There weren’t many people outside either—a few neat freaks trying to rake up every single leaf, a white-haired lady on a ladder cleaning the gutters of her garage, and a man riding a big tractor mower on a small front lawn.
As he crossed Third Street, up ahead he saw a guy in a ripped sweatshirt picking up broken pumpkin pieces from his front walk. Would Hank and the Miller brothers have come this far south? No—must have been done by someone else who liked the sound of smashing pumpkins. Still scanning side to side, he didn’t see an egged house or car, and no spray-painted front door.
As he glided past the man cleaning up the pumpkin, Clay noticed the logo on his sweatshirt—it was an old Cardinals baseball hoodie, the same as his. He grinned, and was ready to yell out “Go Cardinals!” to the guy, but he saw his face. It was Mr. Kelling.
Clay quickly turned his head to the side and pedaled like mad, pouring on speed. After half a block he slowed down, checked for traffic, and then wheeled around, facing the other way. He came to a stop, his right foot resting on the curb.
He looked back up the block, and he could see Mr. K. He was on his porch now, a small bucket in one hand and a brush in the other. He was painting his front door.
Clay’s first thought was to get away from there, fast.
But . . . why? Hadn’t he been face-to-face with Mr. K. dozens of times before—in situations when they had both known he was completely guilty?
This was different. This time, more than anything, Clay wanted to make Mr. K. see he was innocent.
He pedaled slowly back up the block. His heart began thumping in his chest. He wasn’t sure if this was going to be the bravest thing he’d ever done, or the dumbest thing.
Either way, he was going to do it. He had to.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SCENE OF THE CRIME
Clay rode up onto the sidewalk in front of Mr. Kelling’s house. His driveway was still wet, and the garden hose and a bucket were next to a gray minivan. Bits of white eggshell had washed down onto the sidewalk.
He steered around some pumpkin slime, hung a right turn, and rolled up the principal’s front walk. Fifteen feet ahead, Mr. K. was putting a second coat of white paint on his front door.
Clay could still see the outlines of the jackass. It had been made with red spray paint, except for the glasses and the mustache, which must have been black. It was going to take at least three coats of white paint to fully cover it.
When he stopped, his front brakes made a little squeak. The principal didn’t turn around, didn’t stop painting.
Before Clay could speak, Mr. Kelling said, “I thought that was you riding by, Clayton. And when you sped up, I was almost certain.”
He still had his back to Clay. After a few more strokes, he laid his brush across the top of the paint bucket and turned around. He looked down from the porch, no warmth in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice had an icy edge.
“So, are you returning to the scene of the crime? They say a guilty person can’t resist doing that.”
At school, when the principal was angry, it had always seemed funny to Clay, always made him feel like laughing in the guy’s face. Right now the man was a hundred times scarier than he had ever been at school.
Clay gulped, and his first few words came out high and squeaky.
“I . . . I got scared when I saw you, but I came back. And I came back because I wanted to tell you myself that I didn’t do this. I didn’t—”
The principal held up his hand. “You say you didn’t do this, but it certainly seems possible, even probable.” He nodded at the door. “That is a very distinctive image—your image.”
“Well, yeah . . . ,” said Clay, “but whoever painted it there wasn’t any good at drawing. And anyway, I didn’t even leave my house last night. I mean . . . if I hadn’t ever made that picture, no one would have tried to copy it onto your door. So I’m sorry about that. But I still didn’t do this. And I wouldn’t have. I—I just wouldn’t have done this. Or thrown the eggs, either. Last year, or even back in September, I might have. But not since the last few weeks. And that’s the truth.”
Mr. Kelling’s eyes narrowed. “How do you even know about this, and about the eggs? Because if you didn’t do it, then you must have heard about it from whoever did.”
Clay shook his head. “The police came to my house last night and talked to my mom and my brother. They told us what happened. And they came because you must have told them that you thought it was me.”
Mr. Kelling nodded. “When they asked if I had any idea who might have done it, I thought of you, first thing. And I told them so.”
A question formed in Clay’s mind, and he frowned. “But . . . when we talked in your office after I threw that cheese in the cafeteria? I said I wasn’t going to do stuff like that anymore. And you said you were going to take me at my word, remember?”
“Of course I do.”
“So then, last night . . . you decided I had broken my word, right?”
“I—I was very angry. And looking at the evidence, it did seem like something you might have done. After all, you and I have a long history together, Clayton. It’s only been very recently that our . . . our communication has begun to improve.”
The principal paused, his mustache twitching a little. “Tell me this,” he said. “How many people do you think saw that drawing you made, besides you and me?”
Clay thought a second. “Everybody in my art class saw it, plus Hank Bowers and some other kids out in the hallway. And my brother and my mom and dad. And I bet a ton of the kids in art class described the drawing to their friends. So that’s a lot of people. And Mrs. Ormin saw it too.”
“Well,” the principal said, “I think we can be pretty certain that Mrs. Ormin didn’t do this.”
They both smiled at that idea.
