Miles glanced out the side window, and then said, almost too low for me to hear, “Ja, ich spreche Deutsch.” A smile stretched across his face. “But don’t ask me to do it—it makes me feel like a monkey doing parlor tricks.”
We got out of the truck and started toward the school. “It must be awful for Jetta,” I said.
“I think she’s used to it. Whenever someone asks her to say something, she curses at them.”
“She speaks French and Italian, right?”
“And German and Spanish and Greek and a little Gaelic.”
“Wow. Can you speak all those?”
“Not really. I’m just . . . German.” We crossed the parking lot. “Hey, since we were talking about it—I have another job to run on Thursday night. I want you to help.”
“Why? What can I do?”
“Extra pair of hands. Art was the only one available. I’ll give you a cut of the reward, of course.”
“It’s nothing illegal, right?”
“Of course not. You’ll be fine.”
I had no idea how far Miles’s definition of legal stretched, but maybe this was his form of a peace offering. He wasn’t stupid—if it was really, truly dangerous, I don’t think he would have asked. “Okay. I guess.”
Miles went with me to the newspaper room, where I handed over my memory card to Claude Gunthrie, showing him the pictures of Britney’s spray-painted car. First, Claude laughed. Then he downloaded them and sent an e-mail to his father, Assistant Principal Borruso, and McCoy.
I didn’t miss all the weird looks we got on the way to English. I thought it might be because Miles was smiling, but that didn’t seem like it, either. I didn’t like this new attention. It made my neck itch.
I’d hardly finished my perimeter check when Ria Wolf slid into the desk next to mine, looking eager. Chills ran up my arms and legs at her predatory smile. I wanted to get as far away from her as humanly possible, but I dug my fingernails into the desktop and forced myself to stay put.
“Hey, what was Celia like when she was spray-painting Britney’s car?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
I looked around and realized Celia wasn’t there, and most of the class was watching us and waiting for my answer. “I mean—yeah, I was there, but she was just painting the car. . . .”
Holy hell, had it really gotten out that fast? It had barely been five minutes.
“Are you out to get her or something?” Cliff appeared next to Ria, talking to me like we were best buddies. He was even worse than Ria; every time I saw him, I knew he was half a second from lunging out at me with a razor blade. “’Cause that’s awesome; she deserves it.”
“Hey, Clifford,” Miles growled from his seat, “go find some other territory to mark.”
“Hey, Nazi, go find some more Jews to gas,” Cliff shot back, but even as he said it he stood up and moved back toward his desk.
“Do you understand what you’re saying when those words come out of your mouth?” Miles asked. “Or do you just repeat what everyone else says because everyone else is saying it?”
Cliff settled into his seat. “What the hell are you talking about, Richter?”
“Everyone in this room knows what I’m talking about. Stop calling me a Nazi.”
“Why should I?”
Miles’s hand came down on the desk. “Because the systematic slaughter of millions of people isn’t funny!” His sudden anger quieted the entire room. It even startled Mr. Gunthrie out of his newspaper.
I had thought he didn’t care when people called him a Nazi. A mixed wave of relief and happiness rolled through me that he did care, but why did it make him so angry?
“ENOUGH TALKING.” Mr. Gunthrie rose to his feet, looking between Miles and Cliff like he thought they might explode. “GET INTO YOUR LITERARY DISCUSSION PAIRS, AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A WORD OUT OF ANY OF YOU. UNDERSTOOD?”
“Yes, sir!”
“BEFORE WE BEGIN CLASS TODAY, I’D LIKE TO HAVE A NICE LITTLE CHAT ABOUT THE VALUE OF RESPECTING ANOTHER PERSON’S PROPERTY. DOES THAT SOUND NICE TO YOU ALL?”
And so began our twenty-eight-and-a-half-minute lesson on why spray paint and car windshields don’t mix. Britney and Stacey watched him intently the whole time, nodding in agreement. Mr. Gunthrie gave us a last disappointed look and told us to get on with our discussion of Heart of Darkness.
Tucker, as usual, had already written up our discussion paper. He was being weird again, his expression closed like someone had shut a door inside him. I knew why as soon as he glanced over at Miles.
“So,” he said, “are you two, like, friends now?”
I tried to keep my expression neutral.
“I . . . I guess. He gave me a ride here this morning.” I paused, then said, “He spoke German.”
“What?”
“You told me to tell you if he ever started talking with a German accent. I got him to speak German, so that’s even better, right?”
If anything, Tucker looked more upset than before. “Why are you in his club?”
“Um. Community service.”
“For what?”