Artifacts

by Pete Catalano

  I cracked up. “Almost? They told you I left for school and you still stayed for breakfast?”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Mouth said, “but your mom made me. I really had to eat and run with your dad sitting right there staring at me, waiting for me to finish.”

  “What the heck are you doing at school so early?” Crunch asked.

  “I slept here last night,” I told Crunch. “I read on the Internet that if you’re younger than fifteen, you grow an inch for every night you spend sleeping in your school.”

  “Really?” Crunch whispered, unbelievably excited that he had been told such a secret. “Oh, my gosh. If I live here for a month, I’ll be like seven feet tall! If I live here for a year, I’ll be over thirty-four feet tall!”

  “You should do it,” Mouth said. “Imagine being able to look down on all these knuckleheads who’ve been smashing you for all these years. Tank’s a perfect example.”

  Crunch nodded so fast I thought his head was going to fall off.

  “What are you talking about?” Tank yelled at Mouth.

  Mouth cracked up.

  The bell rang before Tank smashed anybody, even though I knew he wanted to.

  “Hey, we need to meet in the cafeteria later,” I yelled.

  Standing by our lockers was always like a launch pad. No matter what time of day it was, it didn’t take long before the crowds built to such a level that you could just jump out in the middle of them and be swept in various directions.

  The bell for first period rang and I was already late for gym class.

  Mr. Butkus, the gym teacher, didn’t like me. Running across his basketball court after class had started was going to make him like me even less … as if that were even possible.

  Cutting through the locker room, I looked out onto the court and saw the class running laps. Waiting until the first half of the pack passed me, I made a mad dash and slipped into the middle of them.

  The moment the door bumped closed, Butkus’s ears perked up. His head turned around slowly as if he was on a hunt.

  He sniffed the air.

  “Jackson Murphy is in the house!” Butkus bellowed, the sound bouncing off nearly every surface in the gym.

  “In the house!” Mr. Durkin, the assistant gym teacher, yelled moments later.

  Mr. Butkus was one of those freakishly monstrous, born-to-be-a-gym-teacher type of guys with his Popeye arms and peanut head. Durkin was his yappy little Chihuahua of an assistant, repeating everything he said seconds after he said it. Short, round, black hair, dark eyes, he always wore a red button-up shirt and black sweatpants. The kids all called him Jerkin … mostly behind his back.

  Except for Tank. Tank always called him Jerkin to his face.

  Butkus was the other teacher I didn’t care for at the school. Butkus and Bartholomew. And from what I can remember, they both started at the school around the same time.

  “Sorry, Mr. Butkus,” I apologized, with as little feeling as possible.

  I just kept running with the others, hoping it would blow over.

  But it didn’t.

  By that time, everybody had stopped running laps. They were milling around and staring at us, waiting for Butkus’s explosion.

  “Sorry doesn’t help,” Butkus bellowed.

  “Doesn’t help.” Durkin repeated, waving his hand and snapping his fingers.

  “Sorry doesn’t get your arms the size of my arms.”

  “The size of his arms.” Durkin said.

  “Or the head the size of a peanut,” I muttered.

  “Or the head the size of a pea— ” Durkin started, then realized what he was saying. “The size of his arms”

  Butkus stared at Durkin, who shrugged and took a few steps back.

  “Anyway,” Butkus said. “Be in my office after school and we will continue this discussion.”

  “But I have to be in Bartholomew’s classroom right after school,” I blurted out.

  He stopped and thought for a minute. At least I think he was thinking.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Butkus said

  “That’s very dangerous,” Mr. Durkin said quickly.

  Butkus stared Durkin into silence. “Be in my office before the start of last period, Mr. Murphy. Then you can still meet Mr. Bartholomew after school as you had originally planned.”

  “Originally planned” Durkin piped up from the back of the gym.

  I thought that was really fair. “That sounds—”

  “Keep running!” Butkus shouted.

  The class began to run in whichever way they were facing as they were listening to Butkus yell at me. “In a line! Together!”

  Finally, we all moved as one and circled the gym with Butkus standing in the middle of the court, one foot propped up on a wrestling mat like it was some kind of trophy animal he had just shot.

  The faster I ran, the more I realized there was something weird about Butkus, Bartholomew, and this entire day.

  And it was getting weirder.

  Chapter Eight

  As the second to last bell rang, I ran back to the gym to find out my punishment for being late. I knew he was going to make an example of me; I was just hoping it wouldn’t be something too terrible or even worse, too embarrassing.

  The only advantage I had was that Butt-Kiss was a meathead and easily confused. I need a distraction, I thought. If I could get him focused away from me and onto something that made him even angrier, then I might be able to get out of there without any problems.

  Bursting through the doors and into the gym, I saw Butt-Kiss in the weight room working out. Jerkin was standing right by his side, counting reps, and praying he didn’t make a mistake.

  “I’m here, Mr. Butkus,” I called, stepping into the room and waiting for him to finish.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here on time,” Butt-Kiss said.

  “A good thing,” Jerkin repeated.

  “I ran all the way here,” I said.

