“Sorry to disappoint you, but it ain’t gonna happen. How’s that old saying go? ‘Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.’ Well, nobody fools me twice.” He pointed to the lock. “New lock.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it up. “The combination to the new lock. Not even I know it.”
This earned a gentle laugh from the crowd which had grown larger as he spoke.
With a flourish he studied the paper, then turned and spun the dial. When the shackle popped open, he removed it, grasped the door handle, and without an instant’s hesitation, yanked it open.
You’ve got no doubts, Jack thought, watching avidly. Supremely confident. Let’s see how long that lasts.
When nothing happened, Toliver turned to his audience and gestured toward his locker.
“See? Nobody fools me twice.”
Keep it up, Jack thought, biting his upper lip to keep from grinning.
This was perfect.
He glanced at the thick semicircle of faces and saw mixtures of relief and disappointment. They didn’t want anyone picking on their beloved Carson, but a part of each of them thought another spider would have been undeniably cool.
As the crowd began to break up, Toliver reached for the books on his top shelf. As soon as he moved them, the trapped snake uncoiled, flashing right at his face. He let out a high-pitched squawk as he dropped his books and raised his arms to protect himself.
Those in the crowd who were looking cried out in alarm, and then everyone began laughing when they saw the spring snake on the floor.
Jack plastered on a smile and faked surprised laughter—just another face in the crowd.
The delay had been crucial: Give Toliver and the onlookers a brief respite in which they all thought he’d beaten whoever had set up yesterday’s gag. A few heartbeats of self-satisfaction for Toliver before the boom lowered.
At one thirty this morning it had taken what seemed like forever to adjust the cap of the can just right: not tight enough to hold back the snake on its own, but assisted by the weight of a few books in front of it. Once those books were removed …
The laughter continued, but Toliver didn’t think it was funny. He’d managed to brush it off yesterday, but this morning his red-faced embarrassment exploded into rage.
“God damn it!” he shouted as he kicked the snake. “Who’s doing this?” He turned in a slow half circle. “Show yourself, you son of a bitch! Step up and face me like a man!”
A female voice giggled. “What if it’s not a man?”
Toliver turned toward the direction of the voice. “Who said that? Do you know something? Who said that?”
The first period bell rang then, and everyone started moving.
“Hey!” Toliver shouted. “I asked a question! Who knows anything?”
But people had places to go and weren’t listening.
“Somebody’s got to know some—”
Jack had turned away with the rest but turned back when he heard Toliver’s voice cut off. He saw him staring at a dirty sneaker that had fallen out of his locker. It looked way too small to be one of his. He seemed weirded out. He kept staring, then suddenly bent and tossed it back into his locker, looking around as he had yesterday with the sock.
As Jack turned and started walking away, he heard a couple of guys behind him start a conspiracy theory worthy of Weezy Connell.
“Who’d do something like that to Carson? Can you think of one person?”
“No way. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“What if … what if it’s somebody from North trying to spook him?”
“You mean because of the game?”
“Hell, yeah. Nobody ’round here would do it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Think about it. He’s our MVP, man.”
“Yeah, one who screams like a girl.”
They both had a laugh at that, and Jack couldn’t help smiling too.
“But seriously, what if they’re trying to get him all distracted and everything before the game? He’s the quarterback. If his mind isn’t a hundred and ten percent on the game tomorrow night, we’re screwed.”
“Man, you could be right. North could be trying to greenlight him.”
Jack wanted to tell him the term was “gaslight”—after one of Mom’s favorite movies—but resisted the temptation.
He also figured Carson Toliver had too high an opinion of himself to let any of this rattle him enough to blow the Badger-Greyhound game.
Still, the idea of NBR trying to drive the SBR quarterback crazy before the big game …
A whacky theory, guys, Jack thought. But as long as it doesn’t involve Weezy or me, go for it.
He spotted Levi Coffin, one of the older piney kids, staring at him as if trying to see right through him. He had a strange, knowing look that unsettled Jack. Did he suspect?
No way.
Jack chanced a last glance back and saw Toliver slam his locker door closed and start to relock it. But he stopped, staring at the lock.
Suddenly he hauled back and pitched it against the nearest wall where it cracked a tile. As the lock hit the floor, its black combination dial broke off and rolled around in a wobbly circle.
Toliver stalked off, leaving his locker latched but unlocked.
No! Jack thought. You can’t do that.
Booby-trapping an unlocked locker would have no impact. It was nothing—less than nothing. Anyone could do it.
Toliver had to get another lock.
4
At lunchtime, Jack made a point of stopping by the table where Weezy usually sat.
“Any questions for me, ladies?”
They gave him weird looks. No one mentioned Easy Weezy.
“Come on, girls. I’m the answer man.”
“Okay,” said a blonde with sky-high bangs. “Who’s sneaking into Carson’s locker?”
The question was good news, but Jack hadn’t expected it. He didn’t know what to say until he remembered …
“I heard someone say that NBR might be trying to spook him before the game.”
