Chapter Five: Sorry for the Misogyny but These Bitches Be Massaging Me (Part II)

I took lockpicking classes once. Well, I took one lockpicking class. Kind of.

During one of my brief stints of unemployment before teacherdom, my girlfriend started reading a lot of self-help books. Not that psychology junk, more like... how to do needlepoint. How to grow your own watercress in eggshells. How to make three-course microwave dinners for one. That sort of thing.

Because bettering themselves usually bestows upon people the need to inflict a similar curse on others, she started bugging me to pick up a new skill as well. I was getting tired of finding little scroll frames of canvas embroidered with 'WORK HO' under the couch cushions, so I looked up classes offered at the local community college till I found one that seemed mildly interesting.

Lockpicking 101. It was a series of nine modules, but the first one was free. I figured I would just go to that and when my girlfriend inevitably asked me over microwaved watercress what skill I was learning, I'd tell her about the first part of the lesson. Then over the next few weeks, I would dole out the rest of the information I'd picked up from that one class, like a plane crash survivor on a desert island rationing their remaining supplies so they wouldn't have to crash seven more planes.

Here's the thing, I arrived twenty minutes early, because I knew I'd need the buffer time to find the classroom. But there was a minor kerfuffle with the registrar who insisted I needed to be enrolled at the college in order to take the course, a detail so clearly unimportant that they hadn't seen fit to put it on the website at all. By the time things were sorted out (that is, when I decided to stop arguing, pretend to leave, and secretly attend anyway), the class was already underway. To get directions from the registrar, I donned a makeshift disguise which she immediately saw through, and that started the whole thing up again.

I eventually found the classroom after some wandering. The door wouldn't budge, so I knocked. The class turned and glanced at me through the window in the door. The instructor looked over too, but she didn't do more than wave.

I pulled and pulled, but I realised the door had to be locked as the first test in a lockpicking gauntlet. I tried to MacGyver some cracking tools out of the guts of a mechanical pencil, but the bits (mostly the lead) that even managed to fit in the hole broke off and got stuck. All the while, the instructor kept talking about ethics. I knew she was talking about ethics, because the word 'Ethics' was written on the whiteboard, and I could kind of read her lips. I gave up and just listened with my ear against the window.

Later I found out that the door opened inward.

So in case you had any doubts about my ability to break into a locked room, that's the extent of my lockpicking knowledge. Snatches of a lecture about ethics overheard from a hallway outside a classroom that wasn't even locked.

"Gladly, what do you think you're doing?"

That unmistakably strident voice came from behind me, right by my ear, eliciting from me a flinch and a masculine grunt of alarm. I hid the hairpin behind my back and turned to see Blackwell peering at me with suspicion.

"Is there a reason you are attempting to infiltrate the dressing room?"

"I'm not, uh… the door, it's not," I said. "Working. As a door. What brings you here?"

"I've been invited to be the guest-of-honour."

"Do plays have guests-of-honour? I thought that was more of a ceremony thing."

"This one does." Blackwell's gaze sharpened further, lending credence to the—at the time popular—staff theory that she applied eyeliner with razor blades and then just let the slits scab over for that dash of extra boldness. "What do you think you're doing?"

I took care not to cut myself on that edge. "Nothing, just… checking on things. "

"When you lie to me, do it with intent or don't waste the breath," Blackwell said. "Understand that I'm only repeating my question with the expectation that you've had enough time to fabricate something a shred more convincing."

Blackwell doesn't do much formal teaching anymore, but she does enjoy enlightening students and subordinates on the hard truths. She also really enjoys engineering elaborate teachable moments. It's a hobby that borders on addiction. I'd say she's like an education-themed Simurgh clone, except the Simurgh probably doesn't occasionally declare martial law and commandeer all the tater tots in the cafeteria to impart a lesson about living under a junta. A story for another day.

If there's one thing Blackwell's drilled into us over and over, though, it's that you never squander a resource as precious as the truth. I lifted my chin, rallying enough to meet her level stare. I picked my words the way a bomb disposal squad picks red wires.

"I'm sweeping the premises. Making sure everything's safe for the kids," I said. "Just in case, you know, there's… a bomb."

Danger radiated off of Blackwell in waves. Wrong wire.

"Gladly," she said, "if so much as a firecracker goes off during the proceedings, there will be hell to pay and you will be the one to pay it."

"What if someone else armed it?"

"I don't care if the Asian Bad Boyz themselves execute a terrorist attack on this school," she said. "If I catch one whiff of you attempting to sabotage the budding careers of these young thespians and, more importantly, the reputation of Winslow High School, it will be the remains of your head on the chopping block."

There's only one acceptable answer in these situations. "Understood, ma'am."

But I heard the unspoken words that trail after every threat she makes, the ones she always denies implying but that are always there nonetheless: So don't get caught.

I walked to the recess on the left side of the stage, where the slightly off-key but no less passionate strains of a copyrighted ballad extended its tendrils into the shadows. They'd reached the part where Naomi had tricked Dustin into attending a Muggers Anonymous meeting and he was storming out.

"There's only us, there's only this," Naomi sang, her voice warm and lilting. "Forget regret, or life is yours to miss!"

The rest of the support group stalked Dustin around the stage in ever-tightening spirals.

"No other path, no other way..." they rumbled, as he attempted to physically shake off the ghosts of his guilty past. "No day but today…"

"I can't control," Dustin belted, his voice cracking on the last syllable, "my destiny!"

Naomi sprang forward and gripped his hands. She gazed deeply into his misunderstood troublemaker eyes. "I trust my soul. My only goal…"

"...is just to be..."

He wrenched his hands away, and his eyes from hers only a moment later. "Just let me be!"

"There's only us, only tonight," Naomi continued. Nothing says love like vibrato. "We must let go! To know what's right!"

How could I have even thought about blowing these kids up?

I hung around and listened until the curtains drew to a close, signalling intermission. No one was permitted to leave, not even for a toilet break, because I couldn't risk any track team members escaping. There were buckets under the seats, in any case.

As soon as total darkness descended, I hurried across the stage to find Harley… and promptly tripped.

"Watch the parquet," Harley called from the other side, as though the floor wasn't scuffed and stamped all over with footprints already. He turned on one feeble light.

I picked myself up and glared at the spaghetti pile of wires that had gotten in my way. I shuffled them to the edge of the stage. "Harley, this needs to stop."

"Say no more," Harley said, only a willowy silhouette in the gloom. "Just tell me what you need."

"You're cooperative all of a sudden," I said. "You got so mad when I asked you to plant a bomb on the catwalk."

Harley walked towards me. I noted that his posture had grown haggard, his movements jerky. Less of that snake-like grace.

"Ah, but things have changed," he said. "In truth, Derek, this business is heartache and little else. Agnes, demanding the lion's share of the profits. Naomi, wanting to be cut loose from her exclusivity clause so she can chase bigger, shinier roles. You wouldn't believe that sweet young thing could be a prima donna, but there she is. The only tolerable one is Dustin—but I'm afraid that without a substantial talent upgrade, the boy is destined for the soaps." He gestured, defeated, and I could see he'd swapped his e-cigarette out for an e-cigar. "Rivals and saboteurs from start to finish, all waiting in the wings."

"So what are you saying? Show's over?"

"No, but our debut performance will be our last." He sighed wistfully. "The world of an artiste is far more treacherous than it once seemed."

"Now life has killed the dream you dreamed," I said, so that he'd get on with it. "Harley, we gotta go back to the original plan. Except different, because I don't think a mugging will work anymore."

"Do you still have your little explosive?"

"Nope. Never did. I couldn't figure out how to rig one up that wouldn't actually hurt anybody," I said. "What other crimes do heroes flock to?"

I have literally never seen a hero stop any crime that wasn't a mugging. Not that I usually see much crime, since most of it takes place in alleyways during the dead hours. But the one time I was out and about that late, I did witness a cape emerge from the shadows to unload a—what do you call it?—magazine of arrows into a pair of street toughs threatening a lady (probably to steal her purse).

"Superpowered crime," he suggested.

"I don't know any villains. And I don't want them to use lethal force."

Harley thought hard for a moment. He moved his e-cigar to his non-dominant hand and snapped his fingers. "I have it. You read the news last week, yes? Bank robberies bring all the Wards to the yard."

"I dunno if you noticed," I said, "but this is Winslow High School, not Brockton Bay Central Bank."

"Perhaps not," Harley said, stepping towards me.

He pressed something soft and knitted into my hands.

"But that doesn't mean there is nothing worth stealing."

...

There was a room by the stairwell on the second floor of the school known only as the Vault. It's been repurposed since, or maybe it had always served many purposes that I hadn't been privy to.

Back then, I knew not what treasures lay behind its nondescript grey door. Stacks of bills? Jewellery? Gold bullion? The password to Blackwell's coin account, not that it was worth much back then? Whatever it was, Harley assured me it was important—the heart of Winslow's finances.

I gave the handle a cautious jiggle, then tried to open the door. No luck.

"It's locked," I hissed.

My accomplice turned to me, his features shifting beneath the wool of his balaclava. No doubt pulling some face or other. He opened the door without the slightest resistance. "It's push."

"Well, we can't go in yet," I said, maybe a little sulkily. "There're bound to be other security measures."

He flipped me off and went in. "I'll deal with 'em when I get to 'em. You think this is my first heist?"

"It's not a heist," I said, but he'd already slammed the door.

We only had one balaclava, or I'd have followed him. I went to check that the play was still rolling onward—since it was the distraction for the true crime—and returned after I finished my head count of the track team members. They were all still there. Alarmingly teary-eyed, too, but that was a bonus.

I flattened myself up against the door of the Vault. It must have been soundproofed with the highest quality insulation, because I couldn't hear a thing. Could the plan have gone awry? Had my accomplice been compromised? Only one thing for it. I hid my face behind my hands, only peeking through the cracks in my fingers, and entered.

When I walked into the room, the first thing I saw was Quinlan's face. The balaclava was on the floor, and he was scribbling away on a sheet of paper with a pencil.

I know this seems like a bad idea, roping in Quinlan. But I didn't tell him it was a staged robbery to lure out the Ward on the track team so I could wreck him and Knott in the bet. I told him we were going to actually steal money from the School Treasury. He was very on board, given the numerous unglamorous expenses of living in an RV.

"Gladly," he said. He tried to swivel his chair around ominously, but it was a regular chair so it just kind of squeaked an inch to the right. "You won't believe how much power the Student Council Vice-Deputy Treasurer's Secretary gets over the school budget. Isabel, tell him."

I looked around. Where were the stacks of cash and gold bars? It was just an empty classroom. The only other person around was a sullen, spotty nerd in a blazer and tie, doing homework in a corner.

"None. You don't get any power," she said.

"She's the Student Council Treasurer," Quinlan went on. "Gave me my position. I told her I was great at managing money. You know I am. I woulda been a CPA if the fucking government hadn't done their fucking bullshit audit. But guess what. Gladly, guess the fuck what."

"What?"

He waved his crumpled sheet of paper, which by this point looked like a serial killer's tax return. "I... allocated… one point five grand… to... the Alcoholics Anonymous Society!"

"There's an Alcoholics Anonymous Society?" I asked, bewildered on multiple levels.

"There wasn't! I founded it so I'm the teacher-in-charge, the president, and the sole member!" Quinlan crowed. "And then I diverted all the funds from the performing arts clubs and sports teams to it!"

I was beginning to wonder if leaving my friends to their own devices wasn't the wisest decision in general, but he'd technically done what I had asked.

"Okay!" I said, at last. "Great! Well... good enough. So now for maximum realism, we need a hostage."

We turned to the Student Council Treasurer. Without looking up, she raised her hands.

We bound her wrists with her tie. Neither of us wanted to get slobber on our socks, so we decided against gagging her. She needed her mouth free anyway, to cry for help and alert any passing heroes of the ongoing robbery situation.

"Help me, an innocent hostage," she said, stationed in the corridor. "There's an ongoing robbery situation. Valuables being stolen and whatever. You know funds allocation is all done online at the start of term and vetted by the principal, right? Sometimes I don't even know why I bothered breaking the glass ceiling. Help, a robbery."

I shushed her. "Not yet. We're holding out for a hero."

And so we waited for Harley to bring the track team by to witness the crime actively taking place. We waited so long I was worried he'd forgotten or had gotten enmeshed in an encore or something. When he arrived, unaccompanied, I nearly tore into him.

"My apologies for the tardiness," Harley said, heedless of my panic. He nudged the Treasurer in through the doorway as he stepped into the room. "But something rather unexpected occurred in the denouement."

Hope sparked in my chest. "The cape. The cape came forward."

"Cape?" Quinlan asked. "Huh?"

"No, not the cape," Harley said, impatiently. "The mugging went off without a hitch, Derek. It was in the first act, for pity's sake. Weren't you paying attention when we workshopped this?"

"I thought it was the climax," I said, equally impatient. "Since that was the piece of existence."

"I cannot tell if you mean raison d'être or pièce de résistance, but it was neither. The mugging itself was insignificant. What truly mattered was the aftermath, its impact on the protagonist's relationships with himself and supporting cast. The audience does not care about whether the world is saved or destroyed, whether the protagonist mugs or is mugged. It cares about whether he gets the girl in the end."

"Sounds like a load of horse-hockey," Quinlan said. "I don't care if he gets the girl. Let the lady be her own person."

He nodded towards the Treasurer, who was struggling unenthusiastically to undo her bindings.

"Yeah," I said, "and I mean, I do kind of care about whether the world is destroyed or not. Mainly I wanna know if the hero dies in like a messianic blast or just a regular nuclear explosion."

Harley sniffed. "Then you are a philistine. Emotional consequences cannot be rendered in CGI."

We argued about this for another twenty minutes, and then Harley told us some loony looking for an autograph ran up onstage and got electrocuted.

"Oh, it was dreadful business. I didn't even see her," he said, taking puffs on his e-cigarette. "One moment, the group is performing the closing number. The one about transcending one's social class, you may recall. The poor no longer bowing to the rich, the weak no longer fearing the strong, and so on and all that. Touching stuff. The next moment, she's there, tangled up in wires screaming blue murder. The girl was overcome with passion, bless her."

"Is she okay?" I asked.

"She is receiving medical attention, yes. Something something permanent nerve damage. Agnes is smoothing the matter over with her guardian. On a related note, she would like to see you in her office. Soonish."

I don't really remember who won the track meet bet, on account of all the concussions one apparently receives when their head is on the chopping block. You'd think your neck would bear the brunt of it, but nope. It's your noggin. Anyway I didn't win, or I wouldn't be so acutely conscious of the fact that Adams parked his car under bird-infested trees for the next five months.

And uhhh... I do remember that at the start of the last chapter I said I helped a kid become a better person. Well, Dustin's not a Nazi anymore, so that's good! He didn't make it off-Broadway, but believe me, it was no loss.