I wondered how I could get down what Richie would say, so I'd have his actual words. I didn't want to take notes. I finally decided that, if he would let me, I would use a tape recorder.
My mom had one. It was an old portable cassette recorder. I told her I needed to borrow it for a school project, which was pretty much true. (It was a project, and it was going to happen in school.) I went to the drugstore that night and bought new batteries and a sixty-minute tape.
“A tape recorder?” Elliot said the next morning, crutching up the school steps beside me. The thing was hanging by its handle from my hand.
“Yeah. I want to get what he really says. You know?”
“Hmm,” Elliot said. “So. Are you nervous?”
“Yeah.” I felt a shiver.
“What are you going to ask him?”
“I have no idea.”
He stopped and looked at me. “You have a tape recorder but no questions?”
“Okay, shut up now. Okay? You're not helping.”
He shrugged. “All right. Where are you going to meet him?”
“In the boiler room.”
“The
boiler
room?”
“Oh, that's reassuring.”
“Are people allowed in there? I've never been down there. Have you?”
“No. But this is Richie.”
Elliot nodded. “Well, I think it'll be great if you get something for
The Revealer.
Something really different. Maybe ⦠INSIDE THE MIND OF A PREDATOR.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Or how about: RUSSELL TRAINOR'S LAST WORDS. Hey, good thing you'll have it on tape!”
“Elliot.”
“I could add a personal tribute. âHe was my friend. He was brave. He wasn't bright, but he was brave.'”
“Elliot, will you shut up?”
He stopped short, hopping a little on his crutches. “I'm sorry, man. I was just joking.”
“You're really bad at it.”
“Yeah.” He thought a second. “You know, actually, it's almost like you're a detective. An investigator. It's what we wanted to do: solve a mystery.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course, most mysteries involve murders.”
“
Elliot
⦔
Â
Mrs. Capelli was standing outside the main office.
“Mr. Gekewicz,” she said, stepping forward as we came up.
“Hi, Mrs. Capelli.”
The principal folded her arms. “I understand you dumped your lunch on a classmate yesterday.”
“That's true, I did. It was an accident.”
“Yes, I'm sure it was. But, interestingly, I'm told by a faculty member who witnessed the incident that you seemed somehow pleased by it.”
She peered at him from beneath those heavy eyelids.
“Mr. Gekewicz, is there any possibility that the student who received your accidental dumping might have been the one who you say kicked your crutches on Monday?”
Elliot shrugged. “That would be an incredible coincidence.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It would, wouldn't it?”
I couldn't help myself. “But, Mrs. Capelli,” I said, “you didn't believe us when we told you that happened. How come you believe it now?”
She shot me a look. “Mr. Trainor. Did you enjoy detention on Monday?”
“Well, actually, you know, it felt kind of safe.”
Her head drew back. She looked puzzled. Then she seemed to be thinking. “Have you two sent out another of your ⦠story collections?”
“Well, yes,” Elliot said. “Yes, we have.”
“You have? Then why haven't I seen it?”
“Well, we really only did it for kids.”
She didn't look happy. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that,” she said. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this whole thing. You two used to be so quiet. Now suddenly ⦔
She shook her head. “There's no reason to be reckless,” she said.
“We're not trying to be reckless, Mrs. Capelli,” I said.
“I just would like to know what's going on.” She turned and tap-tapped back into her office.
Â
We had finally made it to Elliot's locker when Leah Sternberg came up. She's that helpful kid who's on Student Council and everything else.
“I want to tell you guys I think it's great what you're doing,” she said.
“It is?”
“Oh, definitely.”
Elliot said, “Why?”
Leah's forehead crinkled. “Well, lots of kids didn't know these things were going on. Myself included. I think this is going to make a big difference.”
“Really?” Elliot said. “How?”
She crossed her arms, like Mrs. Capelli. “Well, this is our school. If people can't do rotten things in secret anymore, they probably won't do them.”
“But a lot of people don't do things in secret,” I said. “They do them right in front of everyone.”
“But you're changing the atmosphere. I mean, middle school kids won't do things if they're not cool to do. Right?”
“Well, that's true,” Elliot said.
“That's why you've got to keep on doing this.”
“Okay,” I said, impressed. “Thanks.”
Elliot watched Leah bustle off. “Wow,” he said. “Maybe this is doing something. People are definitely treating us different.”
“Yeah. It's kind of strange.”
“What's strange?” said Catalina, coming up. She had a computer disk in her hand.
Elliot said, “Feeling like somebody.”
