WHAT HAPPENS
IF THE BATTLE
BEGIN BEFORE YOU’RE READY?
YOU
LOSE!
SO . . .
“DONT’T FIRE UNTIL YOU SEE
THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES.”
FOLLOW BEN AND JILL
AS THEY UNCOVER THE TRUTH
BENJAMIN PRATT
IS RUNNING
OUT OF TIME—
and if the old Oakes School gets torn down by greedy developers, his hometown-by-the-sea will be changed forever. Good thing Ben and his friend Jill have found a secret weapon—a third Keeper. Who knew that a kid so annoying could be such a spy wiz? But that nefarious janitor Lyman has secret weapons of his own: a bag of high-tech tricks, plus some low-tech security measures that are simple but terrifying. These kids are smart, but can they outsmart Lyman and his new “assistant”? There’s history in the making here, all while the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking toward total demolition.
ANDREW CLEMENTS has written over sixty books for children, including the enormously popular Frindle, Troublemaker, and the Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School series. On the back flaps of the series’ first two books, Mr. Clements told us about his love of old things, and now adds: “And in that same home, as I scraped darkened varnish off a floorboard one day, my tool caught on something under the molding. I pulled, and out slid an 1862 Indian Head cent—a copper penny. And I thought, ‘How did this get here? Did it just slip from someone’s pocket and roll out of sight? Or did someone push it into that crack to stop a squeak . . . or did someone hide it there on purpose, a minimessage from the past?‘ I tucked that last idea away for later use, because that’s what writers do. I also tucked the penny away—I still have it. Some other incidents that prepared me to write this series happened near the rocky coast of New England. . . .”
ADAM STOWER has a rich imagination and loves fantasy and adventure stories. He studied illustration at the Norwich School of Art and Design and at the University of Brighton. He currently lives with his daughter in Brighton, England.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR
YOUNG READERS
SIMON & SCHUSTER • NEW YORK
Meet the author, watch videos, and get extras at
KIDS.SIMONANDSCHUSTER.COM
THE
WHITES
OF
THEIR
EYES
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
New York London Toronto Sydney New Delhi
Illustrated by Adam Stower
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Andrew Clements
Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Adam Stower
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
The text for this book is set in Garamond.
The illustrations for this book are rendered in pen and ink.
1211 FFG
First Edition
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4169-3888-0
ISBN13: 978-1-4424-6214-4 (eBook)
For Karl and Donna Hellman
—A. C.
THE
WHITES
OF
THEIR
EYES
Contents
Chapter 1: Direct Orders
Chapter 2: Schooled
Chapter 3: Day Off
Chapter 4: Rough Water
Chapter 5: The Weirdness Factor
Chapter 6: Genius at Work
Chapter 7: Recount
Chapter 8: The High Ground
Chapter 9: Inner Space
Chapter 10: Believable, Unbelievable
Chapter 11: Senior Advisers
Chapter 12: The Ones Who Showed Up
Chapter 13: Not So Sure
Chapter 14: History, Revised
Chapter 15: Red-Handed
Chapter 16: Connected
CHAPTER 1
Direct Orders
I must be crazy!
Benjamin Pratt had gotten the idea two hours earlier while he was sitting on the couch. He and his mom had been watching The Sea Hawk, a big, old-fashioned swashbuckler. The hero of the movie, Captain Thorpe, was unstoppable. Huge sailing ships blasted cannons at each other, pirates with pistols and cutlasses fought to the death, and Captain Thorpe was always right there in the thick of the action. Even at his most desperate moments, the man never lost hope. He risked everything again and again.
Yeah, Ben thought, but that was in a movie.
Because here he was in real life, risking everything at eleven forty-five on a Friday night. He was standing outside a door near the northeast corner of the Captain Duncan Oakes School, dressed in black from head to toe like some sixth-grade ninja assassin. His mom thought he was sound asleep in his bed. He wasn’t. He was about to commit a crime, about to become guilty of breaking and entering.
Well, not actually breaking and entering. He had a key . . . if he could only find the right one. He didn’t dare use his flashlight, and the energy-saving bulb in the grimy lantern beside the door threw more shadows than light—which was probably good, considering what he was up to. The key ring jangled as he tried key after key, and he was glad for the sound of waves, murmuring against the seawall seventy feet away. He tapped his tongue against the back of his front teeth—a nervous habit.
Jill was going to be mad. Nine days ago Ben’s whole life had been turned upside down, and Jill was the one friend he had turned to for help. She wasn’t going to be mad because he was sneaking into the school, but because he was doing it without her. Well . . . too bad. Had she invited him the other night, when she had pulled up all those surveying stakes from the grounds on the south side of the school? No.
Of course, if she had invited him, he probably would have tried to talk her out of it. And Jill might have tried to talk him out of going into the school too. But ever since Mrs. Keane had given him her husband’s keys, Ben had been dying to use them.
