We Hold These Truths

by Andrew Clements

  Her answer had shocked him, and as Mrs. Sinclair opened the workroom and showed them where they’d be hiding out, Ben had had trouble paying attention. Because there were all these people—dozens, maybe hundreds of serious, careful people—who were already starting to treat the school like it was dead. It reminded him of a nature program he’d seen, where a fallen zebra got torn to pieces and carried off in different directions by lions and hyenas and jackals.

  And now, lying on the carpeted floor underneath a table, hidden behind cardboard packing boxes and stacks of books, with Jill and Robert sound asleep nearby, that image of the zebra came to haunt him again. He couldn’t remember a moment when he’d felt more uncertain, or more alone.

  No . . . that wasn’t quite true. The afternoon when his mom and dad had told him they were going be separated? That was worse. But this was a close second. He hated thinking about that huge pack of predators, circling around the school, nipping, biting, getting ready to rush in for the kill. Ben shivered at the thought.

  I can’t just lie here, not until two a.m.—no way!

  Because that was Gerritt’s plan—get inside, hide in a safe place, lay low until Lyman and Wally were asleep, and then sneak up to the third floor and figure out how to “climb aloft.”

  Ben turned carefully onto his back and lit up his phone again. All the pictures he’d been looking at this afternoon on his iPad were also on the phone—the complete photographic record of their hunt for the safeguards. The pictures were hard to see on the little screen. Jill’s mom had brought their backpacks and given them to Mrs. Sinclair before the concert, and his was under the table, down near his feet. So his iPad was close. But turning onto his back had made Jill stir, and he didn’t want to risk disturbing her rest just so he could have a bigger screen to look at.

  He scrolled through all the pictures, one by one, not fast, not slow, just letting his mind roll along with the flow of the past twenty-six days. And where there were gaps in the pictures, his mind filled in the other events—like the day after school when that sleazy real estate lawyer had come to talk to his mom . . . or when he’d sailed down to Duxbury and back with his dad over Memorial Day weekend. So much had happened.

  He had some great pictures of Jill. Robert too; lots of good shots of Gerritt. But the pictures he looked at the longest were the ones of Jill—until he noticed that was what he was doing.

  When he got to the last of the pictures, the ones he’d taken today, Ben checked the time again—eleven fifty-eight, not even midnight. Two more hours.

  Ben pulled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

  He clicked on the first photograph and began again, scrolling through the pictures. This time, he forced himself to slow down, made himself look carefully at every picture, made himself think.

  If I go slowly enough, it might eat up a whole half hour. . . . It might even put me to sleep.

  Of the first twenty pictures or so, about half of them were shots of the pages of the big book about the building of the school, the one with the great drawings the carpenter had made. Except on the phone screen, all of John Vining’s drawings were ridiculously small.

  This is nuts. . . . The book itself is only thirty feet away . . . and getting over there without waking anyone up? That would be a worthy test of my ninja skills!

  Except . . . what if Lyman or Wally walked past on patrol?

  Nah—not gonna happen. And anyway, it’s so quiet, I’d hear them and have plenty of time to hide. Plus, I’ll be out and back in less than ten minutes!

  Before he moved a muscle, before he even decided to actually give it a try, Ben pictured each motion, each step, every inch he’d need to travel. And then he began.

  Turning very slowly onto his left side, he reached out with one hand and pushed against the large box Mrs. Hinman had placed in front of the table he and Jill were under. The cardboard sliding on the carpet made a loud hiss, so he stopped, let the silence settle, and began again, this time barely moving the box.

  After he’d shifted the box about eighteen inches, he began to move himself, slowly rolling over onto his stomach. Then it was like doing a slow-motion push-up, until he was on his hands and knees, inching backward out from under the table. After a few minutes, he was clear of the box and the table, so he stood up, reached down, and slowly slid the cardboard box back where it had been. Then he tiptoed over to the workroom door.

  The door was a problem—knobs and latches often made sharp, mechanical clicks, which would almost certainly wake Robert or Jill. But he got a good grip on the doorknob, pushed gently on the door, and at the same time turned the knob ever so slowly. The door opened noiselessly.

  Jill had given him Mrs. Sinclair’s key to the workroom, so he was able to shut the door from the outside, slowly let the knob turn back into place, and set the latch. Then he eased the key into the lock, turned it to the left, turned it back to the upright position, and then gently removed it. All locked up again.

  The red glow of the exit light let him see where he was going, and the lamps along the harbor walk cast a glimmer through the windows that faced east. But he could have found his way to the reference area in complete darkness. That’s where he and Jill had had their first big confrontation with Lyman—when she had stared right into the guy’s face and told him that he was unpleasant to look at, and that, yes, he had this deep, creepy voice, but that he wasn’t scaring her one bit! The memory made him grin into the darkness. That girl had guts!

  Ben was glad to see that the old book hadn’t been packed away yet, but it did have a yellow tag on its spine—its new home was going to be in the town library. He pulled it slowly off the shelf, went to the north wall of the room, and settled on the floor behind a tall bookcase. He lit up his phone. It wasn’t a great reading light, but it was all he had, and as he opened the book he also checked the time on the screen: only twelve seventeen. He started to groan, but stopped and scolded himself.

