Free The Fourth Stall Part II by Chris Rylander Page B

“You guys know anything about that?”
    It was more of an accusation than an actual question. But I decided to play along.
    â€œWhy would we want to steal lab animals?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “You tell me.”
    I shrugged back.
    â€œOkay, so if you aren’t here for that, then can you possibly explain to me what you are doing in here and how you got in? I mean, you guys aren’t even old enough to be in one of my classes, and you just said that you thought I was at practice, so it couldn’t have been to come and tell me why you weren’t there today. So where does that leave us?”
    I glanced at Vince because I was fresh out of believable lies that could fit this situation. Plus, it’s hard to think when you’re panicking as much as I was right then. If Mr. Kjelson went to the Administration with this, and there was no reason not to, then Dr. George would really be on our cases. And he might even find out about my arrangement with the janitor. We’d be finished. Not only that, but this wasn’t exactly helping our case to make the baseball team.
    â€œThe door was already open,” Vince started.
    Mr. Kjelson looked skeptical. “They lock automatically every time they close.”
    â€œIt was ajar, not just unlocked,” Vince countered.
    Mr. Kjelson frowned.
    Vince took a deep breath.
    â€œOkay, here’s what happened. We stayed after school because we got detention for trespassing in the kitchen earlier today. So Mac and I finished detention and we’re wandering the halls, and you know, we’re basically arguing about Joe Blanton and what matters more in baseball, numbers or intangibles, like always. Anyway, somehow the SMARTs came up because since Georgie, er, I mean Dr. George mentioned them yesterday, kids have been pretty concerned. Even teachers seem concerned. I heard from this one kid that his teacher, like, freaked out in class today, and after ranting about the SMARTs for several hours, he took off his shoes and socks and was pacing throughout the classroom talking about how the floor wasn’t fit for his feet to walk on and also something about an alpaca, which I guess is some sort of rabid llama, that was trying to eat him in his dream last night or something.
    â€œAnyways, so we were debating how good old Joe Blanton would do on such a test and I was saying that of course he would pass with flying colors. That he could pass the test in under two minutes even if you cut off his arms and only gave him a T-bone steak to write with. Basically, the only way he would fail is if he played for the Cubs, since the Cubs can’t really win at anything. And Mac here was arguing that Blanton could never pass, not even if he was given the answer sheet while he took the test, not even if they let Joe write the test himself! Even then he’d score like negative fourteen percent, which is so bad that it isn’t even mathematically possible.
    â€œSo this is where it gets really bizarre, right? So we’re walking and talking, and then I swear I saw Joe Blanton himself turn the corner and head this way. I kid you not. I could have sworn it was him. It was this tall, sort of portly dude with a nasty-awesome beard, and he was wearing pinstripes. So naturally we followed him. Except the hallway was empty, and then suddenly Christian here notices that your door is open, and we’re like, ‘Hey! Might as well take a peek and see if whatever teacher’s classroom this is has any extra information on the SMARTs.’ So we came on in with the idea of looking for SMART stuff, and then we heard some animal noises coming from your office and . . . here we are.”
    Vince panted beside me.
    You see now why this guy was my right-hand man?
    Mr. Kjelson didn’t say a word. He just stood there, one arm still folded over his chest, the other reaching up and rubbing his chin lightly. He studied Vince. He studied us. His face was blank,