“Not just Myron,” she said. “Your mother had something to do with it. So did your father.”
I put down the spoon. “I don’t understand any of this. Are you saying my parents hurt—”
“No!” She cut me off. “Your parents would never hurt anyone. Never.”
“How do you know my parents?”
“I don’t. But understand something now, Mickey. None of this is a coincidence.”
My head was spinning.
“Don’t tell Myron we talked, okay?”
I nodded.
“Eat the ice cream,” she whispered.
I took another bite. The door to the back room opened. Myron appeared. Kimberly leaned over to me and whispered into my ear, “Laugh like you just heard the funniest joke in the world.”
I was going to ask her why, but for some reason I trusted and liked her. So I did as she asked. It felt a little forced, but then she laughed with me. Her laugh had a contagious quality. It made it easier for me to let go. Kimberly leaned again and whispered, “One more time. We don’t want your uncle to ask what we’re talking about.”
So I laughed again—and again she joined me. Myron stared at me with puppy-dog eyes and a small, sad smile. Kimberly wheeled herself away. Confused, lost, I let my laugh fade away. I didn’t know what to do when my phone vibrated. I checked the caller ID and saw it was Spoon. I put the phone to my ear.
“What’s up?” I asked him.
“Mickey?” I could hear the excitement in his voice. Spoon was, in fact, so excited that he skipped his customary non sequitur. “I got something.”
“Got what?”
“Ashley’s locker.”
“What about it?”
“I know who broke into it.”
chapter 11
EMA, SPOON, AND I met up in the parking lot the next morning before school. We sat on the curb. Ema had her laptop. Spoon wore sunglasses today. He had a briefcase, a real, live briefcase like you might see a businessman in a movie use. I can’t remember ever seeing one in person before. Spoon played with the combination lock and flicked it open. I looked inside. There was nothing but a flash drive. Spoon arched his eyebrow above the sunglasses as he pulled it out and locked up the case.
“What you are about to see,” Spoon said with maximum drama, whipping off his sunglasses, “must forever remain with us.”
He handed Ema the flash drive. Ema sighed. “What is this?”
“The surveillance video,” Spoon said. “You see, the school has a pretty extensive security system—eighteen security cameras covering most entrances and corridors. I realized that no one would have broken that lock during the day. Someone would have noticed. I also realized that someone must have broken it recently because a broken lock, dangling like that, would have been reported within a few days. So I used my key to get into the security office. They store everything digitally. I found Camera Fourteen—that’s the one that covers Ashley’s locker—and started reviewing the night before we saw her broken lock.”
“How long did that take you?” I asked.
Spoon grinned. “Almost no time at all. You see, the cameras are motion sensitive, so most nights they just stay off.”
Ema plugged the flash drive into her computer port. We all huddled around the screen when two hands reached in and snagged the laptop away.
“Hey!” Ema said.
“Well, well, well,” a now-familiar, grating voice said. “What do we have here?”
I turned around and saw Troy holding the laptop. Buck was next to him. Behind them were assorted jock-toughs. I think there were five of them, maybe six. It was hard to tell. The varsity jackets tended to blend into one big mass.
Spoon said, “What do you guys want?”
“Well, Arthur,” Buck said, “we just think you’re kinda cool and wanted to hang with you?”
Spoon beamed. “Really?”
“Give me back my laptop,” Ema said.
They ignored her. I debated how to play this.
“Yeah, sure, we wanna hang with you,” Troy said to Spoon. “You got all the right moves. Or movements anyway.”
Spoon pushed up his glasses. “Huh?”
“A movement,” Troy said. “Like in a bowel movement. Because you smell like one.”
Troy raised his hand for a high five. Buck slapped it. The assorted jock-toughs snorted laughter. Spoon looked as though someone had slapped him.
I rose. “Good one. Now give us back the laptop.”
Troy smirked and moved a step closer to me. “Make me.”
“He will!” Spoon shouted, small tears in his eyes. “Next time he goes to the bathroom!”
I looked back at Spoon and frowned as if to say, Come on, we’re better than that.
Troy pointed at him. “You want me to kick your ass, Arthur?”
“My name is Spoon!”
“What?”
“That’s my nickname,” Spoon said. “Spoon.” He pointed at Ema. “Like her nickname is Ema.” Then he pointed at Buck. “And like his nickname is Wee Wee Pants.”
“What the—?” Buck’s face went red again. “I’m going to so kick your ass.”
I stayed between them and Spoon. “Why don’t you deal with me?” I said.
Buck’s head spun toward me. “You wanna die too?”
“No,” I said. “Right now I want the laptop back.”
“You want it,” Troy said, leaning close enough for me to smell his morning scrambled eggs, holding the laptop in his right hand and wiggling it, “take it from me.”
So I did.
When I was in the Amazon studying martial arts, we worked a lot on taking away hand weapons. Naturally I received many lectures on never doing it—in how running away was always far smarter than trying to disarm—but if cornered or forced, I was taught what to do. The key element is surprise. If someone knows you’re going for the weapon, sorry, despite what you see in kung fu movies, it is nearly impossible to get the weapon without getting hurt.
Here, of course, there was no weapon danger. So I went for it. When Troy wasn’t prepared, I simply snatched the laptop from his rather weak grip. There was also something else working in my favor here: my genetics. I don’t take credit for this. It was an accident of birth. My father was a good natural athlete, though he never liked the competitive aspects of sports. My uncle was a pro-caliber basketball player. My mother was a pro-caliber tennis player. So I get it from both sides of the gene pool. I was born with good handeye coordination and quickness. Much as you might work on that and parents might try to push it, you can’t really teach that stuff.
For a moment, Troy and Buck didn’t move. I quickly handed the laptop back to Ema, never taking my eyes off my adversary—another lesson drummed into me. I turned and prepared for whatever they might do. I knew it had to be something. Troy was the cool senior. I, a lowly sophomore, had shown him up.
Man, it was going to be a long basketball season.
He was about to reach out for me when Ema said, “Troy?”
“What?”
“I know the real reason you’re always bothering us.” Ema batted her dark eyelashes at him. “Do you maybe, I don’t know, have a little crush on me?”
“What? You crazy?”
“Stealing my laptop like that—such a flirt move.” Ema batted her eyes at him some more and feigned coquettish. “Rachel Caldwell isn’t into you, but who knows? Maybe I’ll be. True, I’ll have to lose my sense of vision, not to mention smell, to find you attractive, but . . .”
Troy grabbed me by the lapels. I went with it, making my body a little slack as though scared. “You better stay out of my way, Bolitar. You hear me?”
“Hey,” I said, putting my hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not the one who came over here to hit on your friend.”
That was enough for Troy. Keeping one hand gripping my shirt, he cocked his fist way back, almost like a windup. It was a classic move and when he bullied guys like Spoon, it probably worked. But it was dumb. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You snap for the weak zones—nose, throat, groin, eyes. You don’t take your time and pull your fist back.