  “You should have done some of that running earlier this morning,” Butt-Kiss said. “By the time we’re done, you’re going to say I wish I wasn’t here.”

  “I wish I wasn’t here,” Jerkin agreed.

  This was it, I thought. My distraction.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Why … not … what?” Jerkin asked.

  “You just said, ‘I wish I wasn’t here’ and I was just wondering why you’d say that?”

  “I did not …” Jerkin protested.

  “Don’t you like Mr. Butkus?” I asked. “Didn’t he get you your job?”

  “He … he did … and I’m grateful,” Jerkin stuttered.

  “You don’t like me?” Butt-Kiss questioned him.

  “Of course, I do,” Jerkin said. “I didn’t say …”

  “You did,” Butt-Kiss said, turning his attention to Jerkin. “I heard you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jerkin apologized. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Do you always say things you don’t mean?” I asked.

  “I never say things I don’t mean,” Jerkin said.

  “Then you did mean that you wish you weren’t here,” Butt-Kiss barked.

  “Wait.” Jerkin grabbed his head like he was having a massive headache. “What?”

  Butt-Kiss was furious … and I was on the right track.

  “Why do you have to be at Mr. Bartholomew’s classroom after school?” Butt-Kiss asked.

  “For extra credit,” I said. “There are a few reading assignments …”

  “It’s not right for kids to read.” Butt-Kiss twisted his face like he’d bitten into something terrible. “Soon they start getting ideas and even thinking.”

  “Thinking.” Jerkin sneered. “Who needs kids thinking?”

  “I only have a few minutes before my next class,” I said. “What’s my punishment?”

  Butt-Kiss paced up and down the court. His chest puffed out, and his chin raised like hi
s entire body was filled with hot air.

  “Your punishment will be simple.” Butt-Kiss said.

  “Simple,” Jerkin snarled.

  “It’s more a request, really,” Butt-Kiss said.

  “A request …”

  “I think I would prefer …” Butt-Kiss said.

  “He would prefer,” Jerkin confirmed.

  Butt-Kiss glared at Jerkin. “That you no longer say ‘Mr. Butkus is a stupid gym teacher.’”

  “Mr. Butkus is a stupid gym teacher,” Jerkin repeated as usual.

  “Mr. Durkin,” I reprimanded him. “Why would you say that out loud? Mr. Butkus is standing right here.”

  Jerkin was confused. “Wait! What?”

  “Durkin, did you just call me a stupid gym teacher?” Butt-Kiss asked.

  “Butkus, I would never!” Jerkin shouted.

  As the two of them circled each other, I took a few steps back toward the door. The moment I slipped back out into the hallway, I heard Jerkin scream … and his voice faded as the door closed tightly behind me.

  “Whew!” I said, leaning back against the door.

  I looked up at the clock. There were three minutes to make it into my next class, and forty-three minutes before I could creep outside of Bartholomew’s classroom, finding out what extra credit he had planned for Braverman.

  As the final bell of the day rang, I was out of my seat, through the door, and into the middle of hundreds of kids racing for the exits.

  Skidding, skating, and skirting around a few hundred kids pouring out into the hallway, I made my way toward Bartholomew’s classroom. At the very last moment, I evaded, avoided, and finally dodged another hundred coming from the other direction.

  Racing down the last hallway, I picked up speed just in time to see several carts filled with folding chairs being shoved out in front of me. With my eyes closed, I dove over one of the shorter carts and landed on the hard tile floor, sliding the remaining ten feet to the edge of Bartholomew’s doorway.

  Lying flat on my stomach, I raised my head up to see if anyone else had seen my crash. With the coast clear, I checked to make sure nothing was broken before crawling toward Bartholomew’s door.

  Hearing Bartholomew’s voice coming from the hallway behind me, I army-crawled into the open classroom door and waited.

  As he stormed past me, I jumped to my feet and stepped to the edge of the doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” Bartholomew said, sweeping into the classroom and taking his seat behind his desk. “As you can see, there are a number of magically amazing, awe-inspiring stories around you that have captured the hearts of children around the world …”

  How many teams does he have out there looking for these things?

  “I have agreed to create a display at a local library,” Bartholomew continued. “I’ve planned on filling it with ‘faux,’ fun, imagination-soaring artifacts matching many of the individual fairy tale characters you see before you. I am looking for ideas that will allow us to take the various treasures you find and relate them directly to the stories. If you fill those display cases for me, Marcus will pass English and be able to run … amuck … with you this summer.”

  ***

  I waited until Braverman and the others left the classroom. As they marched past me, I could see, once again, his head smoking, trying to figure out where to get seventeen artifacts to fill Bartholomew’s displays. I could also see that same stupid list we were given, flapping in his hand.

  Once it was quiet, I walked into the classroom and closed the door.

  “Seriously!” I said to Bartholomew.

  “Well, Jackson, you have made yourself much more conspicuous as of late.” Bartholomew sneered.

  “Conspicuous?” I asked.

  “It seemed much kinder than annoying, even though that word may have been far more accurate,” Bartholomew chuckled, amusing himself greatly. “You were present early this morning to hear my little conversation with the Bravermans. Did you and your fellow hooligan camp-goers commandeer a passing school bus this morning to drive you to the front doors?”