  Yeah, two o’clock is still a long way off, but so what? When would I ever get this much time to actually read a great old book? So shut up and enjoy it!

  He began at the beginning, with the foreword—which he never did. The foreword of a book always seemed like a nuisance, something to skip past on the way to the real beginning.

  But this foreword? It was about the story before the story of the school. Duncan’s father, Samuel Oakes, had come to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1681, married, and he and his wife had six children. But only three survived beyond childhood, two boys and a girl.

  Duncan was their youngest son, and he was remarkably intelligent. At age sixteen, he was sent to Harvard University to study to become a minister, but after graduating, he chose to become a merchant, and then a trader, sailing a very small boat up and down the coast of New England.

  When Ben turned the page, there was a fine black-and-white print of that great life-size portrait of Captain Oakes, the one that was hanging on the wall up in the third-floor hallway.

  Ben angled the light from his cell phone so he could get a better look at the captain’s face. He had a strong, squared-off chin, a high forehead, and his eyes seemed to be looking far off into the distance—and what he was seeing brought a small, satisfied smile to his lips. And, of course, the captain was standing on the quarterdeck of a ship, in full uniform. Aiming the phone so it lit up the whole picture, Ben noticed that the captain held something in his right hand—maybe a chart? It wasn’t a very clear print. And there was something else in his left hand, mostly hidden—

  Oh—it’s a dagger . . . no, more like a pistol . . . or a boarding axe . . .

  Several things happened almost at the same moment. Because as Ben saw something remarkable right there in the book—so remarkable that he gasped—at that exact instant he heard loud voices, the library door burst open, and someone turned on all the lights.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Last Word

  Ben was as far from the main door as it was possible to be, without diving out a windo
w on the north wall—which is what he wished he could do. Because if Lyman or Wally were to take a simple stroll around the library, there was no way he could hide.

  But they walked straight toward the workroom. And they were arguing, too, almost yelling at each other.

  “I don’t care one bit what you think you’ve been told to do!” Lyman shouted. “Because I know what I’ve been told to do, and I’m the one who’s still in charge here. You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Wally snapped. “What I’ve got is that you think you’re the big cheese, just like always, and I’m sick of it. And if you hadn’t interfered with my plans for the flood, we’d be anchored in Kingston harbor right now, sipping our drinks. But no, you had to have it your way, and you messed up! And everyone knows you messed up, because I told them so, all the higher-ups at headquarters. They all know what a joke you’ve made of this whole thing, letting a pack of little creeps run circles around you!”

  Both men were standing next to the glass-walled workroom now, and Ben had a sudden panic attack. Had he moved anything other than that box when he’d snuck out of there? And was that box back in its right place? He was almost certain everything was okay—almost. . . .

  Because the stacks of books and the cardboard boxes had been arranged very carefully in case this very thing happened—so that if the janitors came in and looked around, the kids hiding under the tables would be completely hidden from view.

  Jill! What’s she going through right now?

  Ben imagined her waking from a deep sleep to the sound of those men arguing, with all the lights blazing—and then to realize that he was missing!

  Crouched near the floor behind the bookcase, Ben peeked between the stacks. The lights in the workroom were off, so Lyman had a high-powered flashlight aimed at the lump hidden under the tablecloth on the center table—the sextant box. The light almost made the thin paper disappear, but not quite. There was still no way to tell what was under there.

  “All right, all right,” Lyman said, waving one hand dramatically. “You’re the big genius, and I’m the goat. But I know for sure that the kids you’re calling ‘little creeps’—who are all at least six times smarter than you or I will ever be—they were excited about that thing this morning, and somehow they got the librarian to lock it up for them. So go ahead, Mr. Genius. You were bragging to me about your successful life as a master criminal and how you learned to pick any lock on earth, right? So here’s your big chance: Pick this one!”

  Ben saw Wally pull a small packet from his shirt pocket, and then bend low over the doorknob. From thirty feet away Ben heard little metallic clicks and scratchings, and several times he heard Wally muttering and swearing under his breath.

  And he saw Lyman, leaning against the glass wall beside the door, clearly enjoying himself as Wally got more and more frustrated.

  Abruptly, Wally straightened up and banged both fists against the door. The whole room shook, and Ben cringed, imagining how Jill must have jumped at that noise. And Robert, too.

  “Why are we even messing around with this stuff?” Wally fumed. “I’m just gonna go grab a pipe wrench and twist that doorknob clean off!”

  “No, we’re not doing that,” said Lyman with quiet authority. “That’s exactly what everyone is waiting for, a chance to catch us damaging the place before the school year is up—which would violate the terms of the agreement, which could provide grounds for a delay, or fines, or even a breach-of-contract dispute. And for all we know, that’s the whole point of this little secret treasure they’ve got on display there—to get us to do something stupid. So let’s go, okay?”

  Ben was surprised to hear how Lyman’s tone of voice had changed.

