Don't Get Caught (4 page)

“Oh, I like the sound of this,” Ellie says.

Of course she does. It was her whispered “we need a plan” last night that really made me take this seriously. If getting to spend time with Ellie means having to risk Stranko’s wrath and possible grounding by my parents until I’m eighty, then I’ll take that chance.

“How do we start?” Wheeler says.

“We need as much info on the Chaos Club as we can get,” I say.

Heist Rule #9:
Know your enemy.

“Do you have a plan to do that?” Malone asks.

“I do.”

And I tell them my idea. It’s so ridiculously dangerous that once I’m finished explaining, even Wheeler is slack jawed.

Ellie finally breaks the silence by bursting into heavy laughter. Soon all of us are in hysterics at the absurdity of the proposal. From the base of the tower, Stranko shouts repeatedly at us to get back to painting, but we ignore him.

“Game on,” Ellie says between gulps of air, her eyes full of tears. “Game. On.”

Ellie calls it Operation Stranko Caper and gives each member of the Water Tower Five code names related to his or her role.

Adleta is Goon.

Malone is Shadow.

Wheeler is Potatoes.

Ellie is Crybaby.

And I’m Bleeder.

But at the moment, waiting for zero hour while standing in the back hallway where I can view the busy cafeteria, I’m feeling more like Puker because I want to sprint to the bathroom to vomit up my guts.

And to think this was all my idea.

Here’s Heist Planning 101:

1. Identify your target. In this case, the target is Stranko’s phone. Clearly he’s investigating the Chaos Club; the pictures he took in the office prove that. Who knows what other evidence against them he might have?

2. Formulate a plan. It took a week of observing Stranko during school (all of us) and after (thank you, Adleta) to realize he’s most separated from his phone during lunch duty. It sits on a table on the stage next to where Stranko polices the cafeteria. Now if he were to be pulled away from the stage…

3. Practice, practice, practice. The five of us rehearsed our roles for more than a week. The plan isn’t the most complicated, but we only have one shot at this.

Our final run-through of the plan lasted two hours on Saturday, with Ellie and Wheeler the most excited. Even Adleta, who’s probably risking at least a thousand push-ups every day for the rest of his life, liked the idea. Malone, go figure, predicted failure.

“It won’t work,” she said. “Maybe in a movie, yes, but not in real life it won’t.”

“No, they won’t see it coming,” I said. “No one expects things like this to happen and especially not from us. We’re trying to stay out of trouble, remember? Why would we risk getting suspended?”

“Max is right,” Adleta said. “There’ll be too much going on for Stranko to realize what’s happened. It’s going to work.”

“What if we get caught?”

“Then we do what you should do whenever you get busted,” Wheeler said. “We lie our asses off.”

I don’t mind Malone’s concerns. In fact, I appreciate them. The more I’m around her, the more I depend on her skepticism. Every heist crew needs someone to point out the weaknesses in a plan. Malone’s perfect for that. She’s also tech-savvy, a brilliant artist, and athletic as hell. A jack-of-all-trades really. Or more like a jill-of-all-trades.

A heist can go wrong for any number of reasons, the worst of which is the double cross. You can just never be sure if everyone is really on your side or if they’re working an angle. I don’t necessarily think anyone in my crew is behind the setup at the water tower, but the hint of doubt is there. Still, why would someone set us up to get busted and include him or herself in the busting? It makes no sense.

However, if one of the crew did it, my bet is on Adleta. He’s the one I know the least. If he’s setting us up for an even bigger fall than the water tower, the Stranko Caper is the perfect time for a double cross. But Heist Rule #10 is
Trust your crew
, so that’s what Not Max is going to do.

We picked Monday for our heist because that’s the school day where everyone, even the administration, just slogs through until the final bell. At the time I was excited, but now it’s nausea city. Reality sucks that way. But I’m not going to back down and hide in the theater again like I did the day after the water tower. Not that I could put a stop to our plan if I wanted to. Everyone’s in position. The pin’s pulled and the grenade heaved. All I can do is try not to get my head blown off.

On stage, Stranko reads something on his phone, then places it on the table beside him before returning to his surveillance. In a lot of ways, thinking of him as a prison guard is dead-on. The entire building is a prison, with the staff as guards, students as prisoners, and rules that dictate when we can stand up and leave, talk, and even go to the bathroom. The school even has security cameras, which are positioned in all corners of the cafeteria. I’ve seen the room with the video monitors though, and I’m not as worried as I might be in a newer school. The monitors here are in black and white and the images blurry, like it may be the first security system ever created—maybe used back in the Garden of Eden where God watched a grainy image of Eve heisting that apple.

