The Rule of Won (18 page)

The interrogation room was tiny, just big enough for a table and two chairs. It may have been built to psychologically defeat a suspect, but that night I think it was the police who were defeated.

“You sure that's all?” the grizzly Detective Somebody or other asked. I hadn't caught his name and he hadn't bothered repeating it. We were both tired, but he was tired the way only middle-aged people get. He had wrinkles under his eyes so thick you could wedge a dime in there and I bet it'd stay put. He also hadn't shaved in a day or so.

When I didn't answer right away, he raised his eyes a little. I imagined the dime plopping out.

Had to say something. Didn't
want
to lie. I wanted to say, “Hell yeah, I recognized Ethan's shoelaces in the security video and he's a freaking psycho, so you should just drive over to his house and arrest him or at least shoot him.”

But Detective What's-His-Name already hadn't particularly
believed me when I'd said it was Dylan and Mike who attacked Moore. I got a lot of, “You see their faces? Can you swear to that in court?”

To which, of course, I had to say no.

At times, it was almost like he thought
I'd
attacked Moore. He knew about me and the gym collapse in January and didn't have the benefit of Moore's research. Far as he knew, Moore was the guy who turned me in, so why should I be trying to help him?

If I'd told the truth, he would have thought I was lying, so I lied.

“That's all,” I said. “That's all.”

He sighed one of those twenty-minute sighs adults seem so good at, like their lungs have a slow leak from having to deal with us delinquents. But really, I think he was relieved we'd both be able to go home now. “You remember anything else, you let us know.”

I never knew police detectives actually said that.

Mom and Joey were waiting in the hall. Mom was nearly in tears, saying mostly, “Oh my God” over and over and wiping my face with a wet handkerchief. Apparently I'd bruised my cheek on the way out the window, and in her panic, she thought she could rub the black and blue mark off. I didn't have the heart to tell her she was hurting me.

Joey played it silent, letting Mom go on and on about how bad that school was and so on and so forth. After she went to bed (had to get up at five for work, they were doing inventory), Joey and I were alone in the living room. I
expected him to smack me for getting in trouble again, but he didn't.

“You okay?” he asked in an unusual display of outright sympathy.

“Yeah.”

“The kids who beat up your friend, you get 'em?” He clenched his fists, to make sure I knew what “get 'em” meant.

“No,” I said. “There were three, and they were big and fast.”

“So use a piece of pipe. I'll get you one at the shop.”

“Joey! No! Come on. Like that would be right?”

He shook his head and sighed like the detective. “Would've been in my day, but they keep changing the rules.”

He grabbed my shoulder tightly, like he was trying to remind me how strong he was. Then he went to sleep himself.

I couldn't tell which was more depressing—the time I spent in the police station, the few hours I spent the next morning in the hospital visiting Moore, Erica (and yeah, Mr. Eldridge), or the rest of that day, when I returned to school.

Late November now, it was seriously colder outside and the heat had finally kicked in. The minute I pushed open the front doors to SNH warm air swarmed around me, hitting my face, shoulders, and arms. Though dry, it felt like an ooze. It wasn't just the usual aroma of body odor or the various and no-doubt-unhealthy construction smells; this was like a weight hanging in the air, like everything was getting ready to fall in and bury me, while I just watched, helpless.

People's “1” pins flashed like holiday lights. No one asked about Moore or Erica. I was getting glares, angry glares, like
everyone just knew I'd been involved with that wicked, wicked newspaper, even though the police swore they'd keep me anonymous.

The explanation for that was easy. After all, Moore had been screaming my name. But man, for Cravemen Dylan and Mike to spread it around so brazenly, naming me a witness to the scene of their crime, was downright eerie.

What had happened to this place? At least when we were lame we weren't so damn angry.

The Otus
, the newspaper that was supposed to save the day, had gone over like a lead balloon. The Cravers hated it (surprise, surprise), and everyone else either didn't care or was too afraid to say otherwise. Within forty-eight hours, every copy had mysteriously vanished. Near as I could tell, Drik, Mason, and Guy had, too. We'd never swapped numbers, I hadn't seen them at the hospital, and I didn't spot them in school. I hoped they were all taking that mental health week Drik mentioned.

