Gotcha Read online

  “I haven’t a clue. He must hang out in the shop classes or something. Have you got an old yearbook so I can look him up?”

  “Yeah, in my room.” I take the bowl of popcorn and head upstairs. “C’mon.”

  Paige flops onto my bed. I grab the book and sit beside her. She’s studying my bookshelf. “I can’t believe how organized you are, Katie. It would take me a week to find my yearbook. It could be just about anywhere in the house.”

  I glance back at my bookshelf. “Yep, everything’s in alphabetical order by author’s last name. Yearbooks are in order of years.”

  “You’re one sick puppy.”

  “No, you are.” I give her a shoulder check and we both flop over.

  “No, you are!” she laughs, struggling to sit back up. I press my weight into her, holding her down.

  “Uh-uh. You are.”

  “Katie, get off me!”

  “Not till you admit that you’re a sicker puppy than me.”

  “Never!”

  I crunch my shoulder into hers. She’s so tiny it’s easy to pin her down.

  “Katie!” she screams.

  “Say it.”

  “Okay!”

  “I’m waiting,” I tell her.

  “I’m sicker than you.”

  “Louder.”

  “Omigod!” she groans, crushed under my weight.

  “Say it!”

  “I’m sicker than you!” she yells.

  “Good girl,” I say and pull myself off her.

  She slaps my shoulder. “Bully!”

  I smile down on her. “Sick puppy.”

  We flip through the yearbook pages until we find Elijah, and then we both gape at his unfamiliar face.

  “This is like so unfair!” Paige wails. “How can I tag him when I don’t even know if he exists?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Paige. Of course he exists. And he wants to play the game. Otherwise his name wouldn’t have been in the hat.” That’s not quite true, I realize. My name was in the hat, and I don’t want to play. I wonder if anyone else felt pressured into it, like I did. I’m only playing because I am on grad council and helped organize it, so I felt I had to sign up. “You’re just going to have to do some sleuthing to figure out who he is.”

  “Sleuthing?”

  “Yeah, sleuthing.”

  “What the hell is sleuthing?”

  “Detective work.”

  “Detective work. Great. I won’t look one bit obvious hanging around the shop classes. Me. Paige Harrington. I’ve never even been on that floor before.”

  “He has to surface sometime. At least to go home. And besides, you can’t tag him at school anyway.”

  “Yeah, but I have to figure out who he is!”

  We stuff popcorn in our mouths while mulling over the existence of Elijah Widawski. “Okay, I told you who my target is,” she says. “Now tell me yours.”

  “Oh, sort of like...I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” I smile at her.

  “Sort of like,” she says, smiling back. “But not quite as much fun.”

  “Sorry, Paige, we didn’t make any deals like that.”

  “We didn’t have to!”

  “I didn’t ask who yours was.”

  “But that’s what friends do. We tell each other things.”

  Maybe, I think. But not when the thing is this particular person. “If we were playing chess, would you tell me when you were two moves away from checkmating me?”

  “I don’t know what checkmating is. Sounds kinky.”

  “Oh yeah. Very.” I try not to roll my eyes.

  “Then I’m sure I would.”

  “No you wouldn’t! That’s why you play games,” I told her. “There are winners and losers. You compete.”

  “Not on Survivor. They form teams.”

  “Well Survivor is stupid. And they all end up betraying each other anyway. I don’t know why you’re comparing Gotcha to that dumb show.”

  “Because that’s what you have to do,” Paige insists. “I talked to grads from last year. You have to protect your friends.”

  “Then the game would never end.”

  “Well, it always has in the past. One way or another.”

  It turns out Paige’s mom is working late, so she has to walk home after all. She phones me after supper.

  “I made it,” she says. “If you care to know.”

  “I didn’t doubt you would.” I can just picture her, slinking from one dark patch of road to the next. Streetlights would be her greatest hazard. “It’s not like the person with your name will already have figured out your habits.”

