The Seventh Level

by Jody Feldman

  Mrs. Pinchon stares me in the eye. For too long.

  I can’t stand this. “Am I supposed to do something else?”

  She takes in a deep breath. “I’ll page Mr. McKenzie to fetch your bicycle from my truck, then I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Monday morning, too.”

  I almost feel like hugging her, even with the extra detention. “Thanks, Mrs. Pinchon.” I give her my best smile, and she gives a half one right back.

  It’s a five-minute ride to the office supply store, where they should have small trash cans, then a ten-minute ride back home. Even if I take half an hour in the store, I can get back by five thirty, so I ditch going home to leave a real message for my mom.

  I pedal fast, dodging some of the little tree branches that fell with all the wind and rain, and I make it to the store in what might be record time.

  I race to the trash can aisle. I don’t care what this thing looks like as long as it’s the cheapest one I can wedge into a locker. There’s a plain black one and a cooler white one with a swinging lid, but it’s more expensive. I run the black one over to the ruler aisle. Cha-ching! It’s small enough. I measured my stuffed backpack yesterday. Checkout time.

  I hit a couple display staplers, pass the pens, spin in an office chair, and…wait. I’m in an office supply store. With computers. Without parents. With at least twenty-five more minutes. And…cha-ching again! One computer is loaded with Son of Crash.

  I move Crash Junior around the third bend. My hand rumbles with the amazing new audio until Crash crashes, right before I get to the fourth level. I try again. And again and…

  How much longer do I have? I check the clock on the computer next to me. Five-twenty!

  I practically throw my money at the cashier, unchain my bike, and race out of there. Not only do I need to beat the clock, I need to beat that next wave of thunderclouds gathering closer than I’d like. I head toward the horizon, my legs churning as fast as they can.

  They pedal me off the busy road into a neighborhood street about three blocks before Matti’s house. I’m still more than five minutes from home. Five minutes under normal circumstances. The way my legs are burning, I’m not riding like normal.

  I pass Matti’s, churn uphill, round the corner, look behind me to cross into the next neighborhood. No cars. Go. Go. Go!

  I cruise down the next street. I’m gonna make it.

  Three more turns. One turn. Pedal. Pedal.

  Two turns. Ped—

  No!

  I’m lying in the street, my helmet covering most of my sight. I sit up and move my arms and legs. I look into my backpack and check the trash can. Nothing’s broken except the skin on my elbow and forearm. It’s all scraped and bloody. Maybe I can make it home on time. Or maybe my mom’s late. Maybe she got caught in rain-slow traffic and…

  Doesn’t matter. Half my front tire is hanging like wet toilet paper from a tree. I raise the handlebars, mostly with my good arm, and try to run my bike home on its back wheel. I hobble it down the driveway just as my mom closes the back door behind her.

  By now she’ll be heading up the stairs, calling my name. I can come in behind her and say I’ve been outside, or not. No hiding my torn shirt, the blood, and the rip I just found on the side of my pants.

  “I’m down here, Mom,” I call with as little energy as possible.

  Curry even senses my problems because she doesn’t charge me. She just circles around and licks my hand.

  My mom’s barefoot, but still has on her work clothes when she comes into the kitchen. “Travis! What happened?”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t see the branch in the street and flew over the handlebars.”

  She goes into Nurse Mom mode and forgets to ask why I was on my bike. She won’t forget for long, though.

  “So, Mrs. Pinchon let me load my bike onto her pickup this morning,” I say to get this over with. “And my legs were itching to pedal after being in prison, and I knew I couldn’t go to the baseball game because that’s part of my punishment, so I went to the store to get something for school and…”

  In the time it takes her to tear open a Band-Aid, her face changes from Nurse Mom to Judge Mom. “And Mrs. Pinchon knew where you were going?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And you called me so I knew where you’d be?”

  “I tried, but you weren’t home yet and—”

  “Of course I wasn’t home yet. But you do know my work number and my cell.”

  “I was gonna be home on time.”

