Rock, Paper and Scissors

Chapter-10- Turtles, Spies and the Italian Mafia

..--..

To whomsoever it may concern,

I, Maxwell D. Leningrad- the innocuous only son of Mortimer and Helena Leningrad, in the name of the law of the land, plead guilty and apologize for ------------------- (please fill in the offense) committed on -------------- (please fill in the day when the crime was perpetrated). It was never my intention to hamper the workings of a grand institution such as Jefferson and was done purely from my enthusiasm, adoration and revered respect for my alma-mater. I hope you, whomsoever it may concern, do understand that… despite your ridiculously long name.

PS: If your grievance is with regards to broken furniture, kindly send the bill to my home address and it shall be duly taken care of. And if it is in regards to broken limbs, dislocated shoulders, injured pride or perennial troubles with a receding hair line, don’t bother sending your henchmen to my home since I’ve been instructed by the National Security Agency to keep my location undisclosed and am traveling in a different continent incognito.

PPS: This confession will not stand legal in a court of law.

Thanking you,

Gracious to correspond as always,

With the best regards,

MDL

Timbuktu

She stared goggle-eyed at the letter, particularly at the one familiar and the other alien names it contained.

“So, Max gave you the list of things to buy, right?” Wren asked, walking two steps ahead of her.

Stopping at the intersection where cars whirred past them, the tall, lithe boy watched the street. He waited patiently for the pedestrian’s light to turn green as well as for her reply. Hands shoved into the depths of his pockets, he swiveled and gave her an odd look when he didn’t get an answer. Her head cast down, she was still staring at the crumpled sheet of paper held gingerly by her finger-tips.

Erin cast a wary glance at the so-called shopping list. Shaking her head in remorse, she folded the paper again and thrust it into her backpack.

“Um… yeah,” was all she could say in the end.

The light turned green and the cars skidded to an impatient stop.

Wren sauntered across the crossing with her following close on his heels, her footsteps echoing his. They resumed their stroll into town again, gazing at the passing buildings and showing little attention to the road ahead. Both wondered how to break the awkward silence between them.

Wren was beginning to realize that between the two of them, they’d never really had a conversation lasting more than a minute. If he had been hoping that his generous offer of chocolate dessert would have wooed her over to his side, he’d been terribly wrong. His charm, which usually had girls buzzing to him like a swarm of bees had little or close to no effect on her.

But then again, Erin was a strange one. She was a girl of few words. She said as little as possible, spoke only when she was spoken to and always seemed to be living in a world entirely on a different plane and dimension. He didn’t really have a problem with it, that is, as long as her world didn’t consist of one eyed extra-terrestrials from outer space. A brief jaunt with the UFO club in junior high still made him nervous everytime he bumped into the ‘trekkies’.

All of a sudden, Wren realized that it had turned way too quiet. Not that his companion had ever been a source of bubbling energy and speech. But now, even her footsteps seemed to have died.

He felt perturbed. She had tried to run away once, he remembered.

What if, while he’d been so caught up in his soliloquy, she had taken grasp of the opportunity and given him the slip?

Panic coursed through him.

With a feeling of dread, he turned around to check.

Wren let out a sigh of relief when he found her still dawdling behind him soundlessly.

He noticed a novel just barely sticking out of her backpack and fought the urge to go over and pull it out. He’d probably scare her in the process and if there was one thing he did know about Erin, it was the fact that she liked keeping her secrets.

Her standoffishness was still a bit disconcerting though.

Shrugging lightly, he resumed his walk.

It wasn’t until he neared the third avenue, did he notice it.

Wren stopped in his tracks, turned his head sideways and squinted at the lamp post. Erin came to a clumsy halt behind him, almost bumping into his gangly back. A soft ‘oomph’ escaped her and she blinked in surprise. Wren was too busy staring at the pole. It wasn’t the lamp-post which had seemed odd but rather, the curious thing stuck on it. He gave a long, careful glance at one particular poster fastened across the pole among others.

“Is-Is something wrong?” Erin asked, trying to edge past him.

“Hmm,” he elucidated in his patent ‘Wren-like’ way.

He drew her attention to the poster that was taped right below a menacing picture of a wanted felon. The convict had become famous for mugging the elderly and decanting off with their hard-earned money.

“Uh… you know who the mugger is?” Erin asked, straining to see the picture of the man above Wren’s tall frame.

