The Detention Club Page 12

  I gasped.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I asked him.

  “No,” Street Magic said quickly, but he was staring at the ground. “Consider this more like a time-out.”

  “Holy moly, you are breaking up with me!” I couldn’t believe Drew. After everything I’d done for us. “Fine. Whatever you want, but I don’t think you’re going to like the result.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like the result,” he replied.

  “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

  “I don’t know, am I going to repeat everything you say?” he replied.

  I sighed. I hate when kids start repeating everything you say—there’s no defense for it, really. “So what now?” I asked.

  “We give it a few weeks,” he replied. “By then, one of us should be popular, and then the other admits that he was wrong and we go back to being popular together.”

  “Deal,” I said, and we shook on it. “But trust me, you’re in over your head, pal. Honestly, I feel bad for you, Street Magic.”

  “And I you, Street Magic’s Assistant,” he replied.

  We just stood there for a minute, not saying anything, before I finally looked down at my watch and realized it was now dinnertime. “I should probably go,” I said.

  “Bye, Peter!” Drew said cheerfully, before remembering that he was really mad at me.

  And the experiment was officially under way.

  It was chilly as I jogged home, and to take my mind off the cold, I replayed the conversation in my head. At first I got really mad at Drew again. How dare he suggest I was the reason for our problems! But then an uncomfortable feeling crept inside my bones, as I realized that this meant I was going to have to go it alone at school on Monday. And then I remembered that this was all Drew’s fault, and I felt really angry at him again.

  “How dare he!” I shouted out loud, and it made me blush, because whenever I see strangers shouting out loud to themselves on the street I think, man, what a weirdo.

  I was positive my parents were going to be steaming out the ears that I was so late for dinner, but they didn’t notice me when I entered the kitchen.

  “Um, I’m home,” I finally said. Still nothing. “Where’s the funeral?”

  “Your sister had her lucky pen stolen at school today,” Mom said softly.

  Sunny was pacing back and forth by the sink.

  “I think whoever the thief is should be expelled when they catch him,” Sunny said. “No question. I swear, if I find out who stole my pen—”

  “Relax, it’s just a pen,” I said.

  She glared at me.

  “It’s not just any old pen, it’s the pen I’ve used to get straight A’s for all of middle school. It’s an official NASA astronaut’s pen that I won, you can write upside down in space with it!”

  “Well, that should narrow down the list of suspects—it has to be someone who owns a spaceship.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I was obviously kidding,” I replied. “Which makes you a double idiot.”

  “Not if you consider that in math two negatives make a positive, in which case technically a double idiot’s a good—”

  “For the love of Pete, that’s enough! Stop bickering, you two,” Dad said, not peering up from his newspaper. “Just make sure you both keep a good eye on your things from now on.”

  “Why are you home so late?” Mom finally asked me.

  “I did some work after detention,” I said, blushing.

  She smiled at me.

  “See? Maybe detention’s not a bad thing in the end.”

  “For once, I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said.

  I went up to my bedroom after dinner and opened my closet to get my old winter jacket out. I figured since my fingertips still hadn’t thawed from my jog home an hour earlier, it was now officially cold enough that I was going to have to start wearing it to school, even though I’d probably lose it in a week. I was shocked to find Drew’s jacket on a coat hanger! I guess the thief hadn’t stolen it, after all. I suddenly remembered that during the summer I’d accused Sunny a bunch of times of stealing my recorder. And then when I realized I’d been storing it up at Corbett Canyon, Dad shook his head at me and said that people who are suspicious all the time are suspicious because they lie all the time. And that those who rarely lie aren’t often suspicious.

  I didn’t believe him.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT FELT WEIRD TO WALK BY MYSELF to school the following Monday. Even though I was mad at Drew for accusing me of being the source of all our troubles, I had to admit that I already couldn’t wait for the experiment to be over so Drew and I could go back to being best friends. What the heck was he thinking? He’d never been good at coming up with ideas on his own. He was just going to make a fool of himself, like that new kid last year, Pierre something, who moved to Fenwick midway through fifth grade. He tried to get everyone to like him the first day by bringing in a box of fancy French cookies, and it worked for a little while, but by the end of recess he’d run out of cookies and everyone went back to not being friends with him. He’s not in middle school now, and nobody knows what happened to him.

  At the same time, I realized that I didn’t have a solution, myself. I pictured the way classmates seemed shocked that I was with the Sweet brothers at the mall. None of them had tried to talk to Hugh and Hank, though. I thought about what Sunny had said about them—maybe she was right. In which case, being friends with the Sweet brothers would only solve the bullying problem, but me and Drew would still be losers. How could I use my new friendship with the Sweet brothers to become popular? I suddenly felt really depressed that there was no obvious answer, but it turned out the answer was right around the corner. I walked into the lobby before homeroom, and Trent immediately approached me.

  “I saw you last week at the mall,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?” I scratched the top of my head. “I don’t recall that at all.”

  “Were you with the Sweet brothers?”

  “They’re friends of mine,” I said.

  “Can you get me in tight with them?”

