Jack_ Secret Vengeance - F. Paul Wilson [33]
This earned a gentle laugh from the crowd which had grown larger as he spoke.
With a flourish he studied the paper, then turned and spun the dial. When the shackle popped open, he removed it, grasped the door handle, and without an instant’s hesitation, yanked it open.
You’ve got no doubts, Jack thought, watching avidly. Supremely confident. Let’s see how long that lasts.
When nothing happened, Toliver turned to his audience and gestured toward his locker.
“See? Nobody fools me twice.”
Keep it up, Jack thought, biting his upper lip to keep from grinning.
This was perfect.
He glanced at the thick semicircle of faces and saw mixtures of relief and disappointment. They didn’t want anyone picking on their beloved Carson, but a part of each of them thought another spider would have been undeniably cool.
As the crowd began to break up, Toliver reached for the books on his top shelf. As soon as he moved them, the trapped snake uncoiled, flashing right at his face. He let out a high-pitched squawk as he dropped his books and raised his arms to protect himself.
Those in the crowd who were looking cried out in alarm, and then everyone began laughing when they saw the spring snake on the floor.
Jack plastered on a smile and faked surprised laughter—just another face in the crowd.
The delay had been crucial: Give Toliver and the onlookers a brief respite in which they all thought he’d beaten whoever had set up yesterday’s gag. A few heartbeats of self-satisfaction for Toliver before the boom lowered.
At one thirty this morning it had taken what seemed like forever to adjust the cap of the can just right: not tight enough to hold back the snake on its own, but assisted by the weight of a few books in front of it. Once those books were removed …
The laughter continued, but Toliver didn’t think it was funny. He’d managed to brush it off yesterday, but this morning his red-faced embarrassment exploded into rage.
“God damn it!” he shouted as he kicked the snake. “Who’s doing this?” He turned in a slow half circle. “Show yourself, you son of a bitch! Step up and face me like a man!”
A female voice giggled. “What if it’s not a man?”
Toliver turned toward the direction of the voice. “Who said that? Do you know something? Who said that?”
The first period bell rang then, and everyone started moving.
“Hey!” Toliver shouted. “I asked a question! Who knows anything?”
But people had places to go and weren’t listening.
“Somebody’s got to know some—”
Jack had turned away with the rest but turned back when he heard Toliver’s voice cut off. He saw him staring at a dirty sneaker that had fallen out of his locker. It looked way too small to be one of his. He seemed weirded out. He kept staring, then suddenly bent and tossed it back into his locker, looking around as he had yesterday with the sock.
As Jack turned and started walking away, he heard a couple of guys behind him start a conspiracy theory worthy of Weezy Connell.
“Who’d do something like that to Carson? Can you think of one person?”
“No way. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“What if … what if it’s somebody from North trying to spook him?”
“You mean because of the game?”
“Hell, yeah. Nobody ’round here would do it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Think about it. He’s our MVP, man.”
“Yeah, one who screams like a girl.”
They both had a laugh at that, and Jack couldn’t help smiling too.
“But seriously, what if they’re trying to get him all distracted and everything before the game? He’s the quarterback. If his mind isn’t a hundred and ten percent on the game tomorrow night, we’re screwed.”
“Man, you could be right. North could be trying to greenlight him.”
Jack wanted to tell him the term was “gaslight”—after one of Mom’s favorite movies—but resisted the temptation.
He also figured Carson Toliver