I stretch my arm to the counter next to her. “You want me to say it? Fine. I didn’t like how you called me gross to your mom yesterday. There, I said it. You happy now? I’m growing ovaries.”
Laney throws her hands in the air. “It was a fib—so she wouldn’t think we were going at it in the bathroom. Of course I don’t think you’re gross.” Her arms fall to her sides. “I can’t believe you’d be so sensitive about that, considering how conceited you are.”
What an insult. She just called me sensitive.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t have you risking my reputation with slurs like that.” I toss my backpack over my shoulder and swagger out the door to school.
Behind me, Laney mumbles, “Like I said … ”
The rest of my day drags like it’s trapped behind a crossing gate, waiting for a mile-long train full of boring to pass. Everything moves slower than Solomon’s lecture on purity until 3:00 p.m., when I can finally meet Laney at Founders Hall. She’s waiting near the door when I get there.
Laney’s jaw drops.
“What?” I check my fly.
“You’re on time.” She snickers. “Were we supposed to meet at noon or something?”
“Funny.” I walk past her, hiding my smile, and push open the double doors.
“Did you bring the clue?” she asks.
“Of course. Do you think I’m an idiot?” I dig inside my backpack, praying I remembered to pack it. Score. I yank it out and hand it to her.
She does some visual reconnaissance before she unfolds the note and begins reading: “More secrets abound where the last one was found.”
We’re standing by the plaque in the atrium, exactly where we found the message yesterday. We pivot around, scanning the space for envelopes or anything obvious. Nothing.
Laney lifts the sheet and continues reading, “Be wise. Memorize all you learn in this game. For riddles and half-clues will come up again … A pediment proverb is your next clue.”
The space between her eyes crinkles. “Do you know what a pediment is?”
“It’s the triangular space above a window or entrance,” I say, all casual. “It’s usually part of the gable of the roof. A lot of times, it’s decorated and stuff.”
“Oh.” She seems impressed. I’m totally glad I memorized all that until she tilts her head and asks, “Did you look that up?”
“Umm, well, yeah.”
“It’s a good thing, because I thought a pediment was some kind of stone.”
The atrium is a dome, but the ceiling above the entrance slopes down. We quickly locate the pediment above us, directly over the front doors. The mural painted inside the triangular space depicts different Singer School landmarks. A sentence stretches across the bottom: THE SECRET TO LIVING A WORTHWHILE LIFE IS REVEALED BY MAKING A POSITIVE DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS.
“That must be our pediment proverb,” I say.
“Talan, I think I know this one!” Laney squints while she thinks. “I remember reading those same words somewhere recently—living a worthwhile life.”
Her eyes flash open. “Last night. When we were in here looking for letters to go with that second clue.” She bites her thumbnail and slowly spins around, surveying the atrium walls. Then she drops her hand and charges to the opposite end of the room.
When I catch up, she’s bent over slightly, examining an engraved plate underneath a painting on the wall. She points out the painting’s title to me—Living a Worthwhile Life. I take a step back to study the picture.
It’s a scene with Mary Singer lifting a small girl onto a horse. They’re both in riding clothes, and Mrs. Singer has three prize ribbons attached to the lapels of her jacket. A large trophy sits on the ground by her feet.
“What’s with the ribbons and trophy?” I say.
“Mary Singer was a champion equestrian.”
“I know, but what would she need those for when she’s teaching a kid to ride a horse?”
Laney scratches her forehead and stares at the trophy. “Aside from her husband, Mary Singer’s two passions were horses and children. Maybe Mr. Singer was trying to show that. The nameplate underneath says he commissioned the picture after her death.”
I look over my shoulder and read the pediment proverb out loud again. “The secret to living a worthwhile life is revealed by making a positive difference in the lives of others.” I turn back and see Laney running her fingertips over the portrait.
“So there’s a secret in here, huh, Mr. Singer?” she says. She leans close, tracing her fingers over every detail on the canvas. Her eyes scour every color and brushstroke. I stand back to see if I notice anything from a distance.
