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.”