Secret of the Sevens

by Lynn Lindquist

  Her nose crinkles and she nods slightly.

  I choose my words carefully with Juan sitting so close. “I’m putting the puzzle pieces together now. You know. Working out the message.”

  Her back stiffens. She looks from Juan to me.

  “It’s pretty tricky. You need any help?” I ask her.

  “From you? No.”

  Something in her tone grates on my last nerve. “I was just being nice. In case you needed help.”

  “You help me? No thanks, I can do it myself.” She signs onto her computer. “You know what they said. Anyone with more than ‘half a clue’ should be able to get it.”

  My cheeks and neck flush hot. I clench my fists under the table. I can’t believe she’s being such a bitch right now.

  Juan lifts his eyes at our rising voices. “Are you guys gonna keep talking? ’Cause I have a paper I have to finish.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m done here.”

  I scoop up my things, stomp back to my room, and fling my backpack on my bed.

  So I don’t have a clue, huh princess? We’ll see who figures it out first.

  I pin the plastic cover on my bulletin board and back away, hoping that from a distance, the markings will merge into writing or a symbol. I get nothing. I pull it down and hold the sheet up to the light, looking for something to pop out. I study it from different sides and angles. From the right side, it kinds looks like Scooby Doo. With bunny ears. And no mouth. Great. The Sevens are testing our wisdom and all I have to offer is a mute rabbit-dog detective.

  I plop down on the corner of my bed and run my fingers through my hair. After a while, I give up. I need Laney if I’m going to figure this out. The realization makes me furious and depressed.

  Mom and Dad are talking to Marcus’ mom on speaker­phone in their office when I sneak past and down the hallway. I knock on Laney’s door.

  Inside, I hear a muffled, “What now, Mom?”

  “It’s me, Lane.” When she doesn’t answer, I add, “Can we talk?”

  She takes her time coming to the door. When she finally cracks it open, I slip in.

  “Bold move considering it’s past curfew,” she says. “What do you want, Talan?”

  “You know what I want. I want to know what your deal is. We were getting along great, and now you’re being a class-A bitch.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re such a jerk.”

  “What? What is your problem?”

  “You are. You think you’re so much better than me. You … you just suck.” She walks around me and crumples on her bed, her head down.

  “I don’t think I’m better than you. You think you’re better than me. Like that little comment you made about not knowing why anyone would want me. What was that about?”

  “Yeah. You’re one to talk.” When she lifts her eyes to mine, they’re wet. She imitates me: “Hey Kollin, too bad you can’t get a hot girl.”

  I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “That one day … that day you fought with Kollin? You said that. You said to Kollin that you got all the hot girls and he couldn’t get any.”

  My voice goes flat. “Christ, Laney. I wasn’t talking about you.” I comb my hand through my hair. “You know you’re pretty.”

  “Pretty unhot, apparently.”

  “No. Like … cute.”

  “Oh, shut up. I don’t need your approval. Or any guy’s. I grew up with a house full of you males. Trust me, you’re nothing special. You’re always checking out your muscles in the mirror. You fart for entertainment, and you touch yourselves every five minutes to make sure your package is still there. I don’t give a care what you think.”

  I want to laugh about how she can’t curse, but I stop myself. “Apparently you do, or you wouldn’t be so pissed.”

  Her mouth forms different vowel shapes, but no words come out. “What I think,” she finally stammers, “is I’m sick of you picking on me.”

  “Oh bull. I don’t pick on you.”

  “Really? You nicknamed me Brainy Laney in middle school. Freshman year, all I heard was how I’d never been kissed. Sophomore year you called me the Proud Prude until Mom made you stop. And how about last year? Constantly riding me about Kollin? Kollin’s a great guy, and all you do is rip on him. It’s like I’m living with a bully.”

  “I’m just teasing you.”

  “And you know what I hate the most?” Her lower lip quivers. “The way you’re always calling me nerdling and brainiac, like it’s an insult to be smart.” Laney’s jaw tightens. “Guess what, Michaels? It isn’t. I love being smart. You should try it sometime.”

