Bound for Danger (6 page)

“No,” I
said, looking down at my lap. “It's . . . never mind.”

Mr. Porter looked disappointed. “I feel like there must be more for us to discuss, Frank,” he said. “If you did write this paper, it's full of anger and disturbing thoughts. You should talk to someone about that.”

“I didn't write the paper,” I said.

“I wish I could believe you,” Mr. Porter said, “but the evidence says otherwise. I'm sorry, but you're going to receive an F on this paper, and I have to give you in-school suspension for two days. Handing such an offensive paper in to Ms. Kowalski is considered an aggressive act.”

I took in a deep breath through my nose. “Okay.”

Mr. Porter nodded. “You can report to the in-school suspension room, room nine in the basement. I'm sorry, Frank. If you decide there's more you'd like to tell me about this, you know my door is always open.”

I thanked him and got to my feet.

Unfortunately, there was nothing more to discuss with Mr. Porter.

But there was a
lot
for me to discuss with my brother.

M
Y FIRST CLASS OF THE
day is history. It's also the only class I have with Marianne, and I was eager to see her. I was still feeling bad about bagging on our plans so I could go to basketball practice, and I wanted to make a date for the weekend so we could catch up.

When I settled into the desk next to her, though, she barely looked at me.

“Hey,” I said, reaching out and touching her arm. “Can we make plans for Friday? I've been missing you!”

Marianne looked at me like I was some weird guy off the street. She pulled her arm away and straightened up, glaring down her nose at me. “
Really?
” she huffed.

“Yeah, really,” I said, not sure what was going on.
Marianne was usually super mellow and easygoing. Why was she acting like one of the Real Housewives?

“That's not what I've heard,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and thrusting it at me.

I looked down at the screen.

What the heck?!

It was a screenshot of a text conversation between “Joe Hardy” and “Lila Derroches.” Lila is a cheerleader who basically the entire male student body agrees is cute. She is also way, way out of my league.

JOE: So when are we getting together?

LILA: Are you serious right now?

Thought you were dating Marianne.

JOE: Serious as cancer. I think you're gorgeous.

LILA: What about Marianne?

JOE: What she doesn't know won't hurt her.

I looked up at Marianne, sputtering. “I didn't—I mean, I don't even—”

“Don't try to deny it, Joe,” Marianne said sharply. “I also have this.”

She took back her phone and clicked around a bit, finally handing it back to me with a photo.

A photo of me and Lila Derroches—her kissing my cheek!

What is going on??

Just to be clear: I've never even spoken to Lila Derroches.
Not via text, not via carrier pigeon, not at all. And I
certainly
haven't gotten a smooch on the cheek from her. If Lila could even pick me out of a lineup, I'd be stunned.

But
someone
sure wanted to make it look like I had. The photo was a fake, obviously, a Photoshop job—but a very good one. I recognized the photo, which was one from my Facebook page of Aunt Trudy giving me a cheek smooch on my birthday. (Is it dorky to love your aunt and not be embarrassed about it? THEN I GUESS I'M DORKY.) Someone had found the perfect photo of Lila Derroches to paste into it, matching the lighting and everything.

I looked from the photo to Marianne. “Look, this isn't me,” I said.

She nodded. “Suuuuuuuuuure,” she drawled, her disgusted tone making it clear she wasn't sure at all.

“Where did you even get this?” I started clicking around on Marianne's phone, trying to find out, but she snatched it back from me.

“An anonymous e-mail, if you must know,” she said. “It was signed ‘A Concerned Citizen.'”

“That doesn't seem strange to you?” I asked. “Look, there's a simple solution to this. Ask Lila whether she knows me.”

Marianne snorted. “No, there's an even simpler solution to this,” she said. “
I break up with you.
Why should I have to ask Lila when there's photographic evidence that you guys have been together?”

“I told you, that's fake!”