I stuck with the crowd a lot that day, terrified the highly spiritually motivated goon squad would corner me. I even made a point of not drinking any soda or other liquid, so I wouldn't have to use the bathroom.

I did let myself be alone just once. And well, even then, not exactly alone. I was on my way to creative writing when I spotted a familiar green sweater and swaying blond hair ahead of me in the crowd. I didn't call her name, since I figured she'd just keep walking if she heard my voice, but I still felt like I had to talk to her, warn her, for old times' sake or whatever.

As she passed the entrance to the library, I pulled her off to
the side. The second she saw my face, she twisted hers in disgust.

“What?” Vicky said.

“Look, it doesn't matter what you think of me. I just want you to know what you're involved in.”

She snarled. “You make me sick. You didn't even see anyone's face, but you accused Dylan and Mike, just to get at the Crave.”

“How do you know what I told the police?”

“Grace's father is a lieutenant. You think they're not in trouble at home now? They didn't
do
a thing. That was vile, Caleb, really vile. As bad as that paper accusing Ethan.”

“It
was
them, Vicky. Who else has been shoving people around who attack your precious club?”

“I know they get a little pushy and we've talked to them about that, but really, don't you get it yet? Moore was attacked because he wanted to be.”

Her eyes were washed over with this kind of glassy zombie version of conviction.

“I don't want to debate the nature of the universe. I just want to warn you about Ethan. I'm not guessing about him. I
know
he was involved in what happened to Mr. Eldridge, and I don't mean just by imanifesting. Ethan is dangerous. Really, really dangerous.”

She wasn't fazed in the least. “How? How do you
know
?”

“For once, can't you just trust me?”

“What did you ever do to earn that trust, Caleb? You're obviously just jealous and pathetic.”

“Vicky, please, could you just at least consider the possibility? You must still have some feelings for me. Don't you remember when we thought the first Crave came true? Wasn't I the one you kissed?”

Her face went blank. Her nose wrinkled, like maybe she was remembering. She took a slow step closer.

“Caleb,” she said softly. I could feel heat rising off her sweater as she leaned in and brought her lips close to my ear. Without an inch between us, she whispered, “When I kissed you in the hall, after our first Crave came true? Even then I was thinking of Ethan.”

She whirled and walked off.

Whoa.

She was practically gone, but I called after her, “Oh yeah? Sometimes when I kissed you, I was thinking of Lindsay Lohan, but I was too nice to mention it!”

A few kids wearing “1” pins stopped to stare with hate-filled eyes.

And that was the last time I let myself be alone with anyone from the Crave.

On the lighter side, I didn't have any reason to feel guilty about not warning her anymore. I kind of wished, for old times' sake, though, that she'd told me what was going to happen next, since she must have known.

As it was, I spent most of the next period totally unsuspecting, working on an essay in which I imagined being a thirsty flower trying to bloom in the desert. (Mrs. D's idea, not mine.) When the loudspeaker crackled to life, I was relieved to stop
writing that crap. Three chimes heralded an announcement from on high, and Dr. Wyatt's somewhat nasal voice whined from the speaker.

He only interrupts class for important news, like nuclear war, so I guessed he was going to announce the completion of the new gym wing. But, no . . .

“This is a difficult time for our school and our community. Many of you have seen or read the recent issue of our school newspaper focusing on one of our after-school clubs and several students involved in that club.”

I sat up straight, craned my neck, and strained my ears.

“This is it,” I thought. The so-called adults were finally getting involved. Wyatt would shut down the Crave. Ethan, Dylan, and Mike would be arrested. Truth would triumph over lies. Good would whoop evil's ass. But, no . . .