  “I never knew you felt like this. Hell, you dish out worse all the time.”

  “Only when you start it. And I’d never say anything if I thought it would really hurt you.”

  “Neither would I.” I lay my hand on her shoulder and she shakes it off. She opens the door and nudges me out. “Go away. Now.”

  I turn to say something, but she closes the door on me.

  Forget it. I tried. I’m done. This is exactly why I don’t get involved with girls. I know better than to care.

  Thirteen

  I toss and turn all night, replaying Laney’s words in my head. I think of the way her voice broke when she accused me of bullying her, and my skin crawls. I kick the covers off and rearrange my pillow.

  She’s crazy. I hate bullies. I’m no bully.

  By morning, I’m annoyed and overtired. I’ve got to talk to Laney before school or I’ll never be able to concentrate. Everyone’s at the refrigerator in the kitchen grabbing their lunches but her. Her sack is already gone, and her backpack isn’t on her hook.

  I look for her at lunch, but she’s not sitting with her friends. Kollin is there, but her usual seat next to him is vacant. Marcus is alone at our table when I sit down next to him.

  Why am I letting this get to me? It’s Laney’s fault for overreacting about a stupid remark. It’s Laney’s fault for making me lose sleep over this. It’s Laney’s fault for getting worked up over some innocent teasing. It’s Laney’s fault for …

  Damn. Why am I such an ass?

  “What’s with you?” Marcus asks, crunching on his chips.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re sitting there all pissed, staring at LeBeau like he just screwed your girlfriend.”

  I snap without thinking, “Laney’s not my girlfriend!”

  Marcus jerks his head back. “No duh.” His eyebrows bunch together. “It’s an expression. You were staring over at his table like you wanted to kick some ass.”

  How do I explain this without explaining it? “I just hate the guy, that’s all.”

  “Whatever. Are you gonna eat your chips?” Marcus points at my lunch, sitting untouched on my brown paper bag.

  “No. Take ’em.”

  Dang you, Laney. I stand up and grab my backpack off the floor.

  “Where you going, dude?”

  “I need to talk to someone.” I slide my lunch in front of him. “Here. It’s all yours.”

  “What’s with you lately, bro?”

  I ignore him and walk out the cafeteria.

  Delaney is exactly where I guessed she’d be—sitting in Solomon’s room a half hour before class starts. She doesn’t notice when I walk in. She’s staring into a textbook with her eyes frozen on one spot, her mouth drooping at the corners. One finger is unconsciously picking at the corner of the page.

  I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to explain that I’m not the smooth talker everyone thinks I am. I want to admit that I wish I was smart and serious and innocent, like her. That I’d be those things in a heartbeat if I could. But I can’t.

  I want to say all those things, but what comes out is, “I thought I’d find you here. Are you brushing up on your Ethics and Virtue?”

  The second she notices me, her mouth shrinks to a tight line. “Yes. I thought it’d probably be a good idea,” she says, “considering I spent half my m
orning thinking of ways to torture you.”

  “You spent half your morning thinking about me?”

  She grunts and returns to her book.

  I park myself in the chair in front of her, straddling it backward.

  “What do you want, Talan?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  She doesn’t look up. “Let me guess. You’re here to brag that you’ve solved the puzzle?”

  “No.” I take a deep breath. “To apologize.”

  She stops picking at the page and slowly closes the cover of her book.

  A knot twists in my gut. “Laney, why didn’t you ever tell me you felt that way? About the teasing?”

  The edge in her voice disappears. “I have to tell you I don’t like being made fun of?”

  I lean my face in front of hers until she looks at me. “Yeah, you do. I can’t read your mind. You always went along before and dished it right back. I thought, well, I thought it was kind of funny. I figured you did too.”

  She shakes her head slowly.

  “I never meant it mean. I was teasing … like flirting. I do that to all the girls.”

  “If that’s flirting, you suck at it.”

