” I half whisper to Ellie.

“What?” she says.

“Listen.”

Not only is “Centerfold” the best ’80s song ever, but it also just happens to be about a guy who realizes a girl in his homeroom is naked in a dirty magazine. So yeah, the Malone picture from last year. The dance team wiggles and thrusts and basically raises the temperature in the gym by twenty degrees. Once the chorus hits, they really vamp it up, grinding their hips and tossing their heads back ecstatically when the line is sung about the girl being the centerfold.

Two seats down, Malone isn’t moving, but she’s no dummy. If there’s any doubt that the song’s been chosen for her, proof comes halfway into the performance when the girls break from the floor and head into different sections of the stands. Libby prances up the aisle toward us, stopping a few rows away. When the chorus hits again, she points with the beat at Malone.

I’ll give her credit—Malone doesn’t take her eyes off Libby. She just stares back defiantly, her breathing steady. What I want to do is jump from my seat and flip Libby off with both hands. But Malone’s made it clear she doesn’t want me to stick up for her. And, man, I get that, I really do. But it isn’t easy to just sit here. Luckily, the song is short. It just feels like forever. I can’t imagine how long it was for Malone.

“Forget her,” Ellie says to Malone once the song ends and the girls return to the floor to thunderous applause. “Libby’s a total see you next Tuesday.”

Malone doesn’t move. But it’s not like she’s stunned and embarrassed into lifelessness. From her eyes, I can tell something’s going through her head.

“Seriously, Kate. She’s trash.”

Malone gives Ellie a thin smile. “No, I’m fine. That was actually sort of clever.”

A few seconds later though, I see Malone run her forearm across her eyes.

Chloe and Benz soon return to the floor to read the accomplishments of our fall sports teams. It’s a pretty damn short list. One of the girls’ cross-country team’s runners came in eighth at the state meet, but beyond that, our fall teams have done as sucky as they usually have. It’s only our boys’ lacrosse team that ever has any success, but that’s a spring sport, leaving the first three-quarters of the year an athletic wasteland.

Next on the agenda, the cheerleaders bounce spastically to the center of the gym in their black-and-yellow outfits. Joined by Becca Yancey in her Zippy the Golden Eagle costume, the cheerleaders flip and flop around, doing a lot of “We’re number one!” to a mostly disinterested crowd. They try again to raise some reaction from us by yipping a cheer about how awesome Asheville is. All of it makes me regret not falling to my death from the water tower. But then the five cheerleaders in the front row pick up the poster boards waiting for them on the floor. The girls point the cards toward the audience so everyone sees the single word on each one.

Holy shit.

Ellie, Wheeler, Malone, and I all look at each other bug-eyed while the rest of the student section starts laughing and clapping hysterically. The cheerleaders have no idea what they’re holding. From their smiles, they clearly think they’ve finally injected a megadose of school spirit into our veins with their magical cards. But they’re wrong. The squad goes into a call and response thing, holding up a card and shouting what they think the cards say.

“Asheville!”

“High!”

“Golden!”

“Eagles!”

“Rock!”

But what the cards really say, and what the students yell back is:

“The!”

“Chaos!”

“Club!”

“Is!”

“Coming!”

The entire student body leaps to its feet, actually showing some school spirit for once, even if it’s in support of what amounts to a terrorist organization.

“Is this one of you?” Malone asks.

We all shake our heads.

“Well, whoever did it, it’s impressive.”

I say, “We should watch for anyone acting weird.”

“In a crowd of two thousand going berserk?” Wheeler says.

“Do your best.”

On the floor, the cheerleaders keep shoving the cards forward at the stands. In return, the students shout back:

“The!”

“Chaos!”

“Club!”

“Is!”

“Coming!”

It becomes a chant, something you’d hear rising from a crowd of overly enthusiastic political protesters. I try to watch any student behaving oddly, but I can’t take my eyes off Stranko, waiting for the moment he realizes what’s happening.

And then he does.

He covers the gym floor in a blur and rips the cards from the cheerleaders’ hands to a wave of boos. Then Stranko gives Benz and Chloe a
move it along
motion with his finger. The confused cheerleaders walk off the floor, a couple of them looking on the verge of tears. An equally puzzled Benz and Chloe stammer through the first couple of lines from their script and announce that’s it time for a tug-of-war competition between senior football players and members of the lacrosse team.

“Really? A dick-measuring contest?” Malone says.

Ellie starts giggling. “Now that’d be a good pep rally.”

Some heavy metal song Boyd would no doubt recognize erupts from the gym speakers, and the guys from the football and lacrosse teams sprint into the gym from a side door like professional wrestlers entering the ring. No surprise, Stranko has the lacrosse guys all in identical black-and-gold lacrosse jerseys. Following them out is the assistant coach, Tim’s dad.

A rope with a red ribbon tied around the middle is laid evenly across center court, and out comes a table with a Gatorade cooler and a plastic bowl of powdered white chalk so the guys can better grip the rope. Most of the dopes do the LeBron James chalk toss, flinging it into the air where it floats like white smoke.

“There’s Tim,” Wheeler says, pointing down to Adleta. He’s chugging Gatorade with the others, who pound it down like it’ll help them ’roid-out in a few minutes. Some of them even have three cups. I’m convinced that in twenty years, they’re going to discover that energy drinks cause leprosy or blindness. When that happens, professional sports will be really interesting to watch.

The two teams move to opposite sides of the rope, with the three-hundred-pound Hugo King, the football team’s left offensive tackle and only hope of a football scholarship, anchoring one side, and Drew “Sully” Sullivan anchoring the undersized lacrosse team. I’m not sure whose idea this was, but it doesn’t take a professional sports analyst to see the lacrosse team’s going to lose. And I don’t just mean lose but
get their arms ripped from their torsos
lose.

After way too much arranging and rearranging of positions by guys on both sides, which in the case of the lacrosse players is sort of like straightening the deck chairs on the
Titanic
, Benz announces we’re ready to start.

“The first team to pull the ribbon past the black tape markers on either side wins,” he says. “Let’s countdown from five.”

“Can the football players count backward?” Wheeler asks.

“Shh, this is exciting,” Ellie says.

The crowd counts down, and before they hit one, both sides are leaning back on their heels, their faces red and strained, trying to yank the other team out of their shoes. After a full minute of no give on either side, I realize I’m wrong about the lacrosse team, and I quickly see why. They’ve rooted their legs to the floor, hoping the football team will tire themselves out. The football team tugs at the rope, pulling only with their arms and not their entire bodies. It’s the perfect display of the immovable object versus the unstoppable force.

“Who’s going to win?” Ellie asks.

“Who cares? If we’re lucky, they stay this way forever,” Malone says.

But they don’t. It’s not that one team suddenly overpowers the other. It’s because almost simultaneously, guys on both sides drop the rope like it’s gone electric. A few jocks get caught up in the quick release and hit the floor. Others double over, some grabbing their knees, some with their hands out but heads down, like they’re trying to ward off some approaching enemy.

“What’s happening?” Wheeler says.

From the floor, Hugo King answers by grabbing his stomach, shaking his head hard, then puking all over the gym floor.

“Oh yuck!” Ellie yells.

Then other guys involuntarily follow Hugo’s lead, painting the gym with their watery guts. Their mouths are geysers, erupting orange-colored Gatorade into the air and onto the floor. They slosh around in the puke, clutching their stomachs, pointlessly trying to stop the never-ending torrent. It’s a galactic pukefest, a history-making vomitpalooza.