Mr. Kelling walked down the steps. Standing level with Clay, he wasn’t all that much taller. He looked at him and said, “I believe that you’ve been keeping your word to me. I doubted that last night, but right now I’m sure I was wrong. And I’m going to call the police and tell them you are not a suspect.”
He held out his right hand, and Clay reached over and shook it, looking him square in the eye.
“And Clayton, I want to thank you for having the courage to come and talk to me about this. And I’m sorry that my suspicions brought the police to your home. That must have upset your parents—and your brother, too.”
Clay nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think my mom and dad got much sleep last night.”
“I didn’t sleep well either. How about you?” the principal asked.
“Me?” Clay smiled. “I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. I slept fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BATTLE TO THE END
Second period was half over. It was a rainy Monday morning, which meant indoor gym class. The final activity was dodgeball. After a furious ten minutes, Clay was the last player for the red team, and Hank was the only survivor from the blue team.
Hank circled right, and Clay quickly backed away to the left—he had great respect for his friend’s wicked right arm.
Three minutes earlier, everyone except Hank had been knocked off the blue team—leaving him alone to face six red players. With a ball in each hand, Hank deflected the body shots. He jumped the leg shots, dodging and twirling away from every assault. And lashing out with that right arm of his, he had picked off the red shooters like a one-man SWAT team.
Now it was just Hank and Clay, locked in a battle to the end.
Clay took a run at the line, acting like he was coming in for a strike. Hank took the bait and threw, but his shot was a little high. Clay felt the blast of air as the ball almost grazed his head.
“Hey, no head shots!” yelled Mr. Garland. “I want to see good sportsmanship out there!”
Hank dashed to grab another ball, and when he bent down, Clay let loose. His throw was right on target, but Hank dropped to the floor and the ball bounced foul.
> Hank charged the line, expecting Clay to back up, but he didn’t. From only fifteen feet apart they each whipped a shot. The balls collided, and then bounced wide and rolled out of play. Clay ran back to get another ball—and there weren’t any.
“Lookin’ for one of these?” Hank called.
He walked casually toward the center line with one ball under his left arm while dribbling a second one like a basketball. “Hold nice and still, and I won’t hurt you.”
Clay grinned and lifted both his arms out wide.
With a quick windup, Hank blasted a rocket right at his knees. Clay jumped sideways, but he kept his eyes on that second ball. Even though he saw it coming, there was nothing he could do. It was Hank’s deadly sidearm throw, roaring in chest-high and timed perfectly—he was completely off balance. The ball hit his left shoulder with so much force that Clay was knocked back onto his rear end.
But that same force also sent the red ball twenty-five feet straight up into the air. Still sitting on the floor, Clay looked up, locked in on the ball, scooched backward, put up his hands, and caught it.
Both teams burst into wild cheering, and Mr. Garland blew his whistle and shouted, “Red team wins! Great game, everybody, great game! Okay, class is over in five minutes, so let’s get this place cleaned up.”
Hank came over and offered Clay a hand, then pulled him up off the floor.
“That was a lucky catch, Hensley,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Clay, “losers always say stuff like that.”
Hank grinned and gave him a punch on the shoulder.
“Hey,” Clay said, using Mr. Garland’s tone of voice, “sportsmanship, sportsmanship!”
There were plenty of kids gathering up the cones and the balls, so Clay and Hank turned in their colored vests, then walked to the bleachers and got their backpacks. They sat on a stack of blue and yellow mats to wait for the bell.
“Seriously, you killed out there today,” Clay said, “like, Medal of Honor deadly—really.”
Hank smiled. “You were decent too.” He cleared his throat, paused, then cleared it again. “Sorry I didn’t call you, you know, after Halloween night. You hear anything else from the cops?”
Clay shook his head. “Nope. It’s all over.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” said Clay. “I rode my bike over to Mr. K.’s house Saturday.”
“No way! What happened?”
Clay shrugged. “Not much. I told him I didn’t do it, and he believed me. Then he called the cops and told them to back off. End of story.”
“That’s great,” said Hank.
“Yeah, I’m glad it’s settled.”
Hank bounced his heels against the mats six or seven times, then stopped. He took a deep breath and started talking, low and fast.
“Listen, Clay, I’m the one who did that stuff at Kelling’s house. Dave and Donnie were there too, but it was my idea. But I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble or anything, I really wasn’t. It was just . . . like, goofing around. And painting the picture on the door? I was just trying to be funny. If I’d thought they’d come looking for you, I never would’ve done it. I really wouldn’t have.”
Clay was quiet a moment. Then he said, “Don’t worry about it. I know you wouldn’t have tried to get me in trouble.” He paused, then added, “And really, I kind of figured out it might have been you who did it.”
Hank turned and looked at him. “Yeah? How come?”
Clay grinned. “Because it was the kind of thing I might have done, and you’re the only other kid I know who’s as crazy as I am.”
Hank laughed, but then he added, “You mean, as crazy as you used to be, right?” His face darkened, and he looked at the floor. “I loved whipping all those eggs, and if I could have nailed Mr. K. himself, that would’ve felt even better. I don’t know how that guy got to you, but he did, right? Kelling really got to you. Changed everything.”
