Alley & Rex

by Joel Ross

  Nobody moves, nobody talks. We just lie there, gasping. We are a steaming pile of sixth graders, but at least I’m totally sure that Rex moved the mops into position. Only a couple more classes, then we strike.

  Except I realize during my next class that I’m not totally sure that Rex moved the mops into position. So I squirm until I get a bathroom pass, and then I head for the library.

  I happen to know that Rex is there right now, because I keep tabs on the library.

  There are two reasons for this:

  One, my favorite bathroom is there, tucked away behind the reference section.

  And two, Ms. Z is there. She’s the librarian. She has spiky purple hair and knits creepy stuffed animals. In other words, she’s awesome.

  I worry about her, though. Sometimes she forgets whose side she’s on. Last year, when a teacher told me to read “real” books instead of comics, Ms. Z smiled like a velociraptor and brought me a hundred graphic novels from her own collection.

  So I’m always happy to see her—and at first I’m happy to see Rex, too. He’s sitting at a table with a bunch of other fourth graders, and they’re all chatting. Which is nice. I’ve never seen Rex talking to kids in his own grade before.

  Then I hear what they’re saying.

  “Just get a backpack like everyone else,” one kid tells Rex. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Who carries a briefcase?” another kid scoffs.

  Rex hunches his shoulders. “Briefcases are commonly employed by lawyers, businesspeople, and—”

  “What’s in there, anyway?” a third kid demands.

  “I fail to comprehend,” Rex says, “why the contents of my briefcase are any concern of yours.”

  “Yeah, what’s in there?” the first kid asks. “Show us, show us!”

  I pause for a second, because I’m curious about the briefcase too. My best guess is that Rex is carrying around blueprints of the school—or carrots. Or an ant colony. Or a 3D printer. Or a shrink ray. Well, I don’t know; that’s why I wait to see if Rex pops the lid.

  But then the second kid says, “Briefcases are stupid.”

  Between you and me, he’s not wrong. After all, what’s the smartest thing a briefcase ever did? As far as I can tell, they’re not nearly as clever as wheelie suitcases or sandwich bags.

  Still, while you might’ve missed the tone of that conversation, I’m like an eagle with binoculars: I see all. And I realize that those kids are picking on Rex.

  I don’t like bullies. I don’t understand why you’d pick on someone instead of just… not picking on them, which is way easier. Still, I can’t bend a bunch of fourth graders into balloon animals or I’m no better than Cameron Sykes.

  So instead, I bellow from the library door, “Hey, Rex! Are you in there?”

  “Indeed I am,” Rex tells me.

  “I’ve been trying to find you.” I loom over the table like a big toe at a pinky toe convention. “Your buddy Cube told me you’d be here.”

  Rex blinks at me in confusion, because he knows I’m lying. But the other kids perk up, like they can’t believe that the star quarterback is friends with Rex.

  “That assertion strikes me as—” he starts.

  “Whoa!” I interrupt. “Cool briefcase. Is that a new one?”

  “Ah, er,” he says. “No, I’m afraid that my collection doesn’t extend into the multiples.”

  Now I blink at him in confusion. Still, I manage to say, “Right! Well, c’mon, let’s have lunch together.”

  “I should like that,” he says. “However, my allotted time at the library has not yet elapsed.”

  “You mean you’re supposed to stay here for a while?”

  “Precisely.”

  “That’s okay, Rex,” Ms. Z says, shimmering into sight like a purple-headed angel. “Here’s a pass. Have lunch early today.”

  See? Awesome.

  So with the other fourth graders looking on, Rex goes to lunch with a sixth grader. And I don’t know about your school, but at Blueberry Hill, that puts the oo in cool.

  As we grab a couple of seats in the cafeteria, I ask Rex if he left the mops in place.

  He says he did, and asks me if I’ve been studying the water cycle.

  I say I haven’t, and ask him if he’s buying lunch today.

  He says he isn’t, and opens his briefcase an inch.

  I hold my breath and wait to see what Mysterious Artifact emerges.

