The Whites of Their Eyes

by Andrew Clements

  But when Robert clapped his hands, the rat skittered away. There was a lot of movement off in the darkness.

  “They won’t be a problem,” Robert said. “Rats’re incredibly smart—they’ve got to have a way out of there, probably already left. C’mon, I’ll go in first.”

  Jill stayed put. “Not me . . . no way.”

  “Listen,” Ben said, holding up a hand. “I think they’re gone.”

  Robert leaned low, his hands on the baseboard.

  It was completely still. Then suddenly, vreet, vreet, vreet!

  Jill jumped a foot, and Robert jerked his hands back like he’d been shocked.

  Ben had to laugh. “Sorry—it’s my phone. I set an alarm for eight forty-five. We’ve got to leave.”

  “Leave now? Are you kidding?” said Robert.

  “I know it stinks,” Ben said, “but I’ve really got to be home by nine.”

  Jill nodded eagerly. “Me too.”

  Ben resisted teasing her about the rats. He looked at Robert. “Really, I’m sorry to leave when we’re so close here, but I promised my dad I’d be home on time—we’ve got to set up at dawn tomorrow. I mean, I guess you could stay and look around on your own. . . .”

  Robert hesitated, as if he just might do that. But he shrugged and said, “Nah, that’s okay. I can wait.” He turned and trotted up to the ninth stair. “You two shove on that door, and I’ll lock it into place.”

  They pushed, and as Robert turned the baluster, he said, “It moves a lot easier now.”

  The three of them left the stairwell and hurried to the northeast door. Ben took a peek. It was almost dark outside. A few people were on the harbor walk, but they were well north of the school.

  “All clear,” he said, and pushed the door open.

  They walked over to the seawall. After the dark stuffiness of the stairwell, the ocean breeze was like a cool drink.

  “So . . . what?” Robert said. “How about we come back tomorrow night—same time, same place.”

  Jill shook her head. “We’re going to a family reunion in New Hampshire. I won’t get back till late Monday.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “I’m away too. My dad and I are sailing down to Plymouth, unless the forecast changes.”

  “You doing anything this weekend?” Jill asked Robert.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “you know, tons of family stuff. Well, I should get going too. Guess I’ll see you Tuesday.” He hesitated a moment, looking out across the water. “Listen, thanks for letting me in on all of this. I owe you—both of you.”

  “I’m glad you joined up,” said Jill.

  “Me too,” Ben said. “We made lots of progress, and you really helped.”

  “Thanks. Well, I’m going thataway,” and he pointed west.

  Jill smiled. “See you Tuesday.”

  “Oh,” Robert said, “and if there’s anything really cool on Lyman’s phone, I’ll text you.”

  “Great,” Ben said, “except I won’t get any messages till I get home. When we take the boat out, it’s no-phones-allowed. But send stuff anyway, okay?”

  “Will do,” and Robert set off on the path that cut through the grounds toward School Street.

  Jill and Ben walked south along the shoreline. Ben saw the lights of a dozen or so small craft out on the bay, and close in, a big yacht with furled sails motored toward the harbor, its green and red running lamps swinging fore and aft. Little clanks and bongs drifted in from the bell buoy at Buzzard’s Rock, two miles away. It was cool and calm, a perfect night for walking. And thinking.

  Except the thinking ruined the walk.

  Ben kept wondering, What if we fail? By next May, construction work on the theme park would be almost done, counting down to their huge grand opening. Memorial Day weekend on Barclay Bay would never be like this again, not ever. If they failed.

  Jill must have been worrying too. Crossing Adams Street, she said, “I think having Robert around improves our chances, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” Ben said. “And just so it’s out of the way once and for all, you were right about him, and I was wrong.”

  She looked sideways and smiled. “Please, say that last part again, only slower, and with feeling.”

  He laughed, then stretched out both arms like an opera singer and cut loose. “And I was wrooooong! How’s that?”

  “Sweet!”