“Here it is! I got it!” Laney jumps up and pulls me toward the lower right corner. She points at the artist’s signature in the corner:
Maryalways Woreahelmet
She inhales sharply. “Mary always wore a helmet.”
Damn, it’s not a name at all. I lift my eyes and there it is—a helmet on Mary and one on the little girl. “Why would it say that?”
“I don’t know,” she answers, “but the nameplate says the artist was Tomas Vasquez. That’s definitely not the autograph for Tomas Vasquez.”
“But what would that have to do with the pediment proverb? Read the clue again.”
She lifts the paper and recites, “Be wise. Memorize all you learn from this game. For riddles and half-clues will come up again.”
I rub the stubble on my chin. “Maybe this picture is only half a clue. We sort of learned our lesson on that when we had to combine our separate envelopes to figure out the last message. Maybe the Sevens are telling us that these clues will be coming in pairs, too.”
“You know, I think you’re right. That’s brilliant, Tal.” Laney drifts toward the center of the room. “The letter said ‘more secrets abound where the last one was found,’ so the other half-clue must be around here somewhere.” Her eyes skim the walls as she turns in a circle. “Maybe it has something to do with a column again.”
“What did you say?” I shake my head and hit my ear like I didn’t hear her.
She moves closer and repeats, “I said there’s gotta be a half-clue in here, somewhere. Maybe in another column of writing or something.”
“No, not that.” I cup my hand behind my ear. “I missed what you said about me being brilliant.”
Her lips purse in a way that tells me I’m getting to her. “Brilliant,” she says, with a glint in her eyes, “and yet idiotic at the same time. I guess you’re multitalented, Michaels.”
“First you call me brilliant, and now I’m multitalented? I’m blushing from all your flattery.”
Laney rolls her eyes and walks away. She follows the wall around the atrium, her gaze traveling up and down and back to the paper in her hand. I head in the opposite direction to cover more ground.
A few feet away from the painting of Mary Singer is a large, framed photo of the Singer Board of Directors. Their clothes and hairstyles make it look like it’s the 1980s. I gaze at the grumpy faces of the board members and wonder what Mr. Singer meant by they lied.
The mat around the photograph has a rectangular cutout centered at the bottom. I crouch down to read the writing:
MAKING A POSITIVE DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS.
The Singer Enterprises Mission Statement:
Our purpose is to create value and superior energy products to benefit our customers, employees,
and investors, while giving back to the community by investing in schools, individuals, and
organizations that improve our world.
“Hey Laney, come here!” I wave her over. “It’s time for me to show off more of my genius.”
She comes over to where I’m half-kneeling on the floor. “Finally figure out how to tie your shoe?”
“You’re just jealous because I found this first.” I press my finger on the glass over the phrase MAKING A POSITIVE DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS. “It’s the exact same phrase as in the
pediment proverb.”
Her face lights up when she reads it. “Oh, wow. The wording is identical.” She lays her hand on the glass and stares into the photograph like she’s spying on the board members through a one-way mirror. “The secret to a worthwhile life is revealed by making a positive difference in the lives of others,” she recites. “That’s got to mean that the secret to that painting is hidden in this picture.”
Together, we inspect every inch of the photograph.
“Wait. What’s this?” I point to tiny gold letters that angle up slightly in the bottom right corner. “It’s the same gold color as in Maryalways Woreahelmet, but the letters are small and faded. It says … Numbers 35:17.”
“I don’t get it. What’s Numbers 35:17 supposed to mean?”
“No idea,” I answer. “Unless … don’t artists sometimes number their pictures?”
“In fine art,” she says. “Like when you’re printing limited editions of stuff. But not for a photo like this. But I’m sure it means something—that’s the same gold ink.”
I waver between the two pictures and think out loud. “The secret of Mary always wore a helmet”—I turn my attention to the photograph of the Board—“is revealed by Numbers 35:17.”