Dying to use them—that thought brought half a smile to his lips, but only for a second. It was a gruesome joke. Mr. Keane, the school janitor, had actually died just eight days ago. Hours before his death, he had made Ben swear to do all he could to save the Oakes School. Mr. Keane had given Ben a gold coin inscribed with these words: IF ATTACKED, LOOK NOR’-NOR’EAST FROM AMIDSHIPS ON THE UPPER DECK. The flip side of the coin read, FIRST AND ALWAYS, MY SCHOOL BELONGS TO THE CHILDREN. DEFEND IT. DUNCAN OAKES, 1783.
That command came from Captain Oakes himself. . . . So really, Ben thought, I’m not a burglar tonight. I’m one of the Keepers of the School, and I’m obeying a direct order from the founder.
The school needed defending. This building had stood next to Barclay Bay since before the Revolutionary War, and Captain Oakes had turned it into a school in 1783. In less than three weeks a wrecking ball was going to smash the
place to bits—a huge part of Edgeport’s history, destroyed in one day. And why? To construct a big, noisy theme park on the school’s oceanfront land.
Ben gritted his teeth at that thought. It made what he was doing tonight feel like less of a crime. Because it wasn’t like he was going inside to vandalize or steal. He was only going in to look, to search. There were secrets all over this building, things that had been lying hidden since the 1780s, things that just might be able to keep the school from being torn down—and keep the harbor from turning into a tourist trap.
“Stop that!”
Ben froze, then looked right.
A woman. Over on the sidewalk next to the seawall in front of the school. She was yelling at a little gray poodle—it was off its leash, running around in circles. The lady hadn’t seen him . . . but the dog might be dangerous.
Ben slowly moved right, away from the door and the dim light. He eased onto his knees, then stretched out flat in the shadows close to the wall. The doorstep was a wide granite block, but it was only about six inches high. Still, any cover was better than none. His heart was thumping, but he lay perfectly still, eyes pressed shut, trying not to breathe.
“Arf! . . . rrrrr . . . rrrrrArf!”
Ben had a dog, a little corgi named Nelson. He knew dog sounds, and that was the sound of worry—or anger. He opened one eye.
The tiny dog was streaking across the lawn, straight at him.
“ArrArrArr! ArrArrArrArr! ArrArrArrArrArr!”
It stopped inches from his face, lips curled, shoulders hunched, ready to pounce.
“ArrArrArr! ArrArrArrArr!”
Ben smelled the Kibbles on its breath. He imagined himself with itty-bitty bite marks all over his face, being shoved into the back of a police car.
“Noodles! Bad boy! You get back over here!”
The lady clapped her hands twice, and with one more angry “Arf,” Noodles trotted away, the proud watchdog.
The woman clipped his leash on and they left, walking south.
I should go home—that was Ben’s first thought once the coast was clear. He lay there, still trembling.
But really, what better time to search the school than right now? He’d brought extra flashlight batteries. He could explore for hours with no interruptions—no teachers, no schedules, and no Lyman.
Mr. Lyman.
This was the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend, so even if he didn’t get inside the school tonight, Ben was guaranteed three whole days of not having to deal with Lyman—which was a huge relief. Ever since Mr. Keane’s death, the new assistant janitor had been tracking him and Jill, trying to follow their every move. The guy was like a bad smell, the kind that gets stuck in your nose and stays there for days, weeks.
The thought of Lyman got Ben got to his feet. He scanned the harbor side for other late-night visitors. All clear.
Edging back into the light, he quickly tried another key in the lock . . . nope. And then another . . . not that one.
Their conflict with Lyman was out in the open now. He was posing as the school janitor, but he was actually working for Glennley Entertainment Group, the company behind the amusement park scheme.
Ben tried another key . . . nope.
Months ago Lyman had heard Mr. Keane muttering about some sort of secret plan, a way to stop the demolition; and Lyman knew that Ben had been the last person at school who talked with Mr. Keane the day he died. And then Lyman had seen Ben and Jill snooping around the school.
There had been a showdown in the library before school today—was that just this morning?
Ben shook his head. Friday morning seemed like a hundred years ago. After this morning’s confrontation, Lyman understood that Ben and Jill were onto him, that he was spying for the Glennley Group.
It was a private little war inside the Oakes School—Ben and Jill against Mr. Lyman. So far, Lyman had no idea what they were looking for, or if they had actually found anything. But he had strong suspicions, and that was making the man . . . upset.
Maybe this key . . . no, not even close.
Ben smiled grimly. He and Jill had found things. By decoding the directions on Mr. Keane’s coin they’d found a large iron key, and most important, a list of clues—clues about objects that had been hidden around the school, “safeguards” for defending it.
