Secret of the Sevens

by Lynn Lindquist

  Ah, man. I keep forgetting I promised Marcus I’d practice with him. He has a lot riding on the next few games if he wants that D2 scholarship.

  “Sure. How about tonight? After dinner.”

  “Sounds good.” He slaps me on the back and leaves for class. “Catch you later.”

  The minute I get to English, I flash the hall pass at Professor Gaytan and she dismisses me. I bundle up in my hoodie. The frozen grass crunches under my feet as I cross the courtyard. Between the cold morning air and anxiety over this next clue, I’m practically sprinting across campus to Founders Hall. The blue pass directs me to room number seven, otherwise known as the Singer Museum of School History.

  I tiptoe inside and toss my backpack next to a chair. The vacant room is crowded with tables and a slew of display cases stuffed with school memorabilia and boring historical stuff about Singer Enterprises.

  Opposite me is a long wall covered with old photographs, news articles, documents, and artwork. I wander along the bookcases that line the other three walls. The brass plate next to them explains that the books were donated from Mr. Singer’s private library. I step back and my eyes follow the shelves all the way to the ceiling. Almost two stories up. No wonder the guy was so smart.

  “What a coincidence.” I jump at Laney’s voice.

  She tucks a lock of hair behind one ear, then plops

  her backpack on the table and unzips it. “So, what’d your note say?”

  I pull the paper from my pocket. “It says, ‘In case you didn’t notice, there’s a lesson there for you.’” I glance up at her. “Did you get the same one?”

  “No. Looks we each got a half-clue again.” She hands hers to me, then leans close while I read it:

  If you read between the lines, there’s a second one, too.

  Laney walks around me and starts scoping out the bookcases.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s elementary, Watson,” she says. “The note says, ‘In case you didn’t notice, there’s a message there for you.’ It’s got to be another riddle. The message must be in a bookcase or some other kind of case we wouldn’t notice, like a display case or trophy case or something.”

  “Oooh. Well played, you little brainia—” I catch myself before I finish.

  Laney’s eyebrows scrunch together. “No, you can say it—brainiac. I told you, I don’t care what you think. I’m glad I’m smart.”

  She walks around the room and her lavender scent pulls me behind her like a leash. “What I think,” I tell her, “is that I wish I was as smart as you.”

  Laney spins around and glares at me. “Cut the act, Michaels. I’m so sick of hearing that. You are as smart as me. Just at different things.” She says it so casually, I think she might actually mean it.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  She taps her fingers on top of a trophy case. “Are you fishing for compliments, Tal?” She slides her hand off the cabinet and crosses her arms. “Okay, I’ll say it. Like how you’re figuring out these clues faster than me. You’ve always been able to figure things and people out easily. You just use your learning disability as an excuse to be lazy. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re smart.”

  She does mean it.

  I take a deep breath and savor the moment. “No one else has ever called me smart before.”

  “Yeah? Well maybe that’s because you make fun of smart people. Or because you act like you’d rather be a player and an idiot jock.” She pushes past me. “Listen, I know you better than anyone, and you’re as smart as any person I know. Whether you want to admit it or not. And you know I’m not saying that just to flatter you, because I don’t even like you most of the time.” Her mouth puckers. “You think I want to admit you’re better at this Sevens stuff than me?”

  It’s the shittiest compliment I ever got. And the best. I turn my head so she doesn’t see the smile I can’t seem to shake.

  My eyes catch on some glass behind the door.

  Laney’s standing on tiptoes, rummaging through a bookcase. I tug on her sleeve. “Hey, hold up. I think I might have found it.”

  She slides a book back onto the shelf and grunts. “Gosh dang it!” She follows me with angry, clunky steps to the opposite corner of the room.

  “Check it out. There’s a display case behind the door. You know, like a ‘case we wouldn’t notice.’”

  She quietly shuts the door and the two of us huddle in front of it. “Huh. It’s a collection of stuff about William and Mary Singer,” Delaney says.

