Dave always parked in the school lot by the football field. He was too cheap to pay for a prime spot right by the school, so instead we had to hike two blocks through all kinds of weather just so Dave could save a few bucks.
Onion and I offered several times to help him pay for a parking sticker—usually as we were hiking in the pouring rain—but Dave refused “on principle” because he thought all the parking lots should be free, not just the distant ones. So we got soaked, and we got cold, and still we walked those two miserable blocks every day.
As I mentioned before, Dave was very protective of his car, even though it was basically a rolling wreck. That’s why I’m not sure exactly what possessed me to do what I did. Dave would have liked an explanation, that’s for sure. So would Coach Steener and Principal Morgan, only I couldn’t give them one. They say teens act irrationally because their brains aren’t fully developed; unless I come up with a different reason someday, I’m going with that.
So here’s the sequence of events. Dave and Onion were standing in front of Dave’s car, which he had parked backward as usual next to the field. He and Onion were disagreeing about something while I sat in the back seat waiting to go home. When five minutes went by and there was no sign that their animated conversation was going to end anytime soon, I had the idea to crawl into the driver’s seat and start the car. Dave had put his car key in the ignition before getting out to argue with Onion, and the key ring hung there as if daring me to give it a twist.
I did just that. The car started up smoothly.
To my surprise, Dave hardly reacted. He glanced over his shoulder, but that was all. Honestly, I think I was the first one to not only sit in the driver’s seat but actually start Dave’s car ever since he bought it the middle of his sophomore year.
So I wondered what would happen if I put the car in reverse and backed up a few feet to the edge of the field. I put my foot on the brake, quietly moved the shifter to “R,” and lifted my foot off the brake pedal.
The car began to inch slowly away, making that soft, peculiar scrunching sound as the tires rolled on the asphalt lot. I felt the back of the car drop slightly as the rear tires rolled into the grass.
I stopped. Dave and Onion hadn’t noticed that the car was now several feet away. Wondering now how far back I would have to travel before they finally did, I took my foot off the brake pedal and let the idling engine continue to creep the car backward.
The front of the car dropped a bit as the front tires hit the grass. Completely off the asphalt now, I had to give the car a little push on the gas to get it rolling again. Dave and Onion still didn’t notice.
I rolled backward across the sideline, then onto the field itself between the thirty-and forty-yard lines. For some reason, the car seemed to bog down a bit, and I had to give it yet more gas to keep going.
As I approached midfield, I saw Onion—now half a block away—point in my direction. When Dave turned around, his arms shot up in the air as if he were surrendering, and he ran toward me faster than I’d ever seen him run before.
I had the crazy thought that maybe he should have kept playing football. Coach Steener would have been very impressed with his forty-yard dash.
I stopped and turned off the car when I realized he was yelling something at me.
I poked my head out of the window as if nothing were unusual. “Yes? Can I help you?” I asked.
Out of breath, Dave grabbed the door handle and gasped to speak.
“What . . . do you think . . . you’re doing?”
I looked around as if I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
Dave glared. “Out. Get out. Now!”
I meekly did as he said, unsure why he was so mad. I thought it was a harmless, funny prank, but he was acting as if I had driven his car off a cliff or something.
“Look, you idiot! Look what you did!”
I looked where he was pointing. To my surprise, there were two deep tire ruts from the parking lot all the way to the front of the car.
I scratched my neck, not sure what to say. “Huh. I did that?”
Dave looked incredulous. “You see any other cars out here? It rained all night last night, remember? What did you think would happen when you drive a heavy car across a soggy field?”
I gasped and stepped forward, realizing something. “Hey! This is just like the scene at the end of The Movie when George dragged his time machine out of his garden and back into his lab, leaving ruts behind! See?” I pointed at the ruts as if Dave hadn’t seen them first.
Dave grabbed his head and spun completely around. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no. Don’t tell me you were trying to imitate that stupid movie. It’s stupid!” He stomped a foot on the ground.
“Well, no it’s not. And I wasn’t trying to imitate it. I was just making a valid comparison, that’s all.”
The incredulous expression returned to Dave’s face. “That’s all? That’s all? I don’t think you realize how much trouble you’re in. You could be expelled for this. Now do I make myself clear?”