“No, not that,” Wren groused, tapping the poster below it.

Erin now found herself looking at the elaborate, black placard of what looked like a photoshopped version of the Royal Philharmonic orchestra. Instead of an aged conductor leading a musical ensemble of equally old musicians, the orchestra members bore the familiar faces of some of her peers at school. Dressed in the conductor’s black tuxedo, a swanky looking boy held his baton out with a caption that read ‘Come and Experience the Musical Extravaganza of your life time’.

Wren whistled in what Erin could decipher as either appreciation or scorn. Perhaps both.

“Class C does go all out…” he said. “I guess they do have a reputation to keep considering that they did win last time.”

A pause.

“Are they the ones who went to Hawaii last year?” Erin asked him.

Wren looked at her with a little more than surprise and nodded in reply.

“An orchestra…” she trailed, looking back at the poster. “Can they really pull it off?”

“Ha!” Wren let out, sweeping away the few strands of his hair from his eyes. “We’ll have to wait and see. But Max won’t be happy I daresay. If they make a mess of classical, he will throw a fit. He is very touchy about stuff like that. Trust me… What is your homeroom upto by the way?”

Erin shrugged and then after a long pause, looked up to him.

“Um, why aren’t you and Max in the same class?” she asked curiously.

“Mm, School’s decision I guess. And it was a wise one considering the fact that the last time we were put together, we sneaked into the princi’s apartment and let loose some amphibians. And I daresay Dowell wasn’t very happy about waking up with a frog croaking on his forehead.”

Erin’s eyes widened. “You really did that?”

“Yup. It was a riot. You should have been there.”

Erin wasn’t entirely sure about that.

..--..

“Man, that looks sweet!” specimen number one lamented, letting out a wolf-whistle.

“Totally, dude!” specimen number two agreed, obviously the sidekick of the duo.

“How much do ya think it costs?”

“Err, dunno man, but it must cost a fortune. Like a zillion bucks I swear.”

“Well, my old man drives a pile of junk compared to this little hot hooded baby. He thinks his beaten down convertible is the bomb, heck he’s got no idea. I don’ think I can get a gorgeous one like this even if I worked part-time for ages at that crummy noodles place mah dad owns.”

“Hell like that’s ever gonna happen,” specimen two countered, trying to slick his freakish blue hair into place. He admired himself in his reflection on the car’s window.

Hidden behind the tinted glass, Emanuel cringed.

Kids, these days, were as articulate as a retired dyslexic sailor. He particularly digressed at the sight of the blue hair which blinded him for a second. Apparently, looking like the human equivalent of a toilet brush was the new haute couture. Thankfully, he noticed from the color of their uniforms, the two specimens didn’t seem to belong to Jefferson’s.

He wondered what kind of peers his young master had.

Emanuel was much like any other doting parent who seemed to think that every other kid was a bad influence on their little twiddle-do-bumpkin even if their little twiddle-do-bumpkin was probably the notorious class bully. Hence, Emanuel ought to be forgiven for such a grave mistake.

The conspicuous looking BMW was parked a block away from the school’s compound, earning many appreciative hoots and admiring stares from passing locals and students alike. A few daring boys gawked at it, tried to fondle the black shiny surface and were soon chased away by the driver Paul Jenkins who rolled down his window and made some good use of the spare Italian cuss words he had picked up from the young master over the years. His current boss did have quite an alarming influence on all the people around him.

Speaking of the devil, he found the young master scampering towards the car at breakneck speed. The boy reached the parked limo, yanked the door to the car open, dived in and slammed the door shut behind him. The sound unnerved the other inmates of the car but they did not waver, having grown accustomed to his theatrics over the course of their professional duties.

The glass shield separating the driver and the passenger aisle slid open with a loud, smooth gyrating sound.

Max looked up to find Emanuel staring at him earnestly. “Everything alright, sir?” the butler asked unfeelingly.

“I’m good,” he replied.

Emanuel nodded in his gentlemanly way.

Max turned to his driver and waggled his fingers at him in greeting. “Good to see you, Jenkins. I thought it was your day off.”

“Wish it were, Max, wish it were,” Paul said, giving him a brief nod of his head and turned to the windshield again, knowing well that his presence in the conversation would not be required. He’d realized in the long run that becoming a part of the car furniture was the key to not being held responsible for any of the illegal dealings that went on under his roof.

