The Great Greene Heist Read online

  Keith rolled his eyes. And people say I’m arrogant.

  As soon as Stewart left the table, Wilton slid into the chair beside Keith. “Was he bragging again?”

  “Of course. But forget about him. What did you find out?”

  “I talked with Mr. Pritchard. He’s going to make Carmen remove all the posters with your face. They won’t be allowed to run that ad about you in the newspaper. And he won’t let the Art Geeks erect that sculpture of you as a wolf.” Wilton let out a long stream of air. “But there’s nothing he can do about SAKS. Any organization is allowed to campaign on behalf of a candidate.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Carmen,” Keith said. “Persuade her to change her mind.”

  “Or maybe you should just let it go,” Wilton said. “With Kelsey on your side, there’s no way Gaby can win.”

  Keith took another bite of his sandwich. Half of the tuna dropped from the bread onto his tray, but he didn’t notice. He wouldn’t admit it to Wilton, but Keith still didn’t know exactly how Dr. Kelsey planned to fix the election. Every time Keith met with him, the only thing the man seemed interested in was the money that Keith’s father had promised “the school.”

  “Carmen’s smart, but there’s no way she came up with this on her own,” Keith said. “Someone helped her.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Who else? For all I know, Jackson’s the one who tipped Megan off. He never knows when to quit.”

  “But who cares? You’re going to win.”

  “Oh, I’ll win all right. I’ll crush Gaby. And Jackson.” Keith nodded across the cafeteria toward Charlie de la Cruz, who was talking to some kid with paint splattered across his T-shirt. “Talk to Tommy and Trevor. For the next few days, I want to keep an eye on Jackson and Charlie. If anyone even looks in their direction, I want to know who they are.” He finished his sandwich. “Jackson Greene doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”

  Jackson Greene wasn’t just on Keith Sinclair’s mind. On the other side of the cafeteria, while Lynne described her dress for the formal — and pointed out that Gaby had yet to pick one — Gaby found herself staring at the walls, taking in all the posters. Even though Mr. Pritchard was making SAKS scale back their campaign, the damage had been done — Omar’s latest poll showed Gaby capturing a third of the jock vote and half of the sixth-grade vote. She had felt self-conscious about all the attention at first, but as student after student stopped her in the hallways and in class, telling her that they planned to vote for her, she began to believe that (1) she just might become Maplewood’s next Student Council president, and (2) a lot of it was due to Jackson Greene.

  She wasn’t sure which of those facts scared her more.

  Lynne cleared her throat. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

  “Sorry, I’m just … Sorry.” She took a bite of her sandwich, frowned, then dropped her food on her tray. “You finished? Want to go to the library?”

  Lynne nodded. “So you want to tell me what you’re thinking about so hard?” she asked after they turned in their trays. “And don’t say you’re thinking about Omar. He walked by our table three times, and you barely looked in his direction.”

  Gaby looped her thumbs in her pockets. “You know this is all because of Jackson, right? Carmen’s campaign was his idea.”

  “It sounds like something he’d think of. You know a boy really has to like you to go through all this trouble to get you elected.”

  Gaby tugged on her ponytail. “I’m supposed to be mad at him. He kissed another girl. I thought he felt …” She shook her head and tried again. “I’m going to the formal with Omar.”

  “They both really like you,” Lynne said. “And Omar’s … nice. But even I have to admit he’s no Jackson Greene. Maybe you should break up with him.”

  “Break up? We’re not together.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Gaby nodded. “I know. It’s not fair to Omar. I just … I just wish I knew how Jackson felt.”

  “Has he shown any interest in anyone since Katie?”

  “According to Charlie, he doesn’t talk to any girls.”

  “Except you.” Lynne opened the library door. “Maybe you should just … I don’t know … tell him how you feel. It’s a little crazy how you can plan to give a speech in front of the entire school with no problem, but you can’t tell one boy how you might feel about him.”

  “But I’m supposed to be —”

  “I know, I know,” Lynne said. “But haven’t you ever heard of a cease-fire?”

