The Seventh Level

by Jody Feldman

  “Just be careful not to tear the roots when you’re digging.”

  “I will. And do they want to help?” I point to Ricky and Charlie.

  The boys jump up and down, grabbing onto my legs, and I’m feeling really good about everything. Especially about figuring a way out of this mess.

  My parents agree to drive me to school early in the morning then drive me back home so I can ride my bike. “It’s that thing,” I say, clutching two plants and two apology notes.

  They smile at each other. My dad says he’ll buy the flowers as long as I put them back into the ground myself. My mom drops them off at school for me.

  Because I didn’t get into trouble over the bubble gum or the flowers, I get this vision of The Legend people sitting around their secret location wondering why they didn’t induct me into the Legend Hall of Fame when I was three years old. I knocked this one out of the park.

  So I go through the second day this week without getting into trouble. Better still, I get rewarded with a shiny blue envelope at my locker.

  I go home, drop my fifth coin into my drawer, and get to work solving the puzzle.

  Mr. Engelwood teaches: ___, ___, ___.

  Maria Von Trapp teaches: ___, ___, ___.

  They’re both right.

  Tack a representative onto the music room bulletin board by 5:00 P.M. Thursday.

  Okay. So, Mr. Engelwood teaches sixth-grade band, seventh-grade band, and eighth-grade band. I’ve never had him because when I tried the trumpet in fifth grade, the thing sounded like a dying hyena and I didn’t want to stick around a roomful of other dying animals to see if we could get better.

  But who’s this Von Trapp lady? What does she teach? I open last year’s yearbook but don’t see her anywhere. Her name sounds familiar, though, like my mom might know her. I reach for the cordless but stop. Rule #4 says I can ask questions that sound like homework help, but I never call for homework questions. I usually use the computer.

  It’s Tuesday! I call my mom. “I can use the computer right? It’s for school.”

  “I was under the assumption your punishment ends tomorrow. Is it urgent?”

  “Never mind,” I say. Or maybe I groan it.

  I hate following the rules, except the ones that make sense. And I have to admit that most of The Legend rules do make sense. Except for #6.

  Remember, when opportunity closes a window, it often opens a door.

  A window? A door? Why can’t it be an Engelwood and a Von Trapp?

  I guess it’s supposed to be inspirational, but it doesn’t inspire me to solve the puzzle. Maybe my old toy keyboard will. I find it in the basement.

  I remember enough about reading music because of the posters in the elementary school music room. One had notes—F, A, C, and E—in the spaces, and the notes had faces. The next poster’s notes looked like cabbages, and they spelled CABBAGE.

  What if the notes spell out my next thing? I write out letter-notes.

  D D F C E D A C B E

  It was worth a try. So’s picking out the tune on the keyboard, but the song doesn’t sound like any song I’ve ever heard, not even by the time I’m back upstairs humming it from memory. I need to know something about Maria Von Trapp before I can solve this puzzle, but what if I find out about her and still can’t solve it?

  I’ve solved every one so far, haven’t I? Unless you count not understanding 23 from the math sequence sheet. It’s still in my underwear drawer and it taunts me every day when I get out my briefs.

  51, 32, 23, 14, 25, 16, 17, 18

  I swear I hear it even now. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah! You can’t figure me out. You might not figure out the next puzzle either. You don’t know what this Envelope Madness is all about, and there’s no one you can ask, is there?”

  There is. His big oaf smirk flashes before my eyes then stays in my brain. What if Randall figured out the sequence? That’d make me stupider than an oaf.

  I start an extra-credit math sheet. Hah! Number sequences. Just looking at them sends a microscopic slug crawling under my fingernail, inching its way up my arm, winding over my shoulder, up to my ears, taunting me even more.

  I look up Randall’s phone number, and before my brain can stop my hand, I punch it in.

  “You know that locker combination?” I say after we trade minor insults.

  “I know lots of locker combinations.”

