Troublemaker

  The woman said, “What, you’re everybody’s lawyer now?”

  Mrs. Hensley looked from Mitchell back to the officer. “What—what happened on Nichols Street?”

  “Eggs thrown all over a house and a car, and graffiti sprayed on the front door.”

  Screams and loud music came from the TV in the living room.

  “Whose house was it?” asked Mrs. Hensley.

  “It belongs to Alfred Kelling, the principal at your son’s school.” She looked at Mitch. “Your other son’s school.”

  “What was on the door?” asked Mitchell.

  The woman just glared at him, but the other officer spoke up.

  “Looks like a donkey. With eyeglasses and a mustache.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EVIDENCE

  I’m going to talk to my husband, and to Clayton. Then we can talk to you. Good night, and thank you.”

  And with that, Mrs. Hensley closed her front door on the two police officers.

  Mitch turned and walked straight into the back hallway and banged on Clay’s bedroom door.

  “Open up, Clay! Right now, or I swear I’m gonna get a shovel and bust my way in!”

  “Clayton,” his mother called, “open this door!”

  There was the sound of something heavy sliding on the floor, and the door opened. Clay stood there, his shirt rumpled and his hair plastered flat against one side of his head.

  “What’s your problem? I told you I wasn’t coming out. Leave me alone.”

  He flopped down onto the couch and pulled a pillow over his head.

  “You been in here all night?” said Mitchell, walking over to examine the window that faced the side yard.

  From under the pillow, Clay said, “Do you trust me, or don’t you? It’s a simple question.”

  Mitchell went to the couch and grabbed the pillow away from him. “Answer me—did you go out tonight?”

  Clay sneered, “Yeah—I snuck out. And I stole a car and robbed a 7-Eleven. Then I burned down the school and toasted marshmallows over the flames. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “No, but I bet the two cops who just left would love it.”

  Clay sat up straight. He looked at his mom.

  “Really? Cops?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Somebody egged the principal’s house.”

  Mitchell took a deep breath. “This is serious, Clay. They think it was you.”

  “Didn’t you tell ’em I was here?”

  “Yes, I did,” said his mom, “but they wanted to talk to you anyway.”

  “So . . . did Mr. Kelling tell them to come here?”

  “Probably,” said Mitch.

  “But how come?”

  “Whoever threw the eggs also painted a jackass on his front door.”

  Mrs. Hensley gave Mitch a puzzled look. “Why would that make him think of Clayton?”

  Mitch pulled out his cell phone and began punching buttons. “Clay drew a picture a couple weeks ago, and the principal saw it.”

  He handed her the phone, and she squinted at the small screen. Her eyebrows shot up. “Clayton, how could you!”

  “It was mostly a joke, Mom. Mr. Kelling even bought the drawing off me, to keep in his office—really, he thought it was funny.”

  She frowned as she handed the phone back to Mitchell. “Well, if it brought two police officers to the front door on Halloween night, I wouldn’t call it funny!”

  “Well, anyway, I didn’t do that stuff over at his house. I was here all night. That’s a fact.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “As far as the cops are concerned, it’s not a fact unless you can prove it.”

  “But you know I was here.”

  “Do I?” asked Mitch. “I know that you barricaded yourself into this ground-level room, and I know this room has a low window. I know I talked to you once at quarter of six, and then now, around ten thirty. I know I didn’t see you or hear you for four hours. Those are the facts. You say you were in this room that whole time. And that’s what we’re going to have to prove. I believe you, I really do. But what you say and what I believe? That still doesn’t mean Kelling and the police can’t build a case against you.”

  “So . . . what should I do?” said Clay.

  Mitchell shrugged. “Wait. If they think they’ve got a case, the cops’ll be back.”

  “The first thing you need to do,” said his mom, “is have some food. You missed your dinner.”

  Clay smiled a little. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

  While Clay was eating leftover pizza, his dad came home from work. He sat down at the kitchen table, and Mitchell explained what had been happening.

