Embers & Ash (8 page)

“The Green Mill has live jazz five nights a week,” Doug said. “Joe Little hid one door behind a waterfall of crap. Maybe he put another one back there.”

“Where no one would be stupid enough to touch it,” I said.

“Are we stupid enough?” he said. “Let me rephrase . . . Are you stupid enough?”

I stared at the warning on the refrigerator-sized box. The
C
in
CAUTION!
seemed slightly raised, but I wasn't sure. With a silent prayer, I pushed it quickly, and the face of the box popped open, revealing a dark passageway. “Stupid is as stupid does,” I said, relieved.

“Good old Forrest Gump.” He peered inside. “What if the tunnel collapsed?”

“Like everything else, we'll get through it,” I said. After a last look at ultimate power squatting in middle earth, I followed Doug into the passageway, feeling the ground ascend. A few steps through the cool tunnel led to a flight of rickety wooden stairs.

He shone his flashlight upward, saying, “It's really steep, as high as the ladder we fell from, maybe higher. You think it's safe?”

“Down here, safe is subjective. It's standing, isn't it, and it leads out?”

“Good enough for me,” he said, leading the way. We creaked toward the surface, turning and twisting a dozen times, and freezing when a low groan of old wood and nails sounded beneath us. The stairway swayed back and forth. “Oh shit!” Doug said, “this thing's going down!”

And then it didn't.

“Just keep moving,” I said, “carefully.”

We kept on, almost tiptoeing, the music growing nearer, until Doug shone a light overhead and said, “Look.” A trapdoor—so close we could touch it, held tight by a padlock gone orange with rust. As we inched closer, voices chattered and glasses clinked above us. Heavy footsteps fell again and again, back and forth, and Doug said, “We must be under the bar.” We were, and we stood on a narrow landing, praying it would hold, until the last horn bleated, the last cocktail was slurped, the last receipt tallied, and the Green Mill locked up for the night. When we were sure it was empty, I used the .45 surgically, firing one shot to blow off the padlock. The trapdoor swung on antique hinges, sounding like a crow being strangled. I pushed away a floor mat and we climbed back on top of the world, crouching to make sure no one was around. I closed the trapdoor, pushed the mat into place, and Doug followed me around the winding bar. The booths were empty, the bandstand vacated, the glass wall sconces devoid of light.

A clock on the wall pointed at four a.m.

“Late for a school night—or day.” Doug yawned.

As we moved to the exit, I noticed a framed black-and-white face leering from behind the bar. Its left cheek was creased with scars and the head was topped by a fedora. In the photo, Al Capone was at the height of his power, truly the original gangster. I knew from the notebook that “Machine Gun” Jack McGurn had once owned the Green Mill, but that Capone was the real proprietor, using it as a base of operations. It made sense that an entrance to his vault—the most important Capone Door of all—would be located here. I felt the brass pharaoh in my pocket, yet another mysterious key, and was flooded with exhaustion and tired of secrets. We moved to the door, unlocked it, and slipped onto the deserted sidewalk. An entire day of sun had been extinguished while we were underground. It felt as if natural light would never return.

“Let's take the El,” I said.

We crossed the empty street toward the station as a yellow light changed to red, the
click
audible in the silent air. I paused in the intersection where Broadway, Lawrence, and Racine met. Bridgeview Bank, formerly Uptown National Bank, was ahead, the Riviera Theatre to my right, the Green Mill just behind.

B
U
R
G
L
R

It was the oddest feeling I'd had since my family disappeared, something like confidence, knowing that ultimate power was in my hands and deep below my feet. In the world I occupied, where murder was for sale and lives could be bought, I was now armed with a four-billion-dollar weapon.

MONDAY MORNING, CROSSING THE THRESHOLD
into the old brick fortress commonly known as Fep Prep, I was at the beginning of the end.

The fall semester was quickly winding down. When holiday break began, I'd lose the seven hours of relative safety I clung to each weekday. With its checkpoints, omnipresent guards, and watchful cameras, my pursuers would be foolish to try to breach Fep Prep.

