JW01. Under Locker and Key Read online

  Dedicated to Karen Sedar:

  For all the time you spent watching over the child I was and the writer I became, this one’s for you

  FIRST OFF, I AM NOT a thief. I am a retrieval specialist. Big difference. Thieves take what doesn’t belong to them. They steal. Me, I take back the things thieves steal and return them to their rightful owners. The job runs everywhere from crazy to boring to dangerous, but someone has to do it. Kids need protection from the jungle out there.

  If you’ve ever been in middle school, you know what I mean. Bigger kids rip sixth graders off for lunch money, new shoes, whatever. Even teachers contribute to the problem by confiscating cell phones and iPods. I have the highest respect for teachers—my mom is one—but they don’t always understand that the cell phone belongs to your dad, not you, and that if you don’t give it back right after school, you’re grounded.

  So I step in. One meeting with me over a cafeteria lunch or before class and I guarantee to return your stolen property before the late bus leaves. No payment needed—I just ask that you pass my name on to someone else who needs me. And don’t tell the teachers that I retrieved your stuff. Or Becca Mills. Especially Becca Mills.

  Still convinced I’m a thief? Read on. After you become more familiar with my method, you’ll change your mind. Where to begin? How about somewhere exciting . . . ?

  • • •

  The tiles froze my bare knees as I knelt in front of the backpack. I’d like to tell you my heart raced and sweat dripped down my forehead, but I never get nervous on a job that routine. If anything, I felt annoyed at the school for pumping the boys’ locker room full of icy air. Why can I almost see my breath in the one room in school where people strip down?

  Anyway, the bag didn’t belong to me. But the Hello Kitty wallet shoved at the bottom sure didn’t belong to the owner of the tough-looking blue-and-black backpack with the X Games key chain.

  The client: Carrie Bethesda. First-chair trumpet in the concert band. Sixth grader with a habit of carrying multiple twenties in her wallet. Her parents trusted her with a month of lunch money at a time—a bad idea, as it turned out.

  The mark: Adam Lowd. Nothing out of the ordinary: eighth grader with a taste for after-school pizza that left him constantly short on cash. He’d lifted Carrie’s wallet during a scuffle in the lunch line, or so Carrie suspected.

  She was right. I found the wallet crammed between Lowd’s history textbook and a wad of old vocabulary tests. A quick check verified that all $43.75 was still there. This girl was loaded. All that cash might have tempted a real thief to pocket it and leave the client destitute, but I tucked the wallet, bills and all, into the pocket of my hoodie for temporary safekeeping.

  My watch beeped. Ten minutes until the end of eighth-grade gym; the students would come back at any minute to change out of their uniforms. Gotta love gym—the only class where you have to leave all your belongings in a room with minimal security. No one’s around while class is in session, and half the time, people forget to lock their lockers. On top of that, the gym lockers are so small that backpacks have to be left in the open, like Adam’s was. It’s like the school tries to make my job easier. I zipped Adam’s backpack and then left, one hand in my hoodie pocket, resting on the retrieved wallet.

  And because it’s written in the fabric of the universe that no job can go off without a hitch, with the whir and click of a camera Becca Mills stepped in front of me in the hall outside the gym. “Jeremy Wilderson,” she said, twirling her little silver camera by its strap. How did such a tiny girl manage to block the whole hallway?

  “Hi, Becca. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  “Ms. Campbell let us go early after we promised we wouldn’t get into mischief.” A true statement. That camera wouldn’t give her anything on me.

  Becca smiled like I imagine a cobra would, if it had lips. “Breaking promises now?”

  I raised my hands. “Hey, I’m clean. No trouble here. Why don’t you go investigate Scottsville’s illegal gum trade? I swear there was some under-the-desk dealing during homeroom.”

  The twelve-year-old detective stepped closer. Her dark hair gleamed in the June sun coming through the dirty windows. “If there’s any illegal gum trading, I bet you’re jaw-deep in it.”