  “You’re twelve, Travis. Not twenty-two.” She screws the top back onto the ointment tube. “Even if you were, you’d still need to let someone know where you’re going. Always.”

  “I know.” I open the next Band-Aid wrapper. “I will. I promise.”

  She looks straight into my eyes like they’re trying to cement that promise into my brain, then she stays really quiet. Worried quiet. Sad quiet. Like when she remembers my grandparents.

  I’d rather be banned from TV for life than listen to this type of quiet.

  “So,” she says, but nothing follows. She finishes the bandaging, and I follow her to the kitchen. She gets out a Diet Coke. “So, what should we do with you?”

  I let out a quiet laugh. “Mrs. Pinchon said something like that before I got detention.”

  “I think I might like Mrs. Pinchon.” My mom pulls some tuna steaks from the refrigerator, but she’s not smiling much, and it’s my fault.

  If I’d actually called her, we might be laughing now.

  But I sort of make her laugh during dinner when I get up, jump twice, pretend I’m flying in a plane, and stomp my feet. Then I pull her arm until she does the Stamp Dance with me, the one Grandpa Sam made up to get me interested in the stamp collection he started for me.

  And by the time dinner’s done, she hasn’t heaped on extra punishment. She tells me we’ll fix my bike this weekend, then she sends me and Curry up to my room, which is fine. Because I need to figure out how to sneak a trash can into a school locker I’m not supposed to open.

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s nearly midnight, and I still don’t know what to say when Mrs. Pinchon’s eyebrows ask why I’m bringing a trash can to school. I want to use her line, “Things aren’t always as they appear,” but that’ll work only if I dress up the trash can in a wig and moustache and…

  Bingo! I tell the plan to my voice-activated tape recorder in case I forget by morning, which I don’t. I take care of everything and get ready for school.

  “Is that what you bought yesterday?” my mom asks right before I go out the door.

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up the gift-wrapped trash can. “A trash can for someone-on-a-team.” Not a lie. The Legend has to be the ultimate team, right?

  “I hope this isn’t about where they can stuff themselves.”

  “Nope. They asked for it.”

  “Asked for it? As in payback?”

  “As in, they requested it.”

  She sips her coffee, and I’m out the door before she asks anything else.

  In less than a minute Mrs. Pinchon pulls up. She stares at the gift-wrapped can. “Is that from your errand yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That, too?” She points to my banged-up arm.

  “A bonus.” A bonus for lying. “And it kept waking me up.” I yawn.

  We both stay quiet except when I yawn three more times. She notices, and when we get to school, she gives me permission to “walk off my sleepies for ten minutes.” That means I can dump the trash can into locker 207. Her permission came almost too easily, like she knew I needed to do that. Which might be possible. Some adult needs to be in charge of The Legend.

  It’d be cooler if The Legend were only kids, but we can’t drive to get places, we don’t have big money for extreme Events, and we don’t have access to school locker combinations.

  I open the 207 lock, trying not to let the middle number bother me. But I want to scream for someone to exp
lain why it’s 23. And why this trash can doesn’t quite fit through the opening. I kick it until it does. Now where’s my blue envelope? If I pay the locker what it asks for, shouldn’t it pop out an envelope like a gumball machine would? It practically did last time.

  I kick the locker shut, jam on the lock, and try to figure out how to kill the next seven minutes. There’s nothing but dark classrooms up here. And kid voices downstairs. I follow their noise, then I lose them. Did they come from Mr. McKenzie’s supply closet? No one’s there.

  Now what? Idea. That case of toilet paper I lugged up to the pipe room. I asked Mr. McKenzie how long it would last. He’s gonna let me know when it’s gone, but I go check how many we’ve used so far. I stick my head way inside the box. Whoa. All ninety-six rolls in two days? There’s a whole lot of bathrooming going on.

  That’s all the fun I can stand. I take the long way back to Mrs. Pinchon’s office and open one of those library books she brought in. It’s about a kid who hates school and likes basketball, and it’s not too bad. At least it’s good enough that when I hear the first bell, I realize Mrs. Pinchon hasn’t needed to look at me funny.