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it—because it’s entirely possible I will never need to say that again.”

  “Yeah, right—in your dreams!”

  They stopped at the corner of Jefferson Street. Jill’s family lived in a condo building just uphill from the harbor walk.

  “I’m actually sort of proud of you, Benjamin.”

  Ben snorted. “Yeah? And what’s the punch line?”

  “I’m not joking,” she said. “I saw what you did, when the three of us were there in the workroom tonight.”

  “What?” he said.

  But Ben knew what she was talking about.

  “It was when Robert was doing his high-tech show with the phones. Right in the middle of it, you stopped trying to be the big chief. You let him be the smart guy—even though he’s completely conceited most of the time. That was nice.”

  Ben felt a blush climbing up his neck. He was glad it was almost dark.

  He swallowed hard. “I—I was just telling the truth. That guy has to be some kind of genius, y’know.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but what you said and the way you said it, I could tell it meant a lot to him. I think he’s been jealous of you for a long time.”

  “Gerritt?” Ben snorted. “What’re you talking about? Why would he be jealous of me?”

  “Lots of reasons,” said Jill. “For example, last Saturday? If it had been you who’d flipped a boat over, would he have jumped into the water to save you? I think Robert wonders about that. I know I do. . . .”

  Ben didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Steering it back to what had happened at the school, he said, “Well, anyway, I’m glad I told him how impressed I was with that cell phone stuff. And you’re right, I think it meant something to him. Did you see his face, when I said that?”

  Jill shook her head. “I wasn’t looking at his face. I was looking at yours.”

  Then she said, “Good night, Benjamin. Have fun sailing with your dad . . . and when he yells, ‘Ready about!’ be sure to duck.”

  “Right. See you Tuesday.”

  Chapter 8

  The High Ground

  “Did you remember to duck?”

  “What?” said Ben. “Oh—right, coming about. Yeah, I ducked every single time, see?” He pointed at his head. “No bumps, no bruises.”

  “Good. Although”—Jill paused and smiled—“a good whack on the head might be what you need, knock some sense into you.”

  “Yes . . . but what if I hadn’t ducked, and that whack on the head had made me even crazier? Think of my poor dad, stuck on a small sailboat with a crazy person.”

  “Right.” Jill nodded. “I know how that feels.”

  Ben laughed and shook his head. “So, what? You’ve turned into a comedian now? I miss the good old days when all you did was snap and snarl and yell at me.”

  Jill narrowed her eyes. “Watch your step, Pratt—those days could come back any second.”

  They’d reached the corner of Haddon Lane. It was Tuesday morning, another perfect spring day—the fourth one in a row. All around them other kids were also headed for school, and everyone was walking as slowly as possible. The long weekend had been a sweet taste of summer vacation—wonderful, but cruel. Nobody wanted to go back.

  When he and Jill had met up to walk to school, she’d told him about her family reunion up at Lake Winnipesaukee. Then he’d told her a little about his sailing trip down to Plymouth. Ben felt like he’d been away for a month—a welcome break from his life onshore, and an especially welcome break from Captain Oakes and his school.

  Still, as much fun as t
he sailing had been, he’d been aware every second that his mom wasn’t onboard. He felt pretty sure his dad had noticed too.

  Not that they’d talked about that. They hadn’t really talked much at all. Both down the coast and back, it had seemed more like March than May—a fifteen-to-twenty-knot easterly wind, with a two-to-three-foot swell. The sailing had been intense, and the Tempus Fugit had lived up to her name—they’d flown.

  By dusk on Sunday they had anchored in Duxbury Bay just north of Clark’s Island. After squaring away, they’d had supper onboard and then dropped into their bunks, exhausted. They’d talked a little, but mostly about the boat and the rigging and the weather—sailor talk. Nothing personal. Nothing about the family. Nothing about Mom.

  And that made Ben wonder how things were between Jill’s parents. Her mom was totally against the new amusement park, and her dad, a businessman, had just bought two thousand shares of stock in the Glennley Group. He knew Jill was worried . . . maybe he should ask her about it.

