by Henry Clark
“It’s like being on a field trip every day of your life.”
The cart passed through a gate and we were on Pertwee. Frankie leaned forward and surveyed the street. “We’re looking for a building that was called the Armory on an old map. It probably isn’t called that any longer, but it should be a big, squat, forbidding-looking dungeon of a place with too few windows and possibly a moat.”
Tom and I looked at each other.
“That would be our school,” I said. “But there’s no moat, except on the south side after a lot of rain. Make a right.”
Two minutes later we were in front of Ambrose Bierce Middle School. As far as I knew, it was the only other Ambrose in Freedom Falls.
“This is where you go to school?” Frankie sounded like she couldn’t believe it.
“I know,” Tom agreed. “It doesn’t have a Ferris wheel. But it’s not all that bad, once you get used to it.”
The central part of the building looked like a Greek temple dedicated to one of the shorter, chunkier Greek gods, while two modern wings stuck out on either side like a fake arrow through the head of a birthday party clown. I had never really appreciated how awful it looked.
“How do we get in?” asked Frankie.
“In?” I responded, dumbfounded. “You think your father hid the Shampoo in our school?”
“Shagbolt,” Frankie muttered, restarting the cart and slowly cruising the parking lot. “My father had the Armory circled on a map, which he foolishly left lying around in his safe. Look at the place. It’s built like a fortress. It’s not going to burn down, a tornado would bounce right off it, lightning is probably scared of it. What better vault to hide the Shagbolt in? The carnival passes through Freedom Falls every year; it’s on our loop. He can’t keep it with the carnival; he would be afraid one of us might be tempted to use it.”
“Use it?” asked Tom. “Just what kind of jewelry is it?”
“Is it a bomb?” I asked.
“What would a carnival need with a bomb?” Frankie snorted. “We get along very well with the other carnivals, even Cooger and Dark’s, and they’re our main competitors. I assume the doors are locked?”
Much to my surprise, I heard myself saying, “One of the science-lab windows is only held shut with duct tape.”
CHAPTER 6
Caught in the Banned Room
Isn’t this breaking and entering?” Tom asked a few minutes later as he played the beam of his flashlight across the science lab’s tables. We had resealed the window after wiggling in. “If we get caught, Puma Ma will ground me for life.”
“You don’t have to be here,” Frankie reminded him. He made a face but stopped complaining.
“We’re students,” I said quietly, opening the door a crack and looking down the hall. “We’re allowed. We’re just here later than usual.”
The hall was empty. I opened the door fully and stepped out, Frankie and Tom close behind. Most of the overhead lights were off, giving the place a spooky feel, as if at any moment the coffin-like lockers lining the walls might open and release thirsty vampires. Some of the locker vents smelled of the undead.
“So where do you think this Shagbolt thing might be?” I asked Frankie.
“Do you have a band room?” she replied.
“What? A room where we’re forbidden to go?” asked Tom.
Frankie gave him a look. “Not banned room. Band room. If you can’t hear the difference, you could never speak Romani. The Romani languages depend a lot on the tone of voice. Where does the orchestra practice?”
“In the band room,” I answered. “Behind the auditorium. This way.”
I took the lead and tiptoed to the end of the hall, passing a cheerful poster for the Drama Club’s upcoming play, The Crucible, which showed a bunch of terrified people cowering in a corner. We made a left, and then slowed when we heard voices.
“Is this the only way to get there?” whispered Frankie.
I nodded. The voices were coming from the principal’s office.
“You should have fired Brody outright,” I heard a man’s voice say. “Never mind this suspension nonsense. I don’t want to come back here tomorrow for the emergency board meeting. I work late; it was hard enough getting here tonight.”
“I appreciate your being here,” said another voice. It sounded like Clyde McNamara, our principal. “It was the input from you four that led to my decision. If there’s a vote tomorrow, you’ll all pretty much have to be here. I lean with the majority.”