  “Look, Wally, I’m doing my best here. And I’m sorry if it seems like I’m tough on you. But I kid you not, I am just as tough on myself, probably even tougher. So let’s go get a cold drink, and calm down, and get some rest. In less than twenty-four hours, the deal will be settled, and then we’ll get on a plane, go catch up with my boat in Maryland, and spend a month in Jamaica. Does that sound good?”

  Ben was puzzled—it sounded like Lyman was talking to a little kid, not a grown-up. . . . Then he got it! Lyman was worried—worried that Wally was cracking up! He was trying to keep a lid on things just long enough to get the job done.

  Wally smiled a little. “Yeah, it does sound good. But I’d still love to take a hammer to that door, just for the fun of it!”

  “I tell you what,” said Lyman, putting an arm across Wally’s shoulders as they walked toward the exit. “I’ll talk to the demolition foreman and see if he’ll let you have first swing at the front doors of the school—go at ’em with a twelve-pound sledge hammer! How would that be, huh?”

  “Sweet!” said Wally. “But I just hope I get to see the look on the face of that smart-mouthed little girl when I bust ’em down!”

  The lights went off, the door was closed and locked, and Ben heard the men talking as they walked along the hallway, headed around to the janitor’s room.

  Ben didn’t think it was a good idea to just rush over and tap on the door of the workroom, not immediately. So he crept to the reference section and put the book away.

  He thought he could hear Jill and Robert whispering, so he worked up his courage and went to the door. He got out the key, but then stopped. Because he knew he was going to get yelled at by both of them—or at least whispered at.

  He didn’t stick to the plan.

  He could have been caught.

  He could have ruined the whole night, could have completely trashed their last chance to find the final safeguard.

  All true.

  Then Ben smiled. He walked back to the reference section, slid the big book off the shelf again, and carried it to the workroom.

  He whispered at the door, “Hey, it’s me—open up.”

  Because after Jill grouched at him, after Robert informed him what an idiot he was, Ben knew that he was going to have the last word. He had news—big news.

  Because in that picture of the painting up on the third floor? Just as Wally and Lyman had arrived, he had realized what Captain Oakes was holding in his left hand.

  It was a sextant.

  CHAPTER 23

  Art Meets Life

  Even after hearing Ben’s big news, Robert was still furious, and even in whispers, his anger came through loud and clear.

  “What’s the use of even having a plan if you’re not going to follow it? It’s no good, Pratt, it’s no good!”

  Ben hissed right back. “So you’re saying it would be better if I had just stayed under the table, slowly going crazy, instead of following up on a good idea—and finding an important clue? All for the sake of your perfect little plan? Is that what you’re saying? Really? Really? ”

  Jill was fed up. “Quit it, both of you! It’s possible, you know, that two people can be right about a different view of the exact same thing, and this is one of those things. So just let it go, both of you!”

  The next hour and a half felt like an eternity to Ben, but neither he nor Jill had the nerve to suggest a change to the timing Robert had worked out. But finally it was two o’clock, and Gerritt whispered, “Okay, let’s go.”

  The trip up the north stairwell was smooth and silent, apart from the occasional creaky step. All three of them went very slowly, keeping their footsteps as close as possible to the wall. And each noise was heard only once, because Jill and Robert avoided the squeaks that Ben discovered.

  Ben breathed a little easier when they stepped out into the third-floor hallway. The janitor’s room was on the west side of the school, exactly opposite from their destination—the tall portrait of Captain Oakes, which was less than halfway along the east corridor.

  What he hadn’t counted on was the heavy white plastic that completely covered the painting now—it had been tagged, intended for the new school over on the west side of Route 128. Up close, Ben saw that it was industrial-strength shrink-wrap—the sam
e kind used to cover boats for the winter.

  “Here,” Robert said, “I’ll deal with that.”

  Ben smiled, because apparently, Gerritt truly had planned for everything. He opened the blade of a tiny Swiss Army knife and neatly slit the plastic near the wall on the right side, starting as high as he could reach and continuing down to the bottom corner of the frame.

  “Okay, Pratt,” he said, handing Ben the knife, “I’ll boost you up—slit along the whole top and then down the edge to where I started.”

  Ben followed instructions, and when he finished, the covering peeled away and dropped softly to the floor.

  All three of them stood back, and Jill had her headlamp on now.

  Ben had passed this painting several times a day for his whole sixth-grade year, but he felt like he was really seeing it for the first time. The black-and-white print in the old book had come nowhere close to capturing its spirit—there was so much life and action up there on the wall.

  First of all, he could see there was a brisk breeze blowing—twelve to fifteen knots, judging by the size of the seas off beyond the rail of the ship, and also judging by the angle of the deck below the captain’s feet. In the bright midday light, he saw that slight wisps of spray had left beads of moisture on the black leather of the captain’s boots. But just as Ben had noticed in that reproduction in the book, it was the captain’s face and especially his eyes that were the focal point of the whole painting.

  Looking at the book earlier, Ben had guessed correctly—it was a nautical chart that Captain Oakes held in his right hand. But close up like this, he recognized the shoreline. It was Edgeport, and on the map there was a mark, precisely where the school was located—it was the same chart he had seen lying on that map table in the underground room!