  “After your last three investigations, I’d think you’d know gum trading is not my game.”

  “Right. Thieving is.” Becca’s lip curled. “You disgust me.”

  “Disgusting? Me? I’m a picture of cleanliness, both physically and morally.”

  “If you’re so ‘clean,’ where is your backpack? Why were you in the gym locker room right now when your last class of the day is science?”

  I sighed. I should have remembered: She’d memorized my schedule back when a history teacher’s test answers disappeared between fourth and fifth period, and Becca was certain I’d stolen them. It wasn’t me; the teacher remembered he’d left the answers in his car. The way Becca acted, though, you would have thought my innocence personally offended her.

  “Like I said, I got out of class early,” I said. “It’s a nice day. I thought I would put my stuff in my gym locker before I go outside so I wouldn’t have to carry it around until after track practice.”

  Becca’s gray eyes narrowed. Her hands lifted, reaching toward the slight bulge in my hoodie pocket. An actual frisking? Really?

  “Whoa,” I said, backing away. “I know I have an athlete’s body, but hands off the abs. People will talk.”

  Becca drew away. “You disgust me.”

  “You already said that.” I shoved my hands into my hoodie’s large front pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the sunshine calls.”

  As I walked away, Becca said, “Your thieving will catch up with you, Wilderson. I’ll make sure of it, even if no one else does.”

  I turned and saluted her, which, judging by her scowl, she did not appreciate.

  The bell rang, and I hurried away down halls beginning to crowd with kids. I had to steer through the mess like a getaway driver at rush hour to get back to my locker and retrieve my own backpack. Yeah, I lied to Becca. I wouldn’t have to if she would loosen up and see that I provide a necessary service, instead of trying to put me in detention for the rest of my middle school life.

  Carrie was waiting outside the instrument room, fussing with her ponytail, biting her lip, and actually pacing. I shook my head. I had told her to go about her classes like normal, and she had to act like she stole the principal’s car keys (much easier than it sounds, by the way). What if Becca or Adam saw her like this? I beckoned her to follow me into the instrument room.

  The loud, busy instrument room makes a great place for handoffs. I use it a lot—band kids need my services more than most people. Instruments have so many loose parts, like reeds and slides and buttons, which have a knack for disappearing just before the winter or spring concert. In return for my help finding mouthpieces that cost way more than a month’s allowance, the band kids grant me a certain amount of discretion when I show up in their room. No one bothered me as I leaned into a corner and brought Carrie’s wallet out of my pocket.

  “You got it!” Carrie said. Or at least I think that’s what she said; some trombone player took that moment to run a scale.

  “It was Adam. He had it in his backpack. You should stop carrying all that money,” I said. “Leave some at home in your sock drawer.”

  Carrie smiled. “I’ll do that. I owe you one.”

  “If you hear of someone who needs something retrieved, send them my way,” I said. “But if you feel the need to pay me with something a little more . . . physical, I like chocolate cake. You know where to find me at lunch.”<
br />
  Before I could move, Carrie hugged me. When she let go, I spun on my heel and walked away. It happens a lot. A guy like me—athlete, hero—girls can’t resist.

  OKAY, FINE. SOME GIRLS ARE immune to my charms, and one of them spent the whole track-and-field practice glaring at me.

  This is as good a place as any to tell you more about Becca Mills. I already mentioned she’s a detective. To you that probably means she plays with magnifying glasses and watches Sherlock Holmes movies on Saturdays. No. The girl is no amateur.

  Becca Mills is the second-smallest girl in the sixth grade and yet throws the shot put for the track-and-field team. The shot put. That alone should clue you in to how intimidating she can be. And determined. She’ll take cases from private citizens, but she spends most of her time working to eliminate corruption in school. So far she has used her first year of middle school to uncover a cheating-through-text-message organization in the seventh grade, stop a counterfeit-hall-pass scam, and reveal the actual recipe for mystery meat (please, if you have any respect for my sanity, don’t make me remember the ingredients). I list only her most impressive cases.