  “Oh yeah? Mariah called my cell when I was coming home, and she said Minas has been tagged by Jelani already. And then Jelani got tagged by Tyson, so now he has three beads.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way!”

  “Huh.” I have trouble getting my head around that. “And guess what else?” she asks, clearly worked up.

  “What?”

  “Mariah asked Tanysha to swap names with her.”

  “She did? Why?”

  “Because Tanysha has Chad’s name, and you know what that means.”

  “I do?” It’s like the circuitry in my brain has malfunctioned. “Chad’s not going to like Mariah if she gets his bead.”

  “That’s not how Mariah sees it. She wants an excuse to stalk him.”

  Omigod. What next? “This game is sick.”

  “Tell me about it,” she says with a dramatic sigh, but somehow I don’t believe she thinks the game is sick at all. She’s loving every minute of it.

  Maybe she’s sick too.

  “I wonder if Warren has my name,” Paige considers. “Or Justin. They could be stalking me...now that’s an interesting concept.”

  It’s confirmed. I know she’s sick.

  “I made it to the bank and back without being tagged,” I tell her.

  “You what?”

  “I had to deposit the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The Gotcha money.” Grad council secretary also acts as treasurer for some reason.

  “I thought the school took care of the banking.”

  “It used to, but now that Gotcha’s been banned, they won’t do it. It creeped me out having so much money at home, so when my mom got home I borrowed the car and stuck it in my account.”

  She thinks about that. “You better be careful you don’t spend it by accident.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to Hawaii with that money. Screw the game. Wanna come?”

  “Oh sure.” Her tone has changed and I can picture the evil glint in her eyes. “But let’s make it Brazil. I hear the guys are much hotter there.”

  “Okay. I hear the beaches are nice there too.”

  “Who cares about the beaches?” She laughs at herself, but suddenly realizes what I’ve done. “Katie, you were stupid to go out alone! You could have been tagged.”

  “No big deal.”

  She sighs at my lack of enthusiasm. “It is too a big deal. Get with the game.”

  “Whatever.”

  “We’ll walk to school tomorrow? Same time? I’ll get my mom to drop me off.”

  “Yep, see you then.” As I hang up, I picture Paige at home, checking and double-checking the locks on her doors. Visions of last year’s incident are still fresh in her mind. I decide to check our locks too.

  The feeling of being swept up by a swarm of bees has intensified. Now the whole school is buzzing with news of the game. Gotcha is only played by the grads, but the excitement permeates all the grades. Before the tone for the first period has even sounded, everyone knows who’s still in and who’s out. Those who are out are assisting their friends with bead-snatching strategies or starting rumors about who is stalking who. There’s even name trading going on, which is against the rules, but who are you going to tell?

  Paige slides into the seat next to me in English. Mr. Bell hasn’t arrived yet, and Tyson is straddling his d
esk, fingering the string of beads he’s acquired in less than twenty-four hours. A small circle of girls surround him, and he’s clearly soaking up the attention.

  “I think I know who Elijah is,” Paige whispers over the noise.

  “Oh yeah, who?”

  She glances around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “He’s in the gifted program. A brain.”

  “Ahhh. So that’s why you don’t know him.”

  She swats my arm. “You don’t know him either!”

  Mr. Bell strides into the classroom and claps his hands for attention. “Okay, everyone, take your seats.” He leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest, waiting. It takes a lot longer than usual for everyone to settle. It’s that Gotcha energy. When the chatter has dimmed, he observes, “The banning of Gotcha clearly didn’t have the desired affect.” He nods. “Somehow I didn’t think it would.”

  “It’s a grade twelve tradition, Mr. Bell,” Tyson blurts out. “You can’t break tradition.”

  Mr. Bell thinks about that for a moment. “That’s an interesting statement, Tyson. Why can’t you?”

