Sink or Swim (10 page)

With every passing second Stanley is getting hungrier and more desperate. I can contain myself no longer. “Can you write me a permission slip to leave school this morning, Mr. Arkady?”

“Vutt?” He is taken aback at the request. He scrunches up his bat-wing-like shoulders and looks like he might fly away at any moment.

“I know it's a lot to ask. And I wouldn't if it weren't very, very important. It won't take long. I'll be back in an hour. I swear.”

“You vant my permission to leave school, but you von't tell me vie?”

“Well, I have this friend, you see, and he's . . . um . . . he's having some difficulties,” I say very quietly. “No big deal.”

“It sounds like a beeg deal to me,” Mr. Arkady says. “Vutt kind of difficulties?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Arkady's eyes glaze over and he stares into space. “This is a highly unusual rekvest,” Mr. Arkady points out. “Your vurld ees an intriguing place, indeed, Mr. Drinkvater.” He strokes his pointy chin. “I am inclined to trust you. You haff been through much adversity. And it has made you the better for it. You are goot boy, Charlie. I vill grant your request.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Arkady reaches out and rests two emaciated fingers on my shoulder. “I do not know vutt you are hidink. But I do know this: een this life, sometimes you must guard a secret vitt all your might. And sometimes you must set eet free and expose eet to the light of day. I know all too vell vutt a burden it is to keep a secret,” he continues. “I, too, svore to keep a secret for a friend many years ago, and I regret it to this day. Effry night the secret eats avay at me like a small mouse in my belly who is munching on a piece uff its favorite cheese vitt its needle-like teeth. Dat is a popular Transylvanian expression, in case you didn't know. Better, I say Mr. Drinkvater, nut to hide the truth. Be honest about yourself. And your friend. And vutt you are doink. In the end it vill be better for all concerned. Beeleef me.”

“What's
your
secret, Mr. Arkady?” I ask, wide-eyed.

“I cannot tell you mine. Any more than you can tell me yours.” Mr. Arkady smiles patiently. “You and I are honorable peoples. Vee keep our vurd. Vee are unusual.”

“Thanks, Mr. Arkady.”

“You are velcome, yunk lizard. And eef you are ever een doubt about vutt to do, let your heart be your guide, Charlie, and you vill alvays do the right tink. Remember these vurds. They vill serve you vell.”

“I will, sir. I promise.” I will definitely try to remember his words, but since I can never exactly make out what my science teacher is saying, it's going to be difficult to commit his actual words to memory.

“Goot!” My teacher picks up his ancient fountain pen and signs my permission slip with a flourish. “Here.” He hands it to me.

“Thanks, Mr. Arkady.” I tuck the little piece of paper carefully into my pocket.

“Good luck, yunk lizard.”

“Thank you, sir.” I get up to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing, Charlie.”

I turn back quickly. “Yes, sir?”

“If you'd ever like a leettle help vitt your swimmink, don't be afraid to ask me. I used to be quite the athlete venn I vuss yunker. Now, get goink before I change my mind!” He smiles mischievously. With Mr. Arkady you can't always tell if he really means what he's saying or if he's just pulling your leg. Or your haunch, in my case.

I grab my backpack, throw on my jacket, and race downstairs. Doc Craverly sits quietly at his desk by the front door, drumming his fingers on his knee, looking bored. When he's not busy being the school psychologist, he doubles as the front door monitor.

I hand him my permission slip. He takes out his reading glasses and peers down at it. He couldn't be any slower if he tried.

“How's swimming practice going?” Doc Craverly asks.

“Not that well, sir.”

“Would you like to talk to me about it privately sometime?” he asks eagerly.

“Not really, sir.”

“Are you sure? I could probably squeeze in an appointment for you to see me sometime between now and . . . uh . . . pretty much anytime. Don't be shy.” Poor Doc Craverly hardly has any patients. No one in their right mind would ever voluntarily see him.

“That's very kind of you, sir, but my schedule is pretty full right now. What with the big swim meet on Friday and all. Do you think you could sign my permission slip now?”

Doc Craverly takes out his pen, scribbles on it in what look like Egyptian hieroglyphics, and hands it to me. “If you change your mind, I have a free hour—”

I am out the door before he can finish the sentence.

I race to the rocky outcropping at Cedar and Lonesome. By the time I get there my side aches, and my enormous tongue is as dry as sandpaper. “I'm back!” I say softly, not wanting to create unnecessary attention.

Stanley doesn't respond.

“Come and get it!” I call in a considerably louder voice. Still no answer.

I carefully make my way behind the rocks, avoiding large roots and bits of crumbling sidewalk. I expect to find him hiding back there, not wanting to show himself in the daylight. But he's nowhere to be seen.