  It doesn’t help that she’s the teachers’ darling. She’s one of the school’s peer mediators; they’re students who talk to other students who are having a hard time, but they also look for and rehabilitate the troublemakers. Becca, however, is really good at finding and stopping trouble, so the teachers listen to her when she rats to them. They even give her some leeway with rules, letting her leave class early and such, so she can stop trouble.

  Not that she’d ever break the rules. That girl hates rule-breakers with an unnatural passion. She knows that I break the rules to help people, but all she cares about is the means, not the end. Becca has made it her personal mission to bring me down because, according to her, if I’m sneaking around, lying, and taking objects from places that are supposed to be secure, I’m a criminal. Apparently, breaking the rules is a bad thing even when the rules let people get hurt. Go figure.

  It may not have helped that in October I asked her if she liked the idea of joining me in a two-person retrieval team. When I proposed the idea, she looked at me like I was egg salad someone left in a locker over summer break, said she’d rather eat said rotten egg salad than spend another minute with a criminal like me, and pushed me against a wall. Next thing I knew, she signed up for peer-mentor detention duty on days she doesn’t have track practice just so she’d be there to sneer at me the day she caught me. Which will be never, by the way.

  She can’t prove anything, and without proof, even her beloved teachers can’t do much. The wallet job was nothing new; after every job Becca seems to be right around the corner, waiting for me. Waiting for proof that is never going to come.

  Anyway, after doing about fifty sprints at track practice, I went to my backpack where I’d left it by the bleachers near the track only to find that someone had searched it. Oh, Becca had been careful about it, like she always is, but I myself have some expertise in bag searching and know what to look for. My pile of homework papers resembled a sandwich more than a barn that lost a battle with a tornado (like it usually did), and the tongues on my school shoes had been pulled toward the toes. Good thing I’d already handed the wallet off to Carrie; if I’d still had it, someone might have gotten the wrong idea about me.

  Mom drove me home. She’s a language arts teacher for seventh grade and tends to stay late to grade papers, which is why she was around after my practice ended. “Hey, honey, how was track?” she said when I climbed into the car.

  “Pretty good. I’m getting faster.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  We spent the rest of the ride with her talking about her job and me staying silent about mine.

  My brother, Rick, hogging the TV and being a general pain in my butt, had his legs sprawled all over the couch when I got home. I stood over his head, blocking his view. “Move.”

  He smiled at me. Nacho cheese spattered the collar of his varsity football T-shirt. “Dr. Evil. I should have known it was you.”

  “Come on, Rick. I’ve had a long practice—”

  “So have I.” Rick’s one of the high school football team’s quarterbacks. Second string. But he still thinks that gives him special privileges at home.

  “—and I really want to chill,” I finished.

  Rick bent a knee, making six inches of bare couch space. When I didn’t move, he smirked. “What is it? Did someone foil one of your dastardly plots?”

  Rick knows nothing about my retrieving business. Thought I’d throw that in there. He’s just a jerk who found Dad’s old spy movies (next to the classic mysteries) and watched them way too many times.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “I’d love to explain it to you, but you’d have to have a functional brain to understand the details. Sorry.”

  Mom chose that moment to poke her head in the room. “Jeremy!”

  “It’s cool, Mom. He doesn’t bother me,” Rick said. He stood, all six feet two inches of him rising in a mountain of seventeen-year-old meathead. “Maybe someday, though, after you’ve grown a couple feet,” he added after Mom left.

  If Becca’s the second-smallest girl, I’m the first-smallest boy. My lack of height gives me an edge sprinting and retrieving, but talking to Rick makes me wish I would hit a growth spurt already. And then I’ll hit him.

  Rick was just about to leave the room when someone knocked at the door. The back door.

  “I got it!” I raced through the kitchen.

