The Tell-Tale Con by Aimee Gilchrist Page B

didn’t need a primer in the life of the poor. 
    The drive between our houses and Metro High was short, so we were there in three minutes, even with me driving like a granny.  As we pulled into the parking lot Harrison told me, “You know, my dad made a movie here once.  Last year, actually.”
    â€œReally?”  I maneuvered into a spot, barely paying attention to him. 
    â€œYeah.  He had a real issue with that shop right there.”  He pointed across the parking lot to a mechanic’s shop on the other side of the chain link parking lot fence, not far from where we’d been nearly mowed down.  That got my attention because I remembered this was Harrison I was talking to, and not someone who told pointless stories. 
    â€œWhat kind of issue?” 
    â€œSomeone from the shop was filming the set.  Was Dad ever pissed.  He sued the guy so he’d have to surrender his footage.  His son goes here to Metro, you know.  Hector Aguilar.  You know him?” 
    â€œNot well.”  Honestly, for all I knew he could have the locker next to mine. 
    â€œHe’s the president of the AV club.  Wants to be a cinematographer some day.  His father, over the fence there, almost won the right to keep his footage because he was able to prove that Hector is always filming this parking lot.  Twenty-four seven.”
    I went around the car and opened the door so that he could maneuver out his massive crutches and awkward air cast. 
    â€œSo there’s record of the car that hit us.”
    He nodded, pulling himself up on the crutches.  “Very probably.”
    We crossed the parking lot and headed for the door to the school.  Metro High was an enormous, three-story stone and gray brick building, constructed back when people cared how buildings looked.  A plaque near the door told anyone who cared to look that the building was a historic landmark, built in 1931.  We struggled up the massive stairs to the wooden double doors that had clearly been intended for giants.  People hurried past us as though we were an inconvenience, instead of an injured guy and the person trying to help him. 
    â€œSo if you ask him, will he let you look at the footage?”  We navigated the crowds as we made our way through the labyrinth of halls where the lockers were kept.  The thing about Metro was, it wasn’t only a giant building, it had a giant population of students.  Numbering in the thousands.  My school in Los Angeles had been smaller, and that was saying something. 
    â€œMaybe.”  Harrison handed me his crutches as he leaned against the wall of lockers and spun his lock.  “If he didn’t hate anyone with the last name Poe.”
    â€œWow, that must make Ms. Wilson’s class hard.” 
    To my surprise, he laughed.  Most people didn’t acknowledge my obscure and stupid jokes, let alone laugh at them.  Ms. Wilson was an English teacher with an obsessive love for the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
    â€œHe might be willing to make a deal with me.  But I have no clue what he’d want.” 
    I slammed his door while he was pulling up his backpack and spun the lock.  “Well, only one way to find out.”
    Â 
    Hector Aguilar looked exactly like the president of the AV club would look in a bad movie.  Plaid pants, glasses with thick lenses and thin frames, too big for his slim, sallow face which was surrounded by a shaggy mane of curls.  He took me in with naked appraisal, the way polite people don’t look at each other, sizing up who I was and what I could do for him.  It was like having a conversation with my parents. 
    â€œI’ve seen you in the hallway.  With Yvonne Maldonado.” 
    Had he?  I didn’t have any idea who Yvonne Maldonado was.  Like not a guess.  I just shrugged. 
    Hector turned back to Harrison.