  After a quick afternoon snack, Jackson changed clothes, trading in his tie and blazer for jeans and a T-shirt. He was heading to the Shimmering Hills Library to meet Charlie. They were working on a project and wouldn’t be finished until 8:00 p.m. or so.

  At least, that’s what he told his father that morning.

  Jackson was about to walk out the door when a message popped onto his laptop screen.

  IAmBorgHearMeRoar: Can I come?

  IAmBorgHearMeRoar: Jackson?

  IAmBorgHearMeRoar: I know you’re there. Your bike’s in the driveway.

  IAmBorgHearMeRoar: Please???!!!

  OptimusGreene: We shouldn’t be talking like this. Meet me outside.

  Jackson found Hashemi standing by his bike. Hashemi wore black cargo pants and a black turtleneck, and he held a black ski mask.

  “My gloves are in my backpack,” Hashemi said. “I couldn’t find any black ones, so I spray-painted Mom’s yellow kitchen gloves. Is that all right?”

  Jackson looked him up and down. “Did you bring a pair of pliers?”

  A look of horror crossed Hashemi’s face. “I knew I forgot something —”

  “Hash, really, it’s okay.”

  It was only then that Hashemi noticed Jackson’s clothes. “Wait? I thought we were —”

  “We are.”

  “But I thought this is what people wore when they —”

  “It is. In the movies. When it’s dark outside.” Jackson glanced in the direction of the sun, which barely touched the tree line. “I know you think this is exciting, but are you sure you want to do this? It could be risky.”

  “Risk is my middle name,” Hashemi said. “Well, it’s actually Ferydoon, but you get —”

  “Hashemi. There’s nothing wrong with being the tech guy. You’re good at it. You’re a key part of the team.”

  “But in the movies, the tech guy is always an uber-nerd.”

  Jackson crossed his arms.

  “Okay, yes, I’m a nerd. But I’m not an uber-nerd. I’m a cool nerd. I’m the type of nerd that —”

  “That breaks into a school to scope out office equipment?”

  “I was going to say ‘that takes risks,’ but that works too.”

  “Do you at least have your cell phone?”

  Hashemi pulled and tugged and pulled some more, and finally extracted the MAPE from his pocket. “What do you need me to do? I upgraded the GPS chips — they’re so precise, I can pinpoint our location within a six-inch radius. I can also —”

  “Can you text on it yet?”

  “For the most part. Just avoid G, H, and J and you’ll be okay.” Hashemi’s face fell. “Unfortunately, the dialing features are cutting into the phone’s stand-by time. Now it only lasts for five days on a charge.”

  Jackson patted Hashemi’s shoulder. “What’s life without a few risks?”

  Charlie sat curled into a ball in the corner of the school’s smallest janitorial closet, surrounded by mops, brooms, and plungers that had seen far better days. According to Jackson, the janitorial service wasn’t scheduled to clean the bathrooms until later that night, so they had plenty of time. Of course, that was easy for Jackson to say, as he wasn’t the one crammed into a dark, contained space with hazardous materials.

  Finally, Charlie’s cell phone buzzed.

  Charlie stretched his legs as he stepped out of the closet and into the silent school. It was surreal, being in a place s
o quiet. At his house, the television was always blaring, or people were always talking. He wondered if this was how it felt at Jackson’s house now that Samuel was gone. It had to be great, having so much free time to yourself. Jackson didn’t have to worry about sharing the TV or finding a quiet place to use the phone. He wasn’t the low man on the totem pole, taking orders from his mom and his dad and his sister.

  Jackson Greene was the luckiest boy he knew.

  Charlie entered Mrs. Cooper’s room — the lock hadn’t worked in years — and cracked open the window. “‘We’re ere’?” he asked Jackson.

  He shrugged. “It’s in beta. Now move so we can get in.”

  Jackson leapt into the room, avoiding the loose pane of glass that rattled when touched, the splintered windowsill that left shards of wood in your palm, and the stacks of books and papers lined up underneath the window. It was as if he had done this hundreds of times before.

