You

when it’s not,” he had pointed out after you had both slipped through the window and pulled it shut behind you, careful not to drop the tire iron. “But the fact is, people don’t expect things to change. If it was locked last week, it’ll be locked today. It’s an assumption that makes my life so much easier.”

You stayed low, letting your heartbeat slow back down, quieting your breathing, certain that someone would come busting into the room. But no one did and after five minutes you were ready to move on.

Now, just seconds later, Zack has you standing in front of the keypad. He’s got a hold of your elbow, keeping you centered, but you’re not trying to get away. Not yet anyway.

“You see, Mr. Chase, this alarm, like most entry alarms you’ll encounter, has a delay before it triggers the main alarm. That’s the beeping you hear. It gives you time to punch in the code number to deactivate the alarm. And notice that the small red LED at the top is now on.”

“Turn it off.”

“Well, that requires the code. Without the code the main alarm will sound, the emergency lights will go on, and the police will be here in seconds.” He gives a nod in the direction of the keypad. “It’s very efficient.”

“Turn it off.” You raise your voice to be heard over the beeps.

“Notice anything unusual about the keypad?”

“Don’t be an ass. Turn it off.” The beeps are getting louder and faster, or does it just seem that way?

Zack ignores you. “There are twelve keys, arranged like a phone. Most codes for alarms are four digits. But which four?”

You feel your teeth grinding together, the beeps definitely louder. “Turn it off. Now.”

“In the light of day I noticed that five of the keys are smudged-the four, the six, the eight, and the zero, along with the star key. Obviously, these are the keys most often pushed. Star will be the last key, but what is the order of the rest? Had me puzzled all through physics class.”

The red LED starts flashing. You pull your elbow free and glare at him in the dim light.

“Simple logic tells us that the code would have to be something that everyone authorized to enter the building could easily remember. If you haven’t noticed, teachers are not an overly bright lot.”

You can feel your fist tighten and you know what’s coming.

“But then I realized where I had seen the numbers-the last four digits of the school’s phone number. Eight, six, zero, four.” He punches the keys as he says the numbers. “And then star and, voila!”

The beeping stops, the red LED goes off.

Your teeth are still clenched.

“Well, Mr. Chase, that was close.”

Yes, it was.

“Come,” he says, swinging the tire iron up on his shoulder. “On with the mission.”

There’s something different about the school at midnight. The fluorescent lights are on during the day, but they only add to the natural light that floods through the windows. At night they give the hallways an eerie glow. The windows on the classroom doors are black, hiding everything inside. The only sound is the rush of air from the vents overhead. It’s a different building at night.

You notice it because, for the first time, you feel welcome here.

You’re surprised at how little noise you make walking down the hall. Even Zack is quiet, both of you listening for a door to open or a distant footfall. You take the stairs to the second floor, Zack leaning forward to scope out the hallway before you continue. You come around the corner and freeze, a square-jawed Marine in dress blues saluting you from behind a glass door.

“It scares me, too,” Zack says, pointing the tire iron at the life-size cardboard cutout in the career center. “I think it’s the two different blues. Not natural.”

It’s stupid, but you laugh and the tension is broken. You start walking and there’s a lightness to your step. You’re still alert-maybe more so-but now you’re not nervous. Now you’re having fun.

“Here we are, Mr. Chase. Locker one seventy-four.”

It looks like any other locker in the row-lime green, five feet tall, ten inches wide, a built-in combination lock next to the chrome latch. No decals on the front, no graffiti. Nothing that says THIS LOCKER BELONGS TO JAKE THE JOCK.

“Are you-”

“Yes, I’m positive it’s his,” Zack says. “I observed the lummox at this locker several times this past week.”

“And you’re sure it’s not his girlfriend’s?”

“Locker three fourteen. And remember, there’s a school rule against sharing lockers.”

You reach out for the tire iron. “Probably should come at it low.”

“Yes. Don’t want to pop the lock. That would give it all away.”

You slip the flat end in the slim gap between the locker door and the frame.

“Gently. Don’t bend the metal.”

With careful pressure, you bow out the door, creating a thin opening, a sliver of light shining in on a sweater and a stack of books.

“Here.” You move your hands out of the way so Zack can grip the tire iron. Then you unzip your fly.

Zack leans back and looks away but keeps the locker pried open. “Aren’t you glad I had you chug that Gatorade?”

You’ve got good aim. You can hear the warm stream soaking the sweater and splashing down the books, a metallic ring as it finds the back wall of the locker.

Zack edges farther away. “Watch it. Stay focused on the task in hand.”

It takes a satisfyingly long time, but you finish and zip up. Zack eases the door closed, stepping around the growing yellow puddle at the foot of the locker.

“See?” he says. “I told you it would be worth it.”

And he’s right.

Mission accomplished, you backtrack your way through the building. If you had tried something like this with Max or Derrick, somehow it would have gone wrong, with Max stuck in a window or Derrick making phone calls the whole time. And if it had been Ryan he wouldn’t have been happy until he’d smashed TVs and ripped up books.

This way was best. Adventurous. Almost classy.

It feels right.

So maybe life doesn’t suck so bad after all.

Until Zack stops in front of Ashley’s locker.

“This is your girlfriend’s locker, isn’t it? Miss Bianchi?”

You wish, but you don’t tell him that. You don’t need to, since he obviously knows.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” you say, and as you say it your stomach folds in on itself and your chest turns to lead and there’s a taste in your mouth like you’re about to puke and you don’t know why.

Zack’s eyebrows arch up too far. “Really? Gosh, I didn’t know.”

He knew.

“Wow. She’s so darn cute. And you’re such a nice guy…”

But maybe not nice enough.

“It’s a shame, you’d be perfect together,” he says, and you’re not looking at him, but you can see him shake his head, overacting on purpose just to make it worse. “Are you sure you’re not a couple?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He tsk, tsk, tsks, and adds an exaggerated sigh. “Really and truly, cross your heart and hope to die?”

You choose an appropriate F-word response, delivering it with a casual nonchalance that you hope will end the discussion, hard to do through gritted teeth.