The Map Trap

by Andrew Clements

  But the big breakthrough had come when Alton saw that if this process had worked with Mrs. Buckley, then it ought to work just as well with everybody else. And if he could pre-apologize to all those others, too, then his missing maps would no longer have any power over him. And the blackmail would end—instantly.

  He looked down again at the front of the plain gray T-shirt he was wearing. If the next fifteen minutes went well, tomorrow he could wear his favorite, the one with a map of O’Hare Airport. Because he was close to the finish line—only one more apology to go.

  He’d made a list during homeroom of everybody who might get mad if his maps were released. This first list was long—so long that he thought maybe he should ask Mrs. Buckley if he could borrow the PA system and pre-apologize to the whole school at once.

  Then he wondered if he really needed to apologize to every kid whose parents were divorced—he hadn’t used anyone’s name on that map. And the map about which tests got cheated on most? Same deal—there were no names. The maps about favorite shoe brands or what shirt colors were most popular? Some kids might think it was weird that he’d been studying their clothes, but would anybody feel personally offended or mad at him? Probably not.

  He even decided that if his popularity map of sixth-grade lunch went public, he could deal with the reactions. Some kids might think his opinions about their popularity rankings weren’t accurate, and some were sure to think the words he used for the Venn diagram circles weren’t so nice, but still, most of the information wasn’t really personal.

  All this thinking resulted in a shorter list of possibly hurtful maps—the ones that named names—directly or indirectly. If he could pre-apologize to those people, Alton decided he could live with whatever else might happen if all the maps went public.

  Tall Emma Wilson had needed an apology—same with short Cal of Virden Valley.

  Talking with Cal had been a breeze—a simple conversation in the hall after art class.

  “ ‘Virden Valley?’ Really?” Cal had scrunched up his face for a second or two, and then shrugged. “You know what? I’d rather be noticed for being short than not be noticed at all. So don’t worry about it, Ziegler. Just make sure you spelled my name right.”

  Some of the other apologies had been harder.

  After lunch he had gone into the school kitchen, and he’d told the three women who prepared lunch about his map that tracked how many trips to the bathroom sixth graders made during gym class—the period that came right after lunch every day. Alton explained that he’d noticed how certain lunch menus had the effect of causing more bathroom trips than others. And that the big winner was the chicken ravioli plate.

  The lunch ladies had stood there, arms folded, listening as he tried to explain the map to them. The title of the map was “Bathroom Migration Patterns,” and he had based it on this map he had about how some kinds of whales swim long distances every year looking for food. Except his map was about how sixth graders traveled around looking for a bathroom after eating chicken ravioli or twin tacos or American chop suey. Then he explained how the map was now missing, and that everybody in the school might end up seeing it.

  After his awkward apology, and after he’d said that his map certainly was not meant to make fun of the good food they cooked every day for all the kids at Harper School . . . no one smiled. Alton had been planning to tell them that the school kitchen was also featured a number of times on his map of twenty-nine different smells around the building. But one woman looked like she was about to pull off her hairnet and try to strangle him with it, so he’d said sorry one last time and made a quick exit. And walking away, Alton decided that he’d better bring his lunches from home for a while.

  Thinking about that smells map, he’d almost put Elena on his apology list—he had portrayed her very perfumey self as a giant smelly flower on his map. But since she was obviously in on sending him the blackmail notes, he decided she didn’t deserve an apology.

  Compared to the lunch ladies, Mr. Troy had been downright friendly. When Alton talked to him after seventh-period social studies, the teacher stopped him before he’d said two sentences.

  “Hold it, hold it—you made a study of all the clothes I wear to school? That’s a little hard to believe!”

  Alton said, “Well, as far as I can tell, you wear four different pairs of pants, one black belt and one brown belt, two different sport coats, eight different neckties, one pale blue shirt, one pale blue shirt with red stripes, one dark blue shirt, one plain white shirt, one white shirt with yellow stripes, and two different pairs of shoes—black loafers and brown lace-ups. Your socks are always either black or brown, depending on which shoes you wear. Except you also have one pair of yellow-and-gray argyle socks. And that’s about it.”

