Troublemaker

  Clay frowned. “Was jail sort of like it is in the movies?”

  “Prob’ly depends on which movies you’re talkin’ about. But mostly it’s lots worse. Because every minute you’re there, you know it’s for real. It’s not some movie. You’re really there, and if you look at the wrong guy the wrong way, he might take a swing at you or find some other way to mess you up. There’s nothing good about it. I’m not going back. Ever.”

  Clay was quiet a minute or two. He wasn’t used to hearing Mitch sound like that, like he was scared of something.

  Mitch leaned back into the couch cushions. “So what’ve you been up to the last month or so?”

  Clay shrugged. “Not much.”

  “School’s okay?”

  “Yeah, mostly. Except I went to the office today—but I got sent on purpose.”

  Mitchell tilted his head. “Really? How come?”

  “Look on your cell phone . . . you’re gonna love this.”

  Mitch pulled the phone from his back pocket.

  “Okay,” said Clay. “Now check out the newest picture in the photo stack—see it? That’s the principal.”

  Mitchell nodded slowly. “Yup. I met him last year when Mom and Dad were in Chicago—the time you and that kid bumped heads in gym class. So . . . the principal saw this picture?”

  Clay grinned. “Yup. I drew it in art class today, then I made sure the teacher saw it. And he sent me to the office—he didn’t have much choice about it.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “Mr. Kelling. He stopped me in the cafeteria on Monday, made me tuck in my shirt—can you believe that? Right there, with everyone watching me. Made a big show of it. Gave a whole speech about the school dress code. So today, I got him back. I told him I think he’s a dumb jackass, which he is—except I didn’t say it out loud.”

  Mitchell nodded slowly, looking at the picture again. “What’d he do about this?”

  “Nothing—not one thing.” Clay grinned down at his brother. “I had a perfect alibi.”

  “For this?” said Mitchell.

  “Yup—I told him how when we studied the Civil War, we looked at all these cartoons from old newspapers. And I told him how this one artist made President Lincoln look like a huge, hairy ape. I said I was trying that out in art class, making a cartoon of a real person. And then the art teacher saw it, and he sent me to the office before I could explain I was just doing something I learned about in social studies.”

  “And the guy believed that?”

  Clay laughed. “’Course not. But he couldn’t prove anything. So he just said I ‘should use better judgment.’ But you’re never gonna guess what Kelling did then.”

  “What?”

  “He said he’d give me ten bucks for the picture, asked me if I would sign it. Said he wanted to get it framed and keep it in his office.” Clay grinned. “So I signed it.”

  “Did you take the money?”

  “Sure I did. It was like he really thought it was funny. But I know he got my message—that he’s a major jerk.”

  “Hey,” Mitchell said, “come here a second—I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

  Clay hopped down from the upper bunk and walked to the couch.

  “What?” he said.

  Mitchell shot out a hand and gave him a sharp tap on the side of the head. “That’s for being a jerk yourself.” Quick as a snake, he cuffed Clay again on the other side of his head. “And that’s to make sure I’ve got your attention. Are you listening to me?”

  Clay nodded sullenly. His eyes were watering, more from hurt feelings than being smacked.

  “I’m only sayin’ this once. Starting Monday, you’re gonna stop bein’ a goof-off at school. You’re gonna be nice, and do good work, and not get in any more trouble. You’re gonna get good grades and show respect. You’re gonna do all the stuff that I never did—and do things right, the smart way. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Clay pressed his lips together.

  The hand flashed out again, and as Clay flinched, Mitchell stopped midswing. He reached out and grabbed his brother by both shoulders. They were eye to eye.

  “Look,” said Mitchell, “being in jail was the worst thing ever, the worst. I’m never going back and you’re not even gonna get close.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have hit you. And I’m not doing that again. But I don’t want you to mess up anymore. I’m gonna do things different now too—I am. We can kind of do this together, okay? I’m sorry I hit you. But I’m serious about this, that’s all. I’m serious about it. Now go on, get back in bed.”