  Why’d I bother calling? I should’ve let that slug crawl under my skin. “Look,” I say.

  “At what? We’re on the telephone so I can’t see what you’re seeing.”

  “Randall! Isn’t it possible you might need blue-envelope help in the future?” I exhale. Loudly. “I have one stinkin’ question about one stinkin’ number sequence.”

  Silence.

  “It starts fifty-one, thirty-two, then the blank, which I got. But why’s it twenty-three?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Would I call if I did?” I say. “I just want an explanation. Can you give me one or not?”

  “Not without proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “You saw one of my envelopes. I wanna see one of yours. And the math sheet.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Stay right there.”

  For once I’m glad Randall lives close. I wasn’t when we carpooled to soccer for four years. But it’s 5:13, and I need to be home by 5:30. In case I’m late, I record a message and put my tape recorder on my parents’ bed. Then I ride my bike with my backpack weighing down my shoulders. I should’ve pulled out my books first.

  I ring the bell, but the oaf won’t let me inside without an envelope and the math sheet. I dig them out, flash them like a secret code, then slip the math sheet back into the envelope.

  He cracks open the door and reaches his hand out. “Lemme see.”

  I hold the envelope closer. He snatches it and lets the screen door slam. While he’s inspecting the string clasp and the FOR YOUR EYES ONLY ink stamp, I fling my backpack off the porch, behind some bushes. I don’t need his grubby hands to snatch that, too, just to annoy me.

  He opens the door wide enough to let me in. I try not to gawk at the inside of his house. I expected a bed of nails and other torture chamber devices, but there’s an antique table with a fringed lamp and a soft couch with an old-fashioned quilt. And his mom. I forgot he had one.

  Randall walks me straight to her. “Mom, you remember Travis Raines. Travis, you remember my mother, Janice Denvie.”

  What kind of weird alternate universe have I entered? She gives me the nicest smile and comes to shake my hand.

  I hold mine out and give hers the type of firm handshake my dad taught me. I remember to look her in the eye. And I can. She’s short. Size-wise, there’s hope for me yet. Or maybe Randall’s parents adopted him from some giganto mutants.

  Randall leads me upstairs.

  “Are you adopted or something?” I ask his back.

  “No,” he says from the top step. “My mom’s from Alabama. They’re polite down there.”

  “I don’t mean that.” I pull even with him. “She’s short.”

  “So are you.” He leans his forearm on my shoulder.

  I duck under and make him go off balance. Serves him right.

  We go into his room. Or his shrine. We step over his St. Louis Rams rug and past his display of signed footballs. He tosses my envelope onto his dresser and lowers his oafness onto his Rams bedspread, perfectly spread. If his whole room looks like it jumped from a sports museum, why’d he toss Kip’s cap instead of swiping it for his collection?

  It’s 5:20. I have seven minutes. “Let’s just do this,” I say, leaning against his dresser.

  “I don’t know if I should,” he says. “You got rules, didn’t you?”

  “There’s nothing in the rules about explanations after we figure out the answer.”

  “Then how’d you get the answer?”

  I explain.

  “Cool.” He tosses up a Nerf football. “So why do you thi
nk we’re doing this?”

  It’s 5:22. “I have an idea,” I say, “but telling you might be against the rules.”

  He shrugs like he’s buying it. “I guess we’ll know soon enough. Do you think we’ll beat Russert Middle School next game?”

  “Baseball?”

  “No, Candy Land.”

  I smile even though it’s Randall and even though it’s 5:23.

  He tosses me the football. Sort of soft. I toss it back, and he holds on to it. “I heard you might be soccer captain next year. That’s cool.”

  And you’re the reason I might not. But I don’t say that. No reason to provoke the enemy in his own territory. “Gotta keep myself out of trouble.” I give him a look to remind him it’s all his fault, but he’s not looking at me. “You going to soccer camp this summer?” I ask, hoping his nice mom will ship him off to some nice island instead.