  “I’m sorry then. But you know I didn’t mean to hurt you. God Laney, I hate bullies. You don’t know the shit I went through with bullies as a kid. Always calling me retarded because I couldn’t read and knocking me around. They made my old school hell for me.”

  Her tone changes instantly. “I’m sorry.”

  I hate her pitying me, yet my body warms when her voice goes all tender like that. “Don’t be,” I joke. “Look how incredibly cool and popular I turned out.”

  She laughs a little, and it thaws the chill between us.

  “Anyhow, things got better once I got to Singer,” I say. “From my first night. In fact, I still remember this one kid. He carried my garbage bag of stuff to your mom and dad’s house for me. He was huge, like a grown-up. He must have been a junior or senior. He looked down at me at one point and said, ‘Don’t worry, little man, you’ll like it here. Your past doesn’t have to dictate your future.’ I had no clue what dictate meant, but he gave me some of his M&M’s, so I figured it was a good thing.”

  God, I sound like a pussy.

  “Of course, I still fantasize about going back and kicking the shit out of those bullies.” I wink at her. “But don’t tell your parents that. I’d hate for them to think all those child psychology classes were wasted on me.”

  Laney makes one of those smiles that shows in her eyes. It takes me hostage for a second.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you … forgive me?” I smirk and add, “You know I have to work on my social skills.”

  It’s a joke in our family. When I first came to Singer, I got a ton of counseling for abandonment issues. The Shanahans were constantly working with me on my social skills, until one day I said, “I think my social skills would be better if I could punch some people.”

  The minute she gives me her lopsided smile, I know we’re okay.

  “All right, but no more teasing,” she says.

  “I promise.”

  She gets quiet again, and her finger returns to flicking the corner of her textbook. “So … have you figured out the message?”

  “No. You were right,” I say. “I’m not as smart as you.”

  Wiggly lines appear across her forehead. “I never said that.”

  “You said you liked being smart and I should try it some time. You also told me you didn’t know why anyone would want me.”

  Her face scrunches. “Geez, you know I only said those things because I was hurt. I’ve always said you were smart.”

  “I take ADD meds and get C’s.”

  “You also never open a book. You could pull good grades if you tried.”

  “I hate reading.”

  “’Cause it’s harder for you. That doesn’t mean you’re dumb. I hear how you talk. Your vocabulary is better than most kids in my AP English. There are different kinds of smart, Talan. You have an amazing memory, you’re witty, and you think quick under pressure. Me? I’m academic. Give me textbooks and formulas and I can figure out things. Well, some things. I spent hours on that stupid message and couldn’t solve it either.”

  “We should be working together.” I move my chair closer and lock eyes with her. “We make a good team.”

  Her mouth curls into a smile. “Yeah … ”

  The first bell rings and I move to my regular seat behind her. Jose Aguilar, Kollin, and Emily trickle in first, followed by the Pillars. Assholes. I can barely stand to look at them after witnessing that party.

  Professor Solomon shuffles in last, and our classroom becomes a silent movie. We sit perfectly still as he sets his briefcase on the desk and pulls out a notepad.

  “Before the Pillars leave for their meeting, I’d like to assign your group projects. While they’re due at the end of the term, I’d suggest you begin as early as possible, as they’ll account for 70 percent of your grade. Each group is responsible for researching a famous public figure. You will write a ten-page paper, applying the concepts from class to illustrate the impact your subject has had on today’s culture and on your lives in particular.”

  Solomon orders us to move our desks together in a U-shape. Laney slides her chair to my left, and Kollin glides his to her opposite side.

  Then Solomon scoots his bifocals down and walks around the half circle, pairing us and writing our groups in his notebook. “Ms. Mann and Mr. Moore, you will be presenting together. Ms. Kaminski, you’ll be with Mr. Kabal. Mr. Hunter and Mr. Robinson … ”

  When Solomon reaches me, Kollin’s face gets tight. It’s obvious what’s coming. Solomon points to Laney and me. “Ms. Shanahan and Mr. Michaels—you’ll be working together. And since we have an odd number of students, you last three”—he points to Kollin, Emily, and Jose—“can collaborate.”