  My eyes travel the line of photos along the back and settle on one of Mary. She looks about seven or eight, smiling atop a horse with her parents standing next to her. Wearing a helmet, of course.

  In front are some scattered photographs of Mr. Singer as a boy. In the very center, there’s a funny one where he’s dressed up as a king in a paper crown and a pillowcase cape. Each of his arms is draped around the shoulder of another dirty-faced kid. His smaller sidekicks are dressed like knights, wearing aluminum foil helmets and holding garbage can lids like shields. One waves a toilet plunger as his sword and the other raises a broom handle. The caption underneath says: William Singer at nine years old, pictured with his foster-brothers and lifelong friends, Caesar Solomon and Carmine Rathbone.

  “You gotta be kidding.” I squint at the faces, pointing out the younger one. “It’s Professor Solomon.”

  Laney crouches lower. “Oh my gosh.” The corners of her mouth lift as she studies the snapshot. “Solomon looked like a little troublemaker back then. Hey … that other boy is Carmine Rathbone. You know, the guy who was Chairman of the Board before Kane. They must have grown up together.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with our clue?” I say.

  “I don’t think so. This photo doesn’t give me any kind of ‘message between the lines’ unless it’s trying to say something about Solomon.”

  “Yeah, that’s not enough to go on. Let’s keep looking.”

  We’re squatting shoulder to shoulder on the floor when Laney’s gaze hones in on a large photo at her end of the cabinet. In it, William Singer is addressing an auditorium full of Singer graduates decked out in their caps and gowns.

  A smile grows on her face as her eyes dart from side to side over a quote that’s next to the picture. The moment she looks at me, I know she’s figured something out.

  She scoots aside so I can read it:

  “I want you to know that there’s a secret

  to being successful—follow your heart. Like a

  map, it will lead you where you need to go.

  Never get discouraged by life’s struggles.

  Just focus on the big picture and push aside

  your doubts. Let hard work and character be

  the framework, and you’ll find what you need

  to be successful and happy.”—William Singer

  I don’t get it right away, but I don’t want to tell Laney that. She thinks I’m smart and I’m not about to prove her wrong. I reread the clue: In case you didn’t notice, there’s a message there for you. If you read between the lines, there’s a second one, too.

  Laney’s grinning at me, and clearly she can’t wait. “Talan, read between the lines. Just skip every other line—”

  “Okay!” I cut her off because I just figured it out myself:

  “I want you to know that there’s a secret

  map, it will lead you where you need to go.

  Just focus on the big picture and push aside

  the framework, and you’ll find what you need.”

  “So there’s a map! A secret map to what?”

  Laney straightens up. “I guess the first thing we need to do is find the big picture he’s referring to.”

  I spin around toward the wall that’s full of pictures. “That’s easy enough.” I walk toward a humongous painting hanging in the very center—a collage made by Singer students who were asked to paint what they wanted to be when they grew up. It’s a bright,
mosaic mess of shapes and images, like someone ripped a painting into pieces and glued it back together all wrong.

  “This is definitely the big picture,” I tell her. “Pull some chairs over and we’ll check it out.”

  After staring into the canvas a few minutes, I surrender. “I got nothing.”

  “Me either.” She sighs. “If this is supposed to be a map that shows us where we need to go, we’re screwed.”

  I tap my finger on my lip. “Wait a minute. We’re supposed to ‘push aside the framework.’ Maybe the map isn’t in the painting, maybe it’s behind it. Watch the door and I’ll try to take the picture down.”

  Laney climbs down to stand guard, and I move my chair closer to the painting. I grab onto the frame and try to lift it, but the corners are screwed into the wall. It’s not going anywhere.

  Next, I push the frame from the right side, and—

  Click.

  The entire canvas pops forward and slides left on some kind of hinge mechanism.

  “You did it!” Laney whisper-yells from the doorway.

