In the tumultuous landscape of early 2000s high school, Kit Dodger, more commonly known as Dodger, navigates the corridors as a junior on the fringes of social acceptance. Behind her nondescript facade lies a clandestine operation: she runs a covert...
"If I'm curt with you, it's because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of it. So, pretty please, with sugar on top, clean the fucking car."
— The Wolf, Pulp Fiction
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"Did you hear about Dylan Baker?"
"I just got a text from Lane!"
"Is it wrong that I'm not sad about it?"
I weave my way between the oversized desks in Ms. Larkson's Tuesday morning AP Calculus. My backpack hangs off one shoulder, swinging back and forth as I nimbly make my way to my seat at the back of the room—the far left corner by the window, to be exact. It's the perfect spot. Far enough away from the keeners and math dweebs who eagerly sit front row like they're at an Usher concert. It also places me on the opposite side of the room from Riley Kramer—head cheerleader, Queen of the Benjamins, and my former BFF.
While I generally do my best to remain a phantom, the hushed sound of Dylan Baker's name makes its way to me. I turn my head slightly in the direction from where it came, biting back a smirk as I do. A group of kids two rows from the front sit hunched together, excitedly discussing Dylan's misfortune.
Sometimes, this work makes me feel like God damn Robin Hood.
I slump into my seat, letting my backpack hit the ground with a thud.
"What the hell have you got in there? A dumbbell? A dead baby? Oh my God, Dodger, please tell me there's not a dead baby in your bag."
"I wish I could." I deadpan as I turn my attention to the guy on my right.
Calvin Johnson sits at the desk next to mine. He's the closest thing to a friend I have in this godforsaken place. He's the only person who knows I run the Dirty Deeds website. Of course, I pay him handsomely for his help and silence. Over the last year, our working relationship has evolved into something akin to a friendship.
"That is dark, my friend. Truly." He replies as he pulls the massive Grade 11 AP Calculus textbook from his bag. He places it in the top right corner of his desk, lining it up at a perfect 45-degree angle. He pulls out three perfectly sharpened number 2 pencils and lines them up equidistant from each other. He stops momentarily, assesses his work, and, satisfied, lays out three sheets of graph paper, fanned out from the desk's centre to its left edge.
He gives me a rueful smile when he catches me watching.
I offer a gentle smile in return. Somedays, Calvin's OCD compulsions control him more than others.
"I can't believe it. I really can't! This is going to ruin homecoming."
I roll my eyes at the not-so-hushed wail coming from the opposite side of the room. Taylor Stevens sits next to Riley; her long, dark hair cascades down her back. She wears a baby pink Paul Frank T; the monkey stretched across her stuffed bra. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she looks pleadingly at Riley.