I considered that possibility. “Expelled? For this?”
“George, this could be hundreds of dollars’ worth of damage. They’ve expelled people for a lot less.”
Onion tentatively approached me, but not too close, as if associating with me now would somehow taint her. “Dave’s right, George. You might have to finish high school at an alternative school now.”
I looked away. Things felt like they were spinning out of control in a hurry. All I had wanted was to play a little joke on them, and all of a sudden they were talking like I was public enemy number one.
Dave ran his fingers through his hair. He looked frightened now, as if somehow he were to blame. “Let’s get the car off the field. I’ll drive it straight forward so it doesn’t make any new ruts.” He gave me a dirty look before opening the car door and getting in.
As Onion and I watched, Dave put the car in drive and gently stepped on the gas. The car lurched forward, then the rear wheels spun and the car settled down as if it decided to take a seat right there.
Dave slapped the steering wheel with both hands and turned the car off. He glared at me again.
As Dave got out, we saw three buses pull into the parking lot. I could see dozens of faces turned our way, but they were too far away to identify.
Onion gave me a piercing gaze. “You better hope that’s not the football team,” she warned. “If it is, you’re going to wish you ran yourself over instead.”
The buses stopped by the gym entrance and people started streaming off. A handful broke away from the crowd and headed toward us. As they got closer, I could see they were cheerleaders, still in uniform.
“Lucky you. You get to live another day,” Onion said.
The closer they got, the more I realized they were furious.
Onion backed away several steps. “Oops. I might have been wrong about that ‘live another day’ thing, George.”
There were five of them. They marched up to us and stood in a straight line with their hands on their hips in front of us, eyes dark, as if ready to start some sinister cheerleader routine.
“Are you out of your mind?” one of them said.
“Yeah, wait ’til Porter sees this,” said another. “You’re a dead man walking.”
Porter was the biggest, strongest dude on the football team, and by far the best player. Despite the team’s dismal record, he had at least a dozen football scholarship offers from big-name colleges. As much as it pained me, I had to admit that if anyone on the team could kill me with hardly any effort, it was Porter. The only thing that might stop him was the possibility of losing those scholarships. But even then I feared that if he went ahead and killed me anyway, that might only enhance his reputation somehow.
“What have you got to do with this, Baker? You protecting him?”
Dave put his arm around me and squeezed harder than necessary to show them we were chums.
“Take it easy now, ladies. George was just playing a little prank on me, weren’t you, George? I’m sure the field will be as good as new in practically no time at all after he helps fix it. Isn’t that right, George? He’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.”
He squeezed my shoulders again. I nodded wordlessly with a big smile like I was Dave’s sock puppet or something.
The girls relaxed a bit, but not much.
“Well, he better fix it if he knows what’s good for him,” yet another cheerleader said, and their dark stares returned.
The thought of being mercilessly pummeled by the cheerleading squad seemed so wrong on so many different levels that I was grateful Dave had managed to calm them down.
And then I saw Principal Morgan casually heading toward us, right between the two ruts, as if merely out for a stroll.
The cheerleaders stepped aside, knowing full well their presence paled in comparison to that of Morgan’s.
He stopped a respectable distance away, unlike the cheerleaders who had gotten up close and personal.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in voice that told me he was less than pleased. “It would appear there’s been a little accident here with Mr. Baker’s car.” He casually gazed behind him at the long, twin tire ruts. “It was an accident, wasn’t it? Because if this was deliberate, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police. You’ve caused considerable damage, you know. This is vandalism.”
“Oh, not at all, Principal Morgan. This was just a silly little prank that—”
I raised a hand to stop Dave from assuming any responsibility. That spinning-out-of-control feeling returned as I sputtered to explain what happened.
“Honest, I was just trying to—didn’t think—didn’t know I was damaging anything.”
A little “gotcha” glimmer appeared on Principal Morgan’s face.
“That’s right, George. You didn’t think. So you’re the culprit here. Excuse me a moment, would you?”
He pulled out his cell phone and began to call someone. I wondered if he was making good on his threat to involve the police.
“Hello? Stanley? Are you in your office? Good. Would you mind coming out to the main field? I’m afraid there’s been . . . an incident. Right. Thanks. See you soon.”