  “Suit yourself,” Rick said. The couch squeaked as he lay back down.

  Only my friends/clients come to the back door. One of the necessary precautions when the girl who lives across the street is a private investigator.

  I know, right? Becca and her camera even have the prime stakeout spot on my house.

  Standing on my back porch was a tall African-American kid wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and Philadelphia Eagles fingerless gloves. He wears the gloves September through June because he’s afraid of his hands freezing and losing their dexterity. How do I know? I eat lunch with the guy.

  “Case,” I said, smiling.

  He smiled back. “Hey, J.”

  “What’s up? Where’s Hack?”

  “At home.”

  “Grounded?”

  “Grounded.”

  I shook my head. “What was it this time?”

  “It’s hard to catch everything when you’re hiding in a closet, but I think Hack broke into his mom’s e-mail account and sent a message to the school claiming he had sloth flu.” Case choked on a laugh. “Again.”

  “When’s he going to learn that it’s not a real thing? How’d you get out?”

  “Waited until his mom left and snuck out the back door.” Case pulled a pencil out of his back pocket and wove it between his fingers. “Cut short our game of Madden, though. I ended up having to help my sisters with their math homework.”

  I leaned against the doorframe. “Both of them? Ouch. Any thoughts on getting Hack out of trouble early? I’m favoring plan B on this one.”

  “No go. Hack’s mom caught on, and now she’s suspicious whenever she sees Silly String. No, the best bet is plan A.”

  Plan A stands for “Acting Angelic.” Plan B stands for “Busy” and means harassing Hack’s mom with anonymous mischief until she’s too flustered to enforce Hack’s punishment. Nothing major, just a few pranks here and there to keep her busy while Hack spends time with us.

  But Case was right: We’d overdone plan B, and Hack acting angelic until his mom lifted his sentence was our best bet. “We’d better hope it works quickly,” I said. “What’s Hack’s record for good behavior?”

  “A week. And we had to slip him comic books at school to keep him docile.”

  “I think I have some back issues of X-Men. So, are you here because you want the rest of your video game fix? Or is melting your brain in front of the TV more your style tonight? Although we’d have to budge the Roc
k first.”

  Case shifted his weight. “Actually, I need your light fingers.”

  I eyed him. “Why? You’re not that bad at lifting.”

  “Small things that aren’t nailed down, maybe. Besides, I’d rather keep my fingers safe for my area of expertise. One callus can be the difference between a flawless stroke of ink and a smudge.”

  If you were wondering, Case is a forger. Reports, art, doctors’ notes . . . It’s a good thing he doesn’t use his powers for evil.

  “I don’t think anyone but you would notice. But okay, I’ll help. Will this take long?”

  Case stuck the pencil above his ear. “It shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”

  “Give me a sec,” I said, and then ducked into the house to tell my mom I was hanging out with Case. She told me to have fun; she likes Case. Hack, on the other hand, she doesn’t approve of. It may have something to do with his addiction to accessing password-protected computer programs that don’t belong to him. And, of course, getting caught.

  “So, what did you lose?” I asked as Case and I cut through my neighbors’ backyards.

  “Well . . . the job’s not for me.”

  I stopped. “It’s for a girl, isn’t it?”

  “No . . .”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You don’t know her. She goes to Burdick Charter.”

  “So it is a girl. How’d you meet her?”

  “She hired me a few months ago to re-create a couple of doctor’s notes for her, just to get her out of gym during the baseball unit. She doesn’t like things flying at her at high speeds. Now she has a new project for me.”

  “Huh.” I grinned, but started walking again. “Think you’ve got a chance if I find whatever she lost?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure. What’s the job?”

  “Stolen homework. She had to write a five-page report on Where the Red Fern Grows, and gave it to a classmate to read over. Today when she asked for it back, the classmate claimed she lost it. Ab—the client doesn’t believe that. She thinks her friend took the essay to turn in as her own.”