The Fourth Stall Part II (14 page)

“A
re you sure you don't want me to come with?” Vince asked as we played video games in my room that evening.

“Yeah. What would be the point of putting another of us at risk? It's not going to take more than one or two of us to get this done. You just stay at home and see what you can figure out regarding the SMART problem.”

“Okay,” he said, but I think he knew as well as I did that there might not be much we could do there.

Someone had messed with the answer sheets later that night, and we couldn't change that. Not unless Vince could ever get his time machine to actually work like time machines were supposed to—you know, as in going backward and forward in time. A few years ago Vince had drawn up plans to build a time machine. As soon as I saw his list of construction materials, I told him he was crazy. His so-called plans called for a large “coffin-sized” Tupperware container; seven lawn gnomes all with various differing height, weight, beard length, etc., etc.; a large black Magic Marker with no ink left; three down pillows—two white, the third “yellow-ing”; and—here's the kicker and the reason Vince claims the time machine wasn't working properly—a large English-speaking badger with an IQ of exactly 134. Amazingly Vince rounded up all that other stuff, but until he found that badger, he claimed his time machine would only function at one setting: moving forward in time at regular speed. Anyways, unless Vince found that badger in the next few days, there wasn't any way I could change the scores back to the way we had them.

“Hey, I've got a Cubs question for you,” he said.

I wasn't really in the mood for his question, but he'd for sure never let me forget it if I tried to back out now.

“Okay, go,” I said.

“Who were the last and first Cubs pitchers to hit a home run in the postseason?”

I nodded. It was a tricky question. I guessed he wanted me to think that it was probably Carlos Zambrano as the last and then some really old-school guy from before World War I for the first. But he'd underestimated me yet again.

“The first was way, way, way back in . . . ,” I started and saw his eyes light up, “1984, when Rick Sutcliffe did it.”

He slumped forward, disappointed.

“The last one to do it was Kerry Wood in 2003. And those are the only two to ever do it.”

“Nicely done, Mac. I thought you might think it was Zambrano.”

I grinned at him and gave a shrug that said,
I can't help it that I'm smarter than you.

“Ah, Boris Yeltsin anyways,” Vince said.

I laughed. That was
usually
what his Grandma said instead of swearwords, except when she was in church, of course. Vince had adopted it pretty quickly as his favorite swearword.

We finished our game, and then Vince left by going out the window since, really, he wasn't supposed to be over in the first place, considering that I was grounded.

“Good luck tonight,” he said as he left.

I nodded and waved good-bye. I'd need it.

Sneaking out of my house was easy. Whether or not my parents would eventually find out was more the question. I went out the window just like Vince had, a classic escape route. I placed pillows under my sheets like I was already sleeping in case they came into my room, another classic decoy. I know, way to be original, right? But the thing is, those moves are classics for a reason.

Tyrell was already waiting for me in the parking lot when I got there. Though I didn't see him until I practically tripped over him.

He was wearing all black, including black sunglasses to keep the whites of his eyes hidden. He'd been crouching in the shadows of the school Dumpster, but with all that black I didn't see him even after he spoke to me.

“Mac, watch out,” he said.

I dropped to the ground. “Who's there?”

“It's me,” he said, tapping my shoulder.

I jumped because I didn't expect him to be that close to me already.

“You're gonna kill me one of these days, seriously. A guy's heart can only take so much.”

“Sorry, Mac. We all don't sound like a stampede of elephants when we're sneaking around.”

“Am I really that bad?” I asked.

He laughed. “Not
that
bad. Are you ready?”

I nodded, and we were off. We got in through the East Wing entrance, which I still had a key to. The halls were almost pitch black, but somehow Tyrell guided us right to the administration offices without so much as a keychain flashlight. The kid was like a chameleon,
and
he could see in the dark.

This was where it would get a little trickier.

“You're wearing gloves, right?” he whispered.