  “They think Clay did it?” he said. “How come? Anybody can buy eggs.”

  It was Clay’s turn to explain. “It’s because of the picture on the door. A couple weeks ago I made a drawing, sort of a cartoon. And the principal saw it.”

  Mitchell punched up the image again on his phone and handed it to his dad.

  Mr. Hensley took a look and laughed out loud. “Ha! You should’ve put this out on the Internet!”

  Mrs. Hensley put her hands on her hips. “Sometimes I think you want these boys to end up in jail, the way you talk! It’s not right to make fun of people—and sometimes it’s also just plain stupid.”

  “The stupid part was getting caught. Come on, sweetheart, you’ve met that principal, and you don’t like him any more than I do.”

  She shook her head. “What I’m saying is, if you’re mean to other people, it comes right back at you. And that is a mean picture. Now finish up eating so we can get some sleep tonight. And don’t give your sons any more bad advice!”

  Ten minutes later Janie came home from her date, and by eleven thirty, everybody was in bed. The house got quiet.

  Clay lay in the dark on the upper bunk. “Hey, Mitch, you awake?” he said softly.

  “Yup.”

  “Like, if everything went all wrong with this stuff about the principal’s house, would they take me over to the jail where you were?”

  “No, there’s a whole different system—there’s a place just for kids over in Dixonville. You have to be at least eighteen to go into the county lockup. But don’t worry about it. Nothing’s gonna happen. You didn’t do anything . . . right?”

  “Right.”

  A minute later Clay said, “But let’s say they find some kind of evidence, something that looks really bad, something we can’t explain. If I got sent to Dixonville, would I get kicked out of school?”

  “I don’t know . . . probably. But like you said, you didn’t do anything. They can’t prove something that didn’t happen, right? Listen, I’ve got the early shift tomorrow. Nothing’s gonna happen. So go to sleep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But Clay had slept on the couch most of the night. He couldn’t even get his eyes to stay shut.

  When he was sure Mitch was asleep, he climbed down the ladder and tiptoed across the room and out the door.

  He went to the fridge to get another slice of pizza, but it was all gone.

  He went into the living room and turned on the TV. It was after midnight, and there was nothing on but talk shows and a couple of horror movies. He flipped around a little, then turned it off.

  He turned it right back on. Better to watch something stupid than have to sit in a completely quiet house and think. He flipped through the channels again and settled on Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, which was more funny than scary—and that was fine with him.

  The candy basket was on the low table in front of the couch, and he dug around until he found some red licorice. He peeled back the crinkly wrapping and was about to take a bite when he froze. He’d heard something.

  He muted the TV, and then pulled in a sharp breath. All the hairs on his arms stood straight up. A scratching at the window, just ten feet from where he sat—then muffled laughing.

  Clay exhaled—and smiled. He knew that laugh.

  He jumped up an
d turned off the TV. He pulled the shade up halfway, unlocked the window, and pushed up the sash.

  “Hey, man!” he whispered. “You ’bout scared the bedoombas outta me!”

  Hank grinned up at him from the front bushes. “I was gonna knock at your bedroom window, then I peeked and saw it was you watching the tube. Want to sneak out? We’ve got some big plans.”

  The Miller brothers were in the shadows off to Hank’s left. Donnie whispered, “Yeah, it’s gonna be a blast!”

  Clay shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t.”

  “Bedawwwk—bawk-bawk-bawk . . .” Dave started making little chicken sounds.

  “Really, I can’t. There were already cops here tonight. I have to stay in.”

  “Cops?” Hank whispered. “Here? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not kidding,” said Clay. “Somebody egged Mr. K.’s house and tagged a jackass on his door. They think it was me.”

  “But . . . like, weren’t you home all night?”

  “Yeah, but it’d be hard to prove—that’s what Mitch says. ’Course, the cops have to prove stuff too. Anyway, we have to wait and see. Listen, you guys better get out of here before my folks hear you—they’re probably still awake.”

