Super-sized Slugger (13 page)

Principal Richard Stubbins
examined the cell phone in front of him. Must be a big fan of TV detective dramas, Cody thought, rolling his eyes. He watched with amazement as Mr. Stubbins, perched behind his huge shiny desk, poked cautiously at the phone with his pen, apparently not daring to touch it in case the police needed to dust it for fingerprints later.

“I didn't do it,” Cody said quietly.

He sat across from the principal, sunk into a soft oversized chair that felt as if it were swallowing him. Watching Mr. Stubbins take such pains to avoid touching the phone, Cody felt compelled to add, “You know I just handed it to Ms. Wratched, right? So naturally it has my fingerprints on it.”

Mr. Stubbins looked up sheepishly and stopped jabbing at the phone. Now he began thumbing through a stack of papers, eventually murmuring, “Ah, here it is.”

Waving the paper, he said, “This cell phone belongs to Amanda Wilson, an eighth-grader whom I believe is in several of your classes. It was reported stolen two weeks ago. From her locker.”

Now he peered over his reading glasses at Cody. The only sound in the office was the soft
tick-tick-tick
of the wall clock.

“I didn't do it,” Cody said again. “I've never seen that cell before. Someone put it in my binder.”

Mr. Stubbins frowned and poked at the cell phone again, as if searching for more clues. Cody watched him and thought, Too much
CSI: Miami
. Way too much.

“Someone put it in your binder,” the principal repeated. “Why would someone do that?”

“I don't know!” Cody said. “To make it seem like I'm the thief, I guess. The one who's been stealing all the stuff here in school.”

“I see,” Mr. Stubbins said. He stood and began pacing back and forth behind his desk.

Cody mulled over whether to tell the principal his theory about the Rizzos. But his head was already buzzing from everything that had happened, and he knew he wasn't thinking too clearly. He rubbed his hands nervously on his jeans and kept quiet.

“There are certain specific procedures that must be followed in all cases of theft here at York Middle,” Mr. Stubbins said. He stopped pacing and whirled around. “Forgive me. In all
alleged
cases of theft.”

Cody gulped. If that's supposed to make me feel better, he thought, it's not working.

“Naturally,” Mr. Stubbins continued, “we will now conduct our own in-school investigation into this matter. This generally takes two or three days. And I must warn you: if the circumstances warrant it and the police are called in, the student faces suspension and perhaps even expulsion from the school.”

Cody groaned and slumped even lower in his chair. Suddenly, he was feeling sick to his stomach. He wished he were back in Milwaukee. At least there they knew him well enough never to suspect him of stealing.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Stubbins said, not unkindly. He looked at his watch and said, “It's almost time for the final bell. Go on home. I'll call your parents and let them know what's going on.”

Cody stood and blinked back tears. Luckily, there was no one in the hallway as he made his way to his locker for his backpack. And by the time the bell rang and the halls were again teeming with students, he was already making his way out to the bus.

Jessica was at karate class again, so Cody sat by himself, staring out the window on the ride home. When he walked in the door, a note on the kitchen counter said his mom was at a client's house for her home-decorating business and would be home later.

As he'd done on so many other occasions when he was feeling down, Cody grabbed his glove and a ball and headed out to the bounce-back net in his backyard.

For a solid forty-five minutes, he fired ball after ball at the net from twenty feet away. Throw, catch, throw, catch—somehow he found the numbing repetition to be soothing. Best of all, the whole ritual helped him think.

And he had a lot to think about.

In addition to feeling sorry for himself over being unfairly blamed for something he didn't do, Cody felt terrible for his parents. Oh, they would support him—they knew he had nothing to do with this. But how embarrassing would all this be for them? Cody had never been in trouble before—ever. Now he was being linked to a rash of school thefts so brazen they had even been reported on two different occasions in
The Baltimore Sun
!

Also, a suspension would mean he'd have to miss the Orioles' championship game against the White Sox on Friday. Everyone knew the rule: no school, no baseball. It was as simple as that. Here they were, poised on the brink of a golden season, needing only one more win to go undefeated and cap one of the best Dulaney Babe Ruth League seasons ever. The idea that he would miss it was unthinkable. No way, Cody thought.
No way.