  He pulls out a bag of barbecue potato chips.

  Huh.

  I want to ask what else is in the briefcase, but he’s right about that whole none-of-your-business thing. So instead of asking, I start ranking potato chip flavors. We mostly agree, though Rex likes cool ranch, which is an abomination against salty snacks.

  Then I give him half my tangerine and he starts talking about evaporation and condensation. Which reminds me that I’m supposed to be worrying about science class.

  So I say, “Are you sure you put the mops in place?”

  “I am quite hopeful,” he says, “that everything is in place.”

  I almost ask what he means but decide instead to raise a broader, more philosophical question.

  20

  I’m in social studies now. After that, there’s twenty minutes of Quiet Study and then science class. Complete with the dreaded science test.

  MY QUIET STUDY TIMETABLE

  2 minutes: grab the mops and race upstairs

  + 4 minutes: start a flood from the water fountain

  + 3 minutes: mop into the supply closet

  + 1 minute: unlock the cabinet with a 5 and a 4 and a 3 and a 2

  + 2 minutes: find the test answers

  + 7 minutes: memorize them

  + 8 seconds: forget them

  + 4 minutes: re-memorize them

  + 1 minute: race to science class before second bell

  = 20 minutes-ish? I don’t know, math isn’t my subject.

  In general, students have two choices for Quiet Study.

  1) Stay in class and doodle on a worksheet, or

  2) Go to the multipurpose room and work with a study buddy.

  However, I’m going with:

  3) Sneak to the third floor and break into a supply closet.

  So after social studies, I slink toward the stairwell. When I turn the corner, I find the mops that Rex propped in a bucket. I almost cheer. I’ve never been so happy to see cleaning supplies.

  “Hey, Alley,” Chowder says, as Maya leads him closer.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “Of course we are!” Maya says. “We owe Rex for helping with our game.”

  Chowder’s pupils turn into glittery pink hearts. “Our game.”

  “That’s right.” Maya raises her phone. “And he’ll teach me Diamond Magic if I do one more favor for him.”

  “C’mon, you dorkfish!” I tell them. “Let’s go!”

  So we grab mops and—

  Rex filled the bucket with water! Why the dripping heck did he do that? So now we’re stuck carrying soaked mops upstairs, and leaving a trail of splashes behind us.

  And as if that’s not bad enough, I hear grunting from down the hall: “Hut, hut, hut.”

  “Cameron Sykes!” I hiss.

  “What about him?” Chowder asks.

  “He’s coming this way!”

  “He’s like a swamp ogre,” Maya says. “Who makes third graders cry for violating the dress code.”

  “Is he even on duty right now?” Chowder asks.

  “He’s a vigilante hall monitor,” I say. “We can’t let him see us!”

  “Hut, hut, hawt, hawt.” Sheesh. Cameron is such a flaming nostril that he can’t even say “hut” right. “Hawt, hawt!”

  We race upstairs. “Hawt, hawt, hawt.”

  We bounce off a wall. “Hawt, hawt, HAWT!”

  We scramble up higher.…

  Silence!

  We pause on the landing, and there’s no sound except our mops dripping onto the floor.
/>   “I think we lost him,” Chowder says.

  “This never happens to snake soldiers,” Maya grumbles.

  “Okay, let’s—” I say.

  “Hawt, hawt!” the stairwell says.

  We rocket up the next flight of stairs. At least we try to. But the landing is slippery from our dripping mops.

  We slip, we slide, we crash.

  We tangle together like earbuds in a pocket. Maya’s left foot wedges into my armpit, and Chowder’s left armpit clamps onto my face.

  “Hawt! Hawt!”

  21

  We scramble behind a stack of chairs on the landing. It’s almost the perfect place to hide.

  On the bright side, we’re concealed from view. That’s a good thing in a hiding spot.

  On the dimmer side, the floor is covered in confetti. That’s not a good thing in a hiding spot… because when we dive into place, seventeen million blue flecks billow into the air.