It was all courtesy of Mr. Novak.

Thaddeus “Thumbs-Up” Novak, Fep Prep's long-serving principal.

Short and roly-poly, bald except for tufts of gray hair around his ears, he favored short-sleeved dress shirts with a rotation of unusually patterned neckties—Tweety Bird one day, little flying toasters the next, and so on. Mr. Novak was as committed to the safety of his students as he was to the concept—which caused most kids (including me) to roll their eyes and hide under their desks—of school spirit, bringing the same bouncy energy to both. Whether herding students to class with cattle noises (
Mooo-ve it!
) or gleefully taking a pie in the face at a pep rally, it was as if a little happiness motor whirred inside his round belly at all times. My introduction to Mr. Novak came on the first day of freshman year via the PA as he recited the rules of Fep Prep in his best Dr. Seussian effort—

“Doors lock each day at eight fifteen,

dear student, don't make me repeat it.

Get your butt directly to homeroom,

And then, promptly, seat it.”

It was impossible not to like him, or at least admire his relentlessly positive attitude about, well, everything—which is where his nickname came from. As Mr. Novak bustled through the halls, he'd call out to students and give them a smiling thumb's-up, his way, I guess, of saying it's a great day, you're a great kid, and all is well at Fep Prep.

He came chugging past me now, cheeks rosy, tie flapping, thumb in the air, calling out, “Hey there! The sun's out! Smile, Sally Jane!”

After almost three years, he still hadn't gotten my name right.

I'd continued with school to uphold my mom's educational standards, especially important to me in her absence, and for the safety behind Fep Prep's walls. At the same time, I tried to attract as little attention as possible. Besides attending class and Classic Movie Club (two hours, concealed in darkness), I existed below the radar. If Mr. Novak thought I was Sally Jane while leaving me alone, it meant I was doing something right.

I walked on, my mind racing with thoughts of subterranean gold.

And then it leaped to Max's heartbreaking absence.

Passing his empty locker filled me with nauseating butterflies. Sorrow and loss were the twin feelings that followed me down the hallway. With supreme effort, I willed them away. They weakened me, and besides, it was over between us.

Still, not thinking about him was impossible.

It was ten minutes until homeroom, and three hours earlier in Los Angeles. If I called now, he'd still be asleep and I could at least listen to his voice-mail greeting. It wasn't much, but it would be enough. I dialed quickly, hearing one ring, two rings, and then, “Hello.” I was waiting for “This is Max, leave a message.” Instead, the newly awoken Max said, “Hello?” again. My finger hovered over the End button but before I could push it, he said, “Whatever. It's too early for a wrong number,” and hung up.

Too early. Too late. It was the story of our relationship.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when a text message buzzed seconds later, scared that he'd figured out the blocked number was mine. But no, it was camouflaged in Outfit code. I didn't need the notebook to translate. I'd been summoned to enough secret sit-downs to understand it:

Aunt Betty's making a delicious lasagna for you and Candi, and bought a new pink dress for the occasion. Dinner will be late . . . hot out of the oven tonight at ten p.m.!

“Aunt Betty” was code for Knuckles Battuta, “lasagna” meant a meeting, and “Candi” stood for Tyler (StroBisCo produced the world-famous Wonderfluff candy bar). “Pink dress” was the location—the Edgewater Beach Hotel, painted in shades of Pepto-Bismol—“late” meant early, and “hot out of the oven” signified urgency. “Tonight” (or “today”) always meant tomorrow, and vice versa, and “p.m.” meant “a.m.,” and vice versa. Also, it was crucial to subtract three hours from the stated time. A sit-down called by the VP of Muscle with his counterpart in Money didn't happen every day. My guess was that it concerned the street war—whatever, I'd find out tomorrow morning. At least I'd get to see Tyler.

Mandi Fishbaum and a posse of her tarted-up lookalikes passed by, hugging textbooks, giving me a did-you-buy-those-clothes-at-a-yard-sale look. I was flipping them off in my mind when Doug appeared and said, “I need to be institutionalized.”