  But Ben was glad when Jill picked up the conversation and took it in a completely different direction.

  “Did you read Robert’s text about all the names and numbers he found on Lyman’s phone?”

  Ben nodded. “First thing I did when we got back to the marina. Pretty amazing. I bet we can figure out who a lot of those contacts are, and we might be able to use that stuff somehow—maybe to distract Lyman or something. I can’t wait to see the printouts Gerritt made.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  They crossed Washington Street, and as they walked onto the school grounds, Ben stopped short and pointed. “Look—the stakes are gone again! Did you . . .”

  Jill held out her palms for inspection. “I’m innocent. Actually, the school board had all of them removed last Friday—didn’t you hear about that? They were afraid kids would run into them and get hurt, which would mean lawsuits. No more surveying stakes until the construction fences go up.”

  “Which means no more stakes ever,” added Ben, “if we do our job.”

  “Speaking of our job, there’s Robert. I guess he got the text you sent him last night. Look, he’s pretending we don’t exist. He’s not a very good actor.”

  It was true. Robert was walking their way, heading toward the front door. He was working very hard to look like he wasn’t paying any attention to either of them. Ben smiled and looked away.

  He had sent Robert a simple text late Saturday night:

  Don’t hang out with Jill and me at schl.

  Ur the keepers secret weapon.

  Robert had replied instantly.

  Got it—stealth bomber

  Ben looked up as he went in the front door. On the door frame to the left, he saw one of Lyman’s little black sensors. The enemy was close. Lyman was already inside somewhere, actively opposing them.

  Even so, Ben felt good as the three of them walked into the front hallway together. If they could keep Lyman in the dark about Robert, it would help level the playing field. Actually . . . it might be more like taking control of the high ground during a battle.

  Ben and Jill turned left at the office. She had homeroom on the third floor, and he had to go up there and get something from his locker. Ben glanced over his shoulder and spotted Robert. He was walking the other direction, headed for the north stairwell. His homeroom was on the third floor too, but he was clearly trying to avoid being anywhere near them—probably afraid he might blow his cover. Ben smiled to himself. Seemed a little silly to take things that far. But then again, there was nothing silly at all about controlling the high ground. Because every day from now on was going to be a battle.

  Controlling the high ground . . . it was a concept that he had learned during his very first snowball fight. Being up higher mattered.

  There was heavy traffic in the south stairwell, and as he trudged slowly upward, Ben thought about that.

  He had never really studied warfare, but he’d read about plenty of historical battles, both on land and at sea. Out at sea, there was no high ground. Sailing on the wide ocean, the old warships won battles by being larger, faster, and having bigger cannons. Even then, it was tough to get an advantage. Sometimes you could sneak up on an enemy ship at night or through a fog, but usually an opponent saw you coming from miles away. To win, you had to outsail the other captain, get into firing position, and shoot your cannons first—BOOM!

  A land battle was very different, and controlling the high ground was vital. Gravity was a powerful force. From up above, your cannons could fire a lot farther than your enemy’s. But controlling the high ground didn’t guarantee a victory—you still had to be smarter or stronger or better prepared, and it helped to be all three.

  Back in October he’d done a social studies report on the Battle of Bunker Hill. The story had made a strong impression on him.

  In June of 1775, Boston was under siege. British ships controlled the harbor, pounding the city with their cannons. Then English generals ordered soldiers to land and take control of some high ground by the harbor—Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill.

  But patriot spies heard about the attack, and the Americans rushed to the top of Breed’s Hill first. There were about seven hundred men with no training, lousy weapons, and not enough ammunition. They dug ditches and put up low walls

  of dirt.

  Two thousand Redcoats started marching up the hill. They thought the rebels would just run away some of the British didn’t even load their rifles. An American officer gave that famous order: “Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes!”

  The British got closer, and the colonists waited and waited—and then fired. They made every shot count.

