We the Children

by Andrew Clements

Walking to the other side of the hall, they stood almost in front of the tall portrait of Captain Oakes, and looked back at where the little white plastic box marked the spot. Again, nothing.

  Then Ben grabbed Jill’s arm, and she jumped. “Ow! What?”

  “The molding—the boards along the floor! See?”

  Jill shook her head.

  “Look at how long the molding boards are. Ten feet or twelve feet long, maybe, and then there’s a break, and a new board starts. Look at the seams—see?”

  Jill slowly nodded. “Yeah . . . and?”

  “And now look just to the right of the floss. See that short board—about eight inches long?”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “If a carpenter was running out of longer boards, the little pieces would go nearer the ends, or close to a corner where they wouldn’t show as much. You wouldn’t stick a short piece in the middle like that—unless there was a reason for it. C’mon!”

  Up close, Ben saw that the brown varnish coating the baseboard was checked and cracked. And thick. The seams on both ends of the short piece were filled with it.

  Ben grabbed a stainless steel ruler from his backpack and pushed the sharp corner of the thin metal into the crack on the left side of the short molding board. Then he worked it upward with a sawing motion. The dried varnish crumbled to dust, leaving a thin seam. He did the same to the crack on the right side of the board. Along the top of the beveled board, pale green paint filled the crack between the wood and the wall, and Ben used the ruler to clean that out as well.

  “Now what?” whispered Jill.

  “Move over a little so there’s better light.”

  Jill moved, and then she bent down close to the molding. “Is that anything?” She pointed at a nick on the top edge of the board.

  “Probably not,” said Ben. There were dings and dents all over the place. He took a closer look. “Actually . . . you’re right. Looks like someone made a tiny V there, like with a chisel or a knife. On purpose.”

  “So it’s a pointer?” Jill asked.

  Ben nodded. “It is—I’m sure of it.”

  “Here,” Jill said, and took the ruler from his hand, slipping it down between the wall and the wood right at the V mark. She pushed the ruler in three inches and then stopped.

  “What?” whispered Ben.

  “It’s hitting something . . . Feels like metal.”

  The thin stainless steel flexed as Jill increased the pressure. “I’m going to ruin this thing.”

  “Go ahead and push.”

  Her knuckles were white, her face flushed with effort as she pushed and pried with the ruler. Then—click—the piece of baseboard moved forward, pulling away from the wall almost a half an inch. Using both hands, she put her fingertips along the top of the board and pulled.

  The front edge of the baseboard stayed put as the whole piece tipped forward—two small brass hinges held the bottom to the floor. Ben saw a thin strip of metal sticking out from the wall, which matched up with a slot in the wood. “Very cool.”

  “Look!” Jill whispered.

  On the inside surface of the board was a big iron key. It was actually in the wood, embedded in its own perfectly carved outline.

  “Go ahead—take it out.”

  Jill used the ruler to pry at the key, first one end, then the other, until it came free of the board.

  “It’s heavy!”

  Jill turned the key over in her hand, and they both saw some writing scratched into the metal, rusty but legible:

  USE ONLY IF YOU MUST

  Ben turned back to look at the wall, then nudged Jill. There was a cut in the plaster wall that the molding had covered, a narrow slot about two inches high and six inches wide. He put three fingers into the opening and felt around, then pulled them out, covered with thick dust. Also a few mouse droppings.

  “Gross!” said Jill.

  “Let me have the ruler.”

  Ben pushed the strip of metal into the bottom edge of the slot, then slid it from side to side, using it like a spatula. Then he reached in again and removed a length of pine board about five inches square, dusty and dark brown with age.

  “A piece of wood?” whispered Jill.

  “Looks that way,” he said, “except it’s too heavy. And look—here on the edge of the board. There’s a—”

  Ben froze, held up his hand.

  A sound. From the north staircase. Then another—the unmistakable clank of a large metal bucket. And heavy footsteps on the stairs. Coming up.

  “Lyman!”

  Jill jammed the key into her pocket, and Ben shoved the tilted baseboard back into place—click. They scrambled to their feet, and as she grabbed up the dental floss, he dashed to his backpack and slipped the pine board inside. In five seconds they were skimming down the south stairs.

  When they got to the first floor, Ben pointed. “Go into the girls’ room.”

  Jill gave him an odd look.

  “Just do it,” he said. “Five seconds.”

  He ducked into the boys’ room and washed the dust off his hands. When he came out, they hurried along the deserted central hallway of the old building and went through the causeway into the Annex.

  Ben had the feeling Lyman was watching them, and just before they reached a corner he took a quick look over his shoulder. No one.

  Mrs. Flagg stopped them inside the door of the cafeteria. “You’re late for lunch.”

  Ben nodded. “I went to the restroom.”

  Jill said, “Me too.”

  The teacher waved them on.

  Ben bought a carton of chocolate milk, and Jill got some plain 2 percent. Before she headed for the food line, Ben said, “So . . . don’t lose that key, and don’t unlock anything without me, okay?”

  She smiled. “Not a chance. And don’t even think about looking at that hunk of wood unless I’m there too.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jill arched an eyebrow at him. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Except I think this might be the most fun I’ve had at school since kindergarten.”