“Is there anything in or near these pictures with the numbers 35 or 17?” Laney asks.
We search around a bit, but there aren’t any numbers anywhere. I glance at the clock. “Lane, we’re out of time. I need to eat and get ready for my game.”
“Keep thinking about it,” she says. “We’ll brainstorm tomorrow, before the dance. Singer definitely hid messages, and someone wants us to find them.”
Nineteen
The next afternoon, Coach lets us out late from films and I dash home to talk to Delaney. I walk into the kitchen and Juan says, “Good game last night.”
“Thanks.” I pour a bowl of Frosted Flakes and poke my head into the family room. Empty. “Have you seen Laney?”
“Kollin is treating her to a mini-makeover for the homecoming dance. The cosmetology students are doing a fundraiser for the Vocational Department.”
Kollin. Laney may think LeBeau’s so great, but the Sevens chose me. That feels almost as good as the look on her face when I showed her the clue in the Board of Directors photograph.
The whole time I’m showering and shaving, I’m focusing on the clues, trying to come up with something else I can impress her with. Unfortunately, all the Adderall in the world can’t help me translate Numbers 35:17 by myself.
I plunk down in a chair in the study, sign onto a computer, and google Numbers 35:17.
And gentlemen, we have a winner. All ten results on the first page point to the same thing—a verse from the Bible:
Numbers 35:17 If anyone is holding a stone and strikes someone a fatal blow
with it, that person is a murderer; murderers should be put to death.
Holy shit.
Let me think. William Singer died in a fire following a blow to the head. But that can’t be it, because the half-clues were left by Mr. Singer before he was murdered. Also, the half-clue from the pediment proverb linked this verse to the phrase Mary always wore a helmet.
When it finally dawns on me, I jump up so fast that I nail my leg on the underside of the desk. I bend over, groaning and limping around in agony and ecstasy at the same time, because I now understand what Mr. Singer so desperately wanted someone to know. Pain burns my thigh and knee, but I don’t even care. I can’t wait to tell Laney.
I hobble through the halls and knock on her door to see if she’s back yet. Adrenaline and excitement have my heart racing.
She answers, “Just a sec.”
I’m totally pumped to tell her what I figured out when she opens her door and …
Laney stands there in a short, clingy red dress. Her brown hair hangs in soft curls over her bare shoulders and her doe eyes are widened even more by whatever makeover magic they performed on her. I can’t remember how to talk when she says, “What’s up?”
I can’t even remember what I came for because, well …hello … tight red dress.
I don’t want them to … I tell them not to … I practically scream don’t you dare … but my eyes refuse to listen to my brain. They trace a path from her spiky heels up her ridiculously long legs, over every curve and inch of thin material covering her, up, up, up, slowly riding the waves of her body with my eyes until they finally stall at the deep red lipstick on her mouth. My legs get wobbly and my body grows warm.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re as red as a tomato. Have you been drinking, Talan?”
She knows she looks good. I can tell by the smile crinkles at the corners of her lips and eyes. She gently sways her hips forward and back so the bottom of her dress wraps around her thighs, revealing even more leg. She plays with a lock of her hair and asks, “Do I look all right? Brandy Compton did my makeup.”
When she brushes something off the top of her dress, I don’t dare look. I might never speak again. I stare at her plump cherry lips instead and imagine us kissing. Getting red lipstick on my mouth and collar and neck and—
Laney interrupts my fantasy. “Mom hates it, of course,” she says. “She thinks it’s way too much makeup for me.” She leans over to fix a strap on her heels and my eyes wander. They bungee back into their sockets the moment she straightens up again. “I thought they did a good job. Kollin said I looked beautiful.”
Kollin. Damn. That’s right. Laney is Kollin’s girl. Those are Kollin’s lips to kiss, and Kollin’s lipstick to fantasize about.
Suddenly, I hate how amazing she looks.
She raises her eyebrows and smiles. “Well come on, what do you think?”
My words slip out thoughtless and stupid. “You’re …you’re wearing too much makeup.”