  Why? Why is confetti tucked behind a stack of chairs in the stairwell?

  That’s exactly the question I don’t ask myself as I leap around like a hyperactive popcorn kernel, flapping my hands at the tiny bits of paper.

  “Hawt, hawt…” The grunting fades away. “Hawt. Hawt. Hawt.”

  “He’s gone!” Maya says, from inside a cloud of confetti. “We’re home free.”

  And, weirdly, she’s right. We crawl from behind the chairs, and a minute later we reach the third floor. We did it!

  We creep down the hallway, mops ready. I find the supply closet and prepare to clog the water fountain.…

  Except there is no water fountain.

  I groan. “Not again!”

  There are fewer water fountains in this hallway than there were cabinets in the teachers’ lounge. And this time, there isn’t even a rectangle on the wall.

  But there is a bucket sitting on a cafeteria tray. It’s full to the brim, too. So without even thinking—which is sort of my thing—I splash the water across the floor.

  Except the bucket is broken…

  Look at that picture closely. Do you notice anything strange?

  I mean other than the fact that we’re now wetter than a whale’s underpants? You don’t, do you? Well, I’ll tell you: that water is cold.

  There is a brief intermission for shrieking and shivering, and then I stammer, “I’ll p-push the water under the door. Maya, you f-find a teacher to open the lock and—”

  And when my mop knocks into the door, it swings open.

  “It’s already unlocked,” Chowder says.

  “The Realm is with us!” Maya calls, and slips inside.

  I bump into her when I follow. It’s about as roomy as a hot dog bun in here, and I’m the second frank. But there, on the far wall, is a cabinet with a keypad lock! I’m not saying it glows with a heavenly light, but I’m not saying it doesn’t, either.

  Then Chowder bumbles inside and slams the door.

  “Why’d you close the door?” Maya asks him, switching on her phone’s flashlight.

  “I didn’t!” Chowder says. “Why’d you turn on the fan?”

  “I didn’t!” she says.

  “What fan?” I ask, and wind blasts me from a fan in the corner.

  Freezing wind, because I’m drenched with cold water.

  We huddle together for warmth, and Chowder clears his throat. Oh no. He’s going to recite a poem.

  “Chowder, don’t!” I beg him.

  “You chase away goblins,” he tells Maya, “with balls of icy fie-ah. You are sweeter than a gummy papaya. You asked me on this date to—”

  “This isn’t a date!” she says, filming the room with her phone. “I only asked you along so Rex would teach me Diamond Magic.”

  Chowder blinks a few times. “That’s the—the only reason?”

  “Yeah. Diamond Magic is legendary.”

  “My love,” he announces, “is dead.”

  “Okay,” Maya says.

  Chowder sighs brokenheartedly, but I don’t have time to comfort him right now. Instead, I reach for the cabinet—and two bizarre things happen in a row. I mean, two completely shocking events.

  First, I remember the combination: 5-4-3-2.

  Second, when I punch in the numbers, the cabinet opens.

  Just like that.

  22

  A rainbow shines from inside the cabinet.

  An angel sings.

  I don’t actually think the Golden Keys are binders made of solid gold, but maybe a little. Except when the rainbow fades, my gaze falls upon… school supplies.

  Staples. Erasers. Boxes of sticky notes, helpfully labeled.

  I have two questions.

  First, why is this stuff locked away? There are school supplies in every classroom. Why force an innocent sixth grader to memorize a mind-boggling combination to break into a cabinet when there’s nothing worthwhile inside?

  Which brings me to my second question:

  WHERE

  ARE

  THE

  GOLDEN

  KEYS?

  I know they’re in here somewhere! I dig into that cabinet like a hungry Labrador on Milk-Bone Beach. I fling rulers and tape dispensers around, and still don’t find the Golden Keys.

  “Quiet Study is over,” Chowder tells me, picking stickies out of his hair. “We need to go.”

  “Not yet!” I say.

  “C’mon, Alley,” Maya says, sending messages on her phone. “We’re late for class.”