Max suppressed a grin and turned to the man sitting next to the driver.

“The reason I called you here-” he started breathlessly.

“I’ve brought you a change of clothes, sir,” Emanuel cut in.

“Oh, fantastic,” Max said, deciding to postpone the conversation for a little while.

Wordlessly, Emanuel held out a hangar on which a red t-shirt and a pair of jeans were neatly folded across the thin line. Max took hold of it and laid the casual wear out beside him.

He hummed in appreciation, sliding his shoes off. “Just the right sort of stuff to wear in this weather. You think of everything, Emanuel. If I were to get stranded on an island and allowed to take two things with me, the first would be a pillow and the next one would be you, good chap,” he said. He threw his blazer aside and started unclasping the buttons to his sweat-drenched shirt.

The butler smiled.

“I don’t quite know whether I should feel complimented or be offended that I lost to a bolster,” the forty-year-old quipped.

Max picked up the t-shirt and burrowed into it, his head disappearing in the fabric.

“It was a compliment, good man, a compliment. Sometimes I do wonder how you do it… How do you wear that horrendous thing all the time? That penguin suit of yours must itch. I vote that all uniforms ought to be banned from civilized society. Would actually save the world from global warming.”

Emanuel smiled a gratuitous smile.

“I believe that a uniform is symbolic of one’s loyalty and attachment to a cause we all equally support.”

“A cause?” Max repeated, his voice echoing from the hollow of the t-shirt.

“Indeed.”

Max let out a whiff of his breath, his head emerging. “I don’t quite agree with you. Can’t say I’m very proud of representing a school where a fellow can’t even exercise his freedom of expression. You comment on a man’s tie and instead of thanking you for setting him on the right path, the man gives you detention. Not fair I say. Such autocracy leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I am beginning to think they’re just jealous of my superior common sense.”

Emanuel looked at him narrowly. “Ah, sir but I hope you didn’t comment on a professor’s attire.”

Max stopped abruptly and grinned at him. “I will not answer that for your own peace of mind, Em.”

The butler sighed. He took out a cloth and polished his monocle.

“And despite how much you say you despise your institution, you still like it.”

Max didn’t answer him but gave him a grouchy growl in reply.

“You’re just like your father in many ways,” Emanuel continued, looking into the far distance and avoiding his charge’s furious gaze.

“I really don’t want to talk about that… But speaking of my dearly beloved pater, we have a problem.”

“What sort of problem, Master Leningrad?” Emanuel asked him, now passing him his customary end-of-the-day lime soda.

Max grabbed at it and stirred the glass erratically, making the little umbrella swirl in the whirlpool.

Emanuel suppressed the urge to raise an eyebrow at that.

Max took a sip and visibly relaxed.

“We have trouble, Emanuel. Big trouble with a capital T,” he said.

“Trouble, sir? Maybe it’d be prude to call the assistance of Bonzolli.”

“Bonzolli?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not bring the Italian mafia into this. I don’t think the crisis has escalated to that extent… yet. But thanks, I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.”

“I beg to differ, sir. If it is trouble that needs to be dealt with, then better nip it in the bud like they say. And Bonzolli aka The Knife aka Four Fingers is the man for the job.”

Although Max wouldn’t mind letting an Italian hoodlum deal with the issue of Mrs. Forrester, he realized that the problem required a more delicate handle.

“I have a better plan.”

“You always do, sir,” was the automatic reply.

“Yes and fortunately, it doesn’t involve any of your shady Italian friends. I must say, for your dignified stature, you do lurk around strange circles, Emanuel.”

“I’ll try to mend my ways, sir.”

“Right. So the plan is…” Max’s attention fell on the fidgety driver of his. “Uh, Paul, this would be the appropriate time for you to pretend you’re not here. I’m just making sure you don’t hear anything you don’t want to hear.”

“Aye, I’m already invisible, Max,” came the judicious reply. “If they ever try me in court, I can easily confess that I never heard anything… because I was never even here.”

“That’s my man.”

“Where shall we head to?” the driver asked, turning the ignition key.

“Kremlin Street,” came the quick answer.

..--..