  “I suppose I could try.” At first I wanted to immediately bring him over to the Sweet brothers and introduce them, but then I thought, that would be the end of that, just like when poor ol’ Pierre ran out of his fancy French cookies. “It’s not that easy. I can’t just introduce you right now—they might beat you up or something.”

  Trent looked scared.

  “Don’t worry,” I added. “I’ll figure something out. You just have to earn their respect like I did.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “I think I have a plan,” I said. “Are you free this afternoon?”

  Trent nodded. The bell rang, and we trudged upstairs. I almost ran right into Sunny—she was lugging her yellow inventor’s duffel bag around, even though she had her backpack on, too.

  “Why are you carrying that thing around? That’s what the cubbies are for.”

  “I was working on my prototype last night, genius,” she said. “Besides, I’m not leaving my bag overnight here—there’s a thief, remember?”

  “The thief’s not going to try to steal something from you again. It’s like lightning—if you got struck once, then you probably won’t get struck again.”

  “There’s a forest ranger who got struck seven times, actually, it’s in Guinness Book of World Records,” she objected.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Whatever—have fun lugging that thing around for the rest of your life.”

  * * *

  When I showed up at social-studies class after lunch, Trent was sitting in his usual spot, staring intently at his desktop. I waited for Mrs. Farley to get into her lecture about whatever it was we were supposed to be learning before I commenced with what I later thought of as the conversation method. The teacher turned around to scribble something on the chalkboard, at which point I said loudly, “What’s that,
Trent?”

  He looked up at me with a confused expression on his face.

  “And so these people from this country attacked the people from this other country, and . . .” Mrs. Farley rambled on, writing some weird names I’d never heard of onto the chalkboard. Trent stared back down at his desktop.

  “I’m sorry, come again, Trent?” I said.

  Mrs. Farley turned around.

  “No talking, boys,” she said.

  I shrugged my shoulders at the teacher and squinted at the chalkboard, scribbling lines into my notebook in a way that suggested from a distance that I was writing actual words. She went back to talking about some war or meeting overseas that took place a really long time ago, and I said a third time, “What did you just ask me, Trent?”

  “I didn’t say anything!” he said.

  “I said, let’s stop the chitchat, Trent,” Mrs. Farley said.

  “It’s not me, teach!” Trent’s face was turning bright red.

  She sighed disappointedly at him, then resumed writing something on the chalkboard. I turned to Trent.

  “What is it you’re asking me?” I whispered loudly.

  “It’s not me, I’m not saying anything,” Trent shouted. “What the heck’s wrong with you?”

  “That’s it, you two,” Mrs. Farley snapped. “You can continue your conversation in detention after school.”

  Will do, I thought.

  “Mrs. Farley, Street Magic’s Assistant here keeps talking to me, but I swear I’m not saying anything!”

  “And how do you respond to that, Street Mag—er, Mr. Lee?” she asked me.

  “Agree to disagree,” I said, trying to look confused. “I was merely asking Trent to repeat what he was asking me.”

  She sighed, then turned and continued writing things on the chalkboard.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Trent whispered to me.

  “Shh,” I whispered back. “You’re going to get us in more trouble.”

  Trent’s face turned red.

  When the bell rang at the end of the day, I practically sprinted off to detention class. As I turned the corner, I almost crashed into Sunny, who was sitting at a desk in the middle of the hallway, wearing her stupid hall-monitor sash.

  “Are you still trying to glom on to me?” she said.

  “No!”

  “Well, you can’t run in the halls,” she said. “I’m going to have to write you up.”

  “But it’s after school!” I shouted. “Why do they need a hall monitor after school, anyway?”

  “I volunteered,” she replied. “We have band rehearsal soon, so I figured I’d squeeze in some minutes.”

  “That is incredibly nerdy, you know that?”

  “Why are you running in the first place?”

  “I have detention,” I said with a big smile on my face.

  “And you’re happy about that? Right, so I’m the nerd. . . .”

  “I’m proud of you—it takes courage to be able to admit something so lame about yourself,” I said, taking off.

  “You know that’s not what I meant—slow down!” she shouted after me, but I ignored her.

  I opened the door to room 12, and Trent was already there, staring at his desk in the back row. He stared at desks a lot, for some reason. He looked up and waved me over—already the power of the detention force field was working!

  “Aloha, Trent,” I said. “So what was that thing you were asking me in class earlier?”

  “Dude, I wasn’t saying a word, you were talking to me!”

  “I’m kidding. I did it on purpose.”

  “Why would you do that?” he asked, fuming.

  “You said you wanted to get in tight with the Sweet brothers, didn’t you?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, but then the door opened, and in walked Hugh and Hank.

  “Hey, guys,” I said cheerfully. “Do you know Trent?”

  They glared at him.

  “Did you come here to bring us our allowance?” Hugh asked him.

  Trent looked at me. I shook my head, so Trent shook his head at them.

  “What are you in here for?” Hank asked.

  Trent looked at me again.

  “Let’s just say the teachers aren’t crazy about him at this point,” I said. “And leave it at that.”

