Chapter 17
March 18
“Edmund, it’s time to stir things up,” Jonah announces to me on our bus ride home from school. We both take the city bus over to the Upper West Side.
“They need you. It’s obvious. They’re getting closer to cracking the case. Otherwise they’d have fired you by now. Especially after the Taser.” Tap-tap-tappity-tap. He’s tapping a pen on the window. The lady in front of us shoots him a dirty look.
I can’t focus on police work right now. Not because it’s über-boring, which it is (alley cats and Marco chases aside), but because we’ve started a unit on hands in art class, and my universe is imploding.
Jenny Miller is my “hands partner.”
All during art class I was on the verge of throwing up from nerves, and I don’t know how I’m going to do this for the next few weeks. Of course I can’t tell Jonah about it because he would be unbelievably embarrassing about the whole thing. So I suffer in silence, my hands a sweaty mess. Even now just thinking about it.
The hand is one of the most difficult things to draw. There are so many lines and textures and veins that no matter how you do it, it rarely looks lifelike. It just flops down on the page, flat and fake.
We took turns today. I had to study and draw Jenny’s hands, and then she did the same for me. In both scenarios, my stomach was ready to exit through my mouth, and I could barely breathe.
I have my mother’s hands. Thin and delicate, no strength whatsoever. You can imagine how psyched I am about that. My parents tell me that I have artist’s hands, and that if they were big and awkward then I couldn’t draw well.
It’s not very reassuring.
At one point Jenny shifted my hand, actually making contact with it. She might as well have used a cattle prod, because I jumped about ten feet. I have to relax or she’s going to think I’m a major head case.
“Earth to Edmund!” Jonah says while tappity-tapping on my baseball cap with his pen.
“Quit it, Jonah!” I smack his hand away.
“We need to break in to Bovano’s office.” His leg jiggles up and down, banging my knee and sending tremors of hectic Morse code down into my shoes. “And I have a plan.”
“I’ll do it myself,” I say quickly. “I know Bovano’s routine. After I give him my reports he always leaves to make photocopies and—”
“We buy some pizza,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken. “I go in dressed as a delivery boy, luring all the cops, including Bovano, away from their work with the promise of stuffed crust goodness. You zip into the office and steal the info off the board. A smash-and-grab job with a pizza decoy. How much money do you have in the bank? The whole operation will cost about a hundred bucks. No problem. I have twenty in my sock drawer. I can ask my dad for at least twenty more. Now draw me a picture of the station and Bovano’s office so I know how to get around.”
I ignore the request. “Give me a week,” I say. Jonah showing up in that office would be a major disaster. But I do agree it’s time to take action and search for more information. I’m only up to a measly $703.25 in earnings (an über-awesome amount of money on a normal day, but Senate costs waaaay more) and the first tuition payment is due next month. My parents said they could cover it for now, but time is running out.
“My stop is next!” Jonah says, throwing on his backpack and nearly clipping my ear. “Promise you’ll make something happen. Be all you can be, soldier! Promise, or else I’m ordering the pizza uniform on eBay. I found a good one. Operation Pepperoni is on the horizon!”
I sigh. “Fine.”
I pity George Gyukeri, who is Jonah’s hands partner, because Jonah literally can’t stop moving, especially his hands. All through class I heard George yapping at him to stay still, which actually helped with my Jenny-nerves.
As the bus pulls away, I watch Jonah on the street. He reminds me of a dancing leprechaun with that red hair of his, jumping over lines, trying to make it home without stepping on any fateful cracks. He gives me a huge wave seconds before he collides with an old man, sending them both tumbling into a street lamp. Jonah turns neon red and wraps his arms around the man’s torso as if to steady him, but he’s just knocking him more off-balance. The poor guy must feel like he’s being groped by a hyper chimpanzee.
The man seems fine. He holds on to the post and waves Jonah away, probably to prevent further harm. I start to laugh in wheezing gasps. It feels like I haven’t laughed with Jonah in forever. We need to hang out this weekend, have a sleepover and forget all about police business. A chance to be regular kids and build couch cushion forts, or dare each other to drink orange juice mixed with milk.
As my laughter turns into snorting chuckles, the same disapproving woman on the bus raises a shame-on-you eyebrow at me.
I snap my mouth closed, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. I wasn’t laughing at a senior citizen in dire straits; I was laughing at Jonah’s ridiculous spaziness. Is that bad karma?
I sure hope not, because between the Taser incident and Jonah’s pizza plan, I need all the good karma I can get.