I poked my head in the doorway and looked across the secretary’s office to McNamara’s inner office, where the door was ajar. No one was looking out; no one would notice if we scurried by. I started past the door, then altered course and slipped inside.
Tom sputtered, but I felt him and Frankie come in behind me. We all crouched behind the secretary’s desk just outside McNamara’s door. I had to hear what was going on.
“The man’s a menace,” said a woman’s voice, and I recognized Cynthia Moon, president of the PTA. “The other day I caught my Tommy trying on a buckskin jacket with ridiculous fringe—whose fault could that possibly be? I yanked it off him and told him no son of mine was going to dress like it was the eighteen sixties, and he said I was so ignorant, he was dressing like it was the nineteen sixties, peace, love, don’t-trust-anyone-over-thirty, and he looked directly at me as he said it. Eighteen sixty, nineteen sixty; what difference does it make? He was dressing outside his own time period. Couldn’t he see how wrong that is?”
“My boy got beat up because he showed up in school dressed like a Tom Sawyer character,” said the man I had first heard speak. Meaning he was Billy Osborn’s father.
“Your son got beat up,” said McNamara, “because he showed up in school wearing a dress.”
“A nineteenth-century dress.”
“What’s this play the school is putting on?” asked a whiny new voice. “The Crucible? What’s that about?”
“The Salem witch trials,” explained McNamara.
“So you’ll be encouraging our children to put on more nineteenth-century outfits.”
“Seventeenth century,” said McNamara. “The witch trials took place in 1692.”
“You should find a newer play,” said Whiny. “This is where it starts, in theater and the arts. Brody was probably in school plays when he was growing up. Find a play that takes place now, or have the kids perform this Crucible thing in modern clothing. We have a wide selection of contemporary tees at reasonable prices over at Mordred’s.” So Whiny was Millicent Mordred, owner of the town’s largest clothing store.
“The Crucible in T-shirts and tennis shoes?” McNamara said thoughtfully. “Possibly.”
“The important thing here is that Brody is gone as of tomorrow. He’s a bad influence. He gives the kids the impression they can dress however they want. We can’t let him encourage unnatural behavior.” This was a new voice, but one I recognized immediately. It was Quentin Garlock, the substitute teacher who would be taking over my dad’s classes. He had been a sub for as long as anyone could remember. He always said that the thing he wanted most was to become a full-time teacher.
McNamara sniffed. “Does anybody here smell skunk?”
I wanted to jump up and shout, “YES, and its name is Garlock!” Instead, I inhaled deeply. McNamara was right; there was the tiniest scent of polecat in the air.
Tom shifted position and the top of his head grazed the underside of a clipboard that was jutting out over the edge of the desk. The clipboard fell, hitting the floor with a resounding clatter.
“What was that?” demanded Mordred, her voice shooting up an octave. “Is it a skunk? I’m wearing Donna Karan; don’t let it near me!”
Garlock was first out the door, followed closely by McNamara. They were just in time to see us scramble to our feet and make a run for it. We hit the hall, veered to the left, and raced toward the auditorium.
I hit Nooby Wilson’s locker hard as I passed it, and Nooby’s lock
er, which was notorious for springing open because of the incredible amount of junk in it, burst open and debris flew out, blocking the way. Garlock’s foot came down on a poorly resealed blister pack of salami slices and he skidded, going down on one knee. McNamara tripped on him. They went sprawling as we dived through the open doors of the auditorium.
“Stop this instant!” McNamara bellowed from the hall as we pelted down the aisle and jumped on the stage. “You have no business being here after hours! Stop, or I’ll call the police!”
The only lighting in the auditorium was the four red EXIT signs above the doors, and by the time McNamara and Garlock followed us in, we were hidden in The Crucible set. From behind a seventeenth-century judge’s bench, we watched the two men begin searching for us between the room’s many rows of seats.
“You can’t escape!” McNamara shouted. “Come out now, and it will only be a month’s detention! Otherwise, I’ll suspend all three of you!”