Kremlin Street always thronged with the strangest of folks. It was almost as if all of the world’s queerest objects had been collected and assembled at one place… just for kicks. From the latest PSP product released in the gaming world to century old Belgian cigars, from colorful, extravagant Kashmiri carpets to the limited edition figurine of Major Motoko Kusanagi, one could find anything and everything in this cluttered haven. Though the open market served exclusively to antique collectors, numismatists, otakus, computer nerds and other questionable endangered specie, sometimes a ‘normal’ person did walk into the street but the odds are… he probably got himself lost. Even more so, if he has a girlfriend tugging on one arm.

Sid Travers wasn’t a lost soul.

He belonged here.

Sometimes, he even lived here.

The good man Fauz had a spare room at the back of his rickety, little shop where Sid crashed whenever his bedroom turned out to be too hazardous for human (and turtle) habitation.

Hence, Kremlin Street could never boast of its collection being complete without the mandatory presence of Sid.

The streets were narrow, crowded and claustrophobic. The dim orange which the sun’s rays littered on to the shops, made them all glow invitingly. None of the passerby’s seemed to mind the crammed alleys and people always flocked in numbers. It was a damp, humid evening… perfect to be spent on the beach, laid out across a hammock and enjoying one’s own solitude. Yet Sid found himself on the busy Kremlin Street wiling away idle time.

He raised a hand and nudged Dionysus’s shell, rattling the turtle inside. Dionysus didn’t stick his wrinkled head out as usual. The turtle was content where he was and rather, preferred not seeing the view from Sid’s shoulder. He was petrified of heights and considering his miniature size, he had a right to be.

Fauz sighed as he watched his special customer loiter around his shop.

“You know,” the man started, “You really need a friend,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“What makes you say that?” Sid retorted with a grouch.

“It’s a Monday evening. School’s out. You’re here alone. Do the math, sonny.”

“I-um- I thought you’d like company.”

“Right,” Fauz replied, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Don’t you have friends, goggles? Not even one?”

Sid buried his nose into an ancient looking pot, possibly trying to evade the question.

“I do have one,” he echoed from the depths of the pot.

Fauz gazed at him narrowly.

“A turtle doesn’t count,” he said.

Sid straightened up and bit his lip in sorrow. “Uh, okay. Then, you.”

“I’m flattered, kiddo. But I’m thirty eight. I definitely don’t count. How ‘bout a girlfriend? You have one of those?”

“Nope. And trust me, Fauz, I do try. Problem is I haven’t found a girl yet who isn’t allergic to my computer.”

“And to your personal hygiene.”

“Whoa. What’s wrong with my personal hygiene?”

Fauz wondered whether he should break the news to him but then, decided against it. He didn’t want to break the poor kid’s heart. He let out a sigh at Sid’s clueless nature and wound one arm around the boy’s shoulders. “You have a sad life, dear boy. But I have just the thing to cheer you up,” he said, leading him inside.

Fauz walked over to the far side of the shop and his tanned arms reached high. He picked something from the top shelf and tossed it to Sid. It was fairly heavy and Sid almost dropped it under its weight.

“What exactly is this supposed to be?” Sid asked, turning the curious object upside down.

“A rotary dial, goggles,” Fauz replied, a bit of self-pride leaking into his accented tone. He always called his special customer ‘Goggles’ out of sheer habit. The name had stuck since the first time he’d met Sid when the boy had just been in middle school. Even at that age, he’d been a well-known computer whiz around town. Back then, he always wore his thick goggles and the name somehow stuck.

Sid squeezed his fingers into the tiny slots, watching the little machine make a rattling sound. He picked up the lofty receiver and stared at it wondrously.

“This looks kinda like a telephone.”

“That’s because it is a telephone,” Fauz replied with a grin. “An antique directly imported from-”

“No way. The graham phone? You’re kidding right?” Sid cut him with a girlish shriek. He had a tendency to get excited over anything legitimately old or in layman’s terms, junk. Last week, he had bought a dirt-cheap decade old Celeron processor from Fauz and taken it home, only to be screamed at by his sister. Leanne pleaded him to stop turning their house into an electronic wasteland. Sid just nodded along and slipped back into his room to escape. He was quite a good weasel when he needed to be.

“How much for it?” he mouthed silently, admiring the ancient telephone.

Fauz gave him a toothy smile. “Twenty-five.”

“Too much, yo.”

“Okay, twenty then?” the professional suggested.