Then, right on cue at 11:45, Crybaby, sitting at her usual table near the front of the cafeteria, pushes her tray aside and puts her head down in her arms.

Step One, the Split, has begun.

• • •

Crybaby’s friend, Vickie, is the first to notice the weeping and puts a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, leaning in to check on her. Crybaby goes for the Academy Award then, shoving away her friend’s hand and now quaking, refusing to lift her head. It isn’t long before three girls are rubbing Crybaby’s shoulders, begging her to tell them what’s wrong. And still she refuses to lift her head.

It’s beautiful.

Ellie was right—all those skits she was forced to perform in front of the church honed her acting chops. She could make a killing as a professional grifter.

Vickie, panicking now, searches the cafeteria for help, and her eyes fall on Mrs. B and Stranko at their posts on the stage. She runs to Mrs. B—no girl would ever go to Stranko with an obviously girl-related problem—who wastes no time hurrying to Crybaby.

Others in the cafeteria notice the drama at this point and watch as Mrs. Barber convinces Crybaby, her face scarlet and tearstained, to accompany her to the office. The two leave the cafeteria, successfully splitting up Mrs. B and Stranko, who’s about to fall victim to:

Step Two: the Diversion.

• • •

Fake it till you feel it.

That’s what I tell myself as I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

Then I step into the cafeteria holding over my head Stranko’s greatest possession: the lacrosse state championship trophy. Stranko doesn’t have any children, but if he did, I’m pretty sure he’d save the trophy first if there were a fire. He carts that stupid thing out at every start-of-the-year meeting as an example of Asheville’s excellence. Only ten minutes earlier I waltzed into Stranko’s coaching office in the athletic wing and took the trophy I now hold high over my head.

There’s no turning back.

I’m on a suicide mission as I approach the first set of tables while trying to remain calm. Which is impossible. Every step I take is one step closer to the complete batshit chaos that we’ve planned. I weave my way toward Stranko at the front of the stage, a few heads turning toward me but no one important. My throat gets drier with each step because I’m about to find out Adleta’s real intentions. If he really is working with the Chaos Club, he’ll screw this up on purpose. If that happens, there’s a good chance I’ll spend the next year being traded for cigarettes in jail.

I’m watching the lacrosse table, waiting, when Goon, right on cue, stands up, points, and shouts, “What the hell?”

The team members jerk their heads my way, and I’m filled with complete crap-your-pants fear when I see the menace in their eyes. But none of it matches the pure hatred on Goon’s face. He’s on his feet, stalking toward me, fists at his sides and the rest of the team following, hungry to tear my head off for daring to touch the symbol of the lacrosse team’s dominance.

I never should have trusted him.

“Wait, no—” I say, backing up.

“You’re dead.”

His anger is so authentic, so primal, that I freeze, wishing I’d told my parents I loved them this morning because I’ll be spending the next decade in a coma.

That’s when Goon winks.

And I understand.

I should never have doubted him.

“Dead,” Goon shouts, and he comes faster now.

My feet unstick from the floor, and I backpedal a few steps before turning and running for my life, the trophy tight in my hands. I zigzag around tables, with Goon’s bull-like grunting close behind. I hear other footsteps too, and I know the rest of the lacrosse team is salivating at the chance to kill. Kids leap up to watch the excitement, and I race for Potatoes’s table.

Stranko leaps down from the stage now, shouting, “Cobb, get over here!”

It’s worry, though, not anger in his voice. Sure, I’m about to get murdered in front of hundreds of witnesses, but God forbid the championship trophy gets damaged.

The entire cafeteria rises to its feet, cheering. Stranko angles to cut me off, and I turn toward the front of the stage. Goon closes in a few feet behind me now, ready to maul me when he gets the chance.

It never happens.

The second I pass Potatoes, he jumps up from his chair directly into Goon’s path and yells, “I’ll save you, dude!”

I don’t get to see Potatoes get stampeded and eventually tossed onto the stage like a…well, like a sack of potatoes, hence the name…but I hear the collision as he smashes into the table. Or possibly through the wall. I want to look back—this may be the last time I see Wheeler alive—but I don’t have time.

Wheeler’s the crew’s maniac, the person who doesn’t give a shit for personal safety and is willing do whatever’s necessary to make the heist work. In Wheeler’s case, the possibility of a hospital stay and therefore missed school was all it took for him to accept the job.

