JW01. Under Locker and Key Page 3

  “After you left, I delivered the essay,” Case said as I spooned peaches into my mouth. He had on a Patriots jersey.

  “What’s her name?” Hack said as he sat down next to me. As usual after a recent grounding, he looked oddly groomed. His red hair was combed and parted and his glasses were free of fingerprints. His mom was a sucker for a good show.

  “That’s what I asked,” I said. “He won’t tell.”

  Case rolled his eyes. “It’s not your business. Oh, and how did the Bethesda job go, J?”

  I shrugged. “Grab-and-go. Dragged Adam’s backpack into the bathroom and found the wallet inside. Carrie was waiting in the band room. Your job for me last night was more interesting.”

  “Sounds like the Yi job.”

  “Kind of. The Yi job involved a purse, not a backpack, but yeah. Becca stopped me in the hall, by the way.”

  Hack coughed. “And you’re still alive?”

  “Of course. He’s sitting right here. But that reminds me.” Case handed Hack and me matching hall passes signed by Vice Principal Woodrow. “They just changed styles; your old ones are expired now.”

  “Thanks, man.” I looked at the professional-looking pass. “I always need one of these.”

  “I’ve got a whole bundle in my locker, for anyone who needs them.”

  “I may send some clients your way. I know Cricket has gotten a lot of use out of his old pass.”

  “I hope you understand how difficult it was this time,” Case said, cutting his pizza with a fork and knife. “Woodrow must have bought new pens; the black ink on the original split into a different array of colors than it used to when I dipped a sample in water. I spent hours trying every black pen in my dad’s desk until I got one that matched.”

  “Oh, come on, Case,” Hack said. “Why couldn’t you use just any black pen? No one cares if you match the ink exactly as long as you get the handwriting right.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I saw the peer mediators spritzing hall passes with the water fountain this morning, checking for fakes.”

  “Ha-ha, J.” Case stashed his fork over his ear.

  I pointed. “Not a pencil, man.”

  “What?” Case asked as Hack took the fork and waved it. “Oh. Anyway, is it so bad if I take pride in my work?”

  “And we don’t?” Hack and I chorused.

  “Hack, if you took any pride in your work, you wouldn’t leap right into firewalls without planning out what you’ll do if they spit you right out.” Case stabbed a bite of pizza with his fork. “You know you wouldn’t be grounded so often if you thought things through.”

  Hack grinned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Maybe I should take your lead and obsess over inks.”

  “Be careful,” I warned. “You may have doomed us to a lecture on how you can tell the quality of a black ink by the cyan-to-red ratio.”

  Case glared at us. “Magenta. Not red.”

  Hack widened his eyes in horror. “Oh no. I beg you, have mercy.”

  “Better settle down for a nap now,” I said. “It’ll get harder once he starts the passionate speech on gradations.”

  Case groaned and took a sip of milk. “And, J, here’s your problem. You don’t take anything seriously. And you’re out of your mind.”

  I tilted my head. “Can’t argue with you there, but which of my many insanities are you referring to? Oh, thank you,” I said as loaded-wallet Carrie dropped a plastic-wrapped slice of chocolate cake in front of me. She smiled as she walked away, and I waved. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Great,” Hack said, pulling the cake his way. “Payday.”

  “Hang on. Let me unwrap it first.” I grabbed the cake and started unraveling the sticky plastic wrap. “I can’t be that insane if I keep getting paid.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hack said, picking up his fork. “What makes you insane is that you work at this school.”

  I balled up the plastic wrap. “So? You guys work at Burdick and the elementary and high schools. And I know Case takes jobs at Da Vinci Academy.”

  Case snorted. “Those schools don’t have any of our parents teaching there. Or a shot-putter detective named Becca who has a personal vendetta against one Jeremy Wilderson. Hey, Hack. Pass that here.”

  “ ‘Vendetta,’ huh?” I said as Hack slid my cake to Case. “I guess someone’s having a vocab test today.”

