“I should’ve guessed.”
Mr. Jessup arrives and tiptoes to my locker, approaching it from the side. He wedges his hand into where he thinks the combination lock is and pulls away a handful of mucus-like dough. Then Jessup inserts a key into the middle of the combination dial and flattens himself against the lockers, backing away as far as he can and still reach the latch.
When Jessup lifts the latch, the door bursts open. My folders and books and black hoodie slowly erupt from my locker in a mass of smothering dough, oozing onto the floor like beige lava. The final item to seep out is a dough-filled bucket along with dozens of black Chaos Club cards. Even from ten feet away, I can see none of them have the small water tower graphic on them.
“How many other lockers are there like this?” Stranko says to Mr. Jessup.
“Four,” he says.
You can probably guess whose lockers those are.
Chapter 15
Ellie names it Operation Sex, Drugs, and Suicide.
My code name is Weegee, “after the famous crime scene photographer, duh,” Ellie says.
Her code name is Meryl, after actress Meryl Streep.
“I’m not sure she ever played a role like this,” I say.
“Because she couldn’t handle a role like this.”
Ellie and I stand on the high school football field on the eighth and final night of our photo shoot. I haven’t seen any of the other Water Tower Fivers since winter break started a week ago. That’s not by design but simply the result of busy lives. Schoolwork, sports, jobs, family responsibilities, and whatnot get in the way of what we’d all really like to do, which is work on destroying the Chaos Club. But no, Wheeler’s at the local tutoring center full time now, Malone’s busy anchoring people at the rock wall, and Adleta is in Orlando for a lacrosse tournament. That leaves Ellie and me to pull her prank, to which I say—excellent.
“Make sure you have the scoreboard in the background,” Ellie says, lying down on the fifty-yard line.
“The scene of the notorious Hitler-moustache prank,” I say.
“Exactly.”
I stand over Ellie and dump out a garbage bag. Condom wrappers, Bud Light cans, and an empty Maker’s Mark bottle spill onto the frozen field. I arrange them artfully around Ellie, the evidence of a wild night I’m certain neither of us has ever really had.
“Where did you get the alcohol?” I ask, shooting another picture.
“Out of my neighbor’s recycling bin. He has a real problem.”
“Like we’re ones to judge.”
“Exactly,” Ellie says. “Guilty of trespassing and possession of stolen goods. We’re headed for eternal damnation.”
I move to another angle and get low to the ground. Each camera flash is like a lightning strike.
“That should do it,” I say. “Unless you have any others we need to take.”
“No, we’re good. That’s the last one. No point in pushing our luck.”
Back in Ellie’s car, she changes her outfit in the backseat, threatening to decapitate me if I sneak a look. I take my chances anyway. Even with the heater going full blast, it takes a couple minutes for the car to warm up.
Ellie says, “So what about your prank?”
“What about it?”
“Have you thought of one yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You don’t seem at all interested in the guaranteed yes. I would’ve thought you’d jump all over that.”
“I’m going to do something. I promise.”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll run out of time.”
“Schools not out until May.”
“It’ll come faster than you expect.”
“Like my balls. Unfortunately.”
Ellie’s laugh is a sunshine-y sound I’ve come to depend on in the last week. It’s one of the few things giving me a break from my perpetual pissy-ness from the dough-in-the-locker prank. (Yeast, water, and dough in a bucket overnight, in case you were wondering.) Worse was that Stranko had the nerve to imply we’d played the prank on ourselves. Ellie’s crying at the suggestion put an end to that line of thought quickly, but it made me even madder than I already was.
We pull into my driveway shortly before ten o’clock. Except for our Christmas tree lit in the family room window, the house is dark. I don’t want to go in yet. The more time I’ve spent with Ellie, the more comfortable I’ve gotten with her. And the more comfortable I’ve gotten with her, the more I joke-flirt with her in a not-so-subtle-yet-safe way.
“Maybe we should celebrate the end of our photo shoot with a kiss,” I say.
“Oh, you think, huh?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s bad luck not to.”
“We’ll just have to risk it.”
You can’t blame a guy for trying.
“What did I tell you about us?” Ellie asks.
“You said after.”
“Maybe after, yeah. We have a lot to do still.”
“But are my chances getting better?”
“Oh, absolutely. With each passing moment.”
“Then I’ll be strong and soldier on.”
I go to get out of the car when Ellie says, “I do need one small favor on Monday.”