I have Mrs. Nally for homeroom, and our position is on the fifty-yard line, close to Banks, just like Wheeler and I planned. Jeff Benz, he of Watson’s-senior-aide fame, is our StuGo, or student government, rep and charged with arranging us on the field.
“You,” he says, pointing to me and showing me the diagram. “You set up on the end here. The line forms behind you.”
The diagram Benz holds looks like something a sick computer would barf out. The sheet is covered with x’s, each representing a student’s placement on the field. Malone designed the layout so each team leader only has one piece of the map, not the whole image of the full design. That way, no one knows what’s being created. At least that’s the hope.
StuGo reps wander from group to group, making sure the sections line up as they should. Adleta’s in the front of his section, ready to intercept Stranko if there’s a problem. He gives me a thumbs-up and a big this is going to be great smile.
Adleta’s right to think that. Like I said, the hard part’s finished. Hopefully, that means never having to attend StuGo meetings ever again. Officially, student government is for kids who want to plan dances and decorate the school for various stupid reasons throughout the year. But unofficially, StuGo is for padding college applications. Normally, you couldn’t pay me enough to go to one of their meetings, but they were put in charge of organizing today’s activity. With the group’s “Everyone is welcome!” philosophy, infiltration was easy. Even easier was switching out the board-approved diagram and replacing it with Wheeler and Malone’s work. It’s not hard to be sneaky when every moron in the room is engaged in a hot, borderline violent debate about homecoming snacks: potato chips or pretzels? These are the heavy questions of the universe StuGo wrestles with on a weekly basis.
Now with the fake diagrams in the hands of the StuGo reps, everything is going beautifully. The juniors and seniors, just happy to be out of class, are following the barked orders, and we’re all well away from where anyone can see what’s really happening. All we need now is the pilot to fly overhead and shoot the picture. Simple. Just like we drew it up.
Then.
Ellie waves her arms to get my attention.
I give her a What? gesture with my hands.
She points violently to the far end of the intramural field, where Stranko and Banks are now walking with six beefy football players. Their destination? The thirty-foot-high scaffolding used by the marching band director during practice to make sure everyone is in lockstep with one another. Wheeler must’ve not seen the tower last night. I even missed it today in the daylight.
The five of us break rank from our homerooms and race to each other.
“If Stranko gets up there, we’re screwed,” Wheeler says.
“How much time do we have?” I ask Ellie.
“Five minutes before the plane shows up,” she says.
“We were so close,” Adleta says.
“I sort of wanted to see how it looked,” Malone says.
“I can give you an up close and personal,” Wheeler says, and Malone gives him a shove, but it’s a friendly one.
“No, we’re not giving up,” I say. “We need to stall.”
It’s Heist Rule #14: Be ready to improvise.
? ? ?
“Mr. Stranko?” I say.
“What is it, Cobb? Why aren’t all of you with your homerooms?”
“We just thought you should know there’s something weird with the design.”
“What do you mean ‘weird’?”
“Isn’t it supposed to say Asheville Pride or something like that?” Ellie says.
“AHS Pride, yes,” Mrs. Banks says.
“Well, it doesn’t,” Adleta says.
“No, it does,” Banks says. “I drew up the design myself. The picture is going on the front of the district website.”
“No, he’s right,” Malone says. “We’re not forming letters. There are too many long, straight lines. It’s weird.”
Stranko looks over to the field where one thousand students stand, many of them staring into the sky, waiting on the plane to shoot their picture. We’ve only stalled for a minute. Somehow we need to kill four more.
“Help us push the tower over there, and we’ll see if you’re right,” Stranko says. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
If you’ve ever been in a tug-of-war with a semitruck, then you know what it’s like trying to hold back the scaffolding tower as the varsity offensive line tries to push it forward. Hard doesn’t even begin to describe what it’s like fake pushing when you’re really pulling. I use muscles I didn’t know I had. And I use them poorly too. Because despite our stalling, the wheels on the scaffold roll closer and closer to the intramural field. We’re within twenty yards of the far end of the field when Stranko orders us to stop.
“Are you sure you should climb without a helmet, sir?” Wheeler says, blocking his path. “Like when we repainted the tower?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Wheeler,” Stranko says and wraps the bullhorn’s strap over his shoulder and begins climbing. Mrs. Banks goes to follow him but stops when she realizes her skirt has no pocket for her phone. Ellie holds out her hand.