  Jill laughed. “Me too. See you at two forty-five, okay?”

  “Yeah, but let’s meet just beyond the school grounds. In case anyone’s watching.”

  Ben went and sat at his usual lunch spot with Luke, Bill, and Gabe, and right away Bill said, “Hey—you and Jill, huh? Nice.”

  Ben shook his head. “Nah, it’s not like that. We’re working on a project for Hinman’s class.”

  He looked away and took a big bite of his peanut butter sandwich, and that stopped the public discussion of his personal life.

  But Ben certainly didn’t stop thinking about it, along with a hundred other things.

  And he smiled to himself—just a little.

  CHAPTER 12

  Finders, Keepers

  “I’m not supposed to be here, right?”

  Ben nodded. “My dad usually doesn’t let me have friends on the boat when he’s out. But if it’s only for a few minutes, it’ll be okay.”

  Jill sat down on the worn couch in the main cabin and looked up at the row of oblong portholes that rimmed the small room. Bright afternoon sun threw patterns onto the curved wall across from her, and the steady rocking of the boat put them in motion.

  “Doesn’t it drive you crazy, how everything’s always moving around?”

  “You get used to it.”

  “But it’s so small in here. . . . I mean, I guess I knew that, ’cause the whole boat’s not very long.”

  “Or wide,” added Ben. “But you get used to that, too. And I like small spaces anyway. My room at home isn’t big either . . . At my mom’s house, I mean.”

  “How long have you had this boat?”

  “Not really sure. My dad got it before I was born, even before my folks got married. He bought it real cheap and fixed it up. My mom says Dad loves the boat more than both of us put together.” He paused a second, then added, “But that’s not true.”

  After an awk
ward moment, Ben said, “So, ready for the big unveiling?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ben pulled up the side leaf on the table in front of Jill, and it clicked into place. He zipped open his book bag, took out the square piece of pine board, then handed it to her.

  “See what I mean, how it feels too heavy to be just wood? ’Cause white pine is really light, especially when it’s old and dry like this. And you see that thin line all around the edge?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  Ben got up, took three steps to the galley, opened a drawer by the sink, and got out a small paring knife. Back at the table, he took the piece of wood from Jill and used the slim blade to gently pry at the crack—which got wider. It only took a minute before the board came apart into two halves.

  And inside there was a square sheet of copper, tacked into place at the corners—and there was writing, scribed into the metal.

  “Look at that!” Jill breathed.

  Ben nodded, squinting at the tiny words. The copper was the color of an old penny. “We need more light.”

  He moved the tablet into a patch of direct sun, and they each read the words silently:

  If you have found this message on purpose, then an evil day besets us, for you must have been shown the coin with its words of warning .

  Captain Oakes has given this school to us, to the children, but he feared others would one day try to take it away.

  It is a day he prepared for, and that day is come.

  He prepared five safeguards to help us in our self-defense—hidden, lest they be too easily found and put to wrong use:

  After five bells sound, time to sit down.

  After four times four, tread up one more.

  After three hooks pass, one will be brass.

  After two tides spin, a man walks in.

  After one still star, horizons afar.

  You must seek each safeguard in order, from five to one, and you must use only what is needed—leave things unneeded undisturbed.

  Above all, seek the final safeguard ONLY IF YOU MUST—for once the last is found, our school will change forever.

  You must now swear a most fearsome oath of secrecy, and promise to defend this school—for it truly is this school that defends us all from ignorance, poverty, and tyranny.

  Though we may be dead and buried as you read these words, our duties here live on, and honor demands that you serve alongside us.

  We the children will always be the Keepers of the School.

  Thomas Vining Louis Hendley Abigail Baynes Hereupon have we signed with our own hands on this day, April 12, 1791

  Jill finished reading first. “Wow! So . . . like, these are students who wrote this? That’s amazing.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, it is . . . Hey!” He tapped excitedly on the copper plate. “See this kid’s last name? It’s the same as the man who drew up the plans, the ones for the school—I bet it’s his father. So . . . that means these kids weren’t doing stuff all on their own. Which makes it a little less amazing.”

  He picked up the lid that had covered the writing and turned it over a few times. “And making a thing like this? Serious woodworking skills. Same with that hiding place. But . . . if it was actually the captain and his carpenter planning everything, how come they brought the kids into it?”

  Jill shrugged. “Maybe Captain Oakes didn’t trust anybody except carpenters, janitors, and kids.”

  “But kids don’t stay kids very long—they grow up, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Jill, “but don’t forget the weirdo factor. Maybe we shouldn’t count on finding a whole lot of logic in what the captain was doing. This is the same guy who had himself buried in the middle of the school playground.”

  “Good point.” Ben got out his laptop, opened a new document, and began to type, copying the words from the metal plate.

  Jill stood up and hooked her backpack over one shoulder. “Well, hate to say it, but I’ve got to head for home now. Before my mom sends the police out looking for me. Or the coast guard. But I’m glad I got to see that message. And your boat. It’s a very cool place to live.” She walked into the galley.