He had only seen us from the back. I was pretty sure he didn’t know who we were; he just assumed we were three students from his school.
“Whoa!” Garlock slipped sideways and then caught himself by grabbing McNamara’s necktie.
“What is wrong with you?” McNamara bellowed in a strangled voice.
“Sorry! There’s salami on my shoe!”
I nudged my friends, and we moved to the back of the stage, dodged behind a curtain, and slipped quietly through a door. Tom turned on his flashlight, and we could see rows of chairs and music stands.
“This is the band room!” Frankie whispered excitedly. “Where do they store the instruments?”
“Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?” asked Tom. “Once McNamara sees we’re not hiding behind the seats, this is the next place he’ll look!”
“There!” I said, pointing to a huge metal cage at the end of the room. It was a cube made from chain-link fencing. Frankie dragged Tom by the flashlight until they were both standing in front of the cage’s padlocked door.
Frankie positioned Tom’s arm so he was aiming the light at the padlock. Then she grabbed the lock with one hand and shook her charm bracelet into the palm of the other. She fiddled with one of the charms, stretched it out like a telescoping radio antenna, and inserted it into the lock.
“I hope you two don’t believe all the things you may have heard about Gypsies,” she said as she fished around in the depths of the lock.
I had heard nothing about Gypsies, other than that they traveled a lot.
“Like what?” asked Tom.
“Like some of us are experts at getting into places we’re not supposed to. I’m guessing you’re both too smart to believe such nasty ethnic stereotypes.” The lock sprang open. “Am I right?”
Tom and I stared disbelievingly at how easily she had picked the lock.
“Am I right?”
“Oh, yes!” I chirped.
“Absolutely!” agreed Tom.
She dropped the lock and opened the door, and we followed her in.
Two rows of metal shelving ran parallel down the length of the cage, ending in more shelving along the back. Musical instruments—some in cases, some not—filled the shelves from top to bottom. Violin cases were everywhere. A bass drum loomed above us in an overhead rack, like the boulder that had chased Indiana Jones.
“You think the Shagbolt is hidden in here?” I asked incredulously. It didn’t look like the kind of place you’d find treasure, unless maybe you were John Philip Sousa.
“If you were going to hide a tree,” said Frankie, walking slowly down the aisle, glancing at every shelf, “would you hide it in a desert, or in a forest?”
“Uh… forest?” answered Tom, like he thought it might be a trick question.
“Yes,” Frankie said approvingly. “Always hide things with other things that look like it.”
“The big drum is broken on one side,” I said, looking up. “Maybe inside it?”
“Too small,” replied Frankie. “But if it’s broken, it hasn’t been used in a while. There’s a lot of dust on it. I wonder…”
She reached up and pulled a wooden wedge out from behind the drum. The drum rolled along parallel rails toward the rear of the cage, where it
A. struck the neck of a violin that stuck out in its path from a high shelf, which
B. spun the violin around,
C. knocking a cup full of brass mouthpieces off the shelf into the bell of a tuba on the floor below, causing the tuba to
D. tip over and
E. hit the first of three saxophones on stands so that the saxophones went down like dominoes, the last one
F. hooking the strap of a guitar case that dangled down from a higher shelf,
G. pulling the guitar to the shelf’s edge, which
H. pushed a triangle off the shelf to
I. swing on a string,
J. hit one of the shelf supports,
K. and go ting!
“There!” said Frankie, sounding pleased.
“Your family treasure is a triangle?” Tom squawked.
“Some people might see a triangle,” Frankie conceded. “I see an arrow pointing to the back of that shelf.”
She strode to the rear of the cage and brushed the triangle aside. Tacked to the wall at the back of the shelf was a dusty banner declaring REGIONAL CHAMPIONS 1974. Frankie lifted the banner and exposed a niche in the brick wall. From the niche she pulled a long wooden box with brass locks and latches and a leather suitcase handle. She turned to me and jammed the box against my chest. I crooked my arms to support it.