  Kollin glances to his left. Weird. Did he just wink at Emily?

  Professor Solomon dismisses the Pillars. A minute later, he starts a lecture on morality. Like Pavlov’s dog, I’m instantly dozing.

  The classroom phone buzzes me awake.

  Solomon listens, nods, and then hangs up and glares at me. “You’re wanted for a meeting in the Executive Building, Mr. Michaels.” He fills out a pass and shuffles over with it. “You’ll be out for the whole period.”

  Decent.

  I hop up and head for the door.

  “You might want to pick up some coffee on your way,” Solomon mutters.

  As I trek across campus, I realize that I’ve never known of any students except the Pillars being called to the Executive Building. Is this another Sevens thing? But then Laney would’ve been called too. My arms and legs tingle with nervous energy.

  The Executive Building is one of the oldest buildings on campus, all red brick and ivy outside. I’m surprised when the lobby inside is completely different. It’s 100 percent modern, with touch-screens and abstract sculptures scattered around what I’m guessing are incredibly uncomfortable sofas. An uptight guy in a blue suit mans the reception desk, which stretches in front of the door like a do not enter sign. He’s busy typing something into a computer and ignoring me.

  I knock on the countertop. “Excuse me. I’m here for a meeting? My name is Talan Michaels.”

  He gives me the once-over and mutters something to himself. Then he taps something on his keyboard and perks up. His eyebrows lift and he straightens in his padded seat. “My apologies, sir,” he mumbles. “He’s expecting you. Right this way.”

  I follow him past a waterfall and glass elevator to a huge wooden door. He opens it for me like I’m the friggin’ president. Am I supposed to tip him or something? He rushes away and I slip in and look around.

  A fancy wood desk sits at one end of the room with two empty seats in front of it. It’s all modern and glassy in here, too, except for a huge leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, which is turned away to face out the window. My heartb
eat accelerates as it slowly swivels around.

  “Mr. Michaels. So nice of you to join me.”

  What? Stephen Kane? This can’t be Sevens business. What’s Kane doing here? Shouldn’t he be off partying with the Pillars or something?

  Kane stands and thrusts out his hand for me to shake. I shove my fists in my pockets and do my best to hide the confusion that’s lobbing around inside my head.

  “Why am I here?” I ask.

  He points to the chair next to me and waves me to sit. “I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m hoping we can rectify that.”

  I sit, leaning forward on the edge of my seat. I don’t plan on staying long. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Kane glides into his seat and regards me with eyes that say don’t mess with me. “You don’t like me much, do you, Mr. Michaels?”

  “I don’t even know you, Mr. Kane. But I would like to know why you called me out of class to come here.”

  He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “Did you know that I considered you for the Pillars?”

  My stomach lurches. Is that supposed to be a compliment? “I’m hardly Pillar material.”

  “Oh, I think you are. In fact, I remember reading your student records and thinking how much we had in common. Did you know I was abandoned like you? My father deserted me, just like yours. And my mom? She makes yours look like Mother of the Year.” His eyes zero in on mine. “She was a simple woman. It didn’t take much to make her happy. Belts, sticks … ” He shows me the scars on his hands. “Scalding water.”

  Kane rests his arms on his desk. “My uncle removed me from my home and brought me to Singer. You see, we’re similar creatures, you and I. We were both abandoned and dumped here. And we both learned to look out for ourselves. I wonder if you don’t agree?”

  The comment bothers me more than I can explain.

  “What I’m wondering,” I say, “is how you got access to my personal files when I didn’t apply to be a Pillar. I’m sure that’s against some privacy rule or something.”

  “I’ve learned to get around the rules. Another thing we have in common, I think.”

  “Is there a point to this autobiography?”

  “Just that we’re alike, you and I.” Kane flashes that confident grin. “See, I’m not so bad, Mr. Michaels. I survived a painful childhood, just like you. I worked hard and turned out very successful. Like you, I learned to take care of myself. Does that sound familiar?”