? ? ?
When we’re around the corner of the fence and away from the others, Ellie takes out her phone and starts texting. I try to see what she’s typing, but her fingers are too fast.
“My parents,” she says. “They think I’m at the library studying.”
“But the library closes at nine on Thursdays.”
“That’s not something Mom and Dad would think about. They trust me too much.”
“It sounds like maybe they shouldn’t.”
“You’re definitely right about that.”
On the far side of the water tower, the woods are just an arm’s reach away and block out any moonlight. It’s chilly for September, and I regret not bringing a jacket.
Ellie moves in close and squeezes my arm, saying, “I’m glad you’re here.”
My mouth is a balled-up gym sock.
“Why’s that?”
“Because knowing other people makes it more fun, you know?”
Make that two balled-up gym socks.
We keep walking the perimeter of the fence, pointlessly looking around for clues. From the other side of the water tower, I hear Malone tell someone to shut up. Dollars to doughnuts it’s Wheeler.
“I thought it was crummy what Tami said in class today,” Ellie says. “I felt bad for you.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“No, no one deserves that. Especially you.”
Each Thursday in philosophy, we have Big Questions of Existence, when Watson divides the class into two sides to debate whatever topic he chooses to torture us with.
Today’s question: Is every life valuable?
The topic was handled with the sensitivity and respect you’d expect from a class of teenagers. Admittedly, I didn’t pay too much attention. Instead, I was busy completing an extra credit assignment due in English second period. Normally, I’m not a big extra credit guy, but my grade sort of demanded it. Besides, it’s not like I could turn down this assignment: Concoct a Scheme in Which Gatsby and Daisy Live Happily Ever After. My idea involved Gatsby killing that bitchy tennis player Jordan Baker, then framing Daisy’s asshole husband, Tom, for the murder. It’s this type of thinking that goes a long way toward explaining my empty social calendar.
So while I was busy arranging for Tom Buchanan to spend the rest of his life locked up in prison, Watson called on Tami Cantor.
(Quick—ever known a nice person named Tami? Exactly.)
Tami, doing her best to live up to the reputation of every Tami in recorded history, said, “Look, some people just aren’t as important as others. Not everyone can be somebody. There have to be nobodies too. I’m not being mean. It’s just statistics.”
In the commotion that ensued, Tami decided to raise her position on the Bitch Power Rankings by saying, “Look, I don’t mean nobody in a bad sense. Nobodies can be good people. They’re just not very important. Like Dan over there. He’s nice and people like him, but he’s not special or anything.”
I looked up from my notebook, wondering just who Tami was talking about because there isn’t any Dan in our class.
Then I saw where she was pointing.
And everyone was looking my way too.
This is my life.
“My name’s Max,” I said.
Tami did a perfectly executed whatever shrug that made my face burn.
“We’ve been in classes together since kindergarten,” I said.
Tami huffed and said, “Well, that just sort of proves my point, doesn’t it? And don’t get so defensive. I’m not saying you’re a bad person. You’re just kind of there. You’re just Max, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Here’s the ethical question Watson should offer next week: Is it technically murder if you kill someone without a soul?
The dismissal bell rang seconds later, but Tami’s comment about me being a nobody, being Just Max, pinballed around my brain all day.
Now, fifteen hours later, here I am.
“Wait, you don’t believe Tami, do you?” Ellie says as we approach the fence gate.
“Uh, no, of course not.”
“Look, she’s the nobody, Max. The only reason people like her say things like that is because—” Ellie stops and points. “What’s that?”
Stuffed in one of the diamond-shaped holes in the fence gate is an envelope. Ellie almost comes out of her shoes to get it.
The front reads: Initiates.
“Should we call everyone?” Ellie says.
“No, you found it—you get the honors.”
Ellie tears into the envelope like she’s expecting a Wonka Golden Ticket inside.
Out comes another black Chaos Club card, and Ellie reads the back before turning it my way.
Climb up.
Chapter 3
When we get back to the others, Wheeler’s throwing rocks at a streetlight, Malone’s on the curb, comatose with her music, and Adleta’s off by himself, probably calculating long division in his head. So much for everyone looking for clues.
“We found something,” Ellie says. “Come see.”