Sid shifted through the contents of his pockets and all he could muster was a bill of ten. “I’ve only got-”

Sid saw something that caught his complete attention. A small fleeting glance was all he needed. Jefferson uniforms. He recognized Wren and the new girl passing by. His eyes widened in disbelief. This was the first time he’d seen someone from school on his own turf. He was even more surprised to find a rather suspicious looking gentleman decked in spy overalls following them step-to-step and pillar-to-pillar. His dirty blond hair seemed awfully familiar.

Sid dropped the antique telephone (much to the chagrin of Fauz) and decided to pursue the trio.

..--..

Kingsley was known to be a lot many things (some fancy, others not quite) but if there was one thing he prided himself for, it was for being the ‘Master of Disguise’. It was an essential part of his job description, you see. One had to be the jack of all trades, ready to don any role as the situation required. A sleazy school reporter had to be quick on his feet, smart, cunning, ruthless and most importantly, sleazy.

Kingsley was all the above.

Atleast, that’s what he thought.

At the moment, he was dressed in an oversized trench coat, a derby hat and dark shades that gave the finishing touch to his metamorphosis. He now resembled a detective in one of those early noir films where the undercover tails the crook and at the opportune moment, pokes a gun into the fiend’s back and announces smugly in his grave tone ‘Stick em’ up’. Whether he survives the climax is another story.

Kingsley wasn’t a detective, so he had to remain content with merely following his suspects. At home he was ‘momma’s favorite boy’ but out in the real world, he kept up the façade of being a tough cookie. He wasn’t the sort of fellow who’d think twice before leaping into a risky mission and neither was he the sort of fellow who gave heed to the advice ‘See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.’ Danger never fazed him. He laughed at its face, disregarding everything his momma had painstakingly taught him.

He gave one brief glimpse to his watch and read the time. It was getting a little close to six. He sighed and made a mental note to ask Joshua for a raise.

He hid behind a telephone pole just as Wren and Erin stopped in their tracks. The soccer boy’s cell was ringing and he swept it out of his pocket to answer it. Wren exchanged a soft word or two with the person at the other end and then, a frown appeared on his soft features. He looked up and down on the street casually.

Kingsley pulled out a newspaper tabloid and pressed himself against the pole. Tugging up the lapel of his coat, he stood still, straining to hear even a trace of their conversation. He couldn’t make out anything. Not from this distance.

He glanced over the rim of the paper, bringing them into his line of vision. Wren talked for another minute. And then, he snapped his cell shut and turned to Erin. He said something into her ear and she answered him with a strong nod.

And before Kingsley knew it, his targets split ways.

‘What the- Aww man!’ he thought, feeling very disgusted. ‘Which way should I go now?’ he wondered in a panicked frenzy. He wiped the sweat trickling down his brow and sighed in frustration. He was about to start tailing Wren but was forced to stop. He gave a start when someone poked his back.

“Stick em’ up,” demanded the intruder, barely able to contain the humor in his voice.

Damn, Kingsley said to himself. The prick stole my line.

In quick reflex, his hands went up in air automatically. The newspaper that he’d been using as a shield drifted to the ground with a ruffle.

“Now, turn around slowly,” the voice commanded.

He bit back a scowl and turned around, only to find Sid smiling at him.

“What?” Kingsley asked, feigning an overtly gruff voice.

Sid’s eyebrows creased into a thin line, not buying the act.

“You want somethin’, twerp?”

“I know it’s you, Miller,” the nerd said, one hand reaching up to stroke the shell of his turtle.

Kingsley’s eye twitched and he removed his shades.

“Ack, how did you find out? I thought this disguise was fool proof!”

“Well, you could have remembered to remove the pencil from under your ear. It kinda gives you away.”

Removing the bowler hat, Kingsley traced the length of his ear and plucked the pencil away. His cover blown, he started to sulk a little.

“Aww shoot, I wonder whether they caught onto me,” he whined. He turned his head and his eyes started scanning the crowd in search of them. Wren and Erin were nowhere to be found. He’d lost the trail. Clean. It was back to ground zero.

He turned to Sid and shot him a glare.

“You just had to come and pull one over me, didn’t you?”

Sid shrugged and crossed his arms behind his head. “Sorry, mate. I couldn’t resist. But what were you doing out here?”

“Following PI.”

Sid looked at Kingsley sharply. “Private Investigators?”

“No, Prankster Inc., dummy,” the school reporter corrected, pressing the bridge of his nose in pain.

“Ah, right. So why are you following them?”