  “Wish you could come,” said Hank.

  “Yeah, I wish I could too,” said Clay.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Clay said. Then he smiled and added, “Unless they don’t let me take phone calls in jail.”

  Hank didn’t laugh. “Later,” he said.

  Clay closed the window and locked it.

  He stood for a minute and watched the three guys skulk away down the street. At that moment he was actually glad the police had come to his house. It had given him a good excuse for not sneaking out.

  But standing there in the dark, he was honest with himself. Whether he’d had an excuse or not, he still wouldn’t have gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FUN

  Clay woke up the next morning, stretched and yawned and looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Nine thirty. He yawned again and closed his eyes. Saturday was the best.

  Then he sat straight up—last night! Halloween! And cops, looking for him!

  Clay pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and hurried to the kitchen.

  His mom was at the table with a cup of coffee and the paper. She smiled at him.

  “I’m glad you had a good rest—how late did you and Mitch stay up?”

  “Not late at all. Heard from the police yet?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. And that’s just fine. Except, if they do mean to come after you, I’d like to know right away, rather than keep wondering.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  “You want eggs and bacon?”

  “No thanks—I’m just gonna have some toast and then mow the lawn.” This far into the fall the grass wasn’t growing much, but mowing was a paying job, and Clay wanted to do the work no matter what. Besides, the leaves had begun to fall, and he liked mowing a whole lot better than raking.

  After breakfast he went to the garage and rolled the old power mower out onto the driveway. He checked the oil and the gas, then yanked on the starter cord. It finally started after about ten pulls, and he turned around and pushed it toward the front lawn. That’s when he noticed the street—at least a dozen smashed pumpkins, all the way up and down Monroe Street.

  Hank and Dave and Donnie had done this, almost for sure. He started to laugh, then stopped himself. A month ago he’d have seen something like this, and he would have grinned and whispered, “Awesome!”

  He remembered last Halloween. He’d slept over at Hank’s, and around one in the morning they snuck out and went smashing—you grab a pumpkin, run out into the street and whip it way up in the air, and then wait for that thwomp when it hits the concrete and explodes. Then run to the next house, the next pumpkins. And when that guy came out in his pajamas and started chasing them? It had been a wild night, so much fun!

  Back then.

  But this morning, in the light of day? Clay looked up and down the block, and all he saw was a big mess. And he imagined the little kids who had carved their own jack-o’-lanterns, looking at the broken chunks out in the street.

  He shrugged and started mowing. He pushed the noisy machine back and forth, back and forth, and he wondered if anything was ever going to feel like fun again.

  He knew what Hank thought about him—that he was afraid to goof around now, afraid of the rules, afraid to have any fun at all.

  Fun—there was that word again. What did it mean, anyway?

  Was it fun to mow the lawn? No. Not fun.

  But . . . it did feel good when he was done. And when his dad looked the job over and said, “Nice work,” that felt good too. And getting paid his allowance money? That absolutely was fun.

  Was it fun to be doing better in his classes now? Fun wasn’t the right word, because it was hard work—a lot harder than mowing a lawn.

  But in math last Wednesday, when the teacher handed back the big test on binomials? Like always, Mr. Brighton wrote the name of every kid who got 90 percent or better up on the board. And his name was up there for the first time—Clay Hensley.

  Was that fun? Yeah . . . kind of. And when some of the other kids whose names were up on the board all the time turned and stared at him? Seeing the looks on their faces? That was kind of fun too.

  When he was done mowing and sweeping up, his dad came outside to look things over.

  “That’s a good job.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and peeled off a ten and a five. “Don’t throw this away buying junk food—unless you share it with me.”

  He said that every week, and every week they both laughed. His dad started to go back inside, then stopped and looked at Clay.

