Ellie’s at the front door saying, “…due Monday and we were supposed to meet after school. It’s twenty percent of our final grade and—”
It’s not hard to see where she’s going with this, so I play along just like I did in Mrs. B’s office after nabbing Stranko’s phone.
“Hey, Ellie.”
My parents move aside, and there, glaring at me, stands Ellie in her black-and-gold Asheville High jacket, a red backpack at her feet.
“Where the heck were you?”
My mouth drops.
“Oh man…”
“I even reminded you after school, Max. You know I’m leaving with the youth group tomorrow morning and won’t be back until late Sunday. How’s this supposed to get done?”
Ellie drops to a knee and begins rifling through her backpack. She’s breathing funny, and Mom and Dad looked concerned, even a bit worried. Ellie’s so good, I’m starting to think I actually did forget to meet her.
“What’s this project, Max?” Dad says.
“It’s a research project comparing Greek philosophers,” I say, improvising. “We’ve worked on it all week in class and were going to meet at the library today after school to finish. I just forgot. Maybe we could ask Watson for an extension on Monday?”
“That won’t work,” Ellie says. “How many times this week did he say ‘Due Monday. No excuses’? My parents are going to kill me.”
“What about finishing online?” Dad asks.
“We’re not allowed to use the Internet,” Ellie says. “Watson wants us doing what he calls ‘old school research’—books, magazines, and newspapers only.”
“We’ll just turn in what we have,” I say. “It should at least get us a C.”
Mom and Dad practically shout, “What?”
“A C stinks, Max,” Ellie says. “My parents don’t accept Cs. They start researching convents to ship me off to when I get a B.”
“We don’t accept Cs either,” Mom says, almost defensively.
Ellie puts her backpack on and says, “Look, I have to go. The library closes in three hours. I just wanted to see why you didn’t show up. And now I know—because you’re selfish. Forget it. I’ll finish by myself.”
And there it is, bobbing like a ripe worm waiting for my parents to bite. Mom’s brow furrows, and I see her looking at me from the corner of her eye, but Dad chomps like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Get your shoes, Max,” he says. “You’re not going to leave her to do all the work.”
“Unless you forgot your book bag at school too,” Mom says.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Then go get it. Hurry up.”
I walk, not run, to my room and sit on my bed, trying not to laugh. Or throw up.
Because confession time—I’ve never had a girlfriend.
Or kissed a girl.
Or even had one over to the house.
It’s not that I’m a member of the all-ugly team. It’s just that the girlfriend-getting opportunities have been scarce. Okay, nonexistent. Mom, ever the optimist, tries to comfort me by saying I’m a “late bloomer,” which is parent-speak for, “You are going to die a sad and lonely virgin.”
When I get back downstairs, Ellie says, “I really appreciate this, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. You’re saving my life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but we’re happy to help,” Mom says. “The library closes at ten, right?”
“Yep,” Ellie says. “I’ll have him back right after that.”
Mom and Dad tell us to be careful, and then we’re out the door and heading down the walk, halfway to freedom.
Ellie whispers, “No matter what, don’t look back.”
No problem there.
Once we’re safely inside Ellie’s car, I say, “So you didn’t go with the Crybaby this time?”
“I have more bullets in my gun than that, silly.”
Ellie starts the car, and some terrible boy band song blasts from the speakers. She turns the radio down but not off.
“You look dressed to rob a bank,” I say.
“Maybe next time. Tonight we have a different mission to complete. Ready, Mongoose?”
“Gun it, Puma.”
And with that, Ellie gives a whoop before driving us off into the night.
Chapter 9
Located in the old part of town, the Whippy Dip Ice Cream Emporium’s been in business for more than three decades. It was also the spot of my parents’ first date when they were in high school. That’s a bit too creepy of a coincidence for my liking.
Because it’s mid-October and not exactly ice cream weather, the Whippy Dip is deserted. Or desserted, as Mr. Watson would proudly say. Still, we can see four workers through the closed Place Your Order Here window. That might seem like overkill, but after the football game’s over—a game that we’ll no doubt lose—there’ll be a tsunami of students in the parking lot.
“You know, heist films say you should work in private as much as possible. I’m pretty sure the Whippy Dip doesn’t count as private,” I say.