“Confidential.”

“Yeah, right,” Sid said scornfully.

“No, it is. I am sworn to secrecy. So do me a favor and buzz off.”

Sid puffed his cheeks. “Fine,” he relented, his manner becoming gruff. “But next time, you need someone to dig up dirt from the internet, don’t come begging to me.”

He left with a huff, still stroking the turtle shell balanced precariously on his shoulder. The kid desperately needed the company of human society, Kingsley concluded. He reached into his coat and fished around for his binoculars. He finally exclaimed a fruitful ‘ah’ and reclaimed it from his cargo pants.

Clearing the lens with the ends of his coat, he brought it to eye level and scanned the crowd with it.

A tap on his shoulder distracted him.

He bit his lip.

If Sid was planning to ruin his entire mission again, the kid was going to pay dearly. The fellow tapped him again.

Ready to give the nerd a good piece of his mind, he turned around, only to find himself face-to-face with just the sort of people he’d never hoped to encounter.

“Well, well, well…” the leader of the troupe said, his pale lips twitching into a smirk. “If it isn’t the Jefferson sleuth hound.”

Kingsley finally understood it.

Karma had come around to bite him in the arse.

..--..

The room was cast in the strange glow of dusk. The only sounds that broke through the uneasy silence were the occasional noise of papers being shuffled and Max’s voice jutting in regularly with ‘Ah, so that’s how you do it’.

Wren sat grumpily at the edge of his bed, his head leaning against a poster of a Lamborghini Reventon. The floor to his bedroom was now littered with all sorts of assortments from the dried lizard’s tail to a Goth’s cosmetic kit. In the background, Enya’s soulful voice filled the gaps in conversation. The cd’s jewel case lay tossed aside with Max trying his hand at karaoke unsuccessfully. At the other end of the room, Erin sat on the rug, struggling with the wig.

Wren only hoped Mallory didn’t walk in on them. She’d never live it down and he didn’t have a good explanation to give either.

“Oi. Why does it have to be my room that gets converted into the ‘Lets-plan-something-devious’ headquarters?” he griped to no one in particular.

“Because of its strategic location,” Max answered, now immersed deeply in the contents of the shopping bag.

“Bullshit.”

“Aw, come on, Wrentrem, be a dashing host.”

“Oh, my bad. Next time, I’ll bake a batch of cookies for you,” he suggested sarcastically. “Would that be hospitable enough?”

A long, meaningful pause.

“Chocolate chip would be nice,” came the quick reply.

“You-” Wren said exasperatedly.

“I’m not very partial to walnut either.”

“Oho really?”

“And tea, of course, with peppered mint.”

“Okay, now you’re just asking for it,” Wren roared, diving off the bed and lunging at him. He pinned Max to the ground and held him squirming underneath. Max yelped aloud, hoping for Sam’s rescue.

Sam perked up his ears, regarded them for a small moment and gave them a look which meant to say ‘he was so above all this’. The German shepherd turned to the only other sane occupant of the room. He scampered out of his kennel, heading in her direction. Wagging his tail, he paddled over to her and laid down his large head on her warm lap.

Erin looked at the dog in a mix of surprise and fear.

Sam let out a whine, which made her lose some of her inhibitions. She let out a gentle smile and relented to his request. She scratched him under his ears and ruffled his gray fur softly. Sam let out a growl; enjoying the attention he’d been long denied.

Wren and Max paused in their squabble and found themselves staring at the two.

Max frowned in disbelief.

“Told you before, didn’t I? He’s quite the traitor.”

Wren, on the other hand, was amused. “Yeah, it is strange. He usually takes a while to get used to someone.”

Max shook his head despotically and glowered at the dog. “You don’t need to tell me that. It took me years to make him understand that I wasn’t just some ruddy criminal who’d broken out from prison.”

“I wonder where he got that idea from,” Wren gibed with a roll of his eyes.

“And look at him now, getting all cuddly with her. I’m jealous.”

“Of the dog?”

“Of our recruit,” Max amended quickly, feeling a little unsure.

They stared at the happy couple again. While Sam tried returning her affections in his own way, Erin patted his head, a trace of a small smile on her lips.

For the first time, they realized that the girl who had once looked so intimidating actually possessed a very pretty smile.

..--..