  Ben looked up from the keyboard. “Can’t you stick around awhile? So we can try to figure out what some of this stuff means? Just call your mom and tell her where you are.”

  “I . . . don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s pretty old-fashioned—doesn’t want me at somebody’s house if the parents aren’t home. And I know she’d start asking questions. About everything. So I’d better just go.”

  “Well, wait a minute and I’ll walk with you.”

  “That’s okay, you don’t have to,” she said.

  “I know . . . but I’ve got to go get some milk. At the Scuttle Mart.”

  Actually, Ben thought he might ask Jill to come watch his race Saturday afternoon. Except he didn’t know if she’d want to. She hadn’t seemed that interested when they’d talked about sailing on Thursday. But maybe he’d at least mention it again. . . .

  Five minutes later they were walking up the slanted gangway toward the security booth. As they passed it, Ben smiled and waved at the guard behind the sliding door. And when he did, the man opened the glass and motioned him over.

  “Hi, Kevin.”

  “Hey there, Ben—didn’t see you go by earlier. This is for your dad—it’s from the fella who stopped by this morning. Said they could talk again tomorrow.”

  He handed Ben a business card: JACKSON SWERDLING, YACHT BROKER. There was a post office box in Charlestown and a couple of phone numbers.

  “So . . . this guy was looking at our boat?”

  “Yup, a little before eleven. Took some measurements. Said he’s already got a buyer.”

  What? Ben was stunned. He barely managed to say, “Thanks,” as he turned away. He walked stiffly to where Jill was waiting.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He gave her the card. “My dad. He’s—he’s selling the boat. Just like that.”

  “Would he do that?” Jill asked.

  “What, sell it? Sure, why not? It’s his boat,” Ben snapped. “He can do whatever he wants with the thing.”

  “No,” said Jill. “I mean, would he ever do something this major, just like that? Without even mentioning it, without telling you anything?”

  “Who knows? And it doesn’t matter, because he’s already got some broker working on—”

  She cut him off. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  “What? Where are you going

  “Just wait here, okay?”

  Jill trotted back over to the security shed and tapped on the glass. Kevin smiled at her as he slid the window open, and then listened while she talked. He nodded a few times, a puzzled look on his face. Jill talked some more, and the guard nodded again. Then he smiled and waved so long, and she turned and hurried back over to Ben.

  “What was all that about?” he asked.

  “The yacht broker. I had some questions about him—like, ‘Was he really tall?’ And, ‘Was he wearing a dark suit?’ And, ‘Did he have a long, thin face, with deep-set eyes, dark hair parted almost in the middle?’ And the answer to all those questions was yes. So I’ll bet you anything there wasn’t a yacht broker looking at your sailboat today.”

  “Wait . . . no. You think it was Lyman? Here at our boat?”

  Jill nodded. “I’m sure of it. I described him exactly, and everything matches up. It’s too big a coincidence. He was here.”

  Ben’s face went pale, and he felt like he was going to fall over.

  “Let’s walk, okay?” Jill steered him by his elbow off the marina’s planks and onto the harborside path. “Take some deep breaths.”

  “I’m okay,” he said, pulling his arm away. “It just creeps me out, that’s all. I mean . . . do you think he went inside? Like, in my cabin?”

  “I don’t know. Just keep walking.”

  “But . . . how did you even think it might have been Lyman?”

  “Mostly a hunch. But
it was also what you said—about how your dad loves that boat. I mean, why would he sell it, especially if he needs to live on it right now? And then not even mention it to you? Doesn’t make sense. Plus, I’ve had Lyman on the brain ever since I found all that stuff online.”

  “How come he’s so focused on me? Like, what’s he looking for—is it just the coin?”

  “I don’t think he knows anything for sure, which probably drives him crazy. We know Mr. Keane told Lyman something, and whatever that was, Lyman got worried—which means the people who hired him got worried too. So he was watching Keane like a hawk, trying to find out if he really knew about something that could mess up the deal. And suddenly the old janitor dies, and who’s the last person he talks to?”

  “Me,” said Ben.

  “Exactly—and Lyman knows that Keane might have told you something, or even handed you something, which, of course, he actually did. And then after school yesterday, when Lyman asked you about your time with the old guy? You acted funny, so he got even more suspicious. And now you’re his new target—congratulations.” Jill glanced casually back over her shoulder. “He might even be watching us right now. And he could have been listening, too.”

  Ben stopped and whipped around to face her. “Microphones—on the boat! He could have heard everything we just said!”

  Again, Jill gently steered him forward. “Can’t do anything about that now. If it happened, it happened. And he would know that we found something—but he doesn’t know what. Or where we got it. And we didn’t read the message out loud. So we need to keep acting like nothing’s weird, nothing’s wrong, like we have no idea he was here, or that he’s even watching you. And if your place is bugged, and we know it is, but he doesn’t know we know—then that’s good for us. Weird . . . and a little scary, but good.”

  Ben was walking so fast now that Jill almost had to trot to keep up. “But how did he get over here this morning? He was at school. I saw him in the library during second period.”

  “There was a wake for Mr. Keane today from eleven to one. And his funeral’s on Monday. You need to pay attention to the announcements during homeroom, Benjamin. And slow down.”