  “You’re dismissed, Mr. Raines,” she says. “Until after school.” Why’d she rub it in?

  I put the book back on the stack, pick up my backpack and—

  Dernck! Dernck! Dernck! Dernck! Dernck!

  Mr. McKenzie barges right in, looking like he’s about to spit fire. As I leave, he glares at me like I’m to blame for the world’s problems.

  I’m in class for about two minutes when the intercom crackles. “Travis Raines,” the voice says, “please report to Mrs. Pinchon’s office.”

  I get all this “Ooh, Travis. What’d you do this time? Ooh, Travis. In trouble again? Ooh, Travis. Climb any good roofs lately?”

  I raise my eyebrows. I grin. But it’s only from habit. I know things I do make people say the Ooh-Travis stuff, and mostly it’s fun, but not now. Maybe I’m sick of being the troublemaker. Or maybe I know I’m about to get blamed for something I didn’t do. Or maybe, with that look Mr. McKenzie shot me, I need to worry I’m out of The Legend’s blue-envelope game forever.

  I pass the boys’ bathroom. It has a wet floor sign in front, and the door’s taped off.

  I pass another one nearer to Mrs. Pinchon’s office. Same—

  “This is a message for all students.” It’s Mr. Wilkins over the loudspeaker.

  My stomach starts putting things together. I slow down to get a preview of why I’m walking to the assistant principal in charge of discipline again.

  “The next time you are in the halls,” the voice says, “you’ll notice that all the boys’ bathrooms are closed for servicing. They will be reopened as the day goes on. Meanwhile we have marked some of the girl’s rest rooms for male usage. Please pay careful attention to the signs. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  I’ll cooperate. I’ll burst through Mrs. Pinchon’s door and tell her I’m not to blame for anything bathroom related except helping Mr. McKenzie carry cases of toilet paper.

  When I get there, though, she’s standing at the door. Waiting for me. We don’t even sit.

  “It appears,” she says, her hypnotizing necklace swaying back and forth, “that someone or some ones thought it hilarious to drop a roll of toilet paper into each of the boys’ toilets. It also appears that all the toilet paper came from the case you stored in the plumbing access closet. Now, I don’t know about you, but we don’t go around announcing where staff or students can find ninety-six rolls of toilet paper.” She stares like I’m supposed to confess.

  I shake my head. “I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.”

  “As they say in crime, you had opportunity, knowledge, and motive.”

  I let that sink in for a second. “Okay. I knew where the toilet paper was, and maybe I had time this morning to run to every bathroom, but why would I do that?”

  She points to my little table.

  “No, Mrs. Pinchon. I know I was stupid to hang off the roof. I might not love being here, but I wouldn’t retaliate by flushing whole toilet paper rolls. I wouldn’t retaliate, period.”

  She looks at me like I’m pure evil. “Who said anything about flushing them?”

  “Isn’t that how the toilets overflowed?”

  She takes half a step closer. “Who said anything about them overflowing?”

  “Why else would the two bathrooms I passed be taped shut with wet floor signs?”

  She backs off. “Good thing your logic is correct, Mr. Raines. Most toilets did overflow, causing much trouble for the maintenance staff and, I’m certain, much expense to our school.”

  “Should I help Mr. McKenzie?” I ask, praying I won’t need to plunge my hands into toilets.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Pinchon’s face looks less threatening, but I’m definitely not out of trouble. And I need to get out of trouble. I need an alibi. Or someone else to—

  “Knowledge!” I almost shout. “I am guilty. Guilty of opening my big mouth.”

  “Explain, Mr. Raines.”

  “Wednesday at the money machines. I was complaining how my arms hurt from carrying the toilet paper, and I especially complained about taking that box upstairs. Lots of people were around me. Anyone could’ve heard that.” Anyone like Randall. “And opportunity,” I say.

  “Go on.”