  However, the British attacked three times, and the high ground didn’t save the colonists. They retreated from the top of Breed’s Hill, and American casualties were bad—140 killed, and more than 300 wounded. But British losses were huge, the most soldiers lost during any single battle of the whole Revolutionary War: 226 dead and 828 wounded.

  Those terrible losses made the British change their plans about taking control of Dorchester Heights—which was the really important high ground above Boston. And several months later, who took command of the Heights? General George Washington—and then American cannons started pounding the British. The patriots pushed the English completely out of Boston, and finally went on to win the whole war.

  Ben counted off the last five steps up to the landing. Winning America’s independence hadn’t been easy. And this war, today? At the moment, he felt outnumbered and outgunned. Victory seemed a long way off.

  When they came out of the stairwell onto the third floor, Jill said, “You’re dangerously quiet all of a sudden—what’re you thinking about?”

  Ben shrugged. “Warfare, tactics, espionage, casualties—fun stuff like that.”

  He stopped at his locker and began dialing the combination.

  “Do you have a plan for today?” Jill asked.

  He nodded. “Yup. I plan to eat two pieces of chocolate cake at lunch. And we’ve also got to come up with a way to check out that new space.”

  “You mean, the rathole?” said Jill.

  Ben smiled as he pulled the locker open. “Yeah, that’s what I—”

  The next word stuck in his throat. He stared, his eyes wide.

  “What?” said Jill. She moved and looked over his shoulder.

  A scrap of paper was taped onto the inside of the metal door, a note scrawled in pencil:

  Not bad–for an amateur

  Ben wasn’t looking at the note. He was looking at the tape. The paper was stuck to the locker door with black electrical tape, six pieces of it, and each piece was a circle about as big as a penny. He pointed at one.

  “Lyman found the fake sensor.”

  “I don’t care what he found!” Jill hissed. “Nothing gives him the right to open your locker—you have to report this!”

  Ben pulled out his little camera and snapped a picture of the note. Then he reached into his loc
ker, got a book of Jack London stories, and slapped the door shut.

  “You’re just leaving it there?” she said.

  He nodded grimly. “To remind us what we’re up against. Keep thinking about our next moves, okay? Especially since he knows we’re onto his alarm system. See you in math.”

  Ben walked off quickly before Jill could study his face.

  He went down the long hall, past the compass rose, past the tall portrait of Captain Oakes, past the cache where they’d found the big key and the list of safeguards. He turned the corner and hurried into the north stairwell—and there was Lyman on the third-floor landing, tall and thin, leaning on the handle of a dust mop. When he saw Ben, his long face broke into a crooked smile.

  Ben rushed past him onto the stairs, taking the first flight two at a time.

  “Whoa there, young fella,” Lyman called out, “easy on those steps. It’s gonna be summer real soon—be a shame to start it in a plaster cast.”

  Ben gave the man a dirty look as he rounded the next newel post. He slowed down, but not much.

  Ben was glad the kids around him couldn’t read his mind, and he was glad Jill wasn’t there—she would have seen the rage. With each step down and down, his thoughts got bloodier.

  You scum-bucket! You wanna play dirty, is that it, Lyman? Open my locker and grub through my stuff? How about I slash all the tires on your truck—and break your windshield, too? And after you get the windshield fixed? A big can of white paint, right through the glass! And listen up, creep—I know where you live. Stuff’s gonna happen over there! Rocks through the windows, dog poop on the front steps, and in your mailbox? Rotten eggs, dead fish, squashed skunks—surprise! And I almost forgot, smart guy—we captured your cell phone! So get ready for round-the-clock bombardment! ’Cause now I’m gonna call your mommy at Sun City in Arizona, and I’m gonna call her at three in the morning every day until she has to get a new phone number. How’s that? And I’m gonna prank-call your boss, and your boss’s boss, and your boss’s boss’s boss! You messed with the wrong kid, dirtbag—and now it’s war!