McCoy knew Celia’s mother.
McCoy really was helping her with some strange destructive plan to make Celia the queen of the school.
They were going to remove the distractions.
That meant Miles.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Quickly, another.”
“I’ve got one.”
“Do you play a sport?”
“Goddammit, you already know it, don’t you?”
“You’re Pelé.”
Evan had been running his hand through his hair, and he ripped it away so fast he tore some out. “How? How did you get it without even asking me any questions?”
Miles laced his fingers together on his chest and stared at the ceiling of the gym, not answering. The rest of us sat in a circle around him while the boys’ basketball team practiced on the court below. Jetta pulled a single grape out of her lunch box and dropped it in Miles’s mouth. He took his sweet time chewing his reward.
“Last week, you said you had started getting really into football,” he finally said.
“Soccer,” Ian said.
“Football,” Jetta hissed, kicking Ian in the shin.
Miles ignored them. “Don’t pick one of the most celebrated players in the sport next time.”
“I have one, Boss,” Art said.
“Are you alive?”
Miles started with that question when he wasn’t quite sure where you were coming from. At least that’s what I thought at first. After watching him play this game with the members of the club over a few months, I’d noticed a pattern. He smashed Theo, Evan, and Ian under his mental heel because it encouraged them to try to beat him, but he always gave Jetta and Art some leeway.
“Yes.”
“Are you male?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a TV show?”
“No.”
“Did you have a TV show at any point in your life?”
Art’s smile never got very big, but it gave away every single thought in his head. “Yes.”
“Did you wear bow ties?”
Art kept smiling. “No.”
Miles had to tilt his head back against the bleacher to see Art. “Really? Interesting.”
“Give up?” Art asked.
“No. You’re Norm Abram. It was either Bill Nye or someone involved in woodworking.”
Evan, Ian, and Theo let out a collective groan. Jetta fed Miles another grape. Art shrugged and said, “My dad got me hooked on This Old House when I was a kid.”
Miles waved his hand toward me. “You go.”
I hadn’t had a turn at this since that first time, with the Aztec emperors. He’d never invited me, before now. “Okay, I have someone.”
“Are you alive?”
“No.”
“You’re a historian; of course you’re going to pick a dead person. Are you male?”
“Yes.”
“Are you from North America or South America?”
“No.”
He turned his head to stare me straight in the eye, like he could read my thoughts if he only focused hard enough.
“Europe is a trap . . . are you from Asia?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a significant effect on the development of some strain of philosophy that profoundly impacted the world?”
“Why don’t you ask us questions like that?” Theo blurted out.
I stifled a laugh. “Yes.”
Miles sat and thought for a moment. He was only at five questions, and he was already getting pretty close.
“Are you from China?”
“No.”
“Are you from India?”
“Nope.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you from the Middle East?”
“Yes.”
“Did you practice Islam?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born before 1500 AD?”
“Yes.”
“Did you contribute to the field of medicine?”
“Yes.”
Miles turned to the ceiling again and closed his eyes. “Are you also known as the father of modern medicine?”
Ian frowned. “Hippocrates was a Muslim?”
“I’m not Hippocrates,” I said. “I’m Ibn Sina.”
“You know, part of the game is not telling Boss who you are before he guesses it,” Evan said.
I shrugged. “He already knew.” I turned back to Miles. “And we got to twelve. But hey, at least you didn’t drag it out just to show off, like you did last time.”
He grunted.
Jetta looked up to the gym doors, then back to Miles. “Mein Chef. Der Teufel ist hier.”
We all turned to look. Mr. McCoy strode into the gym, straightening his jacket and tie, his gaze zeroed in on our group. He edged around the basketball practice and stopped at the foot of the bleachers. “Mr. Richter,” he called up. He sounded like his jaw had been wired shut. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Yes,” Miles said. He didn’t move.
McCoy waited a total of four seconds before he added, “In private, Mr. Richter.”
Miles pushed himself to his feet, stepped past me, and climbed down the bleachers. As he and McCoy walked to the far end of the gym, out of earshot, Evan and Ian gave identical exaggerated shudders.
“Careful, don’t let them out of your sight,” said Evan.
“Yeah,” Ian added. “McCoy might pop out Boss’s eyes with a melon baller and use them like olives in his martinis.”
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“Der Teufel hasst Chef,” Jetta said.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“McCoy hates Boss,” Theo explained. “I would say my brothers are being obnoxious, but there’s a good chance McCoy actually has a melon baller in his desk drawer with Boss’s name on it.”
“Seriously though,” I said. “Is it just the way everyone else hates him? Because it probably sucks to be the principal who has to deal with him.” Please let it only be that way. Please let it not be anything out of the ordinary.
“No no,” Evan said. “Listen. You could say Ian and I have . . . made the front office our second home. How many times would you say we’ve been sent in three years, Ian?”
Ian tapped his chin. “Give or take four times per semester? We’re actually due.”
“So we know a little bit about what goes on in that guy’s office. He talks about Boss all the time. Boss is pretty careful with his . . . stuff . . . you know, so McCoy doesn’t have anything on him, but he has all these theories he’s always telling Assistant Principal Borruso. That Boss has weapons, or drugs, just a bunch of ridiculous stories. He legit wants Boss kicked out.”