  Hugh laughed, and sat down next to Trent, who noticeably stiffened. But by the end of detention it seemed they were getting along famously, and Trent leaned over and whispered to me, “Thanks, bro. So you think they like me?”

  “Honestly, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “How can you tell? We were talking the entire detention!”

  “I know those two. They’re not sure about you. Just keep getting detentions and I’ll work on them from my end.”

  Trent sighed, and I patted him on the shoulder.

  “It’s a good start, I know they’ll change their mind about you eventually. But for this to work, you can’t tell anyone how I’m helping you. If the Sweet brothers were to find out, we’d both be toast, and I can’t have that.”

  “I owe you one, man,” he replied.

  The detention theory worked! Maybe Drew was right, in a way. We had to break up in order for me to figure out how to finally solve things.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL AND Mom was sitting in the living room with her sewing kit out. She waved me over. “Look, I’m making you something.”

  A pile of my clothes was lying in a heap next to her. I frowned.

  “You’re not trying to make me clothes again, are you?” I asked her.

  When I was in fourth grade, I went through a mini growth spurt and my mom was upset that clothes cost so much, so she tried making me clothes that winter. I went to school in sweaters that looked okay in the morning, but if they got caught on a nail or on the edge of a desk, they would unravel, and I’d come home with half a sleeve missing and a ball of yarn trailing behind me like a colored tail. She would’ve kept making me shoddy clothes for the rest of my life, but then I stopped growing and haven’t grown since, so I guess there’s one good thing about being so little.

  “I’m sewing your initials on every piece of clothing you own,” she said. “I got an email today from the vice-principal. He said they were emailing all parents to alert them to this thief problem at your school.”

  “Why are you sewing my initials into my underwear?” I asked her, and she stared back at me. “How could I ever possibly have my underwear stolen in school?”

  She frowned.

  “I suppose that would be a little difficult,” she admitted. “But better safe than sorry. Think about those poor students who have had iPods and cell phones stolen. Imagine losing a cell phone—those are expensive!”

  “First I’d have to imagine actually owning a cell phone,” I said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I sighed.

  “I feel sorry for whoever it is that’s stealing these things,” she said.

  “Are you crazy?” I asked her. “You feel sorry for someone who steals everyone’s stuff?”

  “The thief is clearly a very sad young person crying out for help,” she said. “Imagine what is driving someone to steal like that.”

  “I hear it more like someone crying out for a beating,” I said.

  She shook her head sadly at me and went back to sewing. I picked up a pile of my T-shirts and started walking away.

  “What’s going on?” Sunny asked, entering the living room.

  “I’m stitching Peter’s initials into his underwear,” Mom explained.

  Sunny got a big grin on her face.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said, patting me on the back. It stung. “Then when he gets confused, he can just look at his underwear and remember his own name.”

  “That is really funny,” I said, staring at her. “Don’t you have to study for your SATs? They’re only three years away.”

  “He’s right, Sunny.
If you have spare time right now, you could do a practice test. Hey, Peter, look,” she said, holding up a pair of my underwear. “I sewed a little smiley face next to your initials! Isn’t that adorable?”

  “Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure everyone in gym class will love it.”

  For once I actually knew that I had an English test the next day, so I took the digital camera into my dad’s office that night and uploaded all the pics I’d taken in my classes the last few weeks. I made separate folders for each class, then opened up a slideshow of the English chalkboard photos. Uh-oh. They were low resolution, and when I zoomed in, the writing on the chalkboard got all grainy. I tried to copy what I could make out into my notebook, which felt annoying—I was ending up having to take notes, anyway.

  For the rest of study time, I worked on my plan to start using the detention theory at school, brainstorming ways to get popular kids into detention. I’d already developed the conversation method, but the problem with it was that it gave me a detention, too, and as useful as detention was these days, I didn’t want it to last forever. I thought about it for a while and eventually came up with what I called the passing-notes method. The goal was to make it look like my targets were passing notes in class, which is something the teachers at Fenwick Middle hate more than anything, it seems.

  That night I sat at my desk during study time, figuring out who I should frame next. I made a chart of who I figured were the most important popular people in the sixth grade, listing the reasons why being friends with them could help me. Here’s an example of what the finished chart looked like:

  Target: Donnie Christopher

  Reason: Friends with Carson and the brainiac crew. Has a gigantic head. I already have T.A.G. class with Carson, but since I’m not popular, he can’t see how smart I am. The key is to get Donnie on my side, too, then Carson and the other genius robots will like me.

  Target: Sally Leathers

  Reason: Friends with Angie, who has the parties that all the popular people go to. Get in tight with Sally, and Angie will have to invite me.

  Those were the main targets besides Trent, who I’d already worked my magic with. I also planned on framing Heidi Markowitz because she was friends with the field-hockey girls, and Shawn Jacobs, who hung out with all the skateboarders, and Dylan Armstrong, a Hemenway kid who actually wasn’t all that popular, but I’d heard that he owned a snake that ate live mice, and I’d always wanted to see that in person.