“Following Mr. Eldridge's accident, the paper was left without an adviser. Rather than close it, we'd hoped the students would monitor themselves in a responsible manner. Instead, we were deeply disappointed by the results. Opinions are one thing, and here at Screech Neck, we prize our freedom of speech, but the authors chose to make unsubstantiated allegations that interfered with an ongoing police investigation. This small group has not only opened our school to possible litigation, but their vitriolic writing likely led to the violent attack on their editor, Alden Moore.

“We do not in any way condone that attack. Screech Neck High has zero tolerance for violence, and as soon as the attackers are discovered, if they are students, they will be expelled.
But it's important to remember that insensitive verbal assaults on the beliefs of others are in themselves a form of violence that also will not be tolerated. The staff of the paper has been suspended until further notice. I would ask that everyone, members of the club and otherwise, take a step back and try to show one another patience, in the best tradition of our school.”

Three more tones ended the broadcast. I felt like a minivan had parked on my chest. So now I knew what'd happened to Drik, Mason, and Guy. As the rest of the class got back to being thirsty desert flowers, I sat there stunned, mouth open. I think Mrs. Ditellano was about to say something to me, because I heard her clear her throat. But the bell rang.

How could Wyatt do that? Didn't it bother him that the “club” was sweeping over the school like a neo-Nazi movement? Didn't he notice? Didn't he care? He didn't even mention Erica, or the fact that one of the students he'd suspended was in the hospital with his jaw wired shut. Hadn't the police even told him about the security video?

Then I remembered Eldridge telling me Wyatt had his own “1” pin. The bastard was practically one of them.

There was nothing left to stop Ethan—not the police, not the school. No one could do anything. No one wanted to do anything.

As I headed toward the lunchroom, I found myself breathing faster. If I were Drik, I'd probably think I was in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack. Hell, I probably was. I found myself not walking, or running exactly, but pounding my feet into the linoleum. I didn't know if anyone was watching; I
didn't care. I was still in a kind of daze, but a nervous rage was building inside of me, years of priding myself on doing nothing crumbling.

I saw a poster for the next Crave and yanked it off the wall.

For some reason, in my head, I saw the spork. It was piercing the french fry, piercing the plate, making a hole in the table beneath it. I could even practically feel that heavy pipe in my hand, the one Joey had offered me, the one I might have been expected to actually use in a less sophisticated time.

I wondered if I could imanifest it right then and there. As I kicked in the door to the cafeteria, feeling that pipe clutched in my hands, one of the poems Erica used to quote came to my mind.

What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Me.

The lunchroom was loud, but the door, as it hit the wall, was louder.

Everyone turned to look at me. For once, I was glad of it. You could tell at a glance who was in the Crave and who wasn't. The ones who weren't just looked surprised. The ones who were just glared. Ethan, Vicky, Dylan, Mike, Landon, and Grace were all at one table, managing to temper their glaring with a look of righ teousness.

I pointed to Ethan. “Skinson! You're a goddamned liar!” I screamed.

He picked his head up, put his hands palm up, and spoke loudly. “What did I lie about, Caleb? Name one thing I've said that isn't true.”

I took a few steps forward. “Everything. This used to be a pretty good school before you got here!”

Surprisingly, a few kids clapped—lamely, but they clapped. But then, like a giant snake, a bigger hiss rose from everyone else. Dylan started to get up, but he gritted his teeth and remained seated.

“What was the best part, Dunne?” Ethan said with a grin. “The collapsed side of the school, or the part that kept losing basketball games?”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

“At least we weren't dropping like flies,” I shouted, coming closer. “At least our teachers weren't having their brake lines
cut
so people could avoid their tests! And our newspaper editors weren't being attacked by stupid Neanderthals.”

Now Dylan did get up. So did Mike. Other kids stood, too, all over the room, forming a big circle that had me and Ethan's table at the center.

Ethan eyed the crowd. “That was
Erica's
Crave. And weren't
you
the one who pushed for it?”

I was busy trying to think of a clever retort when something hit the side of my face. Wet stickiness overwhelmed my right eye. I raised my hand and felt syrupy chunks of apple and crust clinging to my cheek. Someone had thrown a slice of pie at me.