The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [38]
This time they erupted in conversation. It was like I had just told them to find out whether or not aliens really existed. It was a task thought to be impossible, and a little silly.
“How are we, like, supposed to do that, or whatever?” one of the gossip girls asked.
“You just need to do what you do best: Find the gossip, find the dirt. You ballet dancers sneak around all day and try to catch him in the act. Debate kids, you grill everybody you come across. Nosy kids, you spy on everybody and anybody; look for inky fingers or Magnum-sized bulges in backpacks. And all of you just keep your eyes and ears peeled. If we all do this together, then we will find out who it is,” I said.
They stood there looking at me.
“Okay, you can all go earn your money now,” I said, and clapped a few times. The group slowly dissipated.
I turned to Vince after they were all gone.
“What do you think?”
“I think that I’d like some peanut butter ice cream right now,” he said with a concerned look on his face.
I smiled. “I’m serious, Vince. Do you think they have a chance?”
“I’m serious, too, Mac. I love PB ice cream.”
I laughed.
“Honestly, Mac, I’m not sure if they do have a chance. I think you should look into getting some extra help,” he said.
Leave it to Vince to give it to me straight. I wasn’t sure what else there was I could do, but Vince had a way of always being right that was both annoying on one level but also super beneficial to the success of our business.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I think you need to think outside the box, do something drastic. The normal tricks might not be enough for a problem this difficult.”
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. “You mean . . .” I started.
“Yup. I think you should go talk to Tyrell Alishouse. Because I think this is going to be a make-it-or-break-it thing for our business. We’re paying these kids a lot of money, and this is a high-profile gig. No reason to hold back now.” Vince turned and hopped inside the large tire to rework our Books. Just like that, Vince had casually suggested a course of action that would drastically change the face of our business for the better for years to come. That’s why whenever we disagree on something, I usually end up coming around to his argument.
In the end, I wasn’t sure just how “make-it-or-break-it” this case was, but it definitely was the most massive and expensive mission I had ever undertaken. And Vince almost never steers me wrong, so I took his advice and went to go see Tyrell.
Tyrell Alishouse is this kid obsessed with spying on people and lurking in the shadows and stuff like that. Most kids avoid him because they think he’s a creepy weirdo, and he avoids most people because you can’t be a spy if you’re always being seen. His idols are Nancy Drew, James Bond, some guy named Shaft, and two dudes called the Hardy Boys. I understand why a lot of kids avoid him—he is pretty strange. But Vince and I know better.
I spotted him in the bushes out near the faculty parking lot that afternoon recess.
“Hey, your name is Tyrell, right?” I said.
His head popped up from the bushes like a gopher, with one finger pressed against his lips. Then he motioned for me to join him. I climbed back to where he was, wedged between the bushes and the school building.
“I need your help,” I whispered. I had no idea why I had to be quiet, but I didn’t want to mess up whatever sort of sting he had going on.
“You’re that problem solver guy, right? MacGyver?” he whispered back.
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “I thought you might be looking for me.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I heard you were starting a task force to track down the Graffiti Ninja,” he said.
“But I only started it this morning; how could you know?” I asked.
“Because I was there,” he said.
“But . . .”
He smiled. Then he shook his head. “The first thing you need to know is I’m only seen when I want to be seen.”
I knew right