The Fourth Stall Part III Read Online Free Page B

over.
    â€œMac, Vince, I need your guys’ help!” he practically shouted.
    It was JJ Molina. He was known to overreact to stuff. Melodramatic, I thought, is what I heard an eighth grader call him once. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, though; whenever I heard that word, for some reason all I could think about was snooty actors wearing skinny jeans and drinking Mello Yellow. But just the same the word did seem pretty fitting for JJ just from the sound of it. He was always worked up about something.
    â€œCalm down, JJ,” I said, “you’re going to hurt somebody.”
    â€œRight,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I need your help.”
    â€œI’m retired; you know that by now, right?”
    â€œI know, Mac, but you gotta help me!”
    His eyes were wide and panicked and had a crazy look to them like the kind I imagined mine would have if, say, Vince ever went missing. I thought for sure I might see JJ grind his teeth down to the gums right in front of me.
    â€œOkay, I probably can’t help you, but at least tell me what’s wrong,” I said, knowing I should have stayed stronger. I just couldn’t help it: after years of always being there, it just wasn’t that easy to walk away cold turkey.
    â€œIt’s Justin Johnson. He ripped me off!”
    â€œFigures,” I said.
    Justin was always up to no good. Stealing stuff from kids, fighting, vandalizing the boys’ bathrooms, crop dusting the hallway, etc., etc. At one point last year he was in charge of Staples’s business dealings at our school. So I’d had my fair share of run-ins with him.
    â€œHe followed me home after school yesterday, and once I was like a block from the school, he jumped me!” JJ said. “He stole my mint-condition, autographed , 1955 Topps Roberto Clemente rookie card!”
    I shook my head. That was some card. Roberto was one of the few non-Cub players who I really loved and respected. I knew that card was pretty valuable: in mint condition (which is pretty rare for a card so old), it could be worth anywhere from $1500 to $5000 or more without his signature. But an autographed version? The sky was the limit.
    JJ nodded. “It’s my prized possession. He’s the best baseball player ever to come from my parents’ country, you know?”
    â€œYeah, I know . . . but the thing is—” I started, but JJ didn’t let me finish.
    â€œPlease, Mac, can you help me get it back? That card was a gift from my father; it was his when he was a kid. I’ll never be able to afford another one,” he said. “Plus, there aren’t that many that exist that are autographed.”
    He was actually fighting tears now. JJ was a pretty tough kid, so it must have hurt pretty bad to lose that card if he was this close to crying in a school classroom. I mean, any time after second grade, crying in school was social suicide.
    â€œLook, I wish I could help. I really, really do,” I said. “But I just can’t get involved. The Suits are all over me the way it is. If I try anything, I’ll get expelled or suspended before I could help anyway. Have you thought about going to the Suits yourself? I mean, they could probably do something for you.”
    It made me feel violently ill to suggest to somebody to go to the Suits for help with a problem. But what else was I supposed to do? I felt so bad for JJ, but there was nothing I could do to help. I was retired. And I was being watched closely. Where did that leave me? I had no choice, right? Right?
    JJ nodded slowly. But his head stayed low. He avoided looking at me or Vince again, and then without saying anything else, he slowly turned around in his desk and flopped his head down onto the hard surface.
    As I watched JJ Molina cry quietly at his desk, all I could think was: What have I become?
    â€œIt was the right thing to do,” Vince whispered, practically reading my