“What? No,” said Clay. “That’s not it. It was Mitch. He got out of jail and he came back home all freaked out, said I had to stop getting in so much trouble. He’s the one who made me get my hair cut and—”
“Mitch? He was in jail?” Hank stared at him. “You never told me that.”
Clay shrugged. “Yeah, well, my mom said not to talk about it. But I thought everybody knew. It was in the paper.”
Hank said, “So, not messing around anymore after school . . .”
“Mitch.”
“Or hanging out on Halloween . . .”
“Mitch,” Clay said again. “And doing all my homework, and dressing like a dork, it was all Mitch’s idea.”
“Okay . . . ,” Hank said slowly, “but it’s been a pretty long time now. And it’s not like Mitch is holding your hand and forcing you to be Mr. Goody-Goody every second of every day. So . . . it’s partly you being like that. Right?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Clay. “It’s partly me. I mean, a guy can still have a little fun without being a total goof-off, right?”
“If you say so.”
“I know so,” said Clay.
Hank rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now you’re the big know-it-all, too—you’ve got everything all figured out, right?”
“No,” Clay said, “not everything. Like, ‘Can you and me still hang out together?’ I don’t know the answer to that one yet.”
“So . . . ,” said Hank, “who gets to decide about that? Mitch?”
Clay laughed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Bowers. You know who gets to decide.”
Hank smiled, then raised one eyebrow. “So . . . do you want to meet up at lunch today?”
The bell rang, and they both stood up.
“Well, actually—,” Clay began, but Hank interrupted him.
“Oh—right, that art thing you’re doing.” Then he smiled. “Hey—I’m glad I remembered. Check this out.”
Hank reached into the pocket of his hoodie and then handed Clay two expensive drawing pencils. “I found these at my house. They’re my sister’s, but she said I could give ’em to you, if you want them. To help with your project.”
Clay looked at the pencils, and then at Hank. There was an odd look on Hank’s face, just for half a second.
Instantly, Clay knew. He knew why Hank was doing this. It was to make up for something else he had done. In the art room. When he trashed that self-portrait.
Clay clenched his jaw muscles. The blinding red anger flashed through his head, screaming, “Payback!” In two seconds he could snap both of those fancy pencils in half and then punch Hank in the stomach and knock him down and shout at him and tell him what a rotten friend he was.
Clay didn’t do that.
He kept looking at Hank’s face, and he breathed. Then he smiled.
“Really?” he said. “I can have these? They’re tons better than the ones I’ve got now. This is great—thanks.”
“No problem,” said Hank.
“Listen,” Clay said, “I think I’ll skip the art thing at lunch. So, yeah, let’s hang out.”
Hank grinned at him. “Great,” he said. “Meet you after chorus, okay? And maybe we’ll play a little dodgeball outside after lunch. Sound like fun?”
“Definitely,” said Clay. “Sounds good.”
EPILOGUE
Shortly after Thanksgiving, Mrs. Ormin noticed that the students who were sent to the principal’s office for discipline seemed less frightened of Mr. Kelling—no one was bursting into tears anymore. She knew why. That drawing Clayton had made? The principal had gotten it framed, and it sat on the filing cabinet right behind his desk. Someone who was able to laugh at himself just wasn’t that scary.
True to his word, Clay wasn’t sent to the office again for the whole rest of sixth grade. Mrs. Ormin was happy for him, but she missed his regular visits, and she also missed making the regular additions to his student folder—her masterpiece. She felt like her shorthand skills were beginning to get a little rusty.
On the next-to-last day of school, Mrs. Orm
in began double-checking the records of the departing sixth graders. After adding the final grade report, she placed each student folder into a large cardboard file box—she would fill three of them by the time she was done. The school district’s delivery van probably wouldn’t haul the boxes of records over to the junior high until August, but Mrs. Ormin believed in doing things sooner rather than later.
The phones were quiet, and the building was almost empty—the kids and teachers were outside for the big field day. She made great progress with her task during the morning. When Mr. Kelling came in to check his messages at lunchtime, she had only one question for him.
“Mr. Kelling, would you take a look at this folder for me? I just want to be sure that everything’s in order.”
The principal adjusted his glasses and flipped through the pages. “Let’s see—health forms, emergency contact information, testing records, residency, birth certificate, grade reports—this all seems fine to me. Do you see a problem?”
“No, sir, I don’t. I just wanted to be sure I had it right. Now then, you have three messages . . . and this is the one you should probably deal with before lunch.”
Mr. Kelling went into his office and closed the door, and Mrs. Ormin went back to her filing. But she had some trouble. Her eyes were watering. Actually, she had to blink back a few tears. She smiled and thought, Who would have ever thought that the principal could make me cry?
Somehow, Clayton Hensley’s folder had shrunk. Dozens and dozens of notes and transcripts and complaints and referral forms—six and a half years of trouble—had vanished from his permanent student folder. He would be starting junior high with a clean record.
Beyond the basic information, only one sheet of paper had been added to Clayton’s folder, a pale green page from the school’s December newsletter. A paragraph had been circled: