Disclaimer: These are not my characters; I simply hijacked them. But since I'm not making any money off of this….
Author's note: Thank you to my beta readers, gaianarchy and silvershadowfire… well, I should hope so, moron, seeing as you forgot them last time… "oh, hush", and thank you everyone who has taken the time to read and review. I really appreciate all of your efforts.
Dad, I am sorry for every time I put you through this. Jonathan waited silently, listening to the soft steady breathing and gentle snores of sleeping campers. He looked at his watch: the luminescent display showed it to be well after 11:00. Worry fought with anger for control of his thoughts.
"Shh," A whispered voice and a giggle from outside made him straighten up. Finally.
"You'll wake up Cranky. Now come on. Be quiet."
Too late, hotshot. He took up a position by the door where he wouldn't be seen.
"I just still can't believe you did that." Malcolm's voice carried a tone of both awe and horror.
"The card and the signature both say Charles Tucker. I'm Charles Tucker. What's the problem?" Another round of muffled giggles drifted up. "Besides, if they're going to ship me off to the middle of nowhere, they can at least provide me with a little something to cover expenses."
Credit fraud? Would this kid stop at nothing?
"They'll just take it back out of my allowance anyway. And probably hit me with a bunch of extra chores." Tucker didn't seem to be all that concerned about the ramifications of his actions.
The voices silenced and barely audible feet crept up the stairs. It was good sneaking, because it didn't sound like they were sneaking. The door eased silently open…
Jonathan dropped a hand on each boy's shoulder and felt a pair of jolts as both of them jumped. Quickly and quietly, he herded them into the back room and closed the door before turning on the light.
"And just where have you two been?" He let them go then stepped forward and turned so he could face them.
Tucker's face shut down and, beside him, Malcolm trembled.
"I'm waiting for an answer." Jonathan kept his gaze fixed on Tucker's. Neither one blinked for a minute.
"Well?"
Tucker shrugged. "Out."
Jonathan gritted his teeth, fighting down an urge to smack the kid. "Malcolm, I want you to go to bed."
"Sir?"
"Go to bed, Malcolm." He knew that – while Malcolm might crack under individual questioning – there was no way the boy would help him here. It would mean losing face in front of your hero. And if anything positive was to come of this, Jonathan had to let Malcolm keep his emerging self-esteem. "I'll deal with you in the morning."
Malcolm didn't move until Tucker glanced his way and nodded. Only then did he slip back into the main cabin.
"I sent him out of here, hotshot, because I hate to see a kid in that much pain. He's a good kid… why are you trying to turn him into a bad one?"
"What's good gotten him?" Without his audience, Tucker turned talkative. "Beat up? Teased? At least with me he's having fun."
"Well, where the hell were you having fun? And don't tell me 'out' because, I swear to God, it'll be the last thing you say for a while."
"We went to the movies." Tucker crossed his arms over his chest, an obvious defensive move.
"Nice try, hotshot, but I checked there. And didn't Malcolm tell you I cancelled that?" Jonathan sat down on the bed to put himself more on eye level with Tucker.
"I never said we went to those movies." This time he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Jonathan could see the kid was tired – worn out. Yet he wouldn't drop.
Stubborn little bastard. "And what other movies might you have gone to? We're more than a couple of kilometres from town, you know."
Tucker shrugged, a gesture that told Jonathan everything he needed to know.
"Have you any idea how stupid that is? Especially in this kind of weather. Anything could have happened to you out there… you could have been hit by a car… you could have been attacked… you could have gotten hurt… What the hell were you thinking?"
Tucker shrugged again.
"I know. You weren't thinking, were you? Malcolm is ten years old. It's irresponsible enough for you to take off on your own… but taking him with you crosses the line into sheer recklessness." He caught the flicker of panic that crossed Tucker's face: just a brief paling of the complexion, but enough to show Jonathan he'd hit home. And now that he had that guilt exposed…
"Have you any idea how worried I've been? It's almost midnight. Lights Out was two hours ago. They lock this camp down at night… what if you hadn't been able to get back in?"
"Why?" Something glittered in Tucker's eyes and it wasn't pretty.
"Excuse me?"
"Why do you care?" That something moved into the kid's voice, made it brittle.
Jonathan nearly snapped back an answer, but caught himself just in time. He's serious. Tucker really couldn't understand. But it was more than that… something in the tone made the question more specific: Why do you care about me? And not in the normal sarcastic way that most kids put that question – no, Tucker really wanted to know why?
Holy shit. Just when he thought he had a handle on this kid, something else popped up. And here he'd thought that Malcolm was the one with the self-esteem problems. The easy answer would be: I'm responsible for you, jackass, that's why I'm worried – but somehow the easy answer struck him as entirely wrong in this case. What the right answer was… he'd have to think about that. He could see Tucker waiting for an answer… and also noted the lack of expression when Jonathan didn't give him one.
"I asked you earlier today what I was going to do with you. You didn't seem to have any suggestions, so I guess I'm on my own with this. As you've probably guessed, there's a fair number of sports in this camp. One of the highlights of the year is the intra-camp baseball tournament…"
Tucker radiated hostility at the mention of baseball. Good. Jonathan had been counting on that when he'd come up with this plan. "…since you seem to be interested more in avoiding camp activities than participating in them… I'm not letting you out of this one. You will participate. You will play. Am I clear?"
"Yes." Oh, he'd struck a nerve; he could see that now. What that nerve was he couldn't be sure, but the sheer unsuppressed loathing in the tone was unmistakable. He also saw that he'd slipped far more than a notch in the kid's estimation: that loathing wasn't directed at baseball, it was directed at Jonathan himself. Fuck. Dealing with this kid was like moving old dynamite: you didn't know which jolt would trigger an explosion. I don't want him to hate me.
Why do you care? It suddenly struck him, harder than when Tucker had struck him earlier. He'd walked right into the trap: Tucker had been looking for Jonathan's ulterior motive, and unwittingly Jonathan had handed one to him. You think what I want you for is to win this tourney, don't you? You honestly believe that's the only reason I give a damn. No wonder this kid had problems… if that's how he saw life.
Kid… Just when he thought he had it under control Tucker had to go and break his heart again. How could he stay mad, when all he could see was hurt? Jonathan's head dropped in surrender, and Tucker took it as permission to go.
"In answer to your question…" Tucker paused at the door as Jonathan spoke, half-turned back to face him. "I don't know. You've certainly given me enough reasons not to, but I do."
Tucker left, shaking his head.
# # # #
What the hell does he mean, he 'doesn't know?' Everybody knows. Maybe it did go deeper than baseball, but somehow Trip doubted it. He'd seen it all too often: the 'I care about you' speech when all they cared about was his fastball or his passing ability. If he had less talent, he wouldn't be able to get away with half of the things he did.
If I couldn't provide something you really want, you'd write me off without a second thought. Not just Jonathan either: everybody outside his family was like that (Malcolm qualified under 'adopted' now) – just look at how they treated him in the off-season. It was like he didn't exist with the uniform off, or he was just another piece of shit.
We'll see how much you mean it, pal. Trip rolled over so he could stare at Jonathan's door. We'll see how much you still mean it when I don't deliver.
He didn't sleep – too tired, too edgy and too depressed. All the better anyway: it looked that much more real when Jonathan came out to order them to breakfast.
"I feel sick." He wrapped his sleeping bag more tightly around him and turned his face to the wall.
"Okay." Jonathan leaned against Trip's bunk and watched the others get ready. He spoke softly, so only Trip could hear him.
"Another headache?"
Trip nodded, gently.
"Might help if you actually got some sleep. Instead of running around all night in rainstorms."
Trip said nothing, just closed his eyes. This was going to be easier than he thought.
"I'll just get them settled in at breakfast, then I'll come back and take you up for the nurse to have a look at you."
Trip's eyes flew open, and he looked over at Jonathan with a mixture of shock and resignation.
"What? You think I was born yesterday, hotshot? If you're really sick, then I haven't got a problem with that. But if you think you can play games with me… the only game you're going to be playing is baseball. Do we understand each other, hotshot?" Jonathan leaned in until he was almost nose to nose with Trip.
Perfectly. Yeah, this was another Coach, all right. All I am is a right arm.
Jonathan stared down at him, as though trying to look straight into Trip's brain. "This isn't my doing, hotshot. I'm not the one who decided to break every rule I could think of for a couple of hours with some popcorn. If I thought you were like anybody else, I'd punish you like anybody else." He dropped his voice further, so Trip had to pay close attention to catch the words. "Frankly, I don't give a fuck if we win or lose this thing. But you will play. Because I want you to come to a clear understanding that Life does not always work the way you want it to."
Trip kept his face steady, but inside surprise surfaced at Jonathan's change in tone. He actually swore at me. Not really at him, either, like most people did… he just talked like me, for a second. Most adults (or quasi-adults in this case) did everything to avoid talking like that to a kid. "I already know that, asshole."
Jonathan's lip's twitched like he was either trying not to grin or trying not to grimace. "Well, you could've fooled me. Seems like up 'till now, you've made out pretty good for yourself. You've just ignored the rules you don't like and – while I wouldn't say you've expected to get away with it – you've never had much in the way of consequences for it. That changes now. Right now I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. You've been making too big a habit of taking advantage of me every time I've given you a break. You tell me you love your mother and I'm going to check with at least three independent sources. Got it?"
Trip nodded. What have you been doing? Taking lessons from her? This held echoes of the time she'd taken to showing up every place he said he'd be, just to make sure he was. Sighing, he began to crawl out of his sleeping bag. Looks like I'll just have to adapt.
# # # #
It's a good thing I don't care about winning. Jonathan watched dismally as his team fumbled their way through their first practice. Even if Tucker was half as good as people said… one player couldn't resolve this mess. Aside from Tucker, only Lemaitre and Hong had any experience with the game – nothing new, every team every year had it's share of newbies – and they were hardly major league material.
As for Tucker… so far he'd spent his time warming up and studying the other players.
"You're supposed to play, hotshot," Jonathan reminded him.
Tucker didn't say anything, just kept watching his teammates. After a couple more minutes, he wandered over to where Jonathan had left the pad with the roster on it.
"Excuse me, hotshot," Jonathan joined him and lifted the pad out of Tucker's hands. "You're the player, I'm the coach." He looked down at the changes Tucker had made. "I'm glad to see you approve at least one of my picks."
"You can't put Malcolm in the outfield." Tucker kept his eyes on the others, sounding almost distracted. "He's got a lousy arm; he'd never get it back in. Kip's got good speed, he's way better for shortstop. You seem semi-competent, which is why I slotted you in at first. And I won't have number-one-asshole behind the plate. I need someone I can trust, not someone who'll fuck me up."
Jonathan stared at him, but said nothing. He's right. Admittedly he'd hoped to get Dutretre and Tucker to work together… that's why he'd given Dutretre the catcher's job, but he could understand why Tucker would be reluctant. He may not want to do this, but he's not going to do a half-assed job, either. Still… "Semi-competent?"
"You can catch if it's thrown to you, and I haven't seen any major wobbles with your tosses. You've got to start using your reach more, though. Remember: one foot on the base and it's an automatic out." Tucker still didn't look at him, and still sounded merely bored with the whole thing.
"So, Malcolm behind the plate." Jonathan decided to ignore the rest of the insult, most of which was to his intelligence.
"It doesn't matter if the ball bounces on its way back to me. He's patient, which I need, and he's got the brains to get the signals down. Stick Dickhead out in left field where he's less likely to do damage."
"You know, he does have a name." Jonathan saved the corrections and handed the pad back to Tucker.
"Yeah, but I don't want to insult his relatives by using it. I'll give you the batting order later, when I've had a chance to see how they can hit." Tucker trotted out to the mound and took up a position. "Any time you're ready."
"Hey. How come he gets to be pitcher?" Dutretre came over to Jonathan – the look on his face could only be described as a pout. "I thought we were supposed to be trying out."
Jonathan glanced over at Tucker who shrugged and came back.
"If he wants the job…" Tucker flipped the ball up into the air and let Dutretre catch it.
"No. He is right, you'll try out for it." Jonathan had no doubts who would come out on top with this one. And maybe it'll end the argument. At least the one over who was best qualified to pitch. He wasn't surprised that Dutretre made a play for the job: the pitcher was often seen to be the team leader and strategist. And you can't stand the thought of Tucker being in charge, can you? "Each of you will get three pitches. The other will catch."
Tucker nodded. "Batter?"
"No. Not just yet. Are we agreed?" It was as fair as he could get in the matter, and he could see Dutretre knew it. Besides, that kid was cocky enough to think he could win – even though Tucker had all the experience.
Tucker headed off to the plate, willing to let Dutretre go first.
The Dutch kid wasn't bad, but he wasn't great either. One of his pitches nearly fell short and Tucker had to move a bit to catch one of the others.
Dutretre sneered as the two boys traded places, but Tucker didn't blink. He merely handed over the catcher's gear and strolled out to the mound.
And now it gets interesting. Jonathan watched as Tucker scuffed his feet in the dirt, settling into position.
Thwack. The ball buried itself in Dutretre's glove. Dutretre straightened up and shook his hand. "Ow." He shot a hurt look at Jonathan then a glare at Trip before throwing the ball back to the mound.
This time the ball came in a little slower and seemed to drop as it crossed the plate.
Kid's got a slider. A good one too. Jonathan nodded in approval. The others had gathered around to watch, and he could tell from their faces that they wouldn't argue much when he made his announcement.
Thwack. The third flew in faster than the first. He started with the change-up. Not a normal way of doing things… but it would still throw off a batter's timing. This time Dutretre actually yelped as the ball made contact.
"I think we can agree – Tucker pitches." Jonathan stepped forward and retrieved the ball from where Dutretre dropped it. "Okay, now it's batting practice… line up over there… go easy on them, Tucker. We want to see what they can hit like… we already know you can pitch."
Tucker nodded, then settled again into position. Businesslike, Jonathan realised, he's acting like a pro. Still, they only had twenty minutes left on the diamond before the next cabin took it over. He found himself not wanting to give too much away, not wanting to let them know just what he had here. Maybe we can win.
Tucker did go surprisingly easy on the others at first, even Dutretre. The only problem came when Jonathan went to the mound to relieve him.
"Your turn. I'll pitch."
Tucker shook his head. "No need."
"Yes, need, hotshot. You proved you could pitch; now prove you can hit."
Tucker shook his head again. "No need. I got Pitcher's Syndrome."
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. " 'Pitcher's Syndrome?' What the hell is that?"
Tucker shrugged. "I can't hit. Why do you think they came up with the DH rule in the first place?"
Holy shit. Is the hotshot admitting there's something he can't do? Jonathan blinked, then shrugged as well. "Okay, then. We don't have a designated hitter around here, but if you're that sure…" He wouldn't gain anything by humiliating Tucker, and it would be humiliating for him to strike out so soon after burning Dutretre. And Dutretre asked for it. Unlike Tucker, he hadn't been willing to admit there was something he couldn't do.
"I am, which is why sticking me fourth in the batting order was stupid. You need someone who can put it away if you get the bases loaded. Your turn."
"My turn?" Jonathan couldn't help feeling slightly amused.
"We need nine for the team, and you are playing, hotshot. Let's see if you can hit." Except for the accent, Tucker's inflections and tone sounded remarkably like Jonathan's own.
Snotty little brat. Rather than argue, he strolled off to the plate.
Thwack. The first strike burned past him so fast he didn't even see it. So that was how the hotshot was going to play it, huh? Go easy on them. You think I would've learned by now. He settled in for the next one.
This time it was the slider. He barely caught a piece of it, causing it to fly up and foul. He pointed the bat at Tucker and shook his head. Tucker merely shrugged.
Two strikes. Okay, he could still do this. I'm nineteen years old. No way I'm getting my pants beat off by some damned little leaguer. Pride was at stake here; he had to get control back.
The third came in a little slower and wobbling like crazy. Even as he swung, Jonathan knew he had no hope in hell of connecting. A knuckleball? The kid throws me a knuckleball? That was just downright cruel. Most major-leaguers couldn't throw a knuckler… and here was Tucker tossing it out like it was nothing. You perverse little bastard. He could tell Tucker knew it too: a hint of smugness had crept onto those delicate features. "Okay, hotshot. You've proved your point."
Tucker just looked at him, his entire body saying 'Who me?'
Jonathan just shook his head in mock disgust and shooed them off the field as the next cabin showed up. Little shit.
# # # #
"I thought Jonathan put me in the outfield. How come I'm now," Malcolm hesitated over the unfamiliar term, "batcatcher?"
Trip sighed. "Because I need someone I can work with there. And there's no way with your arm you can play outfield. It's going to be a lot easier to toughen your hand up than build up your toss. Meantime, we can work out some signals and strategy." He lifted up a pair of binoculars and stared out at the field. "Doesn't look like these guys are going to be too much of a problem… especially if they keep that guy on the mound. He doesn't even have a fastball."
Malcolm squirmed, trying – and failing – to not seem nervous. "Are we supposed to be doing this? Jonathan said we were to get ready to go to Arts and Crafts… everybody else is swimming." He knew Jonathan wouldn't class sitting on the cabin roof as 'getting ready for Arts and Crafts'.
"It's just a little bit of pre-tournament scouting. How does he expect me to form any kind of strategy if I don't know what I'm up against?" Trip put down the binoculars and made a couple of notes on his pad. "Now will you stop bugging me? I'm afraid of heights."
Then why are we sitting on the roof? Malcolm knew now not to ask the question. Trip Tucker and common sense were like matter and anti-matter: put them together and there was bound to be an annihilation. It's like he forgets to be scared if there's something else he really wants to do. Malcolm wished he had that talent. Then maybe I wouldn't get beat up so much.
Except… Trip didn't seem to have a lot of friends either. And people did pick on him, more people – it seemed – than picked on Malcolm. If some of the things Trip had told him were true… then even the adults in his life tried to push him around. He just deals with it differently. I get scared, and he gets angry. And because Trip was bigger and more aggressive, it just meant that other people became scared of him, and became all the nastier for it. They didn't seem to realise that underneath it all was a frightened, lonely kid.
Another thought occurred to him. Trip belonged to so many different teams and groups that everybody figured he had lots of friends. The problem was that each group figured he more closely resembled one of the other groups. The kids he'd come in with – 'the chess geeks' Trip referred to them as – had talked about him like he was stupid because he was an athlete. And Trip himself had said that the other athletes didn't like him for being so smart. No wonder he's got problems.
"This doesn't look like Arts and Crafts." A hand clamped down on Malcolm's shoulder and an all too familiar voice spoke in his ear. Somehow Jonathan had managed to sneak up on the roof without either of them hearing.
"Oh, shit."
Jonathan's fingers dug into Trip's shoulder as Trip wobbled and threatened to fall. Trip's eyes clamped shut. "Don't do that to me, asshole."
That was close. So Trip really was afraid of heights. He'd gone pale and was breathing heavily, like he'd been running.
Jonathan moved in between them and shifted his grip so one long arm draped around each of them. "So… what kind of interesting things have we found out?" He lifted the binoculars that still hung around Trip's neck and scanned the grounds. "Ah… a little intelligence gathering, I see. Very good use of initiative, though I distinctly remember telling you to do something else."
Trip muttered something that Malcolm couldn't hear, but Jonathan laughed. "Nice try, hotshot, but if you're not going swimming, you're definitely spending your time in Arts and Crafts. Camp activities, remember? And I thought I told you I don't care that much about the tourney."
"Yeah, well, if you're going to make me play, I'm not going to sit around hamstrung either." Trip still hadn't opened his eyes.
"Like I said, hotshot. I didn't make this happen. You were the one who made it necessary, not me." Jonathan pulled Trip into a headlock as though to emphasise his point. "So you can get your ass down to the ground and up to the Arts and Crafts cabin." He turned his head to look at Malcolm. "You too, buddy. I'm not doing this for my health, you know."
"Yes, sir." Malcolm waited for Jonathan to release Trip, then gently guided Trip across the roof until they were over Jonathan's window. From there, all they had to do was swing onto the windowsill and drop down onto Jonathan's bed. Trip managed it slowly, but made it. Jonathan simply hung by his fingers off the edge off the roof and dropped to the ground. He then leaned in the open window. "Oh, and you might want to run my stuff up to the laundry, now that you've had your dirty feet all over it."
He's laughing at us, Malcolm realised. He could tell that Trip knew it too, from the look of disgust on his friend's face. That obviously hadn't been the reaction Trip had been looking for. Yet… something else lurked behind that disgust: an almost grudging admiration of an opponent. Oh dear. Malcolm wasn't sure what would happen if Trip decided to raise the stakes. This could get messy.
# # # #
Little shit. Jonathan followed them up to the Arts and Crafts cabin – making sure they did drop off his bedclothes at the laundry first – and advised the counsellor on duty to keep a close eye on them.
"Turn your back for even a second and Tucker will be gone. Either that, or he'll be messing with the power tools. Now the last thing I want to do is explain to his parents why he's missing a couple of fingers…"
"Jon, I get it. He's an active kid."
"No, Jay, he's an impossible shit." Jonathan said it loudly enough for Tucker to hear. Tucker gave him the finger.
"I see you two communicate well." Jay grinned.
Jonathan laughed. "Don't let his sweet face fool you. That is not a kid. A foul mouthed baby-demon from Hell, maybe, but it's not a kid."
"So far you're the only one I've heard swearing." At this, Tucker had to turn his head away to hide something. A grin, perhaps?
"Stick around him for five minutes. I swear Malcolm here must have doubled his vocabulary just by listening."
"Relax, Jon. I'll take care of them. You go wrangle the rest of your monsters. We'll be fine."
Jonathan gave him a look that clearly said I'm not convinced.
"Jon. We get trouble kids every year, and they're never as bad as everybody says."
"This is not a trouble kid. I just pulled these two off the roof. He got Work Detail his first night here. He doubled it on the second. I've stopped giving it to him because he enjoys it too much. He's pulled so many B and E's I've lost count…
"Can't prove it," Tucker muttered.
"… and I swear, his entire mission in life is to keep me from sleeping. Hell, he even tried to poison me. No… trouble doesn't even begin to describe it."
The Arts and Crafts counsellor crouched down so he could be on eye level with Tucker. "You're not that bad, are you?"
Tucker shook his head, his face the epitome of innocence. Jonathan just about choked.
"And I'll bet you enjoy making and building things."
Tucker nodded vigorously, exuding wide-eyed excitement.
Jay looked up. "See Jon? We won't have any problems here. You've just got to tap into a kid's interests, that's all." He ruffled Tucker's hair, and to Jonathan's shock and disgust, didn't lose his hand. "It's always the creative types you guys have problems with. We'll do fine."
Jonathan bent down until his mouth was level with Tucker's ear. "Mess around, and I swear I will make you the most miserable camper in existence." He spoke barely above a whisper. "Comprendez, amigo?"
Tucker shot back something in rapid fire Spanish, too quick for Jonathan to comprehend. He assumed it wasn't polite.
"Watch your language, kid. It's not nice to talk to people like that."
The look Tucker gave him said it all: You didn't understand a word I said, did you?
In response, Jonathan flicked his finger into the top of Tucker's head. "Behave yourself. I mean it, hotshot." Reluctantly, he backed away. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he had six other campers to worry about. Dad's right… you do get my full attention. Then again, maybe Tucker needed it. With some kids, you just couldn't tell.
# # # #
And the prize goes to… Trip settled down on the bench and pretended to be interested as Jay told them about all the neat things they could make. Like tie racks for their dads… Puh-leeze, like I'd make him something… or a nice picture frame… if I'd suffered major brain damage, maybe… or how about a birdhouse?
"Sure." He said it as chipperly as he could. This seemed to impress Jay who bustled off to the corner to get them the materials.
"Okay, now here's the plan." Trip leaned over to Malcolm and kept his voice low. "I'm not building any Popsicle stick birdhouse. Nor am I staying in this shack all day. Tell genius there you have to go to the bathroom. Jonathan didn't say anything about you, so he's not going to suspect a thing. And then when you go to leave, pretend to fall or something, and really start crying. Make sure you have his attention… and I'll head out the window. Then, when he's looking for me, you can beat it out the door and meet me… meet me at the log where we had hot-chocolate, okay?"
"What if he doesn't let me go? What if he sees you're gone and makes me stay with him?" Malcolm sounded panicked at the possibility of being left behind to take all the heat.
Poor kid, I bet that happens to him a lot. Trip made sure that Jay was still busy over in the corner before he continued. "If you're not down there within ten minutes I'll come back, and I'll say I made you do it. They'll believe that, especially Jonathan."
Malcolm still looked unsure. "You swear?"
Trip grinned. "All the time." He then sobered and grasped Malcolm's arm. "I promise. That's better than a swear. Ten minutes, then I come back." He let go as Jay turned around and pretended to be interested in the counsellor's instructions when it came to the use of nails and glue. It wasn't as interesting as his father's (nails go in the drawer, not up your brother's nose. And glue is not used to hang your sister's doll from the ceiling, nor is it meant to be used in place of hair gel, and if you keep making those faces at me, you are never going to see the outside of your room again), but then again, Jay was an idiot. Had he thought Jonathan had been exaggerating? Didn't this guy listen to camp gossip? Nobody messes with the hair and gets away with it. Well, maybe Melissa Lyles… but nobody else. He waited until Jay looked satisfied that they were engrossed in the project, and then nudged Malcolm with his foot.
"Excuse me, sir, but can I go to the washroom?" The look on Malcolm's face was pricelessly perfect. He looked like he was almost ready to cry.
"Of course," Jay flashed them a bright smile. "I'm not an ogre. Hurry back, we'll be here."
Trip smiled back so sweetly it could've caused sugar shock. The idiot took it as another sign that he was dealing with a normal kid.
On his way out the door, Malcolm stumbled, then sat down, clutching his knee. "Ow…"
It sounded fake, but worked well enough on Jay. "Oh, you poor guy. What happened?"
"I fell." Malcolm glanced over at Trip who had to fight down an urge to shake a fist at him.
Don't draw attention to me. Focus on him.
"Are you okay? Let me see." Jay bent over Malcolm's knee, searching for any sign of injury. Trip slipped over to the window and jimmied it open before scrambling outside.
"Going somewhere, hotshot?" The voice behind him sounded amused.
"Fucking shit! I thought you were supposed to be babysitting." Trip turned, trying to get his heart to calm down. How does he do that?
Jonathan laughed. "I am. What do you think this is?" He looked at his watch. "Not bad. I expected you about five minutes ago, but Jay can get a little long winded." He dropped a hand onto Trip's shoulder in the manner of a cop arresting a felon. "Now, what do you say we go back and let him know that Malcolm's okay? Oh, and I'll take those off your hands." He reached down and snatched Trip's lock picks before Trip could react.
"Hey!" Trip tried to grab them back, and Jonathan held them out of his reach. He swore profusely.
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"Who do you think taught me the words? Now give those back, asshole." Trip squirmed, trying to break free.
"I don't think so. I wouldn't want to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You don't need any help on that score, hotshot. Besides, I always wanted a set of these." Jonathan closed his fist around the picks and let his arm fall back to his side.
"Fuckface." Unable to think of anything else, Trip fell back on insult. Those picks were custom built, the result of weeks worth of clandestine work in the school metal shop. He'd had to hack into several secure databases to get the specs on them: locksmiths didn't hand out their trade secrets to kids. And now all that time and effort lay clenched in Jonathan's fist, and the dickhead didn't even know what he had. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, asshole. Sure, he could make another set, but it wouldn't be the same. They'd just be copies, like some cheap knock-offs of a work of art. He could feel himself shaking with unsuppressed rage.
"I'm sorry to spoil your fun, hotshot." Jonathan didn't sound sorry at all, though he did seem upset when Trip didn't answer.
I'm never fucking speaking to you again. I hate you more than I've ever hated anybody, because you are so fucking stupid. I hope you rot in hell. This time… this time he really was getting out of here.