He put his phone back in his suit pocket. “Coach Steener will be here shortly. I’d like to hear what he has to say about this.”
Dave slumped as if all hope were lost.
Soon, Coach Steener was hurrying toward us, letting out loud cries of disbelief as he followed the ruts to where we waited.
“What happened, Charlie? What happened?” He held his arms out as if imploring him for an explanation.
“Take it easy, Stanley. Apparently, George here was just playing a little prank that got out of hand, didn’t it, George?”
Coach Steener gasped. “Out of hand? He destroyed my field!”
He looked at me wild-eyed, as if it were inconceivable.
And then another figure appeared heading toward us between the ruts, an imposing figure even from a distance. I had to wonder how many more people were going to show up, if I was going to be surrounded by an angry mob before I knew it.
Behind me, a safe distance away, I heard Onion gasp as she recognized who was coming. Even Principal Morgan stepped aside.
Coach Steener looked behind him to see who I was staring at with apprehension. He let out a gleeful laugh.
“Well, well. Here comes Mr. Porter, our team captain. Let’s hear what he has to say about this.”
Dave stiffened and stepped forward, as if expecting Porter to blame him for the damage. Then I realized that Dave was just acting as my bodyguard should things get really ugly.
“Hey, Coach,” Porter said when he arrived. “What’s going on?”
He put his hands on his hips just like the cheerleaders did, only there seemed to be no malice in the gesture—he was just asking a question out of curiosity as he gazed around.
Coach Steener immediately pointed at me.
“Ask him. He’s the one who wrecked our sacred ground here, our home turf. He has to answer to you now!”
Porter looked at me. “Hey, George. Dave. How are you guys doing?”
“Could be better,” I said, hoping that didn’t sound too flippant. “How are you?”
“Doing okay,” Porter said.
Coach Steener let out cry of exasperation.
“Enough with the introductions! He ruined our field! What do you have to say about that, Porter? Tell him!”
Morgan raised his hands as Dave took another step forward, putting me in his shadow. “Now boys, let’s settle down here.”
Porter stared at Coach Steener with a blank expression.
“Well, Coach, I guess we’ll just have to fix it, that’s all.” He shrugged as if there was no other possible answer.
Coach Steener went limp, as if someone had pulled a plug on him and he partially deflated.
“But . . . our field . . .”
“Coach, our season just ended. We’ve got a whole year to fix it. Besides, I’ve seen the field in worse shape than this.”
Coach Steener deflated a little more, apparently unable to disagree.
“So what happened, guys?” Porter asked, looking now from me to Dave.
That feeling of losing control went away and I could finally speak in complete sentences.
“I was just playing a prank on Dave, seeing how far I could back up his car before he finally noticed. I made it to midfield.” I glanced back at Dave’s car. “As you can see.”
“Ha!” Porter’s head went back in mild amusement. “That’s pretty far!”
As he surveyed the scene again, he had a calm, almost angelic look about him, which made me wonder if that was why our team seldom won. If they were all like Porter, they were way too nice.
“Well, I gotta get going, Coach. Just wanted to let you know all the jerseys are clean and folded and in your office like you wanted. See you tomorrow in class. Bye, Principal Morgan. George, Dave.”
As he shook Dave’s hand, he grew serious.
“Sorry you left the team, Dave. It was fun playing with you. You were an awesome lineman.”
“Thanks,” was all Dave said. He shook Porter’s hand again.
And Porter walked away.
Morgan cleared his throat, as if uncomfortable with how that had gone.
“This doesn’t get you off the hook, George,” he said when Porter was gone.
“Yeah,” Coach Steener chimed in. “There’s still this little matter of vandalism, whether you meant it or not.”
Morgan nodded, standing next to the coach as if to present a united front and undo Porter’s kindness.
“What do you think, Stanley? What should we do about George here?”
Coach Steener didn’t hesitate. “Call the police.” He said the words without looking my way.
The five cheerleaders, standing behind them, nodded solemnly.
“All right. I’m afraid I have to agree. That’s the way it goes, George. This can’t go unpunished, you know.”
Morgan pulled his phone out again and pressed just three numbers.