Finally, there was this: by tomorrow the whole school would be buzzing about what had happened in Ms. Wratched's class. Except by the time the rumor mill was through, Cody wouldn't just be linked to a lone cell phone skidding like a hockey puck across the classroom floor. No, it would be assumed that his locker was a vast repository of stolen iPods, laptops, and cell phones that he was peddling to thugs and hoodlums all over town.
Psst! Look
ing for a flat-screen TV, cheap? Go see my man Parker over
there. He'll take care of you.

Within twenty-four hours he'd be known all over York Middle as Cody Parker, thief. Tears welled in his eyes again at the thought. Cody was pretty sure his good buds on the Orioles—Willie and Jordy and Connor, and especially Marty—wouldn't believe the rumors. Jessica certainly wouldn't. And Coach probably wouldn't, either. But it made him sick to think the rest of the school would soon be talking about him as if he were some low-life criminal no one could ever trust again.

Around five o'clock, he heard his dad's car pull into the driveway. A minute or two later, Steve Parker came out to the bounce-back net and gave Cody a big hug.

“Mr. Stubbins reached me at the office,” he said. He dropped wearily onto a patio chair, motioning for Cody to sit too. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”

Cody recounted everything that had happened in Ms. Wratched's class as well as his conversation with Mr. Stubbins. His dad nodded and occasionally interrupted to ask questions.

When he was through, his dad leaned over and gave him another long hug.

“I know this is hard on you,” he said gently.

Cody looked down. He couldn't say anything, for fear that he'd start sobbing and not be able to stop.

“Someone definitely set you up,” his dad continued. “And I'm pretty sure we know who it was. No matter how cool he acted when that cell popped out.”

Cody nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Your mother and I are meeting with Mr. Stubbins tomorrow,” his dad said, patting his shoulder. “Don't worry. We'll get this straightened out.”

But Cody couldn't stop worrying. Even after his dad went inside to start dinner, Cody stayed outside, firing one ball after another at the bounce-back net as the cool of evening settled in.

Throw, catch, throw, catch…

Ten minutes later, he arrived at a decision. No way was he going to stand idly by and let them suspend him for something he didn't do. No way was he going to miss the biggest game of the Orioles' season. In the dim recesses of his feverish, overworked brain, an idea was beginning to form.

But to pull it off, he needed someone he could trust. Jessica? No. The more he thought about it, the more he knew it would have to be someone completely objective. Someone with no dog in this fight.

By the time he went back inside, he knew what he was going to do.

As his father rattled around in the kitchen with his pots and pans, Cody quickly went on the computer to look up a phone number.

He picked up the phone and took a deep breath.

Then he began to dial.

Cody began his
stakeout the next morning outside the entrance to the York Middle gym, next to the gleaming trophy case that proclaimed the excellence of the school's students in both academics and athletics.

The bell for third period had rung moments earlier, and now the hallways were deserted. As he waited, his eyes came to rest on a big wall display proclaiming,
PHYSICAL FITNESS: IT'S FOR EVERYONE
! Cody grunted with amusement, seeing as how he was missing his own gym class right now.

He was amazed at how calm he felt. Just a month ago, his palms would have been sweaty and his heart would have been pounding just
thinking
about what he planned to do. But not now. Now he was too angry to be afraid. Too angry even to be nervous, for that matter.

He glanced at the clock on the wall: 10:04. The boy is late as always, Cody thought. But he'll be here any minute. Heck, he loves gym. After all, that's where he does some of his best work—well, at least in the locker room.

From somewhere down the corridor, Cody heard the faint sound of footsteps. It was him, he could tell right away. There was something distinctive about the sound of Timberland boots shuffling along the tile floor, as if the wearer couldn't be bothered with actually picking up each foot and placing it in front of the other, the way most people walked.

The footsteps drew closer and closer. Cody tossed his backpack into one of the two alcoves that flanked the gym doors and quickly rehearsed what he was about to say.

A solitary figure dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans turned the corner.

There he was: Dante Rizzo.

His eyes widened when he saw Cody.

“Parker! What are you doing here?” he said. For an instant, he seemed wary. Then he said, “I'm surprised they even let you in school after what you did.”

“We need to talk,” Cody said quietly.

He could see from Dante's demeanor that the big guy was no longer nervous around him. Guess the effects of acting like you're crazy last only so long on bullies, Cody thought. Or maybe Dante figures I'm already in so much trouble, I wouldn't dare start anything here.