  From where she’s standing, she can’t see what’s behind the picture—a map with a note stapled to it:

  Fourth Test-Justice: The truth will set you free.

  Time: This Evening, 7:00 P.M.

  2 get N the tunnel

  U must use the key,

  4 an entrance like this is legendary.

  F U R reading this note,

  U can solve this next clue.

  O, UR founder was YS, ND.

  R U?

  I slide the papers out from under the flat clips that hold it there. After gliding the picture back in place, I spread everything out on the table.

  Laney locks the door and comes over. We lean over the blueprint, studying the buildings and landmarks.

  I run my fingers along the dark double lines that run between three buildings. “I don’t remember these roads.”

  Laney surveys the drawing. “They’re not roads. They’re tunnels, I think.” She points out the larger shapes at the ends. “Look. These are all the newer buildings. The ones Singer would have been constructing in Phase I. The double lines can’t be roads. They stretch from building to building and travel right through things like the graveyard and softball fields.”

  She’s right. The lines cross campus in perfectly straight paths that would have to be below ground.

  “That son of a gun.” Laney grins as her gaze skims the paper. “Singer must have gotten the idea from the steam tunnels in the older buildings. But how did he pull this off without being discovered?”

  “William Singer was one of the richest men in America when he died. Money makes things like this a lot easier.” My finger navigates one path to a square on the paper labeled Singer Res. “What’s this?”

  Laney leans closer and inspects it. “That must be Mr. Singer’s residence. According to the map, this is the northwest corner of campus. His house is the only building that far north.”

  “You mean Headmaster Boyle’s house?”

  “Yep. Mr. Singer built a home on campus to live in while he oversaw the construction. When he died, the school decided to use it as the headmaster’s residence.”

  “You mean there’s a secret tunnel that leads to Boyle’s house? Oh man, this could be great.”

  Laney points to another tunnel that dead ends in the cemetery. “Where do you think this one goes?”

  “You got me. Maybe Singer planned to build something there but didn’t live long enough to finish it.”

  She surveys the bottom corner of the diagram. “Check this out. The last tunnel ends at Winchester House.”

  “There’s a secret tunnel to the Pillars’ residence too? Finally, we get some perks.”

  “That’s probably where the Sevens lived. On our parent tours, we talked about how Winchester was originally built as a dorm where they tried out coed housing. I bet Singer really built it so the Sevens who lived there could travel to his house and back undetected.”

  “Okay then. So what’s the clue tell us to do for this test?”

  Laney reads over the paper. “It translates simple enough,” she says. “To get in the tunnel, you must use the key, for an entrance like this is legendary. If you are reading this note, you can solve this next clue. Oh, your founder was wise, indeed. Are you?”

  “They’ve been ending a lot of our clues with that same question.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too. But what about the rest of it? We need to find a key to get in the tunnel, but there’s no hints where to look.”

  “Yeah there is, Watson. It’s all right there.” I smile. “Lane, think about it. How it says: You must use the key and the entrance is legendary. Get it? Key? Legend? Like for a map? They’re talking about a map key, not a real key. The map key must tell us how to get into the tunnel.”

  She looks me up and down. “If I didn’t know how much you hated books, I’d swear you spent your nights reading mystery novels.”

  You know how it feels when you get a great score on your ACT? Me neither. But I’m betting the way I feel now is pretty close.

  We scrunch together and check the map key at the corner of the paper. Voilà. Running across the bottom of the legend, underneath all the symbols and their meanings, is a row of random letters that could easily be mistaken for a serial or file number:

  A¢ IR N XMN D NJL N TRS

  “Based on the way the clue is worded, I’m guessing we’re supposed to read it like the characters are words. Like how F U R reading this note translates to if you are reading this note,” she says.

  “Makes sense. So let’s see … ” I sound out the characters. “A-cent … I-R … and … X-M-N … the N-J-L in T-R-S. Huh?”

  “Ascend higher?” she offers.