“Pardon me?”

“That new security guard, the one who looks like a steroidal ape?” he said. “I was walking down the hall and the guy asked to see my school ID—”

“Like you said, he's new. He doesn't know every single kid here.”

“Of course, big deal, right? But the size of him, or that he appeared out nowhere . . . it scared the living crap out of me,” he said quietly. “I just . . . clammed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I couldn't say a word. My jaw was swinging and my tongue was flapping, but nothing came out, not a sound. I was terrified out of my mind even though I knew there was nothing to be terrified of.”

“It's PAWS. A slight panic attack. You know that.”

He shook his head. “It didn't feel slight. By the time I could actually speak, the guy thought I was crazy.
I
thought I was crazy.” He sighed. “Before I screwed myself up with Sec-C, I could sort of, you know, smart-ass my way through almost any situation. Now, I doubt myself all the time . . . who I am . . . and even with the weight loss, how I look . . .”

To be honest, I'd never gauged my friend in terms of physical appearance.

Beyond the fact that he was getting in better shape, Doug's nose was straight and dotted with freckles in a good way, his skin was unblemished, and his eyes were lit with intelligence. The truth was that he was in an early stage of handsomeness.

“You look fine,” I said quietly, patting his back. “As far as the PAWS thing is concerned, you have to tough it through until it fades. No matter what happens, just keep moving forward. That's the secret—”

“I
know
the secret!” a voice over the PA announced cheerfully. “Ralph Waldo Emerson, that greatest of teachers, said, and I quote: ‘The secret of education lies in
respecting
the student.'”

Doug and I paused, staring at each other.

The empty air crackled, and then the voice said, “Good morning, one and all! It's your principal speaking . . .”

“Thumbs-Up,” I said, making the gesture.

“. . . but more important, your respecter in chief. I respect, support, and protect each of you, and you, in turn, must do the same for dear old Fep Prep,” he said. “For we are but a single organism, a student
body,
in which the sum of all parts make a whole . . .”

“A whole lot of freaks and geeks,” Doug said.

“. . . and if one of those parts fails, well then . . . you
all
fail.” Silence followed, as every kid in the building wondered if those words were meant in an academic or rhetorical context. Mr. Novak chuckled and said, “Kidding! I'm a kidder! But hear ye, hear ye, we have just enough time left in the semester to take action, and action we shall take. So beginning today, I'll visit each and every homeroom to implement my new program. Drumroll, please . . . Fep Prep is
us
!”

“Yippee,” Doug said flatly.

“My first stop is Ms. Stein's class.
R
s through
S
s . . .”

“That's us.” I sighed.

“. . . where, in fact, I am broadcasting remotely at this moment,” he said as we entered homeroom, and there he was, round, pink, and beaming, microphone in hand. As we filed past, he straightened his tie (decorated with dozens of tiny Pac-Man images) and continued to address the school. “Here they are now, your amigos and mine. Their faces, shoulders, and droopy gaits say, ‘Hey dude, chill out. You aren't gonna get
us
to participate.' Well, we'll see.” He clicked off the microphone and smiled around the room with small square teeth. “We . . . shall . . . see.”

Ms. Stein rose from behind her desk. “Let's take attendance and then—”

“It's party time!” Mr. Novak said with a fist pump.

When she finished calling our names, making sure we were all present, he rubbed his hands together, saying, “Fep Prep is us . . . What does that mean? Who can tell me?”

The room was as quiet and unmoving as a warehouse full of mannequins.

Mr. Novak covered his eyes, circled a finger in the air, and pointed. “You!”

“Um—um, well,” Doug stammered, “I think it means . . . we're Fep Prep?”

Mr. Novak shot him a thumbs-up. “Very good, Mister . . .”

“Stuffins,” Ms. Stein said.

“Aha! Douglas. I remember your file,” Mr. Novak said. “Chess Club, freshman year. Classic Movie Club, now. And you've participated in nothing else. Correct?”