“Nuthin' to talk about,” Dante said. “Shouldn't take things that don't belong to you, Parker. Didn't your mama ever teach you that?”

Cody pointed at him and said, “You put that cell phone in my binder.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Dante said. He reached for the locker room door, but Cody stepped in front of him.

“You know
exactly
what I'm talking about,” Cody said sharply.

Dante took a step back, surprised by Cody's tone. But his trademark sneer returned quickly.

“I'd love to continue this conversation,” Dante said, “but just because you're blowing off gym class doesn't mean an honor student like myself can.”

Now Cody stepped forward until he was inches from Dante's face.

“I just want you to admit it, that's all,” Cody said, his voice rising. “I want you to admit that you tried to frame me. And that you've been stealing stuff from school. And giving it to your brothers to sell.”

Dante glanced around quickly, but the hall was deserted. From inside the gym, they could hear the sounds of sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floors and basketballs bouncing off rims.

“That's some imagination you've got, Parker,” Dante said. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled defiantly.

“It's not my imagination,” Cody said. “I saw your brothers selling stuff from their Jeep. And they saw me too. So you put that phone in my binder to make people think I'm the one doing all the stealing.”

Dante clapped sarcastically. “You got it all figured out, huh?” he said. “You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?”

“I want to hear you admit it,” he said, poking a finger in Dante's chest. “I want to hear you say I'm right.”

Dante slapped Cody's finger away from his chest. His eyes flashed angrily and he pushed Cody into the wall. Cody winced in pain. He could feel panic rising in his throat. Uh-oh, he thought. Now what do I do?

They heard the sound of running in the hallway. Seconds later, Jordy, Willie, and Connor came careening around the corner.

It was hard to say who was more shocked, Cody or Dante.

“Is there a problem here?” Willie said as the three boys came to a stop and glared at Dante.

Cody breathed a sigh of relief and tried to stop the shaking in his legs. Quickly, he turned back to Dante.

“Admit it!” Cody yelled, poking him again. “Just say you did it!”

Dante looked like a cornered animal. “Leave me alone,” he snarled.

“NOT UNTIL YOU SAY IT!”

“You heard the man,” said Jordy.

“We're tired of your crap,” said Connor. “It's time for you to come clean.”

Dante's eyes darted nervously from one boy to another.

“Okay, okay,” he said in a low voice. “I put the stupid cell phone on you.”

“I knew it!” said Cody. “You've been stealing all this stuff, and you wanted me to go down for it!”

“That's really sick, dude,” said Willie.

“Wait a minute,” said Dante, holding up his hands. “I didn't steal anything else.”

“Yeah, like we're going to believe that,” said Jordy.

“Believe whatever you want. I'm outta here.”

Dante tried again to pull open the locker room door, but Cody put all his weight against it.

“Why bother pretending anymore?” said Cody. “It's over. We know the truth.”

“My guess is he's trying to protect someone.…” said Connor.

“Someone named Vincent and Nick, perhaps?” said Jordy.

“Can't exactly blame him,” Willie added. “I wouldn't want to be on their bad side.”

At this point Cody saw a change come over Dante. He got that haunted look in his eyes that Cody had seen a couple of times before.

“It was them!” Dante hissed. “Not me. I didn't take the stuff, I swear. I just…” He gulped, maybe to hold back tears. “My brothers said if anyone found out, they would mess me up and say
I
did it!”

Now he was breathing hard, almost panting, and his face was going pale. It reminded Cody of how he felt when Dante had him in a stranglehold. This time Dante was doing it to himself.

The boys stood there, not knowing what to do, while Dante bent over for a minute, trying to catch his breath and collect himself.

Finally he straightened up and wiped sweat off his brow with his sleeve. His expression had changed yet again. The sneer was back.

“What difference does it make if I tell you?” he said. “Who's going to believe a bunch of losers like you?”

Cody stared at him for several seconds. Then he looked off to his left and said softly, “Did you get all that?”

Puzzled, Dante followed Cody's gaze.

He watched as a stooped figure wearing gym shorts, a tight T-shirt, and battered Chuck Taylor sneakers stepped out of the alcove.

Dante's jaw dropped. It was Coach Michael T. Lombardi.

“My students always want to know how old I am,” Coach Mike said with a sad smile. “I'm seventy-two. But my hearing is still great. And I heard all I needed to hear.”