  Mr. Troy scratched his chin. “Hmm . . . that’s a good summary. But . . . why?”

  Alton said, “You know how you give all those pop quizzes? I noticed that on days when there was a quiz, you were always wearing a tie.”

  “I see. . . . So you started keeping track?”

  Alton nodded. “Yes. Since September fourteenth, ‘no tie’ has meant ‘no quiz’ ninety-five percent of the time. And you’ve never given us a quiz on a day when you’re wearing the yellow-and-gray argyle socks.”

  Mr. Troy was smiling now. “That’s pretty amazing research! But . . . why are you telling me this? Now your quiz warning system is ruined.”

  Alton said, “Well, I made a map called ‘Stripy with a Chance of Quizzes’—because most of your ties have stripes on them. And it’s laid out like a weather map of your classroom, with high- and low-pressure areas. And the chance of a quiz is drawn like a cold front—with neckties along the line instead of those little pointy arrows they use on real weather maps. And your yellow-and-gray argyle socks are also on the line. I’ve never shown the map to anybody, but somebody stole it the other day, and I think they might put it up in the school somewhere. And I wanted to apologize in advance, in case that happens. For kind of making fun of your clothes.”

  “Apologize?” Mr. Troy grinned. “I should thank you—I didn’t know I was such a creature of habit!”

  That had been apology number four, and then Emma had been number five.

  And now he had only one more: Miss Wheeling. It was the hardest one—which is why Alton had put it off until the end of the day.

  Showing the topics that filled up somebody’s brain? That was a lot more personal than talking about someone’s clothes or how tall they were or even how much they said “um.”

  And the drawing of her frizzy hairdo? Also very personal. And then listing all those things that she had never mentioned in class? That was way over the line—not just personal, but also kind of mean. And then showing that map to Quint? Thinking about it made him feel awful. Alton was pretty sure he was about to get yelled at—and he was completely sure he deserved it.

  And, as if explaining about the brain map wasn’t bad enough, he was also going to have to tell her all about the fire drill, about why he’d missed it on purpose. And why he had then lied to her by pretending he’d been so involved in making a new map.

  He stood in the hall outside her room, trying to find the courage to walk in. He was reaching for the doorknob, when he heard someone call to him.

  “Yo—Al!”

  He didn’t need to look to know it was Quint. Alton turned, and even though the hall was still crowded with kids headed for the buses, he spotted Quint frantically waving from down near the gym.

  He called again. “Yo—come quick!”

  Glad to delay his last big apology, Alton hurried toward him, and when he got there, Quint grabbed his arm and pulled him around the corner.

  “What’s the mat—”

  “Just listen, okay?” Quint was out of breath, and he talked quickly. “I went to the library to turn in some books, and when I was leaving, Mrs. Lomax said, ‘Do you know if Alton got his folder back?’ ”

  “What?!” Alton stared at him. �
��She had th—”

  “Shh—just listen!” Quint said. “So, I played dumb, and Mrs. Lomax said, ‘Alton left a folder here Monday, when you two were making so much noise.’ And I said, ‘Want me to take it to him?’ And you know what she said?”

  “What, what?”

  “She said, ‘Alton didn’t come for it, so I gave it to Miss Wheeling.’ And I said, ‘On Monday?’ and she said, ‘No, Tuesday after school’!” Quint paused dramatically. “Get it? Miss Wheeling got your folder Tuesday after school! And when did you get the first ransom note? Wednesday morning! She’s the one, dude—she’s the mapnapper!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FROM HERE

  No way!”

  Quint said it again. “She’s got the maps—it’s Miss Wheeling!”

  Alton felt dizzy, weak. He slumped against the wall next to the gym.