Marianne shook her head. She looked really upset now. “Joe, I don't need this negativity in my life. Who would make a fake photo of you and Lila? Who has that much time and energy to spend on breaking us up?”

Funny you should ask.
“Actually,” I said, sitting up in my chair and putting on my best serious expression, “I've made some powerful enemies over the last couple days, and I think they're trying to set me up.”

Marianne looked me in the eye. Her mouth dropped open, and for a second I thought I had her convinced I was telling the truth. I waited for her coo of concern, her expression of support for my bravery in taking on the big guns.

“Are you kidding me?”
she said finally. “‘I've made some powerful enemies'? I'm sorry, Joe, but I'm going to trust my eyes on this one. We're through.”

And with that, she put her phone in her purse, pulled out her textbook, and wouldn't look at me again for the rest of the class.

• • •

“You will not
believe
what happened to me,” was the first thing Frank said to me when we met up in the lunch line.

“You won't believe what happened to
me
,” I replied. “I think the masked people were serious about ruining our lives.”

Frank frowned. “You don't say,” he murmured, grabbing a ham sandwich from the premade bar. “Okay, I'll bite. What happened to
you
?”

I told him the whole sordid story about Marianne: the
faked screenshots, the Photoshopped picture.

Frank listened with his eyes getting wider and wider. When I finished—we'd paid and were settling into our usual table by then—his eyes were as wide as saucers.

“I guess Marianne won't be joining us, then?” he asked.

I snorted. “Not unless she wants to throw some rotten fruit at me or something,” I said. “I think she and I are through.”

Frank nodded. “Well, you've had almost as bad a morning as me,” he said. And then he told me the crazy story of Ms. Kowalski thinking he wrote this insane, woman-hating paper, and having to talk to his guidance counselor about it, and ending up with an F and in-school suspension.

“In-school suspension is the
worst
,” I said. “It has all the stigma of suspension, with none of the daytime TV.”

“Amen,” said Frank.

“Wow.” I sat stock-still, thinking this over. Suddenly my appetite was gone. I pushed my tray away.

“So we can add some attributes to these masked hazers, whoever they are,” said Frank. “They have major tech savvy. They must have a hacker among them.”

“And they use their skills to
ruin lives,
” I said, crinkling my napkin into a little ball. “Frank, this is getting serious. I know you want to defeat these bullies. But I think we have to go to Gerther now—”

“NO!” cried Frank. “Then they win!”

I shook my head. “Let me finish. We go to Gerther and tell him what's happened. Then we at least get to find out why
he wanted us to join the team. You and I both know this isn't really about our lack of extracurriculars.”

Frank was quiet, apparently thinking that over. “You've had worse ideas,” he admitted finally.

“We need more details,” I went on. “Whoever these guys are, they're a formidable enemy. We need Gerther to know how bad this is, and we need all the information he has, if he wants us to solve the problem.”

“You're right,” Frank said, looking down at his sandwich. “And maybe talking to him will bring my appetite back. Shall we go now?”

I stood and threw my tray into the nearest trash can. I felt bad about wasting the daily special, but we had bigger fish to fry. (Not that the daily special was fish. At least, I didn't think so.)

We lost no time in making our way to the office. Inside, the receptionist was on the phone. We waited patiently, staring at Gerther's closed door.
So he's in there with a student,
I thought.

Finally the receptionist hung up the phone and looked up at us. “Yes?”

“We're here to see Principal Gerther,” Frank said.

“I'm afraid that's impossible,” the receptionist replied.

“Look,” I said, “I don't mean to be rude, but we're not going to take no for an answer. We have something of great importance to discuss with Principal Gerther. It's an
emergency.
Can you tell him that Frank and Joe Hardy are here, and it's urgent?”

The receptionist blinked at me, unimpressed. “I'm sorry, I can't do that, young man.”

“Why
not
?”
asked Frank. “Don't tell me he told you not to let us in. Did he tell you not to let us in?”

