Gotcha (21 page)

The minutes drag by, but eventually I hear the sound of Tyson’s car squealing around the corner, the boom box blaring. He pulls into the parking stall one away from ours.

Warren and I climb out of his truck and face Tyson, who has also stepped out of his car, looking amazingly calm for a bloodthirsty guy who is about to lose his bead. Without any fanfare, Warren tags Tyson’s arm. “Gotcha,” he says.

“Oh gee,” Tyson says sarcastically. He hands a long piece of hemp with beads over to Warren, winking as he does so. Warren shoves the beads deep into his pocket.

I look at Warren, confused. What was the wink for? In the very next second, Warren reaches over and tags me. “Gotcha!”

“Huh?”

Tyson laughs and high-fives Warren. “Hey! We got her good, man!” he hoots.

I look to Warren, stunned. “What?”

Warren is ignoring me, grinning. “No, man,” he says to Tyson. “I got you
both
good!”

Now Tyson and I look at each other. He’s as shocked as I am.

“You’re screwing me?” Tyson’s eyes are bulging out of their sockets.

Warren is doing a little victory dance in the empty parking stall between our two cars.

“Hey, man!” Tyson stammers. “We were a team!”

I see the red creeping up his neck as he watches Warren. I feel my own adrenaline surging. Tyson balls his hands into fists and shoves Warren against his car. “There’s no messing with me, asshole!”

I shove past Tyson and slam both of my fists into Warren’s chest before he regains his balance. “What the hell is the matter with you?” I scream into his face. “You know there’s no money.”

“No money?” Tyson asks, puzzled.

“There are other ways for you to repay me,” Warren says, ignoring Tyson. Before I can stop him, he leans forward and presses moist lips onto mine.

My rage appears to give me superhuman strength, or maybe the Gotcha Gods are at work, but whatever it is, I shove him in the chest and, despite his size, he falls back
against the car. “You’ve screwed practically everyone!” I yell again. “What is your friggin’ point?”

“The point is,” he says, unfazed and straightening his shoulders, “that this is a game, and I’m the ultimate winner. I outsmarted our entire class. No one will think of me as just a pretty face again.”

“You won’t
have
a pretty face again,” Tyson says and reaches into the back of his car.

I glance in the rear window and see a baseball bat lying there. Part of me is alarmed, but the other part is excited. Warren can’t be allowed to get away with this.

As Warren scrambles to get into his truck, I notice a long snake of vehicles pulling into the parking lot. They form a blockade around us and, one by one, members of our class emerge from the cars. Warren slams shut his truck door and presses the automatic door-lock button.

“What’s happening here?” Liam asks, walking up to where Tyson and I are standing.

I happen to know that Liam is one of the unlucky people who lost their beads tonight.

“Katie and I were just letting Warren know how we feel about the way he plays Gotcha,” Tyson says, cradling the bat and stroking it as if it were a soft animal.

Liam nods. He motions to the other people who are standing by their cars. “That’s why we’re here too. We’ve been chatting online and realize that the Pres messed with us all tonight.”

Someone leans into their car and beeps the horn. This is answered by a spattering of other beeps.

“Thanks, Tyson, for letting us know that you were meeting Warren here tonight. We spread the word and decided to join you and give Warren what he needs—his own Gotcha Game Time-Out.”

“Oh yeah,” Tyson agrees. “That
is
what he needs. What are you thinking of?”

“We’re thinking of the city park. We thought we’d take him there, force some apologies out of him, then leave him for a prolonged time-out.”

“I like the way you think,” Tyson says. “Do you want me to help you get him out of his car?”

“That would be great,” Liam says with exaggerated politeness.

Tyson takes a swing at the back window of Warren’s truck and it shatters. I jump back as glass falls in beads at my feet. Tyson reaches in and unlocks Warren’s door, pulls it open, and he and Liam haul Warren out of the truck. More shattered glass falls to the pavement.

Warren puts up a struggle, but four more guys have come forward to help. He’s shoved into the back of Tyson’s car with a couple of bodyguards to keep him still. Tyson climbs into the driver’s seat and starts it up.

For a moment I wonder if Tyson is going to question me about the money, but he seems to have forgotten all about it. Everyone is focused on Warren, so I’m off the hook for the time being.

I’m invited into another car, and the caravan pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward the park. For one creepy moment I feel like I’m part of a funeral procession, but then I remember what Warren has done to me, and his punishment cannot come soon enough.

The road leading into the park slices through the forest and is long, winding and dark.
Park Closed Between Dusk and Dawn
signs are posted at intervals, but there is nothing to physically stop us from entering.

When we reach the clearing, the cars are parked and everyone gathers around a smirking Warren, whose arms are being held by two bodyguards. Liam is also there, and he’s carrying coils of rope. I see people taking swigs from various kinds of bottles. It’s a clear night, and the light from the stars and moon illuminate everyone’s faces.

“Off to the pond,” Liam instructs and he leads the way along a narrow path. Flashlights are switched on and I hobble along behind, reveling in anticipation. Retaliation will be so sweet.

The park borders a river that is popular in the summer for its swimming hole and beach, but we’re heading in the direction of the group picnic area, which features a duck pond in the center. When we reach the grass field, we gather around Liam again. He seems to have taken on the role of Warren’s Time-Out warden.

Liam turns to Warren, who is still being restrained by two larger guys. “All your clothes off,” he orders.

The group begins to cheer and egg Warren on. I hear myself cheering with them. Warren simply shrugs and starts with his jacket. Someone begins to hum the tune of a striptease song, and Warren pretends to get into it, grinding his hips and swinging his jacket over his head. We whistle and clap. Warren drags the dance out, and the hysteria mounts. I feel my heart pounding, excited by the noise, the cold air sharpening my senses. The traitor will pay.

When Warren gets down to his boxer shorts, he stops for a moment and scans the crowd. When he sees me, our eyes meet and are glued to each other for a moment. Then he grins and winks. After that the shorts are off and the crowd goes wild.

Something about that moment instigates my crash back to reality. Looking into his eyes, I see the raw fear. The wink is his cocky way of hiding it, but it is there.

I remove myself from the circle and slide into the shadows of the trees. It’s like a plug was pulled on my adrenaline rush, and it’s swirling down a drain. Something bad is going to happen, and someone needs to stop it. When the class ganged up on me at Tyson’s party, Warren came to my rescue. Now it’s my turn. I know I have to do something, but I feel paralyzed. I can’t get my mind and body to work in sync to come up with a plan.

Liam, who is deftly twirling Tyson’s baseball bat over his head, orders Warren to stretch out on the grass.
The goons force him down, and long lengths of rope are tied to each of his hands and feet. “So, Warren,” Liam asks, “do you have anything to say to your classmates, the ones who you deceived tonight?”

“Yes,” Warren says from his place on the ground. “Thank you!”

Wrong answer. A roar comes from the gathered crowd. Liam orders that Warren be pulled to his feet and marched over to the pond. Different people are assigned to hold the ropes. “In you go, Mr. President,” Liam says, and four more guys lift Warren off the ground and throw him into the water.

Warren is dragged back and forth across the pond, thrashing. The crowd whistles and cheers. Bottles appear from hidden pockets.

Just when I think I’m going to throw up, Liam calls for Warren to be brought out of the pond. He is led away from the water and stands in the center of the circle, his arms wrapped around his body for warmth.

“So, Warren,” Liam says. He appears taller than usual, enjoying his dictatorship. “Is there anything else you’d like to say to your classmates about your despicable behavior tonight?”

Warren stands tall and proud, still gorgeous despite his forced swim. “Yes,” he nods. “I’d like to thank you all for being so gullible, making it so easy for me to steal your beads.”

An empty beer can is tossed at Warren’s head, and then another. “Back in the pond,” Liam orders.

Warren is dragged through the mucky water for another five minutes. I’m still hidden in the trees, shivering. I think about walking away, but something keeps me here. If I leave now, how far will they go? Maybe I can talk some sense into them if it gets too crazy.

Once more, Warren is pulled out of the pond and asked to make an apology. He’s shivering hard, but he’s still standing tall. He scans the crowd, looking for someone. “Katie, wherever you are, thank you for putting your faith in me. You’re the best!” I can see people glancing around, looking for me, but I’m well-hidden in the shadows.

Tyson steps in and takes over as Warren’s Time-Out warden. “Back down on the ground, Warren.”

When he doesn’t move, the goons step in and force him down. Tyson then unzips his fly and pees on Warren’s chest. There are screams of horror as well as cries of approval from the crowd. When Warren’s dragged back up, Tyson zips up his fly and asks, “Anything you want to say now, Mr. President?”

Warren turns to Tyson and spits. The goons yank him back to the pond, the frenzied crowd egging them on. I’m too numb to move.

The next time Warren is pulled out, he still refuses to apologize, but he looks blue with cold.

“Let’s warm him up!” someone says, and he’s pushed to the ground again. This time he curls into a ball while the streams of urine spatter off his cold skin.

I drag my eyes away, repulsed, and that’s when I seem to wake out of my stupor. My arms and legs become unstuck,
and I creep over to where Warren’s clothes lie in a heap and reach for his jacket. I check each pocket, looking for his cell phone. When I find it, I flip open the cover and punch in 9-1-1.

By the time the police arrive, the frenzied mob has bound Warren to a tree with the rope and is dancing around him, chanting “Time-Out, Time-Out.” Someone has gagged him with a sock, and he’s trembling, violently. I’m the first to spot the flashlight beams coming down the trail, and then a German shepherd bounds into the clearing. There’s a surreal moment when everything appears to stand still, frozen. The grads gawk at the police, and the police stare in horror at Warren, tied to the tree. Tyson breaks the bizarre stillness first, dashing into the forest. Then everyone scatters, with three police officers and the dog in pursuit.

I help a female officer untie Warren. I bring him his clothes, and the officer asks him if she should call an ambulance. He shakes his head, but he’s still trembling. He allows her to put her own jacket over his shoulders even though it’s way too small. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and the cockiness has completely disappeared. Then the three of us make our own way back along the trail to the parking area.

When we reach the patrol car, we are both asked to sit in the backseat while the police officer starts the ignition and turns up the heat for Warren. His hands are pressed in
his armpits and he’s shaking miserably. I can see some of the others sitting in the back of another car, while still others huddle in a group, waiting for directions.

The officer speaks into her radio and then turns to look at us.

“Were you the one who made the 9-1-1 call?” she asks me.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call sooner?”

I can only stare at my hands and shrug. I feel her studying me for a moment. Then she leaves the car, and I watch her approach the group standing in a cluster.

“It was the Gotcha Gods,” Warren whispers. His arms are wrapped around his body, but the trembling is easing up.

“Huh?”

He turns and looks directly at me. “The Gotcha Gods. That’s why you didn’t call them sooner.” He’s dead serious.

I stare back at him and then nod. Yeah, I guess it was.

Warren reaches into the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a handful of beads that are all tangled up together on a thin cord and drops them into my lap. Then he pulls out another handful, on a broken string, and then another. He heaps them onto my lap. I stare at the plastic beads, worthless objects, probably bought at a discount store, looking nothing like the glossy orbs that we’d each been given at the start of the game. They’re just like the paper that money is printed on. Valueless, until we give them worth.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Take them,” Warren says.

I turn and stare out the window. I see Tyson being escorted into the back of another patrol car. “I don’t want them.” I collect up the heap and dump it back onto his lap.

“But the money...” Warren says.

“You won. Remember?”

“But you rescued me. Even after...Just take them.”

I scoot as far away from him on the seat as I can. He’s still thinking about the game, even after what he’s just been through. “It’s over, Warren.”

He studies me and then shoves them off his lap. They lie between us, a couple of hundred beady eyes, staring up.

I take a quick glance at the bleachers that are filling up with my classmates but go back to staring at a vent in the side wall. Years ago, at my grandpa’s funeral, I discovered that if you stare intently and without blinking at a single object, it helps check the tears. I haven’t figured out what to do with my trembling hands, though, or the nausea. I picture myself puking, right here, in front of everyone, and never being able to show my face in public again. Maybe I won’t be able to anyway, after this humiliation is over.