I sniff the air in search of his familiar musky odor, but there's an empanada festival in town this afternoon in honor of Pancho Villa Day, and the pungent aroma of spicy pork and cheese masks all but the most penetrating of odors. I carefully place Stanley's breakfast on top of a particularly flat rock, hoping he'll find it before some hungry raccoon does. Then I hurry back to school, distraught.

Stanley put his trust in me. And I failed him.

TELL IT TO THE JUDGE

SAM, LUCILLE, AND I
huddle together on the little bench near the edge of the Stevenson Middle School playing field while two hundred middle schoolers race around, pushing, shoving, throwing food, and acting like a bunch of uncivilized maniacs. In other words: it's your basic recess.

“You're going to get an ulcer if you go around all day worrying like this,” Sam tells me. “It's not healthy.”

“Sam's right,” Lucille agrees. “Stanley seems like a pretty capable creature. I'm sure he's okay.”

“
I'm
not.” I get up and start pacing. “And if something has happened to him, I'll never forgive myself.”

“He'll be fine. He was fine before you found him, remember?” Sam is doing his best to calm me down, but it's having the opposite effect.

“That's easy for you to say. Thousands of innocent creatures aren't depending on
you
to complete a perilous mission. And what if he's out stealing more food? I'll get blamed and condemned to be on the swimming team for the rest of my life. I can't take the pressure any longer. I'm just a kid.”

“Welcome to middle school, pal,” Sam says.

“And just when I thought things couldn't get any worse . . . they can!” I announce when I see Principal Muchnick and Doc Craverly heading right for us.

“Quick!” Sam whispers. “Look innocent!”

“I
am
innocent,” I say. My two least favorite adults in the entire school approach our little band of outcasts.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Principal Muchnick pauses dramatically. “Do you understand, Mr. Drinkwater?” Doc Craverly stands beside him, sighing and wringing his hands.

“Yes, Principal Muchnick,” I reply.

“Good.” Principal Muchnick regards me thoughtfully and then suddenly turns on Doc Craverly. “Where's your notepad, man? I'm taking a deposition. Shape up. What are you planning to write on, the back of your hand?”

Doc Craverly reaches into his coat pocket and digs deeply into it. At last he pulls out a small, dog-eared notepad and pencil.

“Listen up, Drinkwater. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” As I speak several Banditos and One-Upsters come over to see what's up.

“Where were you on the afternoon of November eleventh between the hours of four thirty and five fifteen? Think hard. Your exact whereabouts, Drinkwater.”

“Can you speak a little slower please, Willard?” Doc Craverly whispers urgently. “I'm having trouble keeping up with the pace of the interrogation.” He massages his right hand with his left. “Plus, I'm developing a painful cramp in my writing finger.”

“Tough it up, Craverly,” Principal Muchnick barks. “What do you think this is, SUMMER CAMP???” He walks up to me until we are practically nose to snout. “Your whereabouts at the time of the crime, Drinkwater. Answer, please.”

“He was watching
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
with us,” Sam says.

“That's right,” Lucille adds. “He wouldn't have had time to commit the crime.”

Mr. Muchnick points his finger at me. “Are you trying to tell me that you did not steal three cases of freshly baked sugar-free cherry pies and a box of low-fat soy cheese croissants from Mr. Hollabird's establishment?”

I nod my head emphatically.

“Why would Charlie rob a person who was considering carrying a line of his mom's baked goods?” Lucille asks. “It doesn't make any sense.”

Craig Dieterly steps forward. “Don't listen to Lucille, Principal Muchnick. She'll say anything to protect her friend. My mother is the only believable eyewitness in the entire case. You had her in your office for half an hour. She positively identified Charlie. Don't you think it would be a good idea to at least punish him?”

“Slow down, everybody!” Doc Craverly cries. “I can't keep up with you. I've broken the tip of my pencil. I'm losing critical information here.”

“I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FLOUNDER!” Principal Muchnick tosses the poor psychologist a new pencil.

“I'm afraid Charlie is going to go on robbing the town blind unless you do something to stop him, Principal Muchnick.” Craig Dieterly is red in the face. “I'm really worried!”

The only thing Craig Dieterly is really worried about is that he won't make my life miserable enough. And there isn't much chance of that.

All eyes turn to Principal Muchnick. His greasy black hair falls in messy strands onto his forehead. Even his usually meticulous three-piece pin-striped suit is starting to show signs of wear and tear. His collar droops unevenly around his neck, and a dark sweat stain is forming on his jacket under each of his armpits.

Principal Muchnick wipes his brow with a crumpled handkerchief from his vest pocket and studies me intently. “Every great leader occasionally reaches a point in a critical situation where he or she becomes overwhelmed from too much information and too many opinions. It's part of the job. In the end all that you can do is wait for the dust to settle and rely on your instincts. And your nose for justice.”