  “Nope,” says Randall. “No more soccer. It’s all football all the time starting in summer.”

  We toss the football back and forth and back and forth until I hold on to it. “Randall,” I say, “if I don’t leave here in three minutes, my mom’ll kill me for being late. She’s not from Alabama, but she has her rules, too.” I toss the ball back.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been thinking. If I tell you, you need to give me something.”

  “Like Kip’s cap?”

  “You’ve got that all wrong.”

  “You’re not the one who took it off my desk?”

  “Yeah, I took it off your desk, but…Never mind.”

  5:25. “Right. What do you want?”

  “An insurance policy. If I need help, you give it to me.”

  “But I didn’t need help.”

  “I just want a hint for a hint.” He soft sails the ball into the mini basketball net hanging on his door. “I might not even collect.”

  That’s what worries me. Maybe he’s also smarter than me. 5:26. I make the deal and pull the number sequence from the envelope.

  51, 32, 23, 14, 25, 16, 17, 18

  “Look at it,” he says. “Look at the second digit of each number.”

  “I already told you they go in order. So what’s with the first digit?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Of all the digits in this problem, how many are ones?”

  I count. “Five.”

  “Very good. Now,” he says like a parent talking to a two-year-old, “how many twos?”

  “I get it. Fifty-one means five ones in the sequence, thirty-two means three twos then two threes, one four, and yeah.” I never would’ve figured that by myself. Who thinks I’m that smart? Only my parents, but they’re not giving Randall blue envelopes. “Thanks,” I say, getting ready to be civilized for his mom again. But I’m not feeling as uncivil anymore. I point to his football signed by old running back Marshall Faulk. “Cool.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I actually met him once.”

  “Cool,” I say again, and head for the door.

  Randall blocks it. “I need to walk you out. Manners and all.”

  My shoulders stand at attention again, ready to fight. “Then why aren’t we walking?”

  “Maybe I want that hint now.”

  He goes around me, grabs a blue envelope from his desk, then teases a blank piece of paper in and out. “Did you get this one yet? Did you figure it out?”

  I want to see if there’s something on the non-blank side, but I also need to get out of here. “Even if I did, you don’t want to waste your hint yet, do you?”

  He thinks for a second.

  5:27. “You know where to get me,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “I’m outta here.”

  I can make it home in three minutes. I fly down the stairs, Randall sticking behind me. He opens the door for me and I’m out. I climb over the porch rail and jump to the ground next to my backpack, lean over to grab it and—

  Really? I sit and pretend to tie my shoe, but I’m looking in the gap under the porch. I’m looking at three-gallon containers of school hand soap.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I hate Randall Denvie,” I say to Matti as we’re walking to lunch, my first chance to talk to her today.

  “What else is new?”

  I tell her about the soap.

  “Did you ask him why it’s there?”

  I look at her like she’s nuts. “We both know why it’s there. He stole it and has been laughing ever since they blamed me.”

  “You weren’t the only one they blamed.”

  “Still, if he doesn’t swipe it, Mrs. Pinchon doesn’t accuse me. So I hate Randall Denvie.”

  We get to our table and Matti spreads the news for me. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to slug the nose off that guy’s face.

  I almost went back there right away and did it, but he deserves more than a black eye.

  I look over at him, and he looks at me and lifts his fingers off the table, almost like he’s waving. I give him a stare that would freeze tongue-blistering pizza in ten seconds. He comes back with a stare that would freeze it in five.

  I lower my head in Matti and Kip’s direction. “We need to rat him out without the oafs knowing it’s us. After baseball? I’m un-grounded.”

  For the first time in forever, or two weeks, we ride to Kip’s after practice. Used to be, I’d pull peanut butter and graham crackers from his pantry, but Matti beats me there and grabs marshmallow fluff and chocolate chips with the grahams. “Quick s’mores,” she says. “I made it up when you were in detention and they were out of peanut butter.”