“Is this it?” I whispered.
“Yes!”
“That was amazing!” declared Tom.
“What?” asked Frankie. “Oh, the thing with the drum and the saxophones? I’m sure that was just a coincidence. We would have looked behind the banner eventually.”
She used a small key on her charm bracelet to unlock the latches and raised the lid.
I don’t know what I expected to see. A king’s scepter covered in diamonds? A knight’s sword encrusted with emeralds? A solid gold toilet plunger?
“It’s a trombone,” said Tom.
“Yes,” conceded Frankie. “But it’s not just any trombone. This is the Camlo Shagbolt. Shagbolt is an old-time word for trombone.”
“You said it was jewelry,” Tom said accusingly.
“No. I talked about jewelry, and you assumed it was. If I had said it was a trombone, you would have thought I was crazy.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I’m thinking you’re crazy now.”
She lifted the instrument carefully out of the velvet lining of its case. It didn’t look like a modern trombone. The metal was so tarnished, it was almost black, and its tubing had extra twists and turns, along with two awkwardly positioned piston valves, as though it had started out to be a trumpet and then changed its mind.
“Is it valuable?” I asked.
Frankie shrugged. “How much is your freedom worth?”
“GOTCHA!” announced Quentin Garlock, and his shout was followed by the sound of a padlock snapping shut.
Tom blinded him with a light beam, and Garlock threw a hand in front of his face.
“So you’ve got a flashlight and I don’t,” he jeered. “We’ll have the lights on in a jiffy and then we’ll see who we’ve got. GET THAT OUT OF MY EYES!”
Tom aimed his beam elsewhere. Garlock sang out, “Clyde, I’ve got them! They’re in the band room!” McNamara stumbled through the backstage door.
“Good work! Who are they?”
“Too dark to tell. I snuck up on them. Locked ’em in!”
“Why aren’t the lights on?”
“I’m not sure where the switches are. They weren’t by the stage entrance.”
“They’re by the hall door,” muttered McNamara, and headed that way. Frankie nudged Tom and me with the Shagbolt and got us to squat behind an upright piano. I didn’t see the point. We were caught.
The lights
came on and McNamara came over.
“Where’s the key?” he asked Garlock.
“What key?”
“The key to the lock!”
The silence said Garlock had no idea where the key was. My guess was it was with Ms. Jampole, the orchestra teacher.
McNamara sighed. “Go back to my office. There’s a key ring in the middle drawer of my desk. Bring it. One of those keys should fit.”
Garlock took off. McNamara walked from one side of the cage to the other, trying to get a look at us. The piano, plus the two kettle drums next to it, pretty well blocked his view.
“Who are you?”
I opened my mouth to tell him, since he was going to find out anyway, but Frankie squeezed my elbow. “Shh!” she hissed.
“You have no business being in this school after hours,” McNamara informed us. “We’re going to get this thing open, find out who you are, call your parents and, possibly, the police. It’s silly of you to hide behind that piano. Step into the light so I can see you.”
I started to rise, but Frankie hauled me back, shaking her head.
“This is trespassing,” McNamara continued. “I can accuse you of vandalism. I can accuse you of theft. But I won’t do any of those things if you agree to tell no one what you overheard in my office. Private meetings are my right, but there are those who would object. I don’t need that headache.”
My heart sank. My father was already in trouble. Now his son had broken into the school. It would make him look even worse and make it so much easier for the school board to fire him. I wasn’t happy with the way he dressed, but he was my dad.
I really didn’t want him losing his job because of me.
Frankie put the trombone’s mouthpiece to her lips, slid the slide out three inches, and blew.
An elephant farted.
“Now, that’s just rude,” said McNamara.
In rapid succession Frankie played five more notes, all of them sounding like various animals experiencing gastric distress. Possibly a moose, followed by two cows and a bull, then the elephant again. The notes were nothing you would ever hum, unless you had a job tuning whoopee cushions.
“Stop this insolence at once!” barked McNamara.