  “Listen, what your mom was saying last night? She’s right. That picture you drew was a pretty cheap shot, and it wasn’t smart, either. And if you’d stuck it out on the Web or somewhere, you’d probably be in even bigger trouble. No more cheap shots, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His dad sat down heavily on the front steps. “I don’t know what’ll happen with you and the cops. And it tears me up inside how I can’t help out, not one bit. And Mitch was in jail for a whole month. Any of you kids gets in trouble with the law, all I can do is watch. Tears me up. I don’t know if I can stand another son being in trouble that way. I just hope it all comes to nothing.”

  Clay nodded, then mumbled, “Me too.”

  He didn’t know what else to say. His dad hadn’t talked to him like this before.

  “Guess I’ll put the mower away.”

  His dad stood up. “Yup. And be sure you clean that air filter, okay?”

  “I always do.”

  Clay wheeled the mower into the garage. He unscrewed the filter cover and turned on the air compressor. He took the filter unit apart and used the blow gun to blast the grit and grass and leaves off the thick white paper. Then he shut off the compressor and reassembled the filter. All the while, he kept thinking about what his dad had said.

  So . . . he’d been really upset about Mitchell being in jail? That made sense, of course, but it hadn’t even occurred to Clay when it was happening. Mostly because his dad was always so gruff and full of fight. He had yelled about how unfair the judge was, and he had snarled about lawyers and cops and radar traps and speed limit signs. His dad grumbled and groused about almost everything. But under all of that, he was—what had he said?—all torn up. Inside.

  Clay pushed the mower back to its spot, and then stood still, looking down the driveway at the street. And the pumpkins.

  And he imagined his dad feeling all torn up about him.

  It wasn’t fun.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ALMOST FREE

  Hey, Mom?” Clay was out on the driveway, straddling his bicycle. “I’m gonna ride over to the comics store, okay?”

  She came to the screen door. ?
??I don’t think that’s a good idea, Clay. Mitchell can drive you there when he gets home from work.”

  “Look, I’m gonna ride to ComiKazee, buy one comic book with my own money, and then ride straight back—a half hour, tops. And if Mitchell gets home before I do, you can tell him I’m wearing my helmet and obeying all the bike safety laws. And you can also tell him that he’s not my boss.”

  “I really don’t think you . . .”

  That was all Clay heard her say. He was down the driveway and gone, pedaling hard, the wind fluttering in his ears. He didn’t really want a new comic book, but he did want to get away from everybody for a while.

  He went up Monroe Street two blocks, took a right on Ewing, and when he got to Tenth Street, he went left. He was careful to signal all his turns.

  The comic book shop was only about six blocks ahead on Bluff Street, just a little south of Tenth. The air whipping past him was crisp and cool, the November sky was blue, and the sun warmed his face. He hadn’t felt so free and happy in weeks.

  A few intersections later he glanced up at the street sign, and then slammed on his brakes and planted both feet on the pavement.

  It was Nichols Street. That was the street where Mr. K. lived.

  Maybe . . . nah—he didn’t even know the guy’s address.

  But how tough could it be to spot his house? It was the one with a jackass spray-painted on the front door. And he really wanted to get a look at it.

  Clay took off his helmet, then pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. He opened the headband inside the helmet as far as it would go, then pulled it back on over the hoodie. It probably looked strange that way, but having the hood up would keep his face a little more hidden. He pushed off and swung his handlebars to the right. He felt like a spy heading into enemy territory.

  Nichols Street sloped slightly downhill, and with a little effort he could have zoomed. Instead, he kept touching his brakes. He cruised along slowly, scanning the homes on both sides of the street. The houses here looked pretty much like his—most of them ranch-style, most about the same size, most of them with one-car garages.

  It was a long way between cross streets, and after the first four blocks, he started wondering if he had recalled the name of Mr. K.’s street correctly. After six blocks, he started thinking he should just turn around and go to the comics store. All he was seeing on front doors were bundles of Indian corn, or Halloween decorations like paper skeletons and black cats.