“Ohmigod!” one of them said and suddenly he was forgotten as they leaned together and buzzed.
Looked like Easy Weezy had become yesterday’s news. His plan was already successful. But it wasn’t enough. The scales wouldn’t be balanced until Toliver was experiencing what he’d put Weezy through.
He’d planned to spend the rest of lunchtime bird-dogging Toliver but, just like yesterday, he was nowhere to be found until classes were about to resume.
Jack spotted him walking toward his locker. Two other guys from the football team were coming the other way. One nudged the other and they both let out high-pitched screams.
Toliver didn’t appreciate the joke. As they broke into laughter he shoved one of them.
“Something funny, Warner? Huh?”
Temper, temper, Jack thought. Careful. That’s not a skinny “goth chick.”
Warner pushed him back. “Lighten up, Cars.”
“Hey, yeah,” said the other. “We’re just funnin’ ya.”
“It’s not funny, man. Someone been stealing my combination. Nothing funny about that.”
“Well, don’t look at us,” Warner said. “Got better things to do.”
The other nodded. “Damn straight.”
Toliver held up his right hand to show them a new lock. “Well, whoever it is, his combination-stealing days are over.” He held up a pair of keys with his left hand. “No combination. And I’ve got the only keys.”
They exchanged high fives and continued on their various ways. Jack followed Toliver to his locker and strolled by as he secured it with his new lock. After wandering into the caf, he doubled back and slowed as he passed 791.
A bright brass lock gleamed from the locker latch. Mr. Lock was engraved into the metal.
Jack suppressed a grin as he moved past.
Tonight—or tomorrow morning, rather—he would introduce Mr. Lock t
o Mr. Shim.
5
“I’m not feeling so well,” Mr. Rosen said, rubbing his stomach.
He looked a little green and Jack felt a flash of concern.
“You okay?”
“The tuna fish salad I had for lunch—it’s not sitting so well. Stay open maybe another hour, then close up. Unless of course—I should be so lucky—we’re jammed with people in a buying frenzy, then you call me and I’ll come back.”
Jack laughed. “You got it. But before you go, I need to buy something.”
The kid from yesterday had given him an idea.
“Again? You bought yesterday, and now you’re buying today. With business the way it is, you’re going to be the week’s best customer. What now?”
Jack indicated the round fishbowl full of marbles he’d brought to the counter.
“These.”
Mr. Rosen made a face. “Marbles? Why? You’ve maybe lost yours?”
Jack forced a polite laugh.
Mr. Rosen shook his head. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. So why does a boy your age want marbles?”
Jack searched for an answer … and found one.
“They’re a gift.”
“For that Connell girl you pal around with?”
“No. This person barely knows I exist, and won’t know who they’re from.”
His eyebrows rose and his dark eyes twinkled. “Like from a secret admirer, maybe?”
He’s got it way wrong, Jack thought, but wasn’t going to straighten him out.
“Sort of.”
At least the “secret” part was right.
“How many you want?”
“I was wondering what’s your best price for all of them.”
He smiled. “‘Best price,’ eh? You’ve been listening to me haggle?”
Jack returned the smile. “Learning from the master.”
“How many you think are there?”
“I’d guess a hundred or so.”
“Well, here’s the list price.” He tapped the 10 ¢ EACH sign taped to the glass. “So let’s see … with volume discount plus employee discount … five dollars will make us even.”
“Deal.”
Jack pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Rosen.
“Be sure to write it in the book.”
Jack nodded, staring at the bowl.
Yes, sir. These marbles were going to make a fine gift for a certain someone.
6
Mr. Rosen had said to close early at five, and Jack was getting ready to do just that when Mrs. Clevenger walked in with her dog.
“Hi, Mrs. C. Long time no see.”
She smiled. “I trust you will take Mister Foster’s warning to heart.”
Rather than answer that he had no intention of doing anything of the sort, he said, “Can I help you find anything?”
He didn’t want her browsing around. He wanted to close up and go home.
“Actually, I came to see you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. One of your schoolmates sought me out with a rather odd question.”
One name leaped immediately to mind. “Weezy?”
“No. The Toliver boy.”
“Carson?”
“I don’t believe there is another.”
“Oh, right.” Yeah, Carson was an only child. “What did he want with you?”
“He seems to suffer from the prevailing notion that I’m a witch.”
Jack glanced at her three-legged dog and remembered that raccoon running off with a pair of broken legs.
“Did he … want you to cast a spell or something?”
Like one that would protect his locker?
She shook her head. “Nothing like that. No, it was the oddest thing: He wanted to know if I could tell whether or not a person was being haunted.”
“Haunted? I’ve heard of houses being haunted, but people?”
She only shrugged.
Jack pressed. “Did he say who was haunting him?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say he told me he was being haunted. He simply asked if I could tell.”
“Well, can you?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll tell you what I told him: I am not a witch. I do not cast spells, I do not tell fortunes, I simply live my life and mind my business.”