I held up my hands. I'd found a pair of my mom's black knit, stretch gloves. The only ones I owned were big clumsy winter gloves that would have made my hands so useless, they might as well have been horse hooves.

Tyrell nodded an approval. He dug inside his bag and took out his lock-pick gun. I turned on his flashlight with the soft orange glow.

“Point it at the lock for me,” he said.

Within seconds we were inside the administration office area. It was dark except for a faint red light coming from the power strip by the secretary's desk. We worked our way over to Dr. George's office, and Tyrell did his lock-pick thing and then we were in. Easy as pie.

We moved in the dark to behind Dr. George's desk. Tyrell had said before that he knew exactly where George kept all of our stuff. He pulled the handle to the lowest, largest drawer. It didn't budge.

“Locked,” he whispered.

“So use your gun thingy on it,” I said.

He shook his head. “That won't work on this kind of lock. It's too small and it doesn't use a pin tumbler. I'll have to do this old-school.”

“Whatever. Just hurry up,” I said.

In the dim glow of the orange-light flashlight I could see him grinning as he dug in his pack for something. “What's wrong, Mac? Getting nervous?” he asked.

“Of course. If we get caught in here, we're dead.” After I said this, I realized that that was true if we didn't get our stuff back as well.

Tyrell didn't respond but moved smoothly and quickly as he took out a small pouch from his bag and removed several long skinny rods with jagged, flat ends. And then another thin piece of metal shaped like an L. I shined the pale orange light on the desk's lock as he went to work.

Within a few minutes I heard a small click, and he pulled out the heavy drawer. I had the light shining inside before the drawer was even all the way out. With my luck as of late I expected to find a drawer full of nothing but detention slips and poisonous spiders. But there wasn't either.

The entire drawer contained nothing but my small metal lockbox and a few notebooks that I recognized as our Books and the two DVR receivers. My hands started shaking, I was so excited to see that stuff.

I took the key to the lockbox out of my pocket and unlocked it. My cash was still stuffed safely inside. So maybe George hadn't had a chance to go through all of this stuff just yet? I couldn't help but grin. Even if he had, now that he didn't have the proof in his possession anymore, he'd have a really hard time being able to get us expelled. In school even the top Suits needed proof—they couldn't just do whatever they wanted. There were still procedures and stuff. I took the discs out of the DVRs and put the DVRs back, seeing as how we couldn't carry the recorders back on our bikes. Then I relocked the cashbox and stuffed it, the DVR discs, and my Books inside my backpack.

“All ready to go?” I asked Tyrell.

He shut and relocked the drawer, put away his tools, and gave me a thumbs-up. We stood up to leave, and then I noticed a few stacks of SMART booklets lying on Dr. George's desk. I stopped and flipped open the top test and shined my pale orange beam at it.

“Mac, what are you doing? We have to go. This was supposed to be in and out,” Tyrell whispered.

“I just need to look at this,” I said.

On the very top of the pile was a sticky with this scribbled on it:
Confiscated from Kjelson's room.
I could tell from the big calendar on his desk that the note was in Dr. George's writing. So George had found all of these in Kjelson's room.

Inside the front cover of the first booklet was a printed sheet with graphs and lines thrown up all over it like a seafood lunch buffet gone wrong. On each pile of booklets there were more Post-it notes. Some were labeled:
Originals?
Others:
Altered stage 1
. There was also a pile for each grade level labeled:
xth grade altered
, and another pile for each grade labeled:
xth grade actual
. The writing on these notes I thought I recognized as Mr. Kjelson's from his handwritten welcome notes he'd sent to all of us who'd tried out for baseball. There were even more piles, too, as well as fifteen or twenty used, bloated lab notebooks, but I didn't really need to see anything more. I'd seen plenty.

And I didn't even get any time to absorb the shock because Tyrell was tugging at my sleeve and pointing to his ear.

I listened. I heard a faint creak from behind Dr. George's door.

Somebody was right outside in the administration offices area.