Solving the first clue had been tough, but they’d located the first safeguard. It was a secret codicil, a document from 1783 that changed the captain’s original will. So they’d made some actual progress . . . but Lyman was making it more and more difficult to search—and secrecy was critical.
Arrgh! So many keys, and that stupid dog had made him lose his place on the key ring.
Three more—that was the deal Ben made with himself. It was almost midnight now. Three more keys, and if none of them worked, he’d go home. Because he could always sneak over here again tomorrow night, right?
The first key didn’t fit into the lock.
The second key . . . yes, a perfect fit! But it wouldn’t turn.
And the third key . . . didn’t fit.
So that was that.
Ben turned away with a shrug and started for home. He’d made an honest effort, a brave attempt. He’d really tried. He had.
As he walked across the school grounds and into the deep shadows of the trees, Ben thought again about Captain Thorpe, The Sea Hawk. And then he remembered Captain Oakes, the founder of the school.
Ben stopped and turned around. He had sworn to do everything he could to save this school. He scanned the area, then hurried back to the doorstep.
He tried another key. And another. And another. And another. None of them even fit into the keyhole.
Still, he kept at it, and after sixteen more tries, a key slipped smoothly into the lock. He twisted . . . and it turned. Ben pulled the door open.
He looked over his shoulder, took one last breath of cool night air, then stepped inside. The latch clicked behind him.
CHAPTER 2
Schooled
Ben stopped just inside the door. In the dim light he took careful note of the key he’d just used—important information.
He still had one hand on the crash bar. It wasn’t warm in the school, but he was sweating and his mouth was dry. If he pushed the bar and backed up three feet, he’d be outside again. He could be home and in his bed in ten minutes.
No.
He’d sneaked out tonight so he could have the whole school to himself, so he could explore for as long as he wanted to. And here he was.
But . . . maybe I should have brought rubber gloves.
Dumb thought. His fingerprints were already all over the school, along with Jill’s and hundreds of other kids’.
An alarm system . . . maybe the police are on their way right now.
But he hadn’t seen any cameras or sensors around the school, and he had looked very carefully. Ever since he and Jill discovered that Lyman had made a secret visit to his dad’s sailboat, they had both been on the lookout for microphones, webcams—any suspicious-looking electronics.
He was out of excuses. It wasn’t even that dark inside the school—almost brighter than outside. Every door and hallway entrance had a glowing red exit sign.
Ben knew the clue for each safeguard practically by heart, but he pulled a folded index card from his pocket anyway. He clicked on his flashlight, covering most of the beam with his thumb. As he read, he noticed his hands were shaking.
They’d solved the “five bells” clue a couple of days ago, and they’d found the addition to Captain Oakes’s will. That little sheet of vellum might have some real power, but using it would definitely complicate things. It would mean taking the whole war public, and that would mean the Glennley Group would fight with lawyers and money and politics—instead of just relying on Lyman.
So the plan was to keep on hunting—that’s what he and Jill had decided. And the directions about searching for the safeguards were clear: Look for each one in order. So . . .
/> They’d talked about this next clue. “After four times four”—that was sixteen; then “one more” totaled seventeen—ridiculously simple math.
And the “tread up” part? Also simple . . . possibly. Because that word “tread”? Yes, it could just mean “to walk.” But it could also mean the tread of a staircase, the flat part you stepped on. Which was why Ben turned right at the main corridor by the library and walked toward the north stairwell. There weren’t that many places in the school where you could walk up seventeen treads—if that was what the clue even meant. But he had to start the search somewhere.
Listening to the creaking floor and his echoing footsteps, it felt strange to be alone in the empty school so late at night.
But he wasn’t frightened, not really. Sure, his heart was beating faster than usual, but he was fine . . . just fine. Being alone in the dark had never bothered him much. Unless he started remembering scary movies.
Ben shoved that thought out of his head as he opened the heavy fire door at the bottom of the north stairwell. Six feet straight ahead of him a flight of stairs rose to a landing. Using his flashlight beam as a pointer, he counted the steps . . . ten.
He trotted up to the landing, turned left and left again, then counted the next flight that went to the second floor . . . another ten. Twenty steps, twenty treads.
He walked up six steps from the landing, then went one more and stood on step number seventeen—“After four times four, tread up one more.”
Bouncing on that seventeenth tread with all his weight, he listened—any squeaks or rattles or clanks? Nothing suspicious at all.
He knelt down on step number fifteen, then leaned forward. Using his light, he examined the seventeenth tread, his nose inches from the surface.
It was a solid rectangle of wood, some kind of oak—Ben knew that much. And it was super tough, because after more than two hundred years of heavy foot traffic, it was barely worn—none of the treads were. He checked the rounded edges, tapped on the vertical board rising behind the step, inspected every nail head, every knot and ripple in the texture of the wood.
The Whites of Their Eyes Page 1