Her smile flatlines and her eyes go from flirty to moist. She slowly lifts her hand and touches her mouth with her fingers. She stares at me like I just fed her stuffed dolphin to a hungry shark. I want to take it back. I would if I could, but I can’t. I need to leave. Now, before I say something even more stupid.
I drop my head and walk out of her room.
Twenty
This dance sucks.
Taylor spent the entire dinner identifying the calorie content of every piece of food on our table. Which is only slightly more boring than the list she recited of physical activities she’d have to perform to burn off said calories. Who would have guessed it would take her an hour and fifteen minutes of Zumba to burn off the calories in the double chocolate layer cake they served for dessert? Not me.
Who cares? Definitely not me.
Everyone else is done and gone from the table, and Taylor’s still finishing her salad. Maybe if she’d stop calorie-obsessing and eat faster, we could dance off the lettuce and cucumber she’s been nibbling on for the last half hour.
She waves her fork in front of me. “Do you know why I chew this cherry tomato twenty times before I swallow it?”
“Because you’re so skinny, if you swallowed it whole, you’d look pregnant?”
She giggles and says, “No. But thanks for the compliment.”
Be nice, don’t roll your eyes, Michaels.
She finishes, “It’s because if you chew each bite twenty times, it makes the food more digestible. And by eating slower, you also burn more calories and eat less.”
I snatch her plate of forbidden cake and cut off a huge forkful, shoving it in my mouth. “Really?” I say with my mouth full.
“Yep. I read that on the Internet.”
I try not to choke as I swallow it down. I lean back and search the dance floor. Laney is slow dancing with Kollin, laughing and talking over his shoulder at some of her friends.
“You want to dance?” I ask Taylor.
“In twenty minutes. It’s best to let the digestive enzymes break down the fat molecules before you begin your exercise.”
Taylor seemed a lot more interesting last time I saw her. Of course, her mouth was attach
ed to mine and she wasn’t talking then.
When I look again, Laney and Kollin separate. Kollin heads toward the refreshment table and Laney walks out the door into the hallway where the restrooms are.
I jump up. “I need to use the bathroom,” I tell Taylor. “You stay here and … digest.”
She doesn’t even nod. She’s too focused on counting her chews. I trot around the tables and into the corridor in time to see Laney enter the bathroom. My brain scrambles to think of a way to explain why I keep impersonating an asshole whenever she’s around. I’m staring at my shoes and pacing outside the bathroom when Laney walks out.
“Can’t decide which restroom to use?” Her sexy, cherry-colored lips have shrunk to a blood-red dash mark.
Her mouth opens, but words come out of mine first. “You look beautiful, Laney.”
Her head tilts. She’s running my words through her bullshit detector.
“You really do. I swear.” I hate how timid my voice sounds, but I can’t seem to locate my testosterone. “I only said that thing before, the thing about the makeup, because … because I didn’t want you to get in trouble with your mom.” I fake a smile as phony as Kollin.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Listen,” I tell her. “That whole thing came out stupid. I’m sorry.” I’m rubbing my sweaty palms together so frantically, if I had some hand soap I could lather the whole hallway. “I just wanted to tell you that. I know I joke around easy enough, but I never seem to say the serious stuff right.” I look at the ground. “Like how great you look.”
I shove my hands in my pockets before I chafe them raw.
When I glance up, Laney’s face is relaxed with a full smile again. Her left eyebrow lifts. “God, you’re good.” She shakes her head and laughs. “No wonder you get all the hot girls. Lines like that make even me all tingly.” Nodding, she regards me skeptically. “You know, Michaels, if you decide to go to college, you could major in sweet-talking.”
Okay. Not the reaction I wanted, but at least she’s not mad anymore.
She circles around me to leave and I catch her elbow. “Wait.” I don’t want to be done talking to her. I don’t want her to go back to Kollin, and me to go back to Taylor, and for her and me to spend the rest of the night not being together.
Secret of the Sevens Page 11