  “Seriously, J. Keep this up, sooner or later you’ll leave evidence. And then she’ll catch you.” Case took a bite of the cake. “Wow. I think this icing has raspberry jam mixed in.”

  “Let me try.” Hack scooped up a fourth of the slice and shoved it in his mouth. “Oh man. So much better than the cream-filled snack cakes you usually get.”

  “Yeah, Carrie has good taste. I wonder if she made this herself.” I pulled the cake closer and took a bite before my friends could finish it off for me. It was one of the better payments I’d received for a job.

  Hack glanced across the lunchroom at Becca. “There she goes. Taking more pictures for her files on all of us.”

  We all looked. Becca lowered her camera and glared at me.

  “We’ve been over this. She doesn’t keep files on us,” Case argued.

  “Then how come she knew I was the one who rickrolled the school during morning announcements the day before spring break?”

  “Because everyone knows that,” I said.

  “She follows us everywhere,” Hack said. “Taking pictures. I caught her watching me in the computer lab. The snitch was just peering in through the window. When I looked at her, she smiled and took a picture. For the file. Next thing I know, I get moved to a computer with a screen that faces the teacher.”

  “That’s nothing,” Case said. “Ms. Grant talked to me in December about missing paints. The snitch was investigating and told her that I had been taking the paints home with me. Stealing them. Why would I want paints that people dip dirty brushes in when I have my own at home?”

  “How come you never told me about that?” I asked.

  “Nonissue. The paints turned up the next day. Someone had stored them in the wrong cupboard.”

  “But why would she suspect you?”

  Hack rocked in his chair. “Because we’re your friends, and she hates you. We’ve seen how she jumps you in the hallway. Imagine how much she’d squeeze us if we didn’t only take jobs at other schools.”

  Case laughed. “Squeeze us? Dude, what does that even mean?”

  Don’t be fooled by Case and Hack’s constant bickering; they would do anything for each other. Once, when Hack got called down to the office for breaking into the school’s website, Case forged a parent’s note and got him out. Just thinking about it makes my throat feel like Becca has it in a choke hold. In a good way.

  But at least Case and Hack’s going at each other got them both off my back. Who cares where I work? The kids here need my services just as much as at the charter school and the elementary and high schools. I’m not going to let some tiny girl scare me away, no matter how good her arm is.

  “Dude,” Hack said, pointing at Case’s jersey. “Pick a team. Doesn’t matter which one. Just pick one.”

  Case held up his gloves. “I may admire a lot of teams, but you know it’s the Eagles. Now and forever.”

  “Really? Them? They never win!”

  “They would if we ever finished a game of Madden. Don’t you think it’s time you stop hacking your mom’s e-mail? You just keep getting grounded!”

  “Yeah,” I cut in, glad the conversation’s focus had fallen away from me. “Besides, didn’t we promise to use our skills to help people?”

  “It was just a little practice,” Hack said. “Mom got a new security system. What, was I not supposed to try to break through it? But yeah, I need to lie low. Mom said she’ll send me to live with Dad if I try it again. She says that will straighten me out.”

  Hack’s dad tests the security systems of big companies by pretending to be a hacker. He tries to break
in, and if he can do it, the company needs to fix their firewalls. Oh yeah, living with his dad will totally straighten Hack out.

  I’ve only seen Paul Heigel Sr. once, at one of Hack’s birthday parties before his parents split. He looked like an older version of Hack, as if the body came package deal with the name. Red hair, glasses, muscular build. If I gambled, I’d bet good money that Hack will wind up in the same job, testing electronic security. That, or in prison.

  I was about to make some comment about Hack, Case, and me being the school’s Future Jailbirds of America club when something caught my eye. Call it chance, call it destiny, or call it my fine-tuned senses, but I noticed the exact moment when Becca left her usual perch—where she had glared at me all through lunch—and left the cafeteria. Ignoring the teacher with the sign-out sheet as she went.