“Hello? Could you send an officer to the main football field at five fifty-five North Lombard Road? That’s right, the high school. No, just the police. It’s not an emergency. This is Principal Morgan. I have an . . . issue with a student. Fine, we’ll be here. Thank you.”
He put his phone away with a defiant look, and I realized he was going to call the police no matter who said what.
“Sorry, man,” Dave said.
Onion was next to me again on the other side. How long she had been standing there I didn’t know.
She briefly put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, George,” she sighed in a mixture of sorrow and pity.
This was yet another one of those times when I wished I had a time machine so I could go back fifteen minutes and stay in the back seat of Dave’s car where I belonged. Just fifteen minutes, that’s all I asked.
I looked up at Mr. Morgan as a police car came up the drive. Coach Steener flagged it down.
“Things can change drastically in the blink of an eye, can’t they, Principal Morgan? In the blink of an eye.”
His jaw grew slack and his gaze softened a bit before they hardened again. “Very profound, George. But that still doesn’t get you off the hook.”
Have you ever been arrested? It’s scary, but also very interesting if you can stay detached like I did. Strange as it might seem, it was almost as if I were just standing in for someone else through the whole process, like I was observing rather than participating, if that makes any sense. The youngish-looking policeman who showed up didn’t seem particularly concerned about anything; in fact, he seemed greatly disinterested, as if he had much better things to do. He didn’t even put handcuffs on me. Oddly, in retrospect, I kind of wish he had. If you’re going to get arrested, you might as well go whole hog and do it up right, I say. All he did was read me my rights and hold me firmly by the arm as he walked me to the squad car, where he helped me into the back seat so I didn’t bang my head.
I had quite an audience for that. I think the cheerleaders who confronted me ran and told everyone still around what was happening and they all came out to see me get hauled away. It was almost like one of those celebrity busts where the reporters and paparazzi get tipped off and surround the celebrity, only nobody was clamoring to ask me any questions. A few of them took some pictures with their cell phones, but mostly they stood there in silence, as if not sure what to think. Like me.
Onion waved goodbye as the squad car turned around to take me to the police station. For a moment it looked like she was going to cry, but I wasn’t sure.
Dave just stood there stoically. I thought he was going to salute or something the way he was standing there at attention, but he just watched.
On the way to the police station, the youngish police officer finally said something that could have come right out of an old detective movie.
“So why’d you do it, kid?”
“It was just—”
I stopped. I was going to tell him it was just meant to be a prank, that I didn’t know I was damaging the field as I traveled backward in Dave’s car, but then I remembered I had the right to remain silent and decided that was probably a real good idea.
“I better not say. Sorry, officer.”
He gave me a quick backward glance. “Suit yourself. I wasn’t trying to trick you or anything. I don’t really care why you did it. Just making small talk.”
I believed him, but still thought it best not to say anything.
The police station had a secure area behind a heavy metal door that reminded me a little of the entrance to the Morlocks’ underground lair, but instead of a dark, foreboding cave filled with noisy machines, I was escorted into a brightly lit, sparsely furnished cinder-block room that was eerily silent. I was left there alone for a few quiet minutes while the officer went to do some paperwork. When he returned, he was holding a small plastic sign filled with numbers. He set that aside and took my fingerprints, rolling each finger and thumb of my right hand across an ink pad and then a white card marked for each digit.
The officer looked almost apologetic as he gave me an alcohol wipe to clean my hands. “Sorry about the ink. We’re supposed to go digital soon. We still do it the old-fashioned way, I’m afraid.”
Truth be told, I preferred this old-fashioned way since it was traditional and just what I expected.
Then I had to stand against a wall that had height markers so they could take my mug shot. It was then I noticed what looked like a two-way mirror in the wall across from me.
“Do you use this for lineups?” I asked, still in my calm observer mode.
The officer looked down at his digital camera and fiddled with the controls. “Sometimes. Not too often. Oops, I almost forget.”
He set the camera down and handed me the plastic sign.
“Hold this under your chin.”
I complied. He held out the camera and peered at the display on the back.
“It’s upside down,” he said.
“Huh?”
He lowered the camera with a look of mild exasperation.
“The booking sign. It’s upside down.”
“Oh!” I scrambled to turn it around. “Sorry.”
