The door’s not very big but it’s a harder problem than it looks like. It has to be something we can do fast. It has to be something we can do with stuff we can bring to school without anybody noticing. And it has to be something nobody’d notice for at least a few minutes.
We’re not coming up with anything right off the top of our heads.
We’ve already figured other stuff out. We’d have the guns in our lockers. We’d go for the all-school assembly before Thanksgiving. They hang big crepe-paper turkeys and shit on the windows and doors, and that might help hide whatever we do to the lock.
I keep coming back to duct tape, because it’s one of those doors where you hit the bar to open it from the inside. But Flake thinks duct tape’s too easy to see and wouldn’t be strong enough anyway.
“With enough tape it would be strong enough,” I go. We’re in his bedroom and he’s got the Great Speeches CD going in case his mother or somebody wanders by the door.
“What’re you, gonna stand there for thirty minutes wrapping duct tape around things?” he goes.
“I don’t think it would take that long,” I tell him.
“Who do you think was the best serial killer?” he goes. He knows I have a book about it.
“It depends,” I go. “Ed Gein was pretty fucked up.”
He looks grossed out. I told him about Ed Gein.
“I keep thinking we could get a hammer or chisel and just smash the shit out of the thing that goes into the wall,” he goes. “You know, the thing that sticks out.”
“Yeah, like that wouldn’t make a gigantic noise,” I go.
“Well, I’d rather make a gigantic noise than stand there for eight hours,” he goes. “If nobody sees you right when you do it, you could take off by the time people came.”
Suppose they came and checked out the door, I ask, and he makes a face. What about we bring a lock, I ask. Like a bike lock.
“There’s nothing on the wall to lock the bar to,” he says.
We think about it. He’s got a sketch of the door and draws lines from the bar in various directions. “What we need to do is do like a test,” he goes.
He’s right. That’s the only way we’re going to figure this out. “We can’t be all set to go and get there and find out it’s not gonna work,” I tell him.
“Who’s got doors like that that we can screw around with?” he wants to know.
“The mall,” I go.
“No, those are different,” he goes. “Besides, who’s gonna let us screw around with doors at the mall?”
I keep thinking.
“Use your head,” he goes.
“Use yours,” I tell him.
We sit there, Flake drawing big X’s on his sketch pad.
“Who’s this?” I ask him, about who’s talking on the CD.
“Charles Lindbergh,” he goes. “Some of those doors in the basement near the furnace were the bar kind.”
“We’re gonna go back there?” I go. “We broke the window. They know someone was there.”
“We’ll check it out,” he says. “We’ll wait a few weeks. If it doesn’t look easy, we won’t do it.”
“I don’t know,” I go.
“Well, then come up with someplace else,” he says, like it’s settled.
I don’t like it but it’s the best plan we’ve got right now. “What’d Charles Lindbergh do?” I go.
“Why don’t you read a book and find out?” he goes.
“I just told you about Ed Gein,” I go.
“Ever hear of the Spirit of St. Louis?” he goes.
“Yeah,” I go.
“So there you go,” he says.
“So I don’t like sports,” I go.
“God, help me,” he goes. “Mother of God, help me.”
“Oh, yeah. Poor you,” I go.
When his dad drives off to pick up some takeout we head into the garage to investigate his tools.
We start with his big red toolbox. He keeps it locked, but even I’ve seen where he hides the key. We root around in it. Everything’s big and heavy, so digging around makes an unbelievable amount of noise.
“What’re you boys doing out there?” his mom calls from the kitchen window.
“Making trouble,” Flake calls back.
“You better not be in your father’s things,” she calls.
He stops rooting for minute, to let her wander into another room.
“What is this?” I ask. I hold it up.
“I have no clue,” he goes. “Put it back.”
There’s nothing it looks like we can use. Needle-nose pliers, regular pliers, a big red wrench I can barely lift, two hammers, two measuring tapes. Little plastic boxes of screws. Rubber gloves.
He grinds his teeth like he does when he’s starting to get pissed. I barely get my fingers out of there before he slams the top shut.
“What about up here?” I point at the particleboard his dad hung on the wall. It has holes for hooks and big stuff hanging from the hooks. Oversized scissors, a T square, an old hand drill, electrical tape, duct tape. Bungee cords. I take one down. “What about this?” I go.
“How long’s it take to take off bungee cords?” he goes. He makes a disgusted noise that sounds like a push on a bicycle pump. “How about Scotch tape?” he goes.
“Okay. It was just a question,” I go.
“You could slide like a rake handle across the door and through the bar,” I tell him a minute later.
“I thought of that,” he tells me. “You can also just slide it right back out again.”
“Yeah,” I go.
He sits on the cement, checking for wet spots from oil or antifreeze or whatever else is leaking out of his father’s car. I squat next to him.
“Worried about your pants?” he goes.
“I got like one nonqueer pair of pants,” I go. “I’m not getting shit all over them for no reason.”
“What’s up with that?” he goes. “Why can’t you buy another pair a pants?”
“Roddy?” his mom calls. It sounds like she’s farther away than the kitchen.
“Right here,” Flake calls back.
We look up at the particleboard and all around the rest of the garage.
“I was always jealous of kids who could take like two sticks and build something that would catch a raccoon,” he goes.
I know how he feels. “It sucks that we can’t think of anything,” I tell him. It really does.
“All we’re trying to do is keep a lot of people in one place while we shoot at them,” he goes. “Why’s it have to be so hard?”
His dad’s car pulls into the driveway. He accelerates when he sees Flake sitting in the middle of his garage and then he brakes before he reaches us.
“Suppose your brakes didn’t work?” Flake goes when his dad gets out of the car.
His dad hefts the takeout bag onto his shoulder like he’s starting a long hike. “My point entirely,” he goes.
“What’s that mean?” I ask once his dad’s in the house.
“Who knows, with him?” Flake goes. He gets off the floor and wipes his hands.
It’s a nice day so his dad and mom come back outside with the takeout and a half-gallon of ginger ale and some plastic cups. They spread out on the picnic table. They don’t ask if we want anything, so we sit in the grass and look over at them. Flake chews on individual blades and then a dandelion stalk. The sun feels good on my back.
“Your parents ever try and get you interested in sports?” his dad calls over to me.
I shrug.
He shakes his head. It looks like they’re having quesadillas. “Music?” he asks.
My mom got me an acoustic guitar one year for Christmas. Gus used to fill it with dirt and drag it around the yard on a string. “Nah,” I go.
“We tried to get Roddy excited about music,” his dad goes.
“You got me one of those pianos for like one-year-olds,” Flake goes.