I run to Stranko for safety and hold out the trophy. He jerks it from my hands, pulling it close to his chest like it’s the Holy Grail. Then Goon tackles me, crushing my spine and sending me across the tiled floor. We rehearsed the tackle in my basement using pratfalls Ellie learned in theater class, but Goon, fully embracing his role here, crashes into me like he’s trying to take off a lacrosse opponent’s head. My body screams in pain, or maybe that’s me. I’m pinned to the floor, my cheek wet from what I’m guessing is blood. If so, it’d fit my code name.

I manage to lift my head up just enough to see Potatoes, angling through the crowd toward Shadow, sitting alone in back, with the illegal cell phone data extraction device Potatoes borrowed from one of his H8box friends.

Step Three, the Grab, is complete.

• • •

Or not.

I can’t be sure the Grab is a success because I’m under a pile of lacrosse players swinging blindly, doing more damage to each other than to me. Over their shouts, Stranko yells for them to stop, although with not as much urgency as I would like. Goon smothers me with his weight, pulling his punches and wrestling more than anything. He has my knee pinned against my ear and smiles widely, like this is the most fun he’s had in his life.

“I can’t breathe,” I eek out.

Goon lets off a bit, but it isn’t until other teachers arrive to stop the fight that the chaos ends. The fight’s over, but the shouting in the cafeteria seems louder than ever.

Goon whispers, “Time?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes backward, and the players on top of us fall away. I’m supposed to act hurt, with lots of limping and groaning, maybe even pretend to pass out. But acting isn’t necessary because my entire body throbs like one massive exposed nerve.

“Get up,” Stranko snarls, practically yanking my arm from its socket.

I stumble to my knees, then, achingly, to my feet. Varelman and the rest of the lacrosse team breathe hard, fists clenched at their sides like they still might come at me. I risk a quick look to Shadow sitting hunched over her laptop. Potatoes is nowhere to be found.

“You’re finished here,” Stranko says.

“But I was only—”

“Shut up.” He turns to Goon and says, “Return the trophy and get your ass to my office.”

I’m led away to cheers. I can’t tell if the students are on my side or are calling for my beheading, but Stranko’s opinion is clear.

“I’ll have you expelled by the end of the day.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Shut your mouth.”

If being a jerk keeps Stranko’s focus on me instead of what I hope is happening right now in the cafeteria, he can say whatever he wants. He drags me through the hall to his office, his grip so tight he’s almost grinding bone. His administrative office is beside Mrs. B’s, and just as we’re passing, she and Crybaby, whose eyes are puffy from her crying fit, emerge.

“What happened?” Mrs. B says.

“Cobb decided to get cute and race around the cafeteria with the state lacrosse trophy. I’ll handle it.”

Mrs. B’s face remains calm as she looks at me.

“Max?”

“But he told me to do it,” I say, pointing at Stranko.

His grip goes from tight to crushing.

“What did you say?”

“You sent me a note.”

Both administrators look confused. Mrs. B steps back into her office, saying, “Let’s discuss this in here. Ellie, return to lunch. If you need to talk more, I’m here.”

But Crybaby doesn’t leave.

“Mrs. Barber?” she says. Her voice is so thin and innocent I have a hard time keeping a straight face. “I think I know what Max is talking about.”

Mrs. B sighs and waves Ellie into the office with us. Crybaby and I are on one side of the principal’s desk, with Mrs. B and Stranko on the other.

“Do you want to call your parents first, Max?” Mrs. B asks.

“There’s no reason to. I didn’t do anything. I got a note from him to bring the trophy to the cafeteria.”

“I didn’t send you a note,” Stranko snarls.

“But I have it right here.”

I take the purple office note from my pocket and hand it to Mrs. B.

She reads, “Bring the lacrosse trophy to lunch. I want to teach you something.”

“That’s not my handwriting,” Stranko says. “He forged this.”

Mrs. B gives me a look that says,
Well?

I go all Lifetime Movie on them, making my eyes bug out and trying to sound as pathetic as possible when I deliver my scripted line.

“But Mrs. Hansen gave me that note!”

Crybaby had me practice that line, coaching me on how to sound desperate. I don’t dare look at her now because I’ll start laughing.

“So Mrs. Hansen is out to get you? Is that it?” Stranko smirks.

“No, she just—”

“That Mrs. Hansen wanted to get you in trouble?”

“No, but—”

Then, Crybaby, right on cue, “I took the note to her.”

Stranko’s jaw almost drops off his skull.