  As Clay reached the ladder to the upper bunk, Mitchell said, “Hey, toss me that pillow from down below. I’m sleeping over here. Been in a bottom bunk for thirty nights, and I don’t want to wake up that way tomorrow.”

  Clay grabbed the pillow and threw it at him, hard.

  Mitchell looked at him, started to say something, then reached up and switched off the lamp.

  “Get some sleep. We’re going to the mall tomorrow.”

  “The mall? How come?”

  “Just go to sleep.”

  A minute later, Clay heard a snort, and then long, slow breathing—just like that, Mitch was sound asleep.

  Not him. Clay lay on the upper bunk, wide awake in the dark.

  Mitch wasn’t kidding around, he could tell that. But all that stuff he’d said about school? That was, like . . . crazy.

  It was probably just the time in jail making Mitch act like this. He’d get over it. A couple of days around home and he’d calm down again. He’d forget all about that stuff, and everything would get back to normal.

  Yeah, everything was going to be okay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRUST

  Clay avoided his brother all Saturday morning. Then around two thirty he heard Mitch in the living room watching TV. He went in and sat down next to him on the couch. It was a heist movie, and a gang of jewel thieves were making plans to break into a museum.

  When a commercial came on, Clay said, “So . . . are we still going to the mall today? Like you said last night?”

  Mitch muted the TV and turned to look at him. “That depends.”

  “On what?” said Clay.

  “Depends on whether you trust me or not.”

  Clay made a face. “What’re you talking about?”

  “It’s a simple question,” Mitch said. “Do you trust me, or not?”

  “Yeah, of course I trust you,” said Clay. “But what’s that got to do with going to the mall?”

  “You remember what I said last night, about school?”

  “Yeah . . . ,” said Clay. He also remembered getting smacked upside the head. Twice.

  “Well,” Mitch went on, “I don’t think it’s gonna be easy—to change and everything. And I’m not even sure you can cut it, especially if you think it’s a stupid idea. ’Cause that’s what I saw in your face last night. You thought what I said was stupid. So . . . you don’t trust me.”

  Clay gulped. “I just . . . I don’t know what you’re all freaked out about. I mean, you’re the one who got in trouble and went to jail, and then all of a sudden I’m the one who’s got to do everything different? That’s just . . .”

  “Stupid?” said Mitch. He turned back to the TV. The movie was on again. The leader of the gang was passing out maps and tools and ski masks.

  The room felt empty, hollow. Over the past couple of years it was like he and Mitch had become more than brothers—real friends. Even went camping in the Ozarks for a whole week, just the two of them. And now? Mitch was a hundred miles away.

  Clay took a deep breath. “Like . . . what do I actually have to do?”

  Mitch kept his eyes on the TV. “Trust me. Trust that I know what’s good for you, even if it feels stupid. Because you’re gonna be in junior high next year, and then it’ll be high school, real soon. And the way you’re headed right now? It’s not good. But if you don’t want to listen to me about this stuff, then just go ahead and do wh
atever you want. On your own.”

  Mitch clicked the sound on. The thieves were piling into two cars, huge black SUVs. The doors slammed and the engines roared and they blasted out into the city traffic.

  Clay stared at the screen, but he barely saw it. He was remembering that camping trip.

  About three days in, the trail came to a stream. It was a tiny blue line on the map, but the actual thing was running fast and cold, swelled by recent rain. They’d found the narrowest spot and Mitch tossed both their packs over. Then, with a running leap, he made it across, no problem.

  “C’mon, Clay!”

  “It’s too wide!”

  He’d had to yell above the noise of rushing water.

  Mitch stood on the far bank, holding out a hand. “You can do it—just get a good head start and jump. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you!”

  So he had backed up as far as he could. He ran, took a flying leap, and landed on a wet rock. His feet slipped, but Mitch grabbed his arm and pulled. It was over in three seconds. One boot was full of water, but he’d made it.