The next day, class A was bustling with anticipation and energy. Joshua announced that their event for the school festival was going to be a haunted house. He told his classmates that he’d come to the ‘democratic’ decision after counting the votes they’d put in… even thought in reality, he’d decided on it by chucking darts blindfolded. But he couldn’t possibly tell them that. No, definitely not.

After the announcement, Joshua embarked on a speech he’d prepared overnight.

“The school festival,” said Joshua in a loud, baritone that carried across the entire length of the classroom. “… is an opportunity for us to set a fair example for our juniors.”

“They don’t need it,” Oliver juxtaposed into the speech unasked.

Joshua promptly ignored it and threw a duster at him instead. It made him feel better. Only slightly. Clearing his throat, he continued where he had left off.

“It is the perfect chance for us to show them our brotherhood, our camaraderie and our enthusiasm in working for a common goal. The stakes are high, gentlemen…” he caught the glare from Laura and appended, “… and not-so-gentle-women. There is still so much to do. I bet you’ve seen the posters around town and you know what our competition is like. That’s why I want this show running ASAP even if I have to personally come down and whip your asses into shape.”

“So much for brotherhood and camaraderie,” Milton quipped out aloud.

“With friends like him, who needs enemies,” Randall stated, waving his hand around.

“Does this mean we have to actually leg it out and do some work?” Oliver wondered out loud, squarely missing another duster Joshua threw at him.

“Hey, atleast we don’t have to wear those nasty penguin suits,” Milton pointed out emphatically and silenced all further protests.

The class buried its nose into the preparations whole-heartedly. Everyone set out to do their parts. While one group busied itself with watching every horror movie they could possibly get their hands on, another wrote a thesis on the props used in the works while the rest were assigned the job of preparing the actual sets.

Milton, Randall and Oliver were huddled in a corner, snickering at their brethren for the lack of a better job. They had been officially assigned to the decoration committee which was another name for ‘Artsy-Pansy’ division, in their humble opinion. And so not cut out for them.

They were much too manly, virile and buff for the committee, they’d decided. Laura wanted to mention the time when the three had squeaked like girls when the rats escaped the cages in the biology lab but decided to save her energy for a worthier cause. Anyway, it didn’t take long for the school head to spot the slackers shirking work. A barely concealed threat regarding a month’s worth of detention had the needed effect and the three now sporting paint brushes were trying to paint cardboard pieces with not much luck.

It was at this precise moment when Kingsley limped his way into the classroom, sporting a cast around his arm and a horrible looking black eye.

A hush fell upon all of them as they stared at him.

“Dude, you got run over by a car or somethin’?” Randall blurted out with as much sensitivity as could be expected from him.

Joshua sprang from his seat, looking deeply concerned. “Miller!” he hissed in a low breath. “What in the world happened to you?”

With the only undamaged eye he possessed, Kingsley glared at him. “Maybe we oughta go somewhere private.”

“That serious?”

Kingsley tried to nod and winced when he pulled a strained muscle.

Quick on his feet, Oliver came over and saved Joshua the trouble of excusing himself. He clapped the school-head on the shoulder. “It’s okay, chief. Go right ahead and have your secret rendezvous. We’ll take care of things.”

Joshua gave him a strange look and nodded uncertainly. He picked up his blazer and made his way towards the exit. Before he was out of the door, he heard Oliver clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Okay, people. We’ve got rid of Hitler. You can put away those paint brushes now-”

Joshua growled, made a one eighty and grazed around for his handy weapon. He didn’t find it.

“Man, there are not enough dusters in this world. Will somebody please throw something at Oliver for me? And the sharper and pointier it is, the better I’d feel. I’ll even recommend you for a medal if it actually does some brain damage to him.”

“Aww, Josh, I didn’t know you liked me that much. If you keep showering me with so much PDA, people are gonna find out that we’re really married.”

“Oh, shut your trap,” the school head grunted and followed Kingsley out of the room.

“He’s still in denial,” Oliver told Laura who promptly thwacked his head.

..--..

A/N:

Good job! I did intentionally give Max a communist name. His name is the product of Lenin, Maxwell and Blooregard. Plus, he has the mysterious initial ‘D’ as a middle name which will be revealed in later chapters. The thing about Max is he thinks he is a socialist and he talks a good deal about serving the community, but he is actually a capitalist (if you remember the way he tried to sell Wren’s photos to certain clients.)

Next chapter deals with the chaotic school festival. Thank you for reading.