He held the camera back up and took two quick pictures, one of me facing forward and one facing to the side. I tried to look totally innocent, whatever that’s supposed to look like.
The officer laughed when he reviewed the pictures.
“You look like a little lost . . . well, never mind. Bond is set at one hundred dollars. That’s pretty standard for something like this.”
Once again the officer looked disinterested, as if he were disappointed I wasn’t a safe-cracker or some other kind of more exciting criminal.
“Do you have that much cash with you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, then, you’ll have to call someone to get it and bring it here, or else you’ll be spending the night in a cell.”
I immediately had an image of being held in a dank room full of Eloi skeletons like George the time traveler, and my observer mode came crashing down, even though I knew the cell was probably clean and bright like the room I was in. All I wanted was to get out of there just as fast as I could, as if I had suddenly discovered I was claustrophobic and couldn’t breathe. It was then I realized my pockets were empty. I had left everything in my backpack in Dave’s car.
“Where’s the nearest phone?”
As it turned out, I didn’t need to make that call. Dave and Onion were already at the station and had pooled their money to bail me out. Between them, they had just enough.
We hardly spoke as Onion drove me home in her mother’s boxy yellow Volvo, Dave’s car still at midfield and waiting to be towed. It was odd to see their roles reversed up front, odder still to drive in silence with them. Usually it was hard to get a word in edgewise.
Both of them looked at me with apprehension as I got out of the car.
“Good luck explaining it to your dad,” Dave said. “Hope he doesn’t kill you.”
“Get a good lawyer,” Onion called out the window as she promptly pulled away.
I slunk into the house without a clue how to tell my dad I had been arrested. I mean really, what do you say? Do you wave your hand to minimize the whole thing and say, “Hey, big guy, just so you know, I got in just a little bit of trouble with the law today,” or maybe break the news laughing like it was no big deal and say, “You’re not going to believe it, but I had this huge, silly misunderstanding with Principal Morgan!” Or maybe act shocked and dismayed and say, “It’s so unfair! There was no reason to call the police!”
How my dad actually found out was quite different.
He was in the kitchen with Kenny, making our dinner. Kenny was playing with his Game Boy at the kitchen table. Kenny looked up at me for maybe two, three seconds tops with his usual vacant eyes, then returned to his game and announced in a loud voice, “There’s something wrong with George. What’s wrong, George?”
How he knew I have no idea, but then again, I never understood how Kenny could be so perceptive at times when he seemed so distant in his own private world.
My dad stopped stirring a pot of something on the stove and looked at me. “What? Is that true?”
He turned down the burner and faced me when I didn’t answer right away.
I wish I could have felt like a calm observer again as I broke the news, but my heart was pounding and my mouth felt dry as the words came tumbling out.
“I had an accident at school today, Dad. I damaged the football field with Dave’s car, trying to play a stupid joke on him. Morgan called the police and had me arrested. Here’s my bail bond receipt with my court date.”
I held up the receipt the officer had given me, as if a confession like that really needed any written proof.
Dad looked at me like I had just announced I was pregnant or something.
“An accident?”
“Yes, sir.” I braced myself, waiting for him to start reading me the riot act.
“Morgan had you arrested because of an accident? Are you kidding me?”
You know, it’s funny how you manage to convince yourself sometimes that things are going to play out a certain way, only to be stunned when they go in the completely opposite direction. I didn’t want to go overboard and start blaming Principal Morgan too much for my arrest since my dad might have had second thoughts if I did, but if he wanted to blame Morgan I sure wasn’t going to say anything to dissuade him, either. It came across a little as that sad, old, “but officer, my son’s a good boy!” coddling some parents resort to whenever their Dear Little Boy gets in trouble, but then I remembered that Dad didn’t like Morgan. At all. That went back years ago when Morgan publicly complained about the “bloated military establishment” taking too much money away from education at a packed school meeting one night. I remember my dad seething back then at that remark, frantically waving his hand in the audience, hoping that Morgan would allow him to speak. Morgan ignored him instead.
His anger now seemed focused somewhere up over my right shoulder, as if Principal Morgan were lurking behind me. I actually glanced behind me to see what he was looking at; nothing out of the ordinary was there.
“You didn’t mean to cause any damage, did you, George?”