Then the distinct sound of a key sliding into the doorknob lock on Dr. George's door snapped us into action. Well, I still stood there like an idiot, but Tyrell grabbed my arm and pulled me underneath Dr. George's desk.

That probably seems like a horrible place to hide. It probably was, but it was all we had time for. Besides, Dr. George's desk was massive, the size of an aircraft carrier, so there was plenty of room for us to squeeze into the very back corner behind the empty trash can. The front of the desk was solid, so the only way we'd be detected was if the intruder looked under the desk or sat in the chair and stretched his legs out really far.

The door to the office opened with a high, faint creak and closed with a loud thud.

The lights flickered on as the intruder coughed and any doubts of who it was disappeared. Dr. George's coughs sounded like rusty roller skates rolling over rusty nails on top of a rusty sheet of metal being carried by two rust-colored hyenas. I clutched my bag tightly in my arms. Even if he found us, there was no way I was letting him put his crusty old hands on my stuff again.

Dr. George pulled out his chair, and I held my breath. He sat down without so much as a pause and pulled himself closer so that his legs were only six inches from our faces. And the worst part was that Dr. George was wearing shorts. He must have just come from the gym or something. I don't know if you've ever seen old-man legs up close, but trust me, you don't ever want to.

It was weird to see Dr. George in shorts and not just because it was still winter. I'd only ever seen him in suits. Somehow the shorts made him feel like less of a threat. More like an actual human and less like a Suit. But I knew it was dangerous to think that way. A grizzly bear wearing a pretty dress, angel wings, and a halo is still a grizzly bear, and it would still eat you if it were hungry enough.

Dr. George shuffled through some of the papers on his desk. I tried not to look at his gross, white legs too much, but I couldn't help it; it was like watching a gory horror movie. You knew it would gross you out, but you couldn't take your eyes away.

My legs were starting to cramp, and I wasn't sure how long I'd be able to stay still, neatly folded up under this desk like a shirt in a retail store.

Then Dr. George picked up his phone, and I heard his long crusty finger punching the keys.

“Hey, it's me,” he said. “No, I know. Mr. Kjelson is definitely up to something regarding the SMARTs. . . . I'll get to the bottom of it. . . . No, don't do that. I'll take care of it. . . . Yeah, I'm already getting calls on it, and I have a meeting with some officials in a few days. . . . I don't know what he's trying to do, but I'll make sure he doesn't do any more damage than he's already done. Also, I just wanted to confirm the open school board meeting to discuss these serious school issues for next Tuesday night in the Olson Olson Theatre . . . Okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

Dr. George put the phone back on the cradle.

His one-way conversation raised even more questions about Mr. Kjelson. But given all of the evidence, there probably weren't even any questions left. First there was the way Mr. Kjelson had acted about the SMARTs every time I brought them up. Then there was the fact that Vince and I had seen him at the school that night we'd altered the tests and he was headed toward the administration offices. Then there was all the stuff we'd just found and heard, piles of altered tests with Kjelson's writing all over them, and evidence that George believed Kjelson might have altered the tests in some way.

Maybe that's why Hannah had come to me for help with him? Maybe she knew what he was really up to and she didn't think I'd believe her, right along with everybody else? But the only question left was still why. Why would Kjelson do all of this? What exactly did he have against our school? Could he really be doing all of this just to make Hannah's life miserable? I wasn't sure, but it was clear I needed to have a chat with Hannah and then also probably confront Kjelson at some point. I may not have been able to change anything at this point, but not knowing why someone wanted to destroy our school would haunt me for the rest of my life if I didn't ever get answers. This whole thing was turning into a black hole, which is a thing that consumes all matter, something from which nothing can escape, and where no light can exist at all.

Dr. George's feet shuffled, and he grunted as he got up from the chair. He crossed the room slowly then stopped. I tensed up and then my leg bumped the trash can, which made a distinct noise that sounded like a bass drum in the empty and silent office.