“Everybody is somebody,” she said.
“Not usually,” I said. “How's your mom?”
“She's good.” Catalina smiled a big smile. “I had three messages from her last night. Nothing special, just telling me about her day. Hey, somebody stuck this on my locker.” She held out the disk.
“Who?” Elliot said.
“I don't know. It was Scotch-taped on there.”
“It's probably another story,” I said. “We can put it in the next issue.”
“We should meet,” Elliot said. “I might have more stories in my e-mail.”
“I can't meet at activities,” I said. “How about after school?”
“In the computer lab?”
“Okay.”
“I won't have much time,” Catalina said. “I have to practice.” She held up her saxophone case.
Elliot winced. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll get out of there fast.”
She swung the case at him. He dodged expertly on his crutches.
Â
Activities block.
The boiler room.
Oh, man.
I had signed into computer lab, then snuck out, down the basement hall. I slowly opened the heavy louvered door, just enough to stick my head in. It was chilly in the hall, but now the warmth of the boiler room floated up to my face. It
smelled
hot. From deep inside came the furnace's low throbbing sound. I took a breath and slipped in.
I was standing on a railed metal platform. Below me in the dim room sat the furnace, a big green metal box. Fat, squarish white pipes ran up from the furnace and filled the whole ceiling. No doubt covered with asbestos. I thought, I'll probably get cancer ⦠if I live that long.
The gray cinder-block walls had whitish stains and dark seepage running down them. A beat-up wooden desk sat facing the wall, covered with cardboard boxes of nuts and bolts. By the desk was an old wooden chair; on the wall was a calendar with a waxy color picture of a girl with a very big
build, in a red bikini, holding a giant red monkey wrench. Whoa!
The door behind me squeaked open. Richie stepped in.
He shut the door and ignored me as he walked down the spiral metal staircase. He pulled out the old chair and sat down. He glanced up at me and raised his eyebrows.
When I started to circle down the steps, he spotted the thing hanging from my hand.
“What the hell is that?”
“It's a tape recorder.”
“I know what it is. What the hell is it for?”
I started shaking. But I told myself: Okay. Walk down the stairs. You're in this. Go.
I went. When I got to the desk, I laid the recorder on it. “See ⦠this way I figured I could get what you really say. I wouldn't get your words wrong. See?”
He shrugged. “Okay. I guess. But if I don't like something I'm turning it off.”
“If you don't like something you can erase it.”
“Riiight.”
I stood there, without a chair. Richie nodded over to a pile that filled the murky space behind the spiral stairs, under the metal platform: old classroom chairs and desks tossed in a jumble. On a chair up front was taped a sign on lined paper: BROKEN CHAIRâDO NOT SIT.
I pulled out a different chair, brought it over, and sat down near the edge of the desk, so I could reach the tape-recorder buttons but be as far away from Richie as possible.
I held my fingers over the Play and Record buttons, which you had to hit together if you wanted to record. I said, “All right?” Richie shrugged. I pressed the buttons, and the tape started turning.
I still did not know what to ask. He was gazing up at the calendar.
“How come we can be in here?” I finally blurted out.
He snorted. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I don't know, I didn't think kids were ⦔
“What, you think I don't have friends? You think I don't know anybody?”
“No. I mean, I don't know.”
“Look, are you gonna ask stupid questions? 'Cause I don't have time for stupid questions.”
“Okay. You said to me, âFair is fair.' Right?”
“Yeah ⦔
“So how come you pick on younger kids? Smaller kids?”
He shrugged. “That's the way the world is, kid. You don't like it ⦔ He folded his fist up slowly. “I can give you a ticket out.”
“For god's sake, Richie. Why do you say stuff like that?”
He smiled. “Stuff like what?”
“I don't know. Like you're the dad from hell or something.”
His smile vanished. “You take that back,” he said in a higher voice. He stood partway up.
“You take that
back!”
“Uh ⦔
He was in my face.
“You take it BACK!”
“Okay, Richie. Okay. I'm sorry.”
“It's not
TRUE.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
Richie looked around jerkily. Then he settled down. He sat. He looked away from me, and didn't say anything.
I was trying to think. I remembered what Catalina said, about finding something in common. So I said, “I don't have a dad. He died when I was a baby. I guess I don't know ⦔
“You can kiss my ass.”
“What?”
“You can kiss my ass, all right? I don't give a shit what you have and don't have. This isn't supposed to be”âhe put on that whimpering, mocking faceâ“about
yooou.”
“You know, you're really full of it,” I said.