CHAPTER 63

PANCAKE STOOD IN THE HALLWAY opposite the girls washroom. He hadn’t moved two floor tiles from where he’d promised Maggie he’d wait for her. He was sure she’d try to convince him to go to the principal. Good luck with that idea, Maggie. Even if he showed Mrs. Jackson the video clips, what would she do? Slap the pack guys on the wrist with a measly suspension? Call their parents? Make them shake Pancake’s hand and apologize? They’d be getting off way too easy. And eventually they’d make good on their promise to use Pancake’s face to clean toilets.

He gripped his phone like it was the key to his salvation. In a way it was —at least the video clips saved there. His phone was a weapon. An arsenal, really. Pancake intended to make every shot count.

He heard someone trotting down the hallway. Pancake faced the lockers and spun the combination dial. There was no way he wanted to hear more comments about his pants.

Pancake turned the moment the person passed.

Giovanna. Fists clenched. She disappeared through the bathroom door like she was on a mission.

“This can’t be good.”

Should he warn Maggie or something?

He looked up and down the empty hallway. No teacher is around to help. It’s up to you. Something is going to happen —and you know it.

Pancake raised his camera —and started shooting. “I’m documenting this to prove I’m not doing something perverted,” he narrated. “But I think my friend needs help, and there’s no time to get a teacher.” He walked right for the girls washroom door —with the camera still running.

Pancake hesitated just outside the door. What was he thinking? There’s no way he was going in there.

A girl’s scream. Shrill. Piercing. Maggie.

Pancake pushed through the door, filming as he went. A stall door flew open and banged against the metal divider wall. Giovanna burst out —an open quart of black paint in her hands and dripping.

The instant she saw him she must have known he was recording.

“Eeeeeeyahhh!” she screamed, and threw the can right at him.

Pancake ducked and spun to one side to protect his phone. The paint container sailed over his head and hit the tiled wall. He turned back and she was gone.

Quiet sobs echoed through the bathroom —from the one stall with the closed door.

He didn’t belong here. Get out before a teacher catches you, amigo. But Maggie needed help, didn’t she?

“Maggie?” He kept the camera running just to prove why he was in here. “It’s me. Pancake. What did she do?”

The latch slid open and the stall door swung wide. Maggie stood in the doorway like she was in a daze. Slump-shouldered. Arms hanging limp at her sides like all her strength was gone. “My shoes,” she wailed.

Glossy black paint covered her Chucks —and the cuffs of her pants. “Somebody tossed paint under the stall divider and —”

“It was Giovanna. I —”

Maggie burst into fresh tears. “Nooooo. How could she?” She buried her fists in her eyes and wailed.

The camera. Turn off the camera, idiot. He’d never understood news film crews who kept filming devastated families caught in a tragedy. Now he’d just done it himself.

He pocketed the camera and noticed the black paint splattered all over his already wet shirt. Potty water and paint. This was insane. But Maggie was definitely in worse shape.

“I’ll get someone —from the office.”

“No,” she said, sobbing. “I don’t want anyone to see this. She ruined them. They’re ruined.”

Everything inside Pancake screamed at him to get out of the girls bathroom. But Maggie was a mess —and honestly what she probably needed was someone who would stay and help. That’s what Hudson would do.

“Hey, it’s going to be all right.” He led Maggie to the counter lined with sinks. She obeyed, still crying.

“Sit up here.” He held her at the waist and boosted her up.

Immediately he untied her syrupy laces. Wiggled the Converse All Stars off her feet. He dropped each in separate sinks and blasted the cold water on them. Black paint wept off her shoes like the tears down Maggie’s cheeks. He held one shoe directly under the faucet —water spraying everywhere. Like that really mattered.

Pancake saw the marker inscription on the insole. Pulled the shoe out of the stream to read it.

Remember Mom loves you —every step of the way.

Okay, things were beginning to make more sense here. He didn’t care about his clothes. He didn’t care about what the pack had done to him. But why did they have to hurt a girl like Maggie? “We’re going to get these shoes cleaned up. Don’t you worry.”

He used his nails like a scrub brush —saw the red canvas claw through. This crazy stuff with the litter and the pack had to end. But whether it did or not, Pancake would make sure the world knew what happened.

“My mom had cancer two years ago. They caught it early, but she got really sick with the chemo.” Maggie stared at the counter. “And she beat it. Got her six-month checkup just before school was out for summer. Cancer free.”

Why had she never told him?

“She wanted to celebrate. She bought me these shoes. Thought it would brighten my days. And maybe help me make more friends at school. The shoes were cool when my mom was my age. I guess she thought they still were. I never had the heart to tell her different.”