  “One second,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

  “What’re you doing?” Chowder asks.

  “I’m trying to think.”

  “That’s never worked before,” Maya says.

  “Hold on, hold on! I’ve almost got it.”

  A thought is swirling beneath the surface of my brain like a shark about to attack.

  First there’s just a ripple. Then there’s a fin. Then my eyes pop open and I stare at the school supplies.

  “Pink stickies!” I announce. “Green stickies!”

  “Uh,” Chowder says.

  “Yellow stickies!” I cry, then point to one more box. “And what is that?”

  “Golden stickies?” Maya asks.

  “Golden,” I repeat, “stickies.”

  “Um,” she says.

  “Do you remember the last time you were stuck inside a locker?” I ask her.

  “I’ve never been stuck inside a locker,” she says.

  For a moment, I forget my problems and stare at her. How do you reach sixth grade without once getting stuck in a locker? But that’s not the point. “When you’re in a locker,” I inform her, “noises outside sound muffled.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So if a teacher says ‘golden stickies,’ what would you hear?”

  “Golden…” Maya whispers a syllable, then finishes: “—KIES.”

  “Golden Keys!” Chowder says, awed by my detective skills.

  I’m a little awed too. For once, I understand everything. The Golden Keys don’t exist. I misheard that teacher. This whole thing is a wild-goose chase. I’m pretty pleased with myself.…

  Until Chowder says, “They’re going to send you to Steggles for sure.”

  23

  My heart stops.

  The test!

  The deadline!

  If I don’t get an A, my life turns into a horror movie.

  Even as I stand in that cramped closet, I can hear toenail clippers going click, click, click. I catch a whiff of calf’s-foot jelly, and on the cursed lawns of Steggles Academy, undead squirrels jerk to life. Hungry for acorns—and vengeance.

  This is bad.

  This so bad that my entire life flashes before my eyes:

  What? No. What even is that? Why is a—

  “Uh, Alley?” Maya says. “I just got a text from Rex. He says you need to get to class now. Like now now NOW now. Or you’ll get a zero.”

  So I burst from the supply closet. “I’m on the way!”

  “You’re already too late!” Chowder
shouts back.

  But I’m not. Not if I get downstairs faster than anyone’s ever downstairs-gotten before. And I know exactly how to do that.

  This time, the idea doesn’t swirl beneath the surface like a shark. This time, the idea leaps from the water, jaws wide and teeth gleaming.

  In other words, I snatch up the cafeteria tray and launch myself downstairs.

  “Extreme Schooling” for the win.

  Let’s talk about choices for a second. The problem with bad choices is that they look like good choices. They look like awesome choices. For example, if the fastest way to reach the first floor is tray-surfing, then of course you should surf a tray!

  That’s just common sense. And yet when I reach the first floor, Cameron Sykes is standing in front of me like a traffic cop, blocking my way.

  “NO HORSEPLAY IN THE HALLWAY!” he bellows, gesturing with his phone for me to turn away.

  So my choices are:

  1) Crash into Cameron, possibly lopping off his dumb head with a cafeteria tray.

  2) Swerve sideways, allowing his dumb head to remain unlopped.

  And I only have a split second to decide! Maybe I choose right, maybe I choose wrong. I still don’t know for sure. There are good arguments on both sides.

  But at the very last moment, I swerve.

  I zoom sideways, in the direction Cameron is pointing. Toward that robotic JELL-O-butt that someone left in the lobby, and—

  24

  The good news: Ms. Li gives me fifteen minutes to clean up.

  The bad news: After that, I’m stuck at my desk, staring at the science test.

  I should probably read the questions, but I’m too busy trying not to cry. Trying not to think about living with Grannie Blatt, leaving Blueberry Hill, never seeing my friends again.

  When the other kids hand in their tests, I gaze at my empty answer sheet. Is there a grade worse than an F? I might actually get a G on this.

  I drag myself to Ms. Li’s desk. “Um…”

  “What is this, Alley?” she asks. “Why did you take the test?”