  This is so typical of Mr. Bell. He expects us to question everything. Tyson must be even stupider than I thought to make such an idiotic comment in Bell’s class.

  “Well, because.”

  “Because?”

  “Yeah, because.” Tyson is clearly wracking his brain, trying to figure out why. “Because that’s the way things have always been done around here.”

  Paige and I glance at each other. Mr. Bell gives points to students who participate in classroom discussions. I wonder how many points Tyson will be getting for these less than enlightened comebacks.

  “I see. And you believe that that’s a good enough reason to continue doing something, just because it’s always been done that way?”

  Clearly Tyson can’t see where Mr. Bell is going with this. “Well, yeah. And it’s fun.” He smiles at what he perceives as his own cleverness and looks around to see who’s on his side. A few of his buddies high-five each other. I suspect each of these guys has managed to hang on to his bead so far. Otherwise they might not be having so much “fun.”

  “Uh-huh. Fun.” Mr. Bell clasps his hands behind his back and paces the room a couple of times. We all sit back and get comfortable. When Mr. Bell gets derailed, there’s no telling when he’ll get back on track. You can practically hear the collective sigh of relief, knowing that with each passing minute there’s less time to get back to the study of literary elements. He stops abruptly and turns to face Tyson again. “It wasn’t that long ago that principals were allowed to use the strap on students who broke school rules.”

  Tyson sits up a little straighter, the stupid grin on his face fading away.

  “That could be considered a tradition,” Mr. Bell suggests.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t fun.” Tyson laughs half-heartedly at his own joke, but I can see Mr. Bell’s point is finally dawning on him.

  “And this country once had the tradition of allowing only men to vote.”

  “Yeah, so?” Tyson looks around for support from the high-fivers, but except for a couple of smirks, no one is making eye contact with him anymore.

  “Sometimes traditions and customs need to be evaluated and assessed,” Mr. Bell continues. I can hear a lecture coming on and slouch lower in my chair. “Questions need to be asked. Is this practice still a useful one for this community or society? Is the reason this tradition or custom came into being still pertinent today? Is the well-being of society served through this tradition? Would the implementation of a new practice make more sense, given the community’s circumstances? Is the practice of this tradition safe for the entire community? Is it...”

  “But Mr. Bell, it’s just a game!” Tyson interrupts. He is clearly exasperated and no longer enjoying himself. “It’s not the same thing as voting or strapping.”

  Mr. Bell considers this. “Maybe not, Tyson. But we’re all aware that this so-called game has been known to get out of hand. Historically it has taken strong leaders to implement change to worn-out traditions or laws. I had thought that this year’s grad class had one of those kinds of leaders.” He looks directly at me. “I guess I was wrong.”

  That wakes me up. I feel everyone’s attention shift to me. Is Mr. Bell implying what I think he is? Does he mean that if something goes wrong this year he’d consider me responsible?

  I crack open my textbook. “I think we need to get back to the lesson on point of view,” I say.

  I can feel Mr. Bell regarding me, and then I hear him walk over to his desk. “Clever, Katie. Okay, everyone, turn to page one hundred and eight in your textbooks, please.”

  Three

  Mom, I told you! Keep the door locked at all times.” I turn the deadbolt and latch the chain. “And don’t invite anyone in. Even if I know them.

  Even if they claim they’re here to do homework. Even if they say I invited them. Just shut the door and call me.”

  “And I told you, Katie, I’ve heard that the game is trouble. I won’t shut the door on people, so don’t bring it up again.” She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her feet elevated and hooked on the rungs of another chair. Her hair is a frizzy halo around her head. She takes a big slurp of her tea, leans back and closes her eyes. I don’t know why she doesn’t go right to bed. This napping in the chair routine drives me nuts. She says she’s just resting her eyes for a minute, but the minutes tend to run together until we’re talking hours.

