The Quick Fix (6 page)

“I don't think so,” she said. “Now!”

Tim swung his right foot backward, trying to kick me in the shin. I backed away to avoid it, but in doing so, I lost some leverage on his arm. That was all he needed. He slipped out of my arm lock. Tina had a clear shot at me for half a second before a water balloon suddenly came out of nowhere and hit the locker next to her. She froze, staring at the water dripping down.

“Vinny Biggs sends his regards!” shouted a kid to my right. Three more balloons came flying at us. Tim dove and tackled his sister; a split second later, another water balloon passed through the space she had just been standing in. I shoved myself backward into Tim's locker and pulled the door closed, but with my finger still on the
outside, keeping it from shutting completely and locking me inside. A balloon exploded against the door. Water dripped through the slats above, sprinkling down on me, but not enough to make an impact.

I could hear Vinny's hit kids running toward us. I tensed for a confrontation, waiting for the last possible moment before pushing the locker door open, hoping to time it perfectly and catch someone in the nose. If I timed it wrong, I'd be a sitting duck.

I waited … and waited … listening for a footstep outside the locker door. I heard the Thompsons run down the hall and two sets of footsteps running after them. I heard the sound of the exit door being slammed open in a hurry and the sound of footsteps running out and fading away. I heard the exit door squeak shut. Then I heard nothing.

I opened the locker door a crack and peeked out.

No one was there.

Even the spectators were gone.

I stepped out of the locker and looked around. I was alone.

I looked down at the puddles of water and the strips of rubber from exploded balloons that littered the hallway.
I tried not to think about how my job had put me in the wrong place at the wrong time again. That's all it would take—just one balloon, or one squirt of water. The only thing I had to defend myself with was luck. And I knew, somewhere in the school, there was a water balloon with my name on it, and that luck always ran out at the worst possible time.

“Balloons,” came a voice from behind me. I wheeled around, arms cocked, ready to do some damage, but it was only Nicole Finnegan, a.k.a. the girl who used to be Nikki Fingers. Not so long ago, she was Vinny's most trusted lieutenant—and the Frank's most feared squirt-gun assassin. Then, a couple of weeks ago, her younger sister, Jenny, orchestrated a scheme to put Nikki in the Outs and take her place at Vinny's side. Now Nicole was just another broken kid, all traces of her fiery personality gone. Her red hair, which used to flow free and wild, hung limp and dull. You could say the same thing about the rest of her.

I lowered my arms. Her gaze was fixed on the spent balloons lying on the floor. “Balloons,” she said again.

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to leave. I wanted to get to Tina Thompson's locker before anyone else did. But it
wasn't going to happen. Katie Kondo, chief hall monitor, was standing in my path.

“In a hurry, Stevens?” she asked.

“No, I'm just a speedy guy.”

“Want to tell me what happened?” She pointed to the water and the balloon fragments on the floor.

I looked down as if I hadn't seen them before. “Wow! Looks like there's a litterbug loose,” I replied. “All these popped balloons on the ground. And is that water? Why, someone could slip and fall!”

“Funny you're just noticing that now,” she said.

“Nothing funny about it,” I replied. “I've got a lot on my mind. Big project due.”

“Oh yeah? What class is that?”

“Social studies.”

“We're in that class together,” she said. “I don't remember there being a project due.”

“Well, you may be in trouble, then.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“Balloons,” the ghost of Nicole muttered, breaking the tension.

I looked at her. For a second, I thought Katie was going to haul Nicole into detention for even daring to speak. But Katie didn't react. If anything, her expression softened for
a moment. “Thanks,” she said. “I can see that. How did they get here?”

“Why don't you find the people who dropped them and ask?” I said.

Her expression hardened. “I heard you were on the scene when Melissa got put in the Outs just now, Stevens. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because nothing surprises you anymore. You've forgotten how to believe in magic!” I said. “Funny … I don't remember seeing you there. Little slow getting around these days?”

Katie leaned toward me. “You helped my sister, Matt … and I haven't forgotten that,” she growled, as if she'd like nothing better than to forget it. “But you just used up your last free pass. Got it?”

“Not really,” I said. “I had free passes?!? And now they're gone?!? How many did I start with? And when did I use the others? Can I trade them in for cash and prizes?”

Katie's lips started twitching, as if they couldn't wait to get a taste of my blood. She opened her mouth to say something, but Nicole spoke first. “Balloons,” she said, pointing to the floor this time. She looked up at us, wide-eyed.

Katie looked over at her; I could feel the momentum
of her anger grinding to a halt. She took a deep breath, then looked back at me. “Get out of here, Stevens.”

“Will do, Chief,” I said as I walked down the hall. “Glad to see those anger-management classes are paying off.”

I walked away as quickly as I could without running. The last thing I heard before I was out of earshot was Nicole saying “Balloons” again, and Katie quietly agreeing with her.

had staked out Tina Thompson on a past case, so I knew her locker was one of a handful placed in a small alcove under a staircase, almost as if the school had put them in as an afterthought. I couldn't remember which locker was hers, but it turned out that I didn't need to. Of the eight lockers, one had been pried open. The metal all around the edge of the door had been bent, as if someone with a crowbar couldn't find a weak point and had decided to sculpt the door into an entirely new shape. Whatever their plan, it seemed to have worked.