  Clay got up off the couch.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Mitch looked at him. “ ‘Okay’ what?”

  “Okay, I trust you.”

  Mitch turned off the TV and stood up. “Good.” He smiled and made a half turn, tapping his right shoulder. “You want to take a free shot right here—for me slappin’ you last night?”

  Clay grinned. “Nah . . . I’ll wait till you’re not ready for it.”

  Mitch laughed. “Fair enough. Okay, little man. Let’s go to the mall.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LONG MORNING

  When Clay got on the school bus Monday morning, he walked toward his favorite seat at the very back, and all the other kids scattered just like always. But when he sat down, a couple dozen faces were aimed his way, staring.

  He eyeballed two fifth-grade boys. “What’re you lookin’ at?”

  They turned away instantly, and so did everyone else.

  But Clay knew what they were looking at. Most likely, it was the haircut.

  Mitchell had promised not to smack him anymore, but at the barbershop on Saturday afternoon it had taken some serious threats to keep Clay in that chair. When the deed was done, two years’ worth of hair lay on the floor. Sure, he still had three inches left on top, and he could still part his hair down the middle, sort of. But the sides? Short. To Clay, it seemed like he was bald, plus his neck was cold. And with his ears sticking out, he felt like Mr. Potato Head.

  Horrible.

  Of course, the kids on the bus also could have been looking at his clothes. No one had ever seen Clay wearing anything except jeans and a T-shirt or a hoodie—until today.

  Saturday’s shopping trip with Mitchell had been a nightmare. Clay had followed his big brother around the mall, watching him pick out clothes.

  Clay had rebelled. “You’re kidding, right? I’m supposed to wear stuff like that? I’m gonna look like some loser in a back-to-school ad!”

  But Mitch had said, “Look, I told you it wasn’t gonna be easy. Because you’ve gotta send a big message to everybody that the old Clay Hensley is gone. It’s the right move. Trust me.”

  So there he was at the back of the bus, wearing a gray and green flannel shirt with a folded collar and little white buttons up the front. The shirt was tucked into baggy tan khakis held up by a brown belt.

  His black Velcro high-tops, the ones with the designs he’d made with permanent marker all around the white rubber edges? Gone. But at least he’d been able to talk Mitch out of some ugly brown leather lace-ups. They had compromised on a pair of completely boring black sneakers.

  Ridiculous.

  Clay also had a new blue backpack, and Mitchell had laid down the law about that, too. “No weird drawings on this thing, okay? And no safety pins along the edges, no bumper stickers on the back, no flames on the sides, no custom paint job, no nothing—you got it?”

  When he walked into his homeroom, Clay felt like an alien. Everyone treated him that way too, sneaking peeks when they thought he wasn’t looking. They didn’t know whether to laugh or be afraid. He didn’t blame them.

  Hank skidded into the room just before the final bell, took one look at Clay, cracked this huge grin, and said, “I get it, I get it—early Halloween costume, right? That is completely awesome!”

  Clay didn’t even try to explain. He just gritted his teeth and shook his head. He sat down in his assigned seat, got out his notebook and a pencil, and began checking over his math homework—he had done every single problem.

  When Hank saw him do all that, he stopped laughing. “Hey—what’re you doing? And why do you look like . . . like that? Is this because of that thing on Friday with Mr. K.? Like, did you have to go to special counseling over the weekend or something?”

  Clay was tempted to start talking like he was a brainwashed robot, which would have been funny—Hank would totally freak out. But he used his normal voice. “I’m just going to school today—school, that’s all. And this is what I look like now. So get used to it.”

  That was all he said.

  Apart from the way he felt about his appearance, homeroom included a different kind of torture for Clay. Mr. Brighton was absent, and there was a brand-new substitute teacher.