  “Are you okay?” Quint asked. “I should get to my bus—but I can miss it.”

  Alton pulled himself upright and shook his head. “No, you go ahead. I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  Alton managed a smile. “I’m fine—it’s just . . . crazy, that’s all.”

  “Yeah—and insane and nutso and bonkers—totally!”

  Alton’s mood caught hold of him.

  Then in a hushed tone Quint said, “So . . . what’re you going to do?”

  “Not sure,” said Alton.

  “You should go home and think—that’s my advice. Look, I’ve gotta boogie. Call me, okay? And whatever you do, think first.”

  Alton nodded. “I will—thanks.”

  Once Quint was around the corner, Alton leaned against the wall again. It helped stop the spinning. He closed his eyes, but that made the spinning worse, so he opened them and stared down at a place where four floor tiles came together.

  Instantly, he thought of the Four Corners, the place where the corners of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona meet. He had stood at that exact spot two summers ago when his family had gone to the Grand Canyon—a great moment for a kid who loved maps.

  Outside, the last of the buses rumbled away. Inside, the hallways went from noisy to almost silent in less than two minutes, and Alton spent that time staring at those four lines on the floor, wishing he had never laid eyes on a map.

  “You have a problem here?”

  Alton stood up straight and spun to his left.

  The gym teacher squinted at his face. “You don’t look so good, Ziegler. Need help?”

  “I’m okay, Mr. Ludlow. Thanks.”

  “You miss your bus?”

  “Um . . . I had to stay after school . . . to talk to Miss Wheeling.”

  “Then you’d better get moving.” He pointed. “Thataway.”

  “Right,” said Alton. “See you tomorrow.” And he started walking.

  He turned the corner, and after about ten steps, he decided to take the next right turn toward the front hall. Because Quint was right. He needed some time to think before he could talk with Miss Wheeling. He needed to go home. So . . . he could call his mom . . . except, she wouldn’t want to come until after Beth got off the bus at home.

  So it made just as much sense to wait for the late bus—forty-five minutes. . . . That wasn’t so long.

  I’ll just wait in the office.

  At the place where the hallways met, Alton started to turn right, but then he stopped and glanced in each direction. The halls were empty.

  Again, he thought of the Four Corners . . . and the four points on a compass.

  A feeling came over him, so strong and clear, and he stood still and looked down at his feet. He felt like he was standing on an enormous map—sort of the way he’d felt as he’d ridden his bike over to Quint’s house on Tuesday. But this time, it was a map of his entire life, like a complete GPS track of where he’d been so far—every single step he had ever taken. All those hundreds of thousands of steps had brought him to this exact place in time and space, this one spot. And I’m the only one who can figure out the right way to go from here.

  Alton turned and kept walking—but not toward the office. He headed for Miss Wheeling’s room. It was time to make his last apology of the day.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CONFESSIONS

  Hi, Miss Wheeling—can I talk to you about something?”

  She looked up and smiled, then looked at the clock. “Sure, come on in. But I’ve got to leave in about five minutes. My dog-sitter has a dentist appointment—for herself, not the dog!”

  She laughed, but Alton barely smiled.

  Knowing that she had his maps and that she’d sent those notes to him? It changed the way she looked to him. And it did not make him feel like laughing.

  He just couldn’t believe a teacher would do something like that. It was . . . impossible. Now, some girl like Elena? Yes, he could believe that. But a girl like . . .

  Sliding into a desk in the front row, Alton gulped and looked at Miss Wheeling—really looked at her. Because that thought he’d had a second ago? He had almost said . . . a girl like Miss Wheeling!

  Sitting there six feet away behind that big boxy desk, Miss Wheeling really did look much more like a girl than a teacher—or at least most of the other teachers Alton had ever known. Because none of those other women teachers had been so young—a lot of them were married with kids of their own, and some of them had been almost ready to retire.