I looked up the stairwell to see if anyone was coming. Then I tried to look inside the locker without touching the door or opening it any farther, but the gap wasn't wide enough to see anything. After one more stairway check, I used my foot to open the door all the way, so I wouldn't leave any fingerprints.

There, sitting on the top shelf, as if waiting patiently for me, was the missing piece of wood.

I picked it up. It was small—as small and thin as a piece of white bread. It had an intricately carved pattern on one side. There was a sticky note attached to it. It was a message, in handwriting I didn't recognize. It said, “Go for the skirt.” I was pretty sure it wasn't a fashion tip. Someone had told the Thompsons about Melissa, which meant that my incompetence was only partly responsible for her getting popped. It made me feel a little better, but not much.

I shoved the note in my front pocket, then put the piece of wood in my back pocket. There was a sandwich bag full of Pixy Stix on the floor of the locker. I grabbed it and put it in my other back pocket. Then I pulled my shirt low to cover everything. I hoped that no one decided to do a close examination of my tush.

I closed the locker door and walked away.

The hallways were deserted. I walked to the main entrance of the school. I could still hear the basketball sounds, though I was far from the gym. The cheering. The game sounds. As if the past hour hadn't happened. As if a cheerleader's life hadn't just skidded off the road. I pushed open the doors and walked out.

It was starting to get dark now that daylight saving time had ended. The air was cold, but it was still comfortable enough for walking. I thought about going to Sal's for a root beer or six but then thought better of it. It was a game day, so people would already be there, drinking. If we won, they'd keep drinking to celebrate; if we lost, they'd keep drinking to drown their sorrows. I didn't really feel like being around people. Oh, and I just happened to have a thing in my back pocket that some of the shadiest, most powerful kids in school were fighting over. Oh, and a full bag of designer Pixy Stix. I decided it might be best if I just went home.

When I got there, my mom was just leaving the house to go to her second job: a waitressing gig at Santini's, an upscale restaurant downtown. Ever since my dad disappeared over six years ago, she's had to carry two jobs
just to almost-but-not-quite make ends meet. Usually, we got along great—our relationship was a nice mixture of respect and protectiveness. But lately things had been a little strained.

“No need to lock it,” I said.

“Oh! Hey!” my mom replied, turning around. Her purse squirted out from under her arm. She was able to snatch it in midair before it hit the ground, but her lip balm flew out and rolled to a stop at my feet.

“Was that an overelaborate way of letting me know that my lips are chapped?” I asked as I picked it up. “Because you could have just told me.”

“I didn't want to hurt your feelings,” she replied. “I know how sensitive you are about your lips.”

“I think they're my third best feature, right behind my intellect and sharp wit …”

“Of course. Although I should ask your girlfriend for a more accurate grading.”

I blushed. I wasn't sure I was comfortable discussing my “girlfriend” with my mom.

“Right,” she said to fill in the awkward silence where my response was supposed to fit. She walked past me toward the car.

I turned and smiled at her. “Say hi to Mr. Carling for me.” Kevin and Liz's dad, Albert Carling, managed Santini's. My mom did NOT get along with him.

“That's enough, chappy!”

“Hey! I'm sensitive!” I said in mock outrage. I picked up the lip balm, took the cap off, and slathered it sloppily all over my face. I put the cap back on, then offered it back to my mom.

“Ugh,” she said. “Feel free to keep that.” She checked her watch. “All right, I have to go. Come here and give your mom a kiss.”

I walked over with my lips puckered. They glistened, thick with lip balm. My mom grabbed both sides of my head. She gripped tight, and planted a big kiss on my forehead.

“I love ya,” she said, “but greasy lips are where I draw the line.” I smiled. “I'll be home at two,” she continued. “Don't—”

“—wait up. Yeah, I know. See you at two.”

Just then the phone in the basement started ringing.

“Ugh. That damn thing's been ringing off the hook since I got home,” she said. “I wish the landlord would just take it out.”

“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn't mean it. That phone was supposed to be a private line for the landlord, but I was pretty sure I used it more than he did.

“All right. Spaghetti's in the fridge.”

“Okay. Love ya.”

“Back atcha.” She smiled halfheartedly at me, as if she hated the fact that these two minutes were our catch-up time for the day. But there was nothing either of us could do about it.

I walked inside, closed the door, and headed straight for the basement.

The phone had stopped ringing by the time I picked it up. There was only a dial tone, so I hung up and sat down at my desk.

My mom and I lived in the first-floor apartment, and we had the only indoor access to the basement. The only other person that came down here was the guy who owned the building, some guy called “Big A.” At least, I thought Big A owned it. Every once in a while, I'd get a call from some guy looking for “Big A.” Whenever I tried to take a message, though, he'd hang up.

Other than Big A (who I never saw), no one else came down here, not even my mom. It was a storage space, and
quite frankly, when you don't have much, you don't really need extra storage. There were a bunch of boxes of holiday decorations and old toys of mine that my mom didn't have the heart to throw out, but still more than enough space for me to set up shop.