Now the receptionist turned and blinked at Frank. “May I suggest that you two cut down on the caffeine?” she asked. “To answer your question, I can't do that because Principal Gerther is
out
today. He took a personal day. Now, would you like to leave a message for him?”

A personal day?
I looked at Frank. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was.
Principal Gerther has a life?

“No,” said Frank, looking a little sheepish. “We'll, uh, come back tomorrow.”

“He's out tomorrow, too,” the receptionist said, turning back to her computer. “Try the day after.”

“Okay, the day after,” Frank said.

He looked at me and nodded toward the door. I wished I hadn't thrown away my lunch. What was I going to do for the next twenty minutes until the bell rang?

Then I saw a familiar face stalk into the office and take a quick right, into the mailroom.

Coach Perotta.

I nudged Frank and pointed at him. Frank looked, then turned back to me, eyes wide.

“Coach Perotta,” he whispered, stating the obvious.

“Why didn't we think of talking to him?” I whispered back.

Frank shrugged. “I'm not sure. I guess it's possible he already knows about the hazing.”

“But if he
doesn't
,” I hissed, “he
should
. And maybe he
can help us figure out who's behind it.”

We both turned and watched as Coach Perotta left the mailroom, carrying a stack of papers and whistling a cheerful little tune.

Frank cleared his throat. “Hi, Coach Perotta,” he said loudly, planting himself in the big guy's path. “Can Joe and I talk to you privately for a minute?”

• • •

Coach Perotta looked a little wary at first, but he agreed to chat with us and led us all the way to his private office in the gym.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to two folding chairs and walking around his desk to sit down himself.

We sat.

I looked at Frank.

“Um, I guess you're wondering—” Frank began, but Coach Perotta held up a hand to stop him.

“I have a feeling I know why you're here,” he said, in a resigned-sounding voice.

“You do?” I asked, surprised.

The coach nodded. “Listen, I know the last couple of days haven't been easy for you boys,” he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “And I want you to know . . . you shouldn't be ashamed for coming to me like this.”

Frank and I looked at each other.
Huh?
“Oh, we're not,” Frank said.

“My dad used to tell me, ‘There's no shame in knowing when you're beat,'” Coach Perotta went on.

“Huh,” I
said thoughtfully. “Well, I guess, in a way—”

“Not everybody can be good at everything,” Coach Perotta went on. “Not everybody is cut out for lab work. Not everybody can star in a Broadway show. And certainly, not everybody is cut out for basketball. And sometimes, quitting isn't a cowardly act. Sometimes quitting is the bravest thing you can do.”

I was beginning to figure out where this was going. “Coach Perotta,” I said, “I'm sorry, but we didn't come here to quit.”

“You didn't?” The coach looked from me to Frank, his mouth tightening with annoyance. “Then why
are
you here?”

“We had something else to ask you about,” Frank said. “Er . . . have you ever had any trouble with
hazing
on the team?”

Coach frowned. “Hazing?” he asked. “You mean when they make you drink antifreeze, that kind of thing?”

“Uh, something like that,” Frank replied.

Coach's expression suddenly went cold. He paused. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Hazing is not tolerated on my team, and I make my expectations very clear to my players. Anyone caught hazing would be kicked off immediately, no questions asked.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” he said, turning his angry gaze on me.

“You've never . . .” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “You've never heard of a masked group forcing team members to do certain things? Play better? Especially the players who are struggling?”

Coach Perotta's
nose wrinkled. He suddenly looked disgusted, like I was describing something indecent. “What are you saying, exactly, boy?”

I glanced at Frank, who nodded slightly. I went on to tell Coach Perotta the whole sordid story of what had happened to us on the night we'd tried to join the team for pizza at Paco's. The bags over our heads, the car trunk, the pedestal, the punches, the “brand.” The apparent promise Frank and I made to quit the team, and everything that had happened to us this morning after we
hadn't
quit.