  “Fine then.” I sneak a peek between two slats in the blinds. No sign of any lurkers. “Pretend it has nothing to do with the game. It’s just good sense to keep the house locked. Especially with Dad gone.” Maybe that will get a rise out of her. It’s like she hasn’t noticed that he doesn’t come home anymore. Isn’t she supposed to reassure me that they’re just “taking a break”?

  She answers, but without opening her eyes. “Like we have anything worth stealing.”

  Mom works at a dry cleaner’s. You’d think with all the heavy work and the heat and the sweating she does she’d be as thin as a chopstick. Uh-uh. It’s a mystery to me how she can maneuver her bulk between the machines and the racks of clothes.

  I finish my math homework and snap my textbook shut. The noise makes my mom start, and she snorts in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake up. I don’t know how she can sleep sitting up like that. Her mouth is gaping, and a thin line of drool is meandering down her jaw. No wonder Dad hasn’t come back.

  Placing a pot of water on the stove, I turn on the element and open a can of spaghetti sauce. While I’m waiting for the water to boil, I check my e-mail.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: How are you?

  Your mom’s okay? And how’s school?

  It turns out the job I wanted (and thought I had) requires you to train for 6 weeks at your own expense and I can’t afford that. It’s back to square one for me, but I know something will come up soon.

  I sure miss you. All my love,

  Dad

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: How are you?

  im sorry bout the job dad. y does bad luck seem 2 follow u everywhere? i still dont understand what happened 2 yur last job. i know it was boring but it paid the bills + u seemed 2 get along fine w/ mom in those days. ok ill go back 2 minding my own business. mom is snoring in her chair right now while i make dinner. some things never change. the gotcha game has started @ school. everyones gettin paranoid. not me. i think its stupid that ppl get so crazy over a silly game. i wish I hadnt signed on 2 play. stupid stupid.

  i still dont know where u are, but I guess u have yur reasons 4 not telling me.

  katie

  “I’ve got to start thinking about a grad dress, Mom. There’s only three months left.”

  I watch as she presses her fork into the spoon and twirls the noodles around the prongs. She hasn’t left the
chair she had her nap in, but woke up when I slid a bowl of spaghetti under her nose. For some reason this irritates me more than ever tonight. I don’t know why I’m feeling so cranky, but I think it has something to do with the chipper tone of Dad’s e-mail. I’ve been a wreck since he left, but he sounds as cheery as ever.

  “Three months seems like a long time to me.”

  “Not really. I’ve got school and exams and work. There’s not that much time for shopping.”

  Mom is quiet for a moment, chewing her food. “I was really hoping you’d think about sewing one, Katie. I could help you.”

  “We don’t have a sewing machine.”

  “We could use one at the cleaners. Ed wouldn’t mind. It would be fun, a project for us to work on together.”

  “Omigod.” I drop my fork with a clatter. “I’d feel like Cinderella or something. How pathetic.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she asks, puzzled, but then continues, “I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the banquet, the dance, the photos and everything else. Buying a new dress just isn’t an option.”

  “Just to jog your memory, Mom, Cinderella was left at home sewing her own ball gown when everyone else had left for the party. And anyway, you won’t need to worry about the banquet and the dance and the photos if I don’t have a dress.” I know how mean I sound, but I can’t help myself.

  “Don’t be silly, Katie. If you don’t want to make it we can find a secondhand one somewhere. After all, most of them only get worn once.” She shovels an overloaded forkful of noodles into her mouth. Spaghetti sauce dribbles down her wobbly chin and I have to look away. “And don’t forget, honey,” she says between giant mouthfuls, “it was Cinderella who ended up with the prince.” It’s a valiant attempt at humor, and she looks up and smiles.

  “Yeah, but that was thanks to her fairy godmother. I can’t count on one of those.”

  “I wonder if one of last year’s grads would lend you theirs?” Mom muses. “Luanne’s was lovely, and you’re about the same size.”

  “Jeez, Mom. I can’t wear Luanne’s. Everyone would know.”