  Interesting, very interesting. Becca was a stickler for rules; what was so important that she didn’t want anyone asking questions? Whatever it was, I had to see for myself.

  “Excuse me, but duty calls,” I said, standing up and tilting my head at the hall.

  “Have fun on the toilet!” Hack called.

  Case dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “You’d make a Neanderthal look refined.”

  Sheesh. Just because someone’s working on a fake Picasso in his room doesn’t make him the authority on culture.

  Dodging the teacher on sign-out-sheet duty was easy—his head dipped with exhaustion, and Hack chose that moment to toss my lunch tray to the floor. A useful distraction, if my least favorite of their repertoire. At least I’d finished the cake before beginning this chase.

  Following Becca was harder. Whenever I stepped too loud, she stopped and looked behind her, forcing me to hide behind lockers, doors, anything. But, step by nerve-racking step, I got through it and ended up outside the teachers’ lounge.

  Most kids think the teachers’ lounge is some kind of theme park that kids aren’t allowed to know about. That’s not true. It has a TV, a refrigerator, a well-used coffee machine, and some couches. Draped, of course, with dead-exhausted teachers and staff. Now, how I first got inside, that is a good story. It involves a ferret.

  But that’s for another time. This particular afternoon, a couple of the normally dead-exhausted teachers stood outside the open door, talking in hushed tones.

  Becca was crouched down the hall from them, hidden behind a row of lockers. I lurked around the corner; if I craned my head around, I could see her and the teachers. If I didn’t, I stayed perfectly hidden and could hear just fine.

  “Are you going to tell them?” one teacher asked. A woman, but she taught eighth grade so I didn’t know her name.

  “No! If the kids knew the key was out there, free for the taking, we’d have a real crisis on our hands.” Her companion was Coach Cread, the gym teacher. A decent human being most of the time, but hard on us poor, innocent kickballs. I mean children.

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I’m just saying, there are hundreds of them. One of them might find the key before the end of school tomorrow, and then the janitor would have it back. No harm done.”

  “The final word is no. That comes from Jacob himself. None of the kids are to know the master key is missing. At least for a few days while we search.”

  Jacob. That would be Principal McDuff. Wait, did he say master key? Not the master key! I must have heard wrong. I twisted my neck so my ear stuck out around the corner.

  “I won’t argue with Jacob,” the female teacher said. “Not over this. But I think we should still tell them.”

  “How about this? We tell Becca, get her working on it for now.”

  What did I say? Teachers’ darling.

  “Already have. She’ll give it to Jacob if she finds it. What are we going to do in the meantime until the key is found? What if a student forgets his combination?”

  Coach Cread probably had some kind of response for her, but I didn’t hear it. So it was the master key that was lost, the key that would open any locker door in the school. I was torn between hoping the teachers found it before the day ended and wishing I would find it before they did. It was, after all, the Holy Grail of retrieving.

  I wanted to ditch the rest of lunch, go to the janitor’s closet, and scan the floor for the key, but a little dark-haired fiend ended that dream. Before I could think, Becca’s hands were clutching my shirt as she rammed my head into the wall.

  “Owww . . . ,” I moaned, but Becca isn’t known for her sympathy.

  “Look what I found,” she said, smirking. “Taking pride in your work?”

  “According to some, pride in one’s work isn’t the luxury of the insane.” I rubbed my head. “Can I help you with something, or can I go to the nurse now?”

  “You should be in the cafeteria.”

  “So should you.”

  “Some things are more important than lunch,” she said. “But let’s not waste time, Wilderson. Where’s the key?”

  “Lost, or so I hear,” I said. “The teachers are worried. Too bad this school doesn’t have a detective who can go out and find it for us—hey, wait a second,” I said. “I have a great idea. Why don’t you get your hands off me and go take this case?”

  “I already have,” Becca said, and her grip on my collar tightened. I didn’t think hands could close that tightly. My throat felt like it does when I think about Case bailing out Hack.