  Hashemi eventually made it into the room, his hands red and raw, his breaths short and shallow, and his ankle gimpy from landing on an ancient copy of Webster’s Dictionary.

  Once they reached the main office, Jackson slipped the bump key into the lock. Two taps later, the door creaked open.

  “That was easy,” Hashemi whispered.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo, cowboy. But this isn’t the door I’m worried about.” Jackson pulled the newly punched copy room key from his pocket. The edges were almost too sharp to touch.

  They made their way through the office, which was just as dark and silent as the rest of the school. At the door to the copy room, Jackson offered up a silent prayer and shimmied the key into the lock. It caught halfway, and the boys gasped. Jackson jiggled the key and applied a bit more pressure, and after a few seconds that seemed to stretch into hours, the key slid securely into the lock.

  It was only after the door popped open that Jackson realized he had been holding his breath.

  While Hashemi and Charlie examined the Scantron machine, Jackson surveyed the room. Samuel had gotten most of the details correct. It wasn’t awe-inspiring. Copiers, printers, and fax machines lined the walls, and a small closet stood at the rear of the room. He opened the closet door to find stacks of boxes and papers, each pile threatening to topple at the slightest touch.

  “Charlie,” he called. “Got a second?” After Charlie joined him, Jackson asked, “What do you think? Could someone my size fit in here?”

  Charlie chewed on his thumbnail. “We’d have to move some of the boxes around, but it should be able to serve as the Fallout Shelter.”

  “You can’t just call it a hiding place, can you?” Jackson took a step back and squinted. “But we may have a problem. With the Scantron machine all the way over on the other side of the room, we need a surefire way to trigger the big reveal. The closet — sorry, the Fallout Shelter — isn’t close enough….”

  Charlie snapped his fingers. “You know what we need? A Robot in Disguise!”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Jackson said. “And you’ve really got to stop watching those Ocean’s movies.”

  “Don’t blame me. I didn’t invent cable television.”

  Jackson rattled the closet’s lockless handle. Then he glanced at Hashemi. “How’s it coming with the Scantron machine?”

  “It’s not a Scantron machine. I mean — it scans ballots and tests, but it’s not an official Scantron machine. It’s a …” Hashemi paused as he spun the machine around. “It’s a Techno … a Technomoso …” He gave up. “It’s not a Scantron machine.”

  “Fine. How are you doing with the not-a-Scantron machine?”

  Hashemi picked up his screwdriver. “Well, it’s nothing like the diagrams I looked at online. Because it’s so prehistoric, it’ll be a bit of a challenge to rig.”

  “But you can do it, right?”

  For once, Hashemi was able to grin at a frowning Jackson Greene. “Of course. It’s even got a USB built into it. I should be able to hack it and control it remotely. When they run the ballots, I can set exactly what the tally will be.”

  “We’re not looking for anything fancy,” Charlie said. “We just need it to give a false report.”

  “Sure,” Hashemi said. “But I was thinking, since I’ve got some time on my hands, maybe I could wire it so I could control anything that passed through it. Tests, ballots, whatever. Since this is so ancient, I’d have to run a C++ algorithm to —”

  “Love the ambition, love the drive, but remember the plan,” Jackson said.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with improving —”

  “That’s what you keep saying about the MAP,” Charlie said. “And we all see how that’s going.”

  “MAPE,” Hashemi said, his voice rising. “And when I finish, it will be the most advanced, most technologically astute —”

  “It’s an overdesigned paperweight,” Charlie said. “You can’t even use H!”

  “It’s in beta!”

  “Don’t mind Charlie,” Jackson said, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder. “He always gets cranky when I make him sit in a cramped closet for too long.” He eyed the not-a-Scantron machine. “But he’s right. It just needs to show that Gaby won.”

  Hashemi sighed. “But that’s so … simple.”

  “Rule Number Eleven: Don’t use a battering ram when a crowbar will do.”

  Hashemi blinked. “I don’t even know what a crowbar is.”

  Charlie walked off toward the closet, mumbling under his breath.