So the shoes were symbolic to her. A trophy to her mom beating cancer. And somehow if the shoes were destroyed? Maggie might see it as a sign —of something bad to come.

“Jo knew.”

“About the shoes?”

“The shoes. The cancer. The celebration. Everything.” She wiped back a fresh stream of tears. “How could she do this to me? How could she?”

Pancake glanced at her. She was in a daze. He had to get her mind in gear. “I’m getting the paint off, Maggie. C’mon and help me.”

Maggie wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She stared at the shoe Pancake was working on. “Oh, Pancake!” She hopped off the counter and started scrubbing the other one.

A lump burned in his throat. He rubbed the canvas harder.

Minutes later it was clear the shoes were as good as they were going to get right then. Not perfect —but way better than Pancake ever thought he’d get them. He grabbed some paper towels and blotted the canvas the best he could.

“They look wonderful.” Maggie turned off the water and inspected the shoes. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She dabbed at the shoes with paper towels and wiped the excess paint off her jeans. “With a fresh pair of laces, they’ll look like new.”

For the first time Pancake looked at the rest of the bathroom and the splattered black paint —from the stall to the sinks to the bathroom tile. The place was a disaster. “Get these on and let’s get out of here.”

Maggie pulled on one of her shoes. “You going to ditch?”

“Absolutely. You?”

Maggie looked at herself in the mirror. “I am not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing that I cried. I need to think. I’m with you.”

Pancake grinned. “All right. All right! To the bikes, then.”

Maggie slung the soggy laces into a bow. “But Mr. Cutter will report it. He has to.”

Pancake tossed the wad of paper towels in the garbage. “When I get home, I’ll have my mom call the office. Or maybe I’ll bring a note tomorrow. ”

“That’ll work. I’ll do the same.”

“But we can’t have them talk about the bullying. Not yet. The office will want to see the clips I have, and I’m not ready to turn them in.”

Maggie looked at him. “You videotaped this?”

“Giovanna running out of the stall with the paint can in hand.”

Maggie nodded. “When she came in, I heard her rummaging in the garbage basket for something. I figured whoever it was had just tossed something by accident.”

“The paint,” Pancake said. “Kat or Alexa must have planted it there for her.”

Maggie looked like she was going to start crying again.

“Just don’t let your mom mention we caught part of this on tape. Deal?”

Maggie nodded. “I’ll convince her to say I had a personal issue —and that I was embarrassed and had to leave. Which is the truth.”

“Now we gotta get out of this bathroom,” Pancake said. “And that’s the truth too.”

The washroom wasn’t more than a hundred feet from Exit 6. They just had to get by Mr. Cutter’s class. Was his door open?

“We head for the bike rack,” Pancake said, “and get out of here before anyone stops us.”

“Wait,” Maggie said. “My backpack. I left it in class.”

“Mine too. We’ll text Hudson. He’ll bring them.”

Maggie actually smiled. “You and Hudson are good friends to me, Pancake.”

He grinned back. “Don’t you forget it.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I still can’t believe Jo did this . . . to me.”

Pancake pushed open the bathroom door.

“I thought,” Maggie said way too loud, “we were friends.”

Was she going to start crying again? “You gotta get past this. It’s over.”

That’s when Pancake saw her —the bus lady with the name Hoskins stitched on her shirt —just standing with her hands on her hips —glaring at him.

“What are you doing in the girls potty room?” She glared at Pancake. “And what did you do to her!” Her beefy hand darted out like a striking cobra —incredibly fast for her size. And strong. She latched onto Pancake’s arm like it was her lunch.

“Wait,” Maggie said, “he was helping me.”

“I’ll bet. You stay right here, missy.” She gripped Pancake harder. “We’ll just see what the principal has to say about this.”

First the toilet . . . then the paint. Now this. There are times when a guy has to know he’s beaten. But this didn’t feel like one of those times. “Ms. Hoskins. Do you know who I am? My actual name?”

Hoskins got all in his face, her breath hot —and smelling of salami. “Not a clue. But let me take a guess. Filthy Beast.”

So she had no idea what his real name was. Pancake could work with that.

Hoskins yanked his arm. “Let’s get going, Filthy Beast.”

Pancake locked eyes with Maggie. We can’t let her stop us. Don’t quit on me. Somehow, it seemed she understood. She swallowed. Gave a single nod.

That was all he needed. Pancake raised his arm and snapped it down hard, breaking Hoskins’ grip. “Run!”