  “How many teams of middle schoolers do you have looking for the artifacts?” I asked him. “Are they really for a display?”

  “Teams?” Bartholomew sniffed. “Don’t be absurd. Middle schoolers don’t work in teams. They are self-absorbed, miniature … people, with not much else on their minds besides video games, Legos, and cell phones. They walk sleepily through this world seeing how far they can get by doing as little as they can.”

  I was frustrated. I didn’t like talking to Bartholomew and I especially didn’t like talking to him when he was only going to abuse me without offering any answers.

  Shaking my head, I tried to figure out what to say when I noticed this perfect, shiny, bright red apple sitting at the very edge of his desk.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Lunch,” he said, not even looking my way.

  “Where did you get ‘lunch’ from?” I asked.

  He turned to me and smiled with a broken little grin. I sensed he had a story to tell.

  “Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “one of my students was kind enough to drop it off, anonymously, of course, so it would be here to greet me when I arrived this morning.”

  I got a really bad feeling about that apple.

  “As fascinated as you are with fairy tales,” I said, taking a few steps toward it, “are you really going to eat some mysterious, red, shiny apple?”

  Bartholomew picked it up and rolled it around in his hands as he stared right at me. “Why, yes. I am. Every … last … bite!”

  He opened wide and crunched into the apple, taking a huge piece out of it, chewing it slowly, with the biggest grin.

  It wasn’t there for long.

  Bartholomew’s eyes bugged out. He wrapped his hands around his neck and as his mouth opened, tiny bits of apple and spittle came sputtering out.

  Then he dropped off the chair and onto the floor.

  “Oh, gosh,” I cried.

  I ran toward Bartholomew, sliding on my knees, to see if he was okay.

  “Bartholomew!” I yelled over and over, louder and louder.

  Finally, his eyes opened with the tiniest slits.

  “Jackson, what happened?” Bartholomew whispered.

  “You took a bite of that stupid apple to prove an even stupider point,” I said.

  “I proved that I’m not quite as smart as I had hoped.” Bartholomew smiled.

  “How many teams of middle schoolers do you have out there looking for your artifacts?”

  Bartholomew’s eyes rolled back, but he regained consciousness for a moment.

  “Ten.” He chuckled. “Monsters much like yourself who are not sure what they’re looking for … or why.”

  “What are they looking for?” I asked.

  “Artifacts for a fairy tale display.” Bartholomew coughed. “Don’t you listen, Jackson?”

  He’s the same old Bartholomew, even as he’s taking his last breath.

  “Why are we looking for these artifacts?” I asked, hoping he’d finally tell me the truth.

  “Because the artifacts are not all faux.” He sneered. “There is one that is a key.”

  “A key to what?”

  “Treasure, Jackson.” Bartholomew laughed, his eyes rolling back once more as he fought to stay awake. “Treasure beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Treasure?” I asked. “You’re telling me you’re having all of us hunt for fairy tale treasure?” I didn’t get an answer. “Bartholomew, who left the apple?”

  He gasped with a start. Almost as if he had drowned and finally caught his breath again. “Be careful of the boys, Jackson.”

  “Which boys?” I asked. “There are fifty of them that you have running around town.”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “The Lost Boys, Jackson … The Lost Boys.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The Los
t Boys?” I repeated. “How is that even possible?”

  He was gone. Resting, hopefully … not dead.

  I was frantic. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

  Oh, how stupid, I thought. Of course, he’s going to stay here!

  Running out of the classroom, I looked for someone … anyone … who could help. I didn’t think Bartholomew was dead, but I couldn’t be sure. What I was sure of, though, was that he should have never bitten into that stupid apple.

  Racing down one hallway and then another, I was shocked. Most of the time, you couldn’t take one step in the hallways without running into someone. Now, it was a ghost town. For the first time in the history of the school, there was nobody, anywhere.

  I have to dial 911, I thought.

  Digging around for my phone, I found my pocket empty. It must have popped out when I slid across the floor to help Bartholomew.

  Now I was going to have to go back to his classroom to call 911. That’s probably what I should have done in the first place.

  Racing back, I made a couple of very sharp, hairpin turns, barely staying on my feet as I cut the corners a little too close. I slammed into some open locker doors, slid under others, and then made a last ditch, run-as-fast-as-I-could race to the classroom door.

  When I turned the final corner, I saw one of the skateboard kids from the cafeteria dragging Bartholomew out of the classroom.

  “Hey!” I yelled, loud enough for him to hear me and mean enough to make him stop.

  Startled, he dropped Bartholomew in a heap.

  Bartholomew moaned when he hit the floor, so I knew he was still alive.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled, running straight for him.

  “Touch!” the boy yelled without taking his eyes off me.

  The sound of his polyurethane skateboard wheels popping over the grout lines echoed through the hallway, coming closer and closer as I raced to get to Bartholomew before the kid got to me.

  As I reached for Bartholomew, Touch grabbed my arm and stared into my eyes.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look away.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, softly. “On your way to the gym?”