“What if it’s a red herring?” Wheeler says.
“Exactly,” Malone says. “Maybe they said it on purpose, so you’d think they were going to prank the celebration but really they’re planning something else. Have you thought about that?”
“Of course I have, but there’s not much we can do about it. This is the first real lead we’ve had. We have to follow it.”
Ellie, who’s agreed with me from the start, says, “Let’s just assume for a second that Max is right, because he could be. What do you think we should do about it?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? Because it’s one thing to know where the Chaos Club is going to strike next, but it’s a whole different thing to know how to use it to our advantage. The good news is that I have time to plan because the Asheville Celebration isn’t until school’s out, which helps because this calls for careful planning and execution.
“Look, I’ll come up with something,” I say. “Are you guys in when I do?”
“Sure,” Malone says, and the others agree. “If you’re right,” she adds.
“And if you come up with something,” Adleta says.
“Those are big ifs,” Wheeler says. “Huge ones.”
“Like my balls,” I say.
? ? ?
On a clear Saturday afternoon, five weeks after my arrest, Mom calls me into the kitchen where she’s making a chicken potpie while listening to the Wicked soundtrack. It’s beautiful outside, and all the windows in the house are open for the first time in months.
“I’m letting you know,” she says.
“Huh?”
“I’m letting you know.”
“Letting me know what?”
Mom raises her eyebrows and gives me a Really? look.
Then I get it.
“Just try not to get arrested, okay?” Mom says. “What? Too soon?”
I receive congratulatory texts from everyone when I announce my ungrounding, but only Wheeler’s free that night. We decide to meet up at Adleta’s lacrosse game.
Behind Adleta’s continuing dominance, the Golden Eagles are undefeated in division play and have only lost a single game, a 6–5 heartbreaker to Reynoldsburg when Adleta took a concussion shot to the head and was forced to sit out the second half. Wheeler and I are in the third row of the packed stands, surrounded by lacrosse parents. Wheeler’s wearing his Future of the Left T-shirt that reads “You Need Satan More Than He Needs You” and has a biology textbook open on his lap. It’s even right-side up.
“Miss the days of not caring?” I ask.
“Absolutely, dude. There’s just so much work to do. I have an essay for Cronin right now that’s giving me migraines. If I knew how much work it took to, you know, not fail, I’m not sure I would have ever started trying to pass.”
“You’re like one of those people who gets brainwashed by a religious cult.”
“Yeah, but without the togas and free love. It sucks, man.”
At halftime, Asheville is up 5–3 against Trenton, our biggest rival. Stranko’s diaper must be full because he’s tearing into the team right in front of us. Adleta’s getting the brunt of the reaming despite having three of our goals. Tim’s dad is right beside Stranko, jabbing his finger at his son while Stranko rails.
“What assholes,” Wheeler says.
A parental unit seated directly in front of us turns around, frowning.
“Sorry,” Wheeler says. “But they are assholes.”
Both give disapproving shakes of their heads in that way all adults seem to have mastered, and the dad’s frown grows even frownier when he sees Wheeler’s shirt.
“Satan’s no laughing matter, son,” the dad says.
“Yeah, an invisible being tempting us to do evil so he can torture our souls forever. Nothing funny or ridiculous about that.”
The dad glares at Wheeler but turns around without saying anything.
“Oh, and speaking of evil,” Wheeler says and from his pocket pulls out a sandwich bag containing Stranko’s phone. I snatch the bag away and shove it deep into my pocket before anyone can see it.
“It’s ready to go, a new phone number and everything.”
“Is his phone number in the contacts?”
“Like you asked.”
“Under what name?”
“Mike Oxbig.”
“Huh?”
“Say it out loud.”
I do and start laughing.
“Are you going to tell me what it’s for?” Wheeler says.
“Not yet,” I say.
Because I really don’t know—at least not entirely. But I have an idea marinating in my brain, and Stranko’s phone plays a small role. Or maybe that’s just Wheeler’s friend Satan setting me up for the big beat down.