  The woman looked like she was about seventeen. She was all nervous and chatty, trying to be way too friendly with the kids. It would have been so much fun to mess with her head—maybe act like he only spoke Russian . . . or maybe he could start crying and tell her how his pet skunk had died yesterday . . . or maybe pretend he was allergic to her makeup, see if he could get her to scrub all of it off her face. He could riff and goof and tumble her head around until she ran screaming out of the room . . . like some other subs had.

  But Clay didn’t do any of that—he didn’t even put a sticky note on her back.

  All around him, kids were being stupid and annoying, just like always. Alex started bragging about how he’d gotten this really cool new toothbrush. What a dweeb! Tonia was trying to get Jacob’s attention because she thought he was so cute—about as cute as a dead fly. And out of the corner of his eye, Clay saw Lee secretly picking his nose. All these opportunities staring him in the face, and what was he doing? Nothing—because he’d made a promise to his big brother.

  He had given Mitch his word that he wouldn’t tease anybody, that he wouldn’t put anybody down, that he wouldn’t make any jokes or rude noises. He had promised not to do anything that might get him yelled at, or get him kept after school, or get him sent to the office—or get him suspended or expelled.

  By the end of homeroom Clay felt exhausted.

  In science class Mrs. Charter started a new unit about water on Earth—the oceans, the water cycle, the growth of deserts, shrinking glaciers—all kinds of stuff. And during a demonstration, Clay could have gotten away with squirting salt water at four or five different kids—but he stopped himself each time.

  Then during gym class everyone had to run four laps around the track, and he could have hidden out behind the equipment shed on the far side of the field. That’s what Hank and the Miller brothers did, loafing around until the final half lap. Clay made himself play by the rules, and he ran the whole distance.

  During fourth-period music Clay had an endless flow of fun ideas. How loud could he sing random words before the teacher told him to knock it off? What would his dusty footprints look like all over the black sweater of the girl sitting in front of him? If he stared cross-eyed at Liam, could he crack him up, maybe get him in trouble? And what if he kept asking Mrs. Norris to play the starting note for the tenor part over and over and over? How many times would she plunk that same note on the piano before she completely lost her temper? The whole period could have been full of adventure and danger and fun.

  Clay didn’t do any of that. He sat there holding his songbook, and he opened his mouth wide like Mrs. Norris always said they should, and he sang.

  He walk
ed out of the music room and, as usual, he met up with Hank. As they headed toward the cafeteria, Clay felt sort of relieved. He’d survived the bus ride and homeroom, and then he had fought his way through each of his morning classes without goofing off or causing one bit of trouble for anyone.

  He actually felt proud of himself—and even better, he knew Mitch would be proud of him too. He started thinking how great it was going to be to tell him all about his first day as the new and improved Clay Hensley.

  Really, though, it was a little early to start patting himself on the back. The day was barely half over.

  And next came lunch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TWO MUSKETEERS

  Hank had watched Clay all during homeroom, and again during second-period gym class. What was he doing with his hair all short—and those clothes?

  So far, sixth grade felt like it was going to be the best year ever. Clay and him? They had a blast every day—the guy was awesome, so funny! But today? Clay seemed like a completely different kid.

  Hank and Clay had always been pretty good friends, but near the end of fifth grade, one incident had turned them into best buddies.

  At lunch one day, Clay had slipped two big slabs of red Jell-O into Donnie Miller’s backpack. Later, when Donnie figured out Clay had done it, he got really mad, said he was going to get him back. And the next day during gym, he cornered him.

  “You and me, Hensley, out behind the bowling alley after school!”

  Clay grinned and said, “Sure. I’ll wear my bowling shoes.”

  Clay was no match for Donnie, and Hank was worried. Donnie had been left back a grade, so he was taller and heavier and stronger. Clay wasn’t really a fighter anyway—everybody knew that.

  So Hank had stepped in.

  He pointed at Donnie’s brother Dave, who was also in fifth grade. “How about me and Clay against both you guys?”