  Alton realized he was staring at Miss Wheeling and that he couldn’t sit there for ten minutes and try to figure everything out. He had to say something—and no matter what she had done, he still had plenty to apologize for. So he jumped right in.

  “I came to say I’m sorry. Because about three weeks ago I made a map, sort of a cartoony-type map. And it was about things you’d said in class.”

  Miss Wheeling’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? You mean math and science?”

  He shook his head, amazed at how she could keep pretending that she had no idea what he was talking about. “No . . . you see, back in September I started keeping a list of everything you said that wasn’t about our schoolwork.”

  Her eyebrows lifted even higher. “Everything? Like what?”

  Alton said, “Things like your dog and your little brother. And food and football—stuff like that. And using that information, I made . . . a map of your brain.”

  “A what?”

  Alton flinched at her tone, but he wasn’t afraid because he knew she was just acting.

  “A map of your brain. Divided up into the seven things you think about the most . . . based on what I heard you talk about in class.”

  Her lips pressed into a straight, sharp line. “I want to see this map right now!”

  Alton had to look away—he didn’t want to show his feelings by the expression in his eyes. Because he knew she’d seen that map—it was probably in her desk drawer, right there in front of her!

  He managed to glance at her, and kept talking. “That’s the thing, Miss Wheeling. The map is . . . missing. And the person who has it might try to spread it around the school.” He gulped and then said, “And the map I made of your brain? It’s even worse, because I drew a picture of your hair, too. Sort of surrounding the brain . . . on the map.”

  Miss Wheeling’s face got red, but before she could speak, Alton rushed ahead—he wanted to get his part over all at once, like pulling a loose tooth, just like he would have if this were a real apology about a map she’d never seen.

  “And . . . on the map there’s also a list of things you never talk about—like movies you saw, or books or a hobby or . . . a boyfriend. And the fire drill on Tuesday? I lied about that. I stayed inside the school on purpose so I could search for that map—and for a bunch of other maps too. I was never going to show them to anyone . . . except, I showed your brain map to Quint Harrison on Monday, and after that . . . they all got stolen.”

  He let that last word hang in the air, and he watched her face. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t twitch a muscle. Amazing!

/>   So he went on. “And I hope no one spreads any of them around, especially the map about your brain. Because I never meant it to be public. And it’s all my fault for showing it to Quint. And I’m sorry. Really sorry. About everything.”

  As he said that last part, Alton meant every word. Even though she’d been paying him back with the notes and all the worrying he’d done over the past two days, this whole mess began with him. It really was his fault, and he felt bad about that.

  Miss Wheeling opened the top drawer of her desk, and he thought, Here we go—now it’s her confession time!

  But she took out her phone and stabbed at the little screen.

  Alton panicked.

  Is she calling the principal? Is she going to turn this whole thing around—maybe accuse me of complete disrespect for a teacher? And maybe try to get me expelled or something? Is she that angry about that map?

  “Charlotte? Hi. You can go ahead and leave now. I’m still here at school, so just put Mr. Wiggles in his crate before you go, okay? Good . . . That’s great. . . . Thanks.”

  Slowly, she put her phone back into the drawer. And sitting very still, she looked down at her folded hands.

  Alton had no clue what she was going to say or do next.

  He said, “Miss Wheeling, I’m really—”

  She raised one hand, like a traffic cop, then brought it down slowly.

  Then she looked at him for a few moments, and again, Alton couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But when she spoke, her voice was even and calm.

  “First of all, thank you for telling me the truth about the fire drill. A little while after you came in to apologize after school on Tuesday, I realized you hadn’t been completely honest about that. I lost the key to my classroom about three weeks ago, and it was the second time in less than a month, and I haven’t been able to tell the janitor yet. So I’ve been leaving my classroom unlocked during the day. And after the fire drill, I found my door locked, so you must have locked it. . . . And therefore, you had not been lost in your own mind, drawing some new map all that time. I suspected you’d been up to something. So thank you for the explanation.”