  I should’ve known Matti came here without me. I watch her open all the right drawers and cabinets while Kip feeds his cat. It’s almost like they’re married. If they start touching, I’ll scream. Unless I puke first.

  Thankfully they don’t hold hands or nudge each other. They don’t even sit on the same side of the table. Matti sits with me.

  “You’re absolutely positive,” she says, “that it’s the school’s soap and not theirs.”

  “Same brand. And parents would store it in a garage or basement, not under a porch.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t hide it in his room,” Kip says.

  “His room’s perfect,” I say. “A speck of dust couldn’t hide in there.”

  Kip gawks at me. “You were in his room?”

  Matti slugs me on the shoulder. “You were grounded, and you went to his house but not here or to mine?”

  How do I get out of this one? “It’s a boring story,” I start, hoping I can come up with any story. “I needed homework help.” Sounds good. “And if I sneaked over here and my mom found out, I’d still be grounded.” Even better. “But going to Randall’s is actually more punishment than staying home, and well…I’m not grounded anymore, am I?”

  “And you made it out alive!” says Kip.

  “But I’ll be re-grounded and dead if I don’t get home by five-thirty.” I point to the clock. It’s 4:24. “So, how do we get Randall?”

  Kip turns to Matti. “This is your department. You’re the one with the good ideas.”

  Thank you, Kip.

  “What if we send an anonymous note to Mrs. Pinchon?” she says.

  I shake my head. “Straight-on tattling. Anyway, what fun is that, Matti?”

  “I didn’t know this was supposed to provide our minimum daily requirement of hilarity.”

  “It’s not,” says Kip. “For once we want Randall to get caught, in public.”

  “Exactly. Caught. Tarred. Feathered. Completely humiliated.”

  “No,” says Kip. “Somewhat humiliated.”

  “No stripping him naked in the middle of the cafeteria?” I take a bite of my fake s’more and push my chair back. “Get your soccer ball. I can’t think when I’m sitting.”

  We take it outside and kick it around. We rule out hiring one of those planes to fly a banner around. Or putting up a billboard. Or hijacking the school announcement system.

  “What if we tell the TV news to film the soap so w
e have evidence?” Matti says.

  Kip kicks the ball to me. “That’s sorta like the idea we already rejected about making a reality TV show out of it.”

  “No. It’s not,” I say. “Evidence. That’s what we need. We need to take a picture of it. Maybe a close-up. Then one a little farther away. Then farther and farther until you can recognize his house and see the street address. Then we post the pictures at school.”

  “That’s genius, Trav,” Kip says.

  Matti shakes her head. “It’s almost genius, but there’s a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “Suppose someone did that to you and you felt cornered.”

  “Okay,” I say. “We’ll think of something else.”

  “What?” Kip says. “What’s wrong?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I stole the soap or not,” I say. “I would yell and scream that someone played a bad prank on me and they planted the soap to make me look bad.”

  Kip nods. “That leads to another problem, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “What if someone did plant the soap to make Randall look bad?”

  “If someone did,” I say, “they’d have ratted him out already.”

  We decide to take pictures, print them out, shove them under Mrs. Pinchon’s door, then let her figure out what they mean. It’s almost tattling, and it’s not exactly fun, but we have nothing else.

  One problem. How do we sneak up to Randall’s front porch and take the pictures when no one’s looking? Correction. How do I sneak up? I’ve been elected.

  CHAPTER 25

  Only one person can take the pictures, and three’s a crowd. Besides, it’s my problem. Like everything else.

  I want to get this over with, so I jump on my bike and they don’t stop me. By the time I get home to grab the camera, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. It’s still snitching, I could get caught, plus it doesn’t feel right. If I change my mind, I can always do it tomorrow. Today I can use the computer! I can look up Maria Von Trapp from the puzzle.

  Curry settles next to the desk. She’s crunching her biscuits and I’m hitting the keys, and it’s a great combination of noises.