  “And,” she continued, “I know who the culprit is. You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you? From now on you won’t have to worry about leaving evidence.”

  “Please. I only leave evidence if I want to.”

  “Whatever.” Becca let go, and I doubled over, acting as if I were gasping for air. “It’s not your fault, Wilderson.”

  “It’s not?”

  “I can imagine how tempting the master key would be for you. The key that opens any student’s locker—it would make your thieving so much easier.”

  “How many times do we need to go over this? I’m not a thief.”

  Becca didn’t seem to hear me. “Your mom’s a teacher here and you come in early all the time. You know when the janitor’s not near his closet. It would be so easy for you to walk in, find the key marked with an X, and leave. No one the wiser. Well, except for me.” She smiled.

  “Good luck with that theory, considering I’m not a thie—wait, did you say it was marked with an X  ?”

  Becca smiled like she was laying a trap. “Black X. Square top. Seen anything like that lately?”

  She knew. I knew she knew. But she had no photos, no evidence except my confession, and I’d rather lick the school-bus floor than give her that. I had to stay free to make Mark pay for what he’d done.

  I knew he’d been hiding something! I shouldn’t have assumed it was something innocent just because the job was easy.

  “I’m confused,” I said. “Why mark the key with an X  ? Isn’t it kind of like writing ‘Steal me’ on the master key?”

  Becca lowered her eyes. “The janitor marked it because he has to pull it out of the key ring so many times. It’s faster when he doesn’t have to scrutinize every single one.”

  “ ‘Scrutinize.’ Good vocab word. Are you, by any chance, in Casey Kingston’s language arts class?”

  “Do I look like I associate with your crooked friends?”

  I looked her over. “No.”

  “Lunch is almost over. Where’s the key?”

  “I don’t have it,” I replied, the picture of honesty.

  Becca stepped back, staring at me. “Whatever. I can’t hold you here, but remember this: Now you’ve gone too far. I’ll find the key, and I’ll prove you took it. And when I do, you’ll finally know what in-school suspension looks like.”

  “I’ve peeked through the window. It didn’t look that bad.”

  “Yours will be bad,” she assured me. “I’ll make sure of it.” And with that she walked away.

  And Case thinks I’m nuts, I thought. At least I don
’t go around threatening people in the hallway.

  But when I thought about Mark and how he’d used me to steal the master key, I decided it might be time to give it a try.

  I FOUND MARK IN THE eighth-grade hallway after the last bell rang. He was leaning against his locker, chatting with friends, all innocence. He laughed, flashing braces, and held his head with a jauntiness that made my blood boil.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pushing through a crowd of guys twice as tall as me and double my weight. “Coming through. Need to see a man about a job.”

  This particular crowd of eighth-grade guys looked like they wanted to lodge me under a desk like chewed gum. For a moment I felt as though I’d jumped into shark-infested water wearing swim trunks made of raw tuna. All these big guys . . . and I knew nothing about Mark. Could he be some kind of kingpin with an army of goons behind him? If so, how did I not know about him? Was he the kind of bad guy who hung back and ran his empire by manipulating others into doing his dirty work?

  But then a couple of the guys walked past Mark and his friends, and one of them shot a hand out and into Mark, slamming him into the lockers. The guys didn’t apologize, not that I expected them to, but they didn’t laugh, either.

  Cheap fun. That’s what Mark was to them. Now I understood the bruise I’d seen on Mark’s arm.

  I cleared my throat and waved. Mark looked up and grinned. “Hey, Jeremy! Good to see you so soon. Come on over here.”

  “You hang with a tough crowd,” I said as I walked through the pack of big, smelly dudes to where Mark stood.

  He smiled and nodded, missing my sarcasm. “That’s right.” He raised a hand for a high five that went ignored by the other eighth graders until one of his friends tapped it. Even so, the delusional jerk looked as pleased as if a high school quarterback had begged to be his best friend. Let me tell you, Rick has enough friends without having to beg for manipulative eighth-grade lowlifes.