Doc Craverly smiles at Principal Muchnick and eagerly nods his approval.

“What are you nodding about, Craverly?” Principal Muchnick barks. “You look ridiculous. Stop it immediately.”

Doc Craverly stares at his feet sheepishly.

Principal Muchnick continues. “I have reached such a point. And it is not a happy place.” He shakes his head. Little beads of grease mixed with sweat fall onto the ground around him.

Norm Swerling raises his hand. Principal Muchnick nods. “For the record, Drinkwater isn't trustworthy. He cheats in swimming practice.”

“Norm's right,” Dirk Schlissel agrees. “My brother and I watched him with our own four eyes the other day. He pretended to be swimming, but he was
walking
. We hate to say it, Principal Muchnick, but we don't really think Charlie Drinkwater's all that honest.”

I can stay silent no longer. “That's not true, Principal Muchnick! I strenuously object to these unfounded allegations of malfeasance.”

“Could you make Drinkwater speak in English, Principal Muchnick?” Dack Schlissel asks. “We can't understand a word he's saying.”

It is very painful to hear myself talked about like this because (A) I am so trustworthy it isn't funny. Look at how far I'm going just to keep Stanley's secret! And (B) I only walked in the pool the other day because I was afraid I would drown if I swam. That's not being dishonest. That's just being careful.

“They're just jealous of Charlie!” Lucille exclaims. “Don't listen, Principal Muchnick. They'd do anything to get him in trouble.”

“Like we could ever be jealous of Charlie Drinkwater,” Larry Wykoff says smugly. “That's like being jealous of wallpaper. Forget it. Not happening.” Rachel Klempner looks adoringly up at her own personal king of comedy.

“There's more to life than just getting good grades and doing well on standardized testing,” Norm Swerling says. “Like having good morals, for example.”

Norm Swerling wouldn't know a good moral if it walked up to him and bit him on the nose. Boy, would I like to tell that stupid Bandito what I really think. And that is exactly what I'd do if I weren't so afraid to do it. Fear number twelve thousand and one: standing up for myself.

“Bigot!” Sam yells at the top of his lungs. “You people don't like lizards and amphibians and you never did. Admit it!”

“Thief!” Alice Pincus hollers, pointing a tiny finger at me.

“Quiet!” Principal Muchnick's piercing voice cuts through the noise like shattering glass. “I can't hear myself think!” He looks up and speaks slowly and calmly. “Something fishy is going on here. This much I know: somebody isn't telling the truth and I'm inclined to think it's you, Mr. Drinkwater. While I find Sam and Lucille's testimony compelling, as your best friends they are not entirely impartial, and could have sufficient reason to lie on your behalf.”

Craig Dieterly raises his fist and churns the air triumphantly.

“On the other hand, Mr. Dieterly,” the principal goes on, “though your mother is known to be a scrupulously honest woman and is undoubtedly telling what she believes to be the truth, eyewitnesses do make mistakes. Your mother is extremely nearsighted, is she not?”

“Well . . . yes,” Craig Dietelry reluctantly admits. “But I don't understand what that has to with anything, Principal Muchnick.”

“Does she or does she not frequently misplace her eyeglasses, Mr. Dieterly?”

“Um . . . well . . .” Craig Dieterly hesitates. “I wouldn't say
frequently
.”

“What
would
you say, Mr. Dieterly?” Doc Craverly utters harshly.

“Back off, man,” Principal Muchnick orders. “You're intimidating the witness.”

“I'd say it was more like . . . um . . . occasionally.” A bead of sweat runs down Craig Dieterly's monkeylike forehead.

“And was she or was she not wearing them on the day of the robbery?” Principal Muchnick asks.

“She was not,” Craig Dieterly quietly admits. A murmur arises from the crowd.

“The testimony of the defendant's best friends on the one hand,” Principal Muchnick begins, “and a seeing-impaired eyewitness, who just happens to be the plaintiff, on the other. All of which leaves me rather perplexed at the moment.” He loosens his collar. “But as my uncle Eddie Muchnick, the ex–chief of police of our great city, once said, ‘A crime is nothing more than an elaborate jigsaw puzzle whose interlocking pieces are spread before you in a random fashion on a large table. One has only to arrange them in the proper order to see the whole picture.' Have no fear. I will assemble the pesky pieces of this puzzle before the week is out. I
always
get my man.”

Principal Muchnick stamps his foot in the grass with such force his shoe gets stuck in the dirt and Doc Craverly has to get down on his hands and knees to help him pull it out.

I can feel the noose tightening. It is only a matter of time before Principal Muchnick apprehends the
real
criminal. If Stanley doesn't accomplish his mission soon, I may have to confess to the crime myself and face the consequences in order to buy my brave cousin a little more time.