  “Got everything you need?” Jackson asked. “I want to place the order first thing tomorrow. Ray knows a guy who can probably get us a good deal on the machine.”

  Hashemi removed a smudge of ink from his glasses. “Almost done. I need a few more minutes to write down all the processor parts.”

  “Take your time,” Jackson said, looking at the closet. “Charlie and I have some rearranging to do.”

  While Jackson, Charlie, and Hashemi crept around the copy room, moving boxes and recording megabytes, Gaby sat at her desk, working on her campaign speech.

  So far, she had succeeded in writing and erasing three lines over the last half-hour.

  She gave up and opened her email. Carmen had sent proofs for a new set of posters and flyers. Even though Gaby didn’t always agree with SAKS’s approach to campaigning, she enjoyed working with them, especially Carmen. The girl was really smart when she was focused. Smart and fearless. Most importantly, she believed in Gaby’s message — which is more than Gaby could say for the rest of her campaign committee.

  She eyed the phone. She knew this day had been coming for a while, but even now, she hated making the call.

  Finally, she dialed Lynne.

  “Where were you today?” Gaby asked. “You missed the meeting with Mrs. McCoy about increasing the Botany Club budget.”

  “I had to buy shoes for the formal,” Lynne said, her mouth full. “I figured you could handle it without me.”

  “Omar was there.”

  “Of course he was.” Lynne finally swallowed whatever she was eating. “He’s in love with you.”

  “He cares about the issues. He cares about —”

  “He cares because you care.”

  Gaby stood and slid the keyboard tray underneath the desk. “Lynne, you know why I’m calling. The speeches are next week, and the election is ten days away.” She glanced at the official yearbook photo of the girls’ basketball team from last year. “I need someone as dedicated as I am.”

  Lynne was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “So are you firing me?”

  Gaby dropped to the edge of her bed. “You’re so busy with your brothers and school and everything, I think the campaign committee would totally understand that you need to resign.” Even now, she wanted to help Lynne find an honorable way out. Maybe she was too nice.

  “Yeah,” Lynne said, her voice getting stronger. “That makes sense.”

  Gaby loosened her hair. “You could have been a great campaign manager, you know.” />
  She sighed. “I wish. But it just isn’t in me. I’m not like you. You care so much about … well, about everybody. That’s why you’ll make a great president.”

  Gaby smiled. “You’ll still be on my campaign committee, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll even take directions from old Stick-in-the-Mud.”

  “I’m not so sure Omar would be the best campaign manager either. He’s a little too eager to please.”

  “Like I said, he’s kinda-sorta in love with you.”

  Gaby fell backward on the bed. “I need someone who’s willing to argue with me. I don’t want to be like Keith, surrounded by people who bow at his feet.” She twisted her hair around her finger. “I’m thinking about asking Carmen. Now that she’s toned down her message, there’s no reason that we shouldn’t be officially working together.”

  Lynne tsked. “That won’t go over so well with Omar.”

  “Yeah, but I bet that’ll be the least of Omar’s worries.” She grabbed a pillow and pulled it to her chest. “Now tell me about those shoes. Actually, tell me about all your plans for the formal.”

  The next morning, Jackson entered the kitchen to find his father at the table, a coffee cup in his hand and a couple of chocolate chip cookies on an otherwise empty plate.

  “When does Mom get back again?” Jackson asked as he pulled a bowl from the cabinet.

  “Why? You complaining about my cooking?”

  “Of course not,” Jackson said, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. “I love eating toast and Bran Flakes in the morning.”

  “Nothing wrong with being regular, son.”

  After Jackson fixed his cereal, his father cleared his throat. “I called the library.” Even though his voice was serious, a hint of a smile crept onto his face. “It’s closed on Wednesdays. Budget cuts.”

  Jackson tapped his spoon on the edge of the bowl. “Internet research,” he mumbled. “It ain’t what it used to be.”

  “As Dad used to say, ‘Secondhand research yields D-minus results.’”

  “I know, I know — Rule Number Twelve.”