“No, sir.”
“But Morgan had you arrested anyway, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t he realize this could go on your permanent record?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“Of course he did! And you know why that didn’t matter to him?”
“Um, well—”
“Because he doesn’t care, that’s why!”
“Dad, Kenny hungry,” Kenny said.
Dad turned the burner back up under the pot and resumed stirring its contents, only much more vigorously than before.
“I know a really good lawyer,” he said to the simmering pot. “I’ll call him first thing in the morning. We’ll get this resolved.”
It was just like Dad to take charge of something if he felt it was his duty, just like he did for twenty years in the Navy. Nice as it was to let him handle things, I still had the uneasy feeling he might change his mind about my innocence when he found out what really happened and how much damage was done.
Dad finished making dinner, and we ate it in silence. I couldn’t help but notice him chewing his food rapidly, his angry gaze still focused on the empty corner of the room as if Principal Morgan were there, still visible only to him.
The lawyer’s office was kind of crummy, with old, creaky furniture and tattered, ancient magazines in the waiting room. It reminded me of dentist’s office, only dumpier. I thought that lawyers all had posh offices, but then I realized that this lawyer had probably been practicing law forever if Dad knew him, so he must have been really experienced, which was clearly a good thing.
We had dropped Kenny off at Mrs. Loomis’s house on the way there. He liked her, and she was glad to watch him whenever Dad and I had someplace to go.
My dad tapped his foot impatiently, apparently angry again at Morgan for making us go through all this work to prepare for my court date in three weeks.
“We’ll get you out of this mess, just you wait,” he said. “Morgan’s in for the surprise of his life if he thinks I’m going to take this lying down.”
You would have thought all this was something personal between Principal Morgan and my dad and that I was just a pawn in their little game of one-upmanship.
When the lawyer appeared at his office door, Dad popped right up. I got up as fast as I could and stood nearby.
“Harold! Good to see you again. This is George.”
Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me front and center as if I were on display.
“Hi, George. I’m Harold Turner. Your dad and I go way back.”
We shook hands. Mr. Turner looked to be my dad’s age, which didn’t surprise me at all.
“Come right on in. Your dad tells me you had a run-in with old Principal Morgan, is that right?”
Mr. Turner sat behind his desk, and Dad and I squeezed into two chairs across from him.
“Well, yes,” I began. “But really—”
“The whole thing’s a joke,” my dad interrupted. “Nothing but a joke.”
He then proceeded to give Mr. Turner his own version of events, which varied considerably at times from the real story. I had told my dad exactly what happened, but he seemed to have ignored just about everything that made me look bad and embellished Principal Morgan’s harsh reaction. Not that my dad was a liar or anything; I think he really believed that everything he was saying had to be true even though he witnessed none of it. He didn’t exactly make me out to be completely innocent, but he sure made it sound like Principal Morgan either badly overreacted or had it out for me all along.
Mr. Turner took notes like a madman, writing faster than I thought was humanly possible, all the while nodding as if in complete agreement. When Dad finished, Mr. Turner dropped his pen on the notepad and leaned back as if ready to pronounce the verdict himself.
“It’s obvious to me there’s been a grave miscarriage of justice here. This matter could have been handled much better without any police involvement at all.”
To my surprise, Mr. Turner pointed to my dad as he said that, not me. I was beginning to wonder if I was the one on trial or Dad.
“Hah!” My dad turned to me, finally smiling. “What did I tell you?”
Mr. Turner glanced at his notes. “I think I’ve got more than enough information here to prepare your defense, George. Were there any witnesses you would like to call, anyone who could corroborate these events?”
“No, not really,” was all I could say. I couldn’t think of anyone who could back up my dad’s slanted story, not even Dave or Onion.
“That’s all right. We’ll go with what we’ve got.” He stood up and stuck out his hand. “Don’t worry about a thing, George. I think everything’s going to turn out fine.” He beamed at me.
As soon as he said that, I had a feeling that things might actually turn out not so fine, and I regretted not offering just a few slight corrections to my dad’s version of events if only to avoid looking like a total jackass should someone who actually witnessed what happened show up in court and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Thanks to my dad, what Mr. Turner had written was not quite the truth, which worried me most of all.