  “This morning I heard kids’ voices in the hallway before I came back to your office, but I didn’t see who they belonged to. And I know the door to the pipe closet was unlocked because I just wanted to see how much toilet paper was used.”

  “And these kids? Their motive?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, but you’ve got to believe me. I’m not lying. I may get into trouble a lot, but I don’t do stuff that’s destructive.”

  She finally breaks her stare. “I have no proof, but if I find some, you’ll be the first to know.” She hands me a return-to-class pass. “I’ll see you after school. And Travis? You are on notice. Everyone will be watching out for you. One more slip and it only gets worse.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Last year The Legend started the Friday Lunch Shuffle, where we’re assigned to eat with other people we’d almost never sit with. I usually like it, but today I want to be with Matti and Kip and complain about being accused of something I’d never ever do.

  At my table for the day, there’s a girl who thinks she’s too good for us; three other girls who are excited to be together; Cambridge, who’s the smartest kid in our grade; and George, a new kid on our soccer team this year. Karl, one of the oafs, comes in last and gives my shoulder a shove. I start to slug him one, but I don’t need a third strike. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says, backing off. “I was going to congratulate you but forget it.”

  “Huh?”

  “The toilets? We all know it was you, Johnny Flood.”

  Now I really want to slug him. “Airtight alibi.”

  “You did it with an alibi? Pure genius, Johnny boy.”

  Now everyone at the table’s looking at me. “I. Didn’t. Do it.” I clamp my teeth on to my lunch bag, rip the side an inch, ease up, and pull out my sandwich. I manage to talk to George about soccer and stop myself from asking Cambridge if he’s in The Legend. The whole time I keep glaring at Karl from the corner of my eye, silently daring him to do something evil when I’m in detention and I truly have an airtight alibi. I swear he and Randall are the bad guys.

  Even so, I have a decent time the rest of lunch until the loudspeaker announces that the bathrooms are open again. Then every kid either applauds or boos me for pulling the prank.

  I stand and pretend to take a bow, but I’m really looking for the only people who will believe me. I don’t see Kip, but Matti’s table is on the way to the garbage cans. I grab my trash, and everyone I pass taunts me. Except Matti. She gets up and walks with me.

  “I didn’t do it,” I say.

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  �
��You didn’t think?” I slam my bag into the can. “You should know I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Travis. Calm down. That’s what I meant. You’re the fun guy. Not the evil guy.”

  “So why do I get blamed for everything?”

  “You know why,” she says. “You draw attention to yourself, so you’re a perfect target. And you never get into big trouble, so people don’t feel guilty about aiming at you.”

  “Not into big trouble?” I say. “What about detention in Mrs. Pinchon’s office?”

  “You’ve gotta admit,” Matti says, “even you saw that coming.”

  I don’t want to nod, so I look past her shoulder.

  Kip’s heading toward us. “You didn’t do it, did you?” he says.

  I feel my jaw turn to iron. “Do you even have to ask?”

  He looks away. “Sorry.”

  Matti puts a hand on his shoulder. Great. I didn’t mean to bring them together even more. But I especially didn’t mean to sound nasty, especially not to Kip, who practically flogs himself if he steps on an ant. “I’m just frustrated. Sorry I yelled. Did I yell?”

  Kip shakes his head.

  “A little,” Matti says. “But the good news is it’s Friday.”

  “Which means I spend the next two days as slave labor inside my own house.”

  Matti shakes her head. “What I mean is by Monday you’ll be old news, and life and baseball will go on.”

  Right after school I’m at my locker. Jammed mostly through the vent is a smaller, non-shiny envelope, the same blue as the one Mrs. Bloom had for the Legend Event. But this one has my name on it. The next puzzle? If it is, they can’t believe I’m Johnny Flood.

  There are lots of eyes in the hallway, so I slide the envelope into my backpack. As I go into Mrs. Pinchon’s office, she leaves “for a second.” I open the envelope.

  If you want more blue envelopes, play by our seven rules plus all of the school’s.