“Basically,” Doug said in a small voice.

“Well, we're going to change that,” he said. “Fep Prep can only be
us
if we interact with one another. To that end, each homeroom will hold an event with a homeroom in another grade, seniors with sophomores, and so on. Ms. Stein's class will host freshmen. This way, instead of remaining in cliques and clusters, you will now be forced, gently, to mingle. The organizing homeroom requires a representative, an ambassador, so to speak, who, well, organizes the event.” Mr. Novak lifted a Fep Prep football helmet. “Go-o-o Cavaliers!” he roared, giving it a shake. “I've placed slips of paper in here with each of your names on them. One lucky person will be selected by yours truly.” He dug a hand inside the helmet, set it aside, and then unfolded and stared at a slip of paper. “Sar . . . Sar . . . ,” he read, squinting, drawing out the syllables.

Wait . . . it's me . . . really?!
I thought.
It's like a bad sitcom!

“Gosh darn these glasses,” Mr. Novak said, lifting them from his face, placing them on his forehead.

Oh god . . . just get it over with,
I fretted, hating life.

He held the paper inches from his face and then smiled at the room. “Where is she? Sara Jane Rispoli?”

I raised an arm as limp as a dead trout. “That's . . . me.”

“Congratulations! Report to my office end of the day tomorrow for instructions!” he said gleefully. “This is going to be fun!”

“Congratulations,” Doug whispered.

“By the way, Sally Jane?” Mr. Novak said. “In the spirit of interaction, choose a partner, if you please.”

“It's . . . Sara Jane,” I said quietly.

“Fep Prep is us!” Mr. Novak said, shooting the room a double thumbs-up and hustling out the door.

I turned to Doug and smiled. “Howdy, pardner.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Speaking of,” I said, “we're going to be in it, deeply, if we don't find another member for the Classic Movie Club. Ms. Ishikawa warned me last week.”

I'd founded the club as a sophomore in an admittedly flimsy attempt to appear well-rounded when I someday applied to colleges. The problem now was that every school organization required at least three members and when Max moved to L.A., leaving the club with only two members, we'd become ineligible. Mr. Novak now tracking everyone's participation was the last thing Doug and I needed. Ms. Ishikawa, our English lit teacher and activities coordinator, had already threatened to shut us down if we didn't hustle up a new recruit soon.

As it turned out, a new recruit came to me.

After the bell rang, Doug went his way and I went mine. Trudging toward Trigonometry, I became aware of a trailing cloud of perfume.

“You look like you slept in that T-shirt. Could it be
more
wrinkled?” Gina Pettagola said cheerily, appearing beside me. We were best friends in kindergarten, semi-friends in middle school, and now two people who were friendly to each other with little contact. We'd drifted apart over the years, she toward the popular kids who socialized often, I into the Rispoli family habit of introversion. The thing about Gina was that she clung to loyalty, as did I, so we had never quite severed the bond between us. A petite dynamo with the features of a porcelain doll (she'd been proactive in taking care of her own nose “issue”) and who wore designer everything, Gina was the reigning queen of gossip at Fep Prep.

“I have no useful information about anything,” I said.

“Doubtless,” she said, “but I'm about to make your day.”

“Oh?”

“I joined your little movie club thingy!”

I stopped and looked at her. “Really? I mean, that's great, but why?”

“Need more stuff on my résumé,” she said. “I'm already in six clubs and organizations but I decided to go for lucky number seven. I'm trying to get an internship at DishTheDirt.com. It's the Tiffany's of online gossip.” She looked at me closely, inspecting the damage from the tunnel collapse. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh, uh . . . boxing,” I said. “Fighting.”

“Ick. You still do that?”

“Every day.”

“Hey, FYI, I have some dirt to dish, just for you. If you want it, that is.”

“No thanks,” I said, walking on.

“Are you sure? It's straight from Mandi Fishbaum.”

“I saw Mandi this morning,” I said. “How does she do it—spend all that money on clothes, hair, and makeup and still manage to look like a stripper?”