Not exactly a solid no, he thought.
Did she know what Jack was up to? Was it Mrs. C he sensed watching as he’d sneaked into the school these past two mornings? She had a habit of showing up without warning in the oddest places.
He noticed her watching him now with an appraising stare. It made him uncomfortable.
“What?”
She said, “Do you have any idea why he would ask me that?”
Now he was really uncomfortable.
“Well, someone’s been messing with his locker. Maybe he thinks it’s haunted.”
Come to think of it, Toliver’s expression had been kind of haunted this morning when he’d found that dirty sneaker.
“He didn’t mention a locker. He asked about someone being haunted.”
Jack shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t help you on that.”
“Very well,” she said, nodding. “I just thought I’d ask.”
On her way out, a stranger stepped through the door and held it for her. As it closed behind her, he approached Jack.
Swell, he thought. He was never going to get out of here.
“You’re the proprietor?” he said with a New York accent. He was heavyset, maybe mid-thirties, with a double chin and a receding hairline. “So young to own such an interesting store.”
“I just work here.”
“Ah. A wage slave. I used to be one, but no more. Nu? Where is your slave driver?”
Jack debated answering that. It wasn’t anybody’s business, especially a stranger’s, that Mr. Rosen wasn’t feeling well.
“He stepped out.”
“Back soon?”
Jack shook his head and pointedly looked at his watch. “No. And we’re sort of past closing time.”
“So soon? I have a minute for a quick look around?”
Jack shrugged. “If you’re really interested in something, I’ll wait.”
“Oy!” He raised his hands as he started down the center aisle. “Like a rabbit I’ll run.”
Something about this guy—Jack wasn’t sure what—was putting him on alert. Nothing particularly sinister about him, just that … he seemed to have an agenda. Jack just wished he knew what it was.
The man returned with an armful of old comic books. Mr. Rosen kept a few boxes of them in the back. When Jack had first come to work here the old guy had handed him a copy of something called Overstreet’s Comic Book Price Guide and told him to look up each and every issue to see if it might be rare and valuable. No luck. Mostly the likes of Archie and Hot Stuff and Little Lotta. Kids’ stuff. Not valuable, simply old.
“Here,” the man said, plopping the stack on the counter. “I’ll take these.” He handed Jack a five-dollar bill. “That should cover it.”
“Hang on,” Jack said, doing a quick count. “You’ve got twenty here. You’re five dollars short.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “For these you want ten bucks? They’re junk. I’m only buying them for my daughter because she likes Archie.”
“They’re fifty cents apiece.”
“Nu? You make me a deal.”
“Can’t do that. If I write down twenty, he’ll expect to find ten bucks paid.”
“That’s robbery. A ganef you work for. Look, does he know how many comic books he’s got back there? I mean, the exact number?”
Jack shrugged. He’d gone through them issue by issue himself and hadn’t the faintest. “I doubt it.”
“Good. Then we can do a little business here. We’re both men of the world, right?”
Jack stared at him, wondering where this was going. “I’ve been as far as Philadelphia a few times. Does that qualify?”
“
Not by a long shot, but we’ll say it does. Such a deal I’ll make you. This guy probably underpays you, right?”
“I get enough for what I do.”
The man gave him an intent look. “If you do, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who admits it. So here’s the deal: I give you seven dollars, you write down ten comics—”
“I’m not allowed—”
“Hear me out. You write down ten comics, you put five dollars in the till, and keep two for yourself.”
Jack shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
The man’s voice rose half an octave. “Why not? I get a bargain, you get a couple of extra bucks in your pocket. It’s a win-win situation.”
“You forgot the owner. He loses.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Not even he loses. He probably paid pennies for these. I’ll bet he doesn’t have more than a dollar invested in this whole stack. So five bucks leaves him with a profit too. That makes it a win-win-win situation!”
Jack shook his head again. He’d had enough of this guy.
“You’d better put them back. We’re closing.”
“You’re either very stubborn or shortsighted. He’ll never know.”
Jack thought about looking Mr. Rosen in the eye after being part of a cheesy scam like this. He couldn’t think of any amount of money that would make it right to cheat someone who trusted him.
“But I will.”
The man stared at him long and hard, then broke into a smile that changed his whole face.
“What a kid you are.” His wheedling tone had vanished. “You’re how old?”
“Fourteen—fifteen in January.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Fourteen, and already a mensch. My uncle Jake left his store in good hands.”
“Uncle? Mister Rosen’s your uncle?”
“Distant. My mother’s side. Thought I’d catch him here on my way to Baltimore. How is he?”
Jack’s head was spinning. He pointed to the stack of comics. “You mean you weren’t serious? You were testing me?”
“Such a look on your face. You think that’s not fair? I shouldn’t test you? Why not? How else am I supposed to know the mettle of the man watching over my beloved uncle’s enterprise? Life is a test, boychick. Every day, a test of what’s here”—he tapped the side of his head—“and here”—he tapped his chest. “You passed this one—with flying colors.”