  “Oh, right. So it’s ascend higher and X-M-N … Ex-em-en. It’s examine!” I blurt out. “Ascend higher and examine the N-J-L in T-R-S.”

  “N-J-L in T-R-S.” The two of us repeat it over and over out loud.

  “T-R-S,” Laney says slower. “Tee-r-s. Teee-rs. Tears! You have to ascend higher and examine the en-jail in tears.”

  “Awesome.” I slap her back. “Wait, what’s an en-jail?”

  Her eyes light up. “Angel! Ascend higher and examine the angel in tears.”

  “Angel in tears?” I’m lost. “What’s that?”

  “Where would we find an angel in tears?” She studies the map for a second, then smiles and points at the end of a tunnel. “I got it.”

  “The cemetery?” I ask.

  “Mary Singer’s mausoleum. Remember? That huge statue inside with the angel mourning over the casket? It’s got to be that. The tunnel ends somewhere in the graveyard, and she’s definitely an angel in tears … And remember how they had us return our invitations there? The Sevens must have been inside that statue the whole time.” I feel a shiver run down my spine, but this time, it’s a cool feeling.

  Laney glances at the clock. “We need to get going.” She scoops everything up. “Here. You take the map.” Folding it neatly, she slides it in my backpack. “We’ll meet at the cemetery at 7:00 tonight.”

  “That won’t be easy. Boyle’s house is right down the road from there and Security is probably pretty tight after the grave robbing. Maybe we should meet in the woods behind the library at 6:30. We’ll cut around to the back of the cemetery so no one sees us from Rucker Road.”

  “Okay. Six thirty on the path.”

  We hustle into the hall but freeze when we hear footsteps coming from the rotunda. Headmaster Boyle turns the corner and almost runs us over.

  “Ms. Shanahan … Mr. Michaels … It seems as if we keep bumping into each other. What are you doing at Founders Hall this time of day?”

  “Research, sir.” Laney digs through her backpack and hands him her hall pass. “We’re working on a project for Professor Solomon’s class.”

  Boyle checks her pass and hands it back. He looks me up and down next. “I’d like to see yours, too, Mr. Michaels. We need to b
e extra careful until we discover who’s behind the recent acts of vandalism. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  What a dick. I pull my pass from my pocket and slap it into his open palm. He skims it with his beady eyes, and disappointment washes over his face. “Very well then. Get moving to your next class before you’re tardy.”

  I’m about to comment about him being the reason we’d be late, but Laney gives me a pleading look. I crumple the pass in my fist and push past him.

  “Thank you, Headmaster,” Laney says.

  She catches up to me and we scurry across the atrium. When I hold the door open for her, I turn and see Boyle glaring at us from the opposite side of the rotunda. He’s leaning against a column, his arms crossed in front of him. The way his eyes zero in on us gives me a chill, like he’s targeting us through the scope on a rifle.

  Twenty-five

  After football practice, I drop my gym bag on the floor of my room and trudge straight for the shower. Suicide sprints killed me today.

  Back in my room, my legs feel like Jello. I tug on a pair of shorts and collapse on my bed. My body’s beat, but my brain won’t stop thinking about the tunnel map. I roll over and stretch as far as I can, to reach my backpack without actually having to get up, and tug the map from the back pocket.

  I’ve only been skimming it a few minutes when someone knocks on my door.

  “Who is it?” I call, stuffing the paper behind my pillow.

  “Laney,” she whispers. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She hesitates at the doorway, and I know why. We aren’t supposed to be in each other’s rooms, especially with the door closed. She checks the hall before quietly locking the door.

  Then she walks over and points at my bare chest. “Showing off your six-pack?”

  “I just got out of the shower.”

  Before I can get up and grab a T-shirt, Laney climbs next to me. She sits so close that our sides are touching.

  She tilts her head and whispers in my ear. “I need to tell you something, and it’s not good.” She winces and finishes. “There was more vandalism last night. They’re assuming it was a few people, because they totally destroyed the football stadium. There was some major damage.”