Secret of the Sevens (10 page)

“Whoever is behind this has access to a lot of places, and they know a lot of secrets about our school.” She twists her shaking hands together into a knot of fingers.

I joke to lighten her mood. “Maybe it's the ghost of William Singer trying to resurrect the Sevens. Maybe he haunts the tunnels trying to punish the Sevens for murdering him.”

“For crying out loud,” Laney snaps at me, “the Sevens didn't murder William Singer! When are you going to get that through your head?”

“Relax, Laney. I was kidding. But you know, until we know for sure what's going on, we have to be cautious. I know you've convinced yourself that the Sevens were innocent, but there was a police investigation that declared them murderers.”

“No, it didn't. That's just part of the urban legend. No charges were ever filed.”

“Because the killers were dead.”

“It was never more than a theory. Trust me, I've read every article ever written on it. Money was missing, and there was circumstantial evidence and anonymous tips that blamed the Sevens. It doesn't mean anything. The Sevens were set up. The police were mistaken.” Her nose wrinkles. “Or to quote our founder, maybe ‘they lied.'”

Laney trudges on, her gaze stretching a mile away. “Do you think Professor Solomon could be behind this?”

“Solomon? Why Solomon?”

“I realized something when I was reading the atrium ceiling. The Society of Seven is testing us on the virtues that Solomon drilled us on that first day. Like with our first test, where we uncovered the truth about Kane? That test was titled
Courage
. This test was labeled
Service
. It's also pretty obvious that Solomon doesn't like them or Kane.”

“Solomon doesn't like anyone.”

“Think about it. Solomon's been around a long time, and he said Singer was a good friend of his. He's also got access to passes, and he's probably one of the few people smart enough to pull this off.”

“Maybe. It was Solomon who suggested Boyle put me in his Ethics and Virtues class. Maybe he wanted to teach us this stuff together. Or keep an eye on us or something. But if it is Solomon, why wouldn't he just take us aside and tell us what he knows and what he wants from us?”

“Isn't it obvious? He needs to know he can trust us first. He could get fired for this. Everyone already wonders why he hasn't retired yet; Singer School is probably all he has.”

I consider it for a second. “Do you think we should ask him if he's behind this? Maybe we should tell him we figured it out.”

“No way!” she says, cutting through the yard to the back of our house. “If we're wrong, we'd screw ourselves. And even if we were sure, we couldn't say anything to him. You remember what the invitation said. We committed to a vow of secrecy. We can't break that, no matter what. He has to reveal himself to us.”

We reach our back door and Laney peeks through the window. “It's clear.”

“Damn, I just thought of something,” I say.

Her hand freezes on the door knob. “What?”

“Now I'm going to have to pay attention in class.”

Seventeen

Thursday night, I'm scrounging through the kitchen for a snack. I start a bag of popcorn in the microwave and think back to the message hidden on the plaque in Founder's Hall. What was old man Singer trying to tell us?

The microwave buzzes and Joshua yells from the next room, “Talan?”

“In here.” I pull out the bag and tear it open. “What do you want?”

“Phone call.”

I carry my snack and backpack to the private phone booth and take the phone from Josh. I tuck the receiver between my ear and neck and step inside the small space, closing the door while juggling everything. “Hello?”

“Look. Under. The. Doormat.”

I freeze. The caller sounds like Darth Vader with a stutter.

“Uh, excuse me?”

When the voice repeats, “Under. The. Doormat,” I realize that the caller is speaking through a voice changer, like you see in the movies and TV shows.

The phone shakes in my hand. “Who is this?”

“Number Seven,” he answers, and hangs up.

I almost drop my popcorn. For a couple seconds, I forget how to breathe. Getting notes is one thing—it's impersonal and distant. But hearing a live voice gives me the willies. It didn't sound like Solomon either, even with a voice changer. Who would even have access to a voice changer? I know there's probably a cell phone app for that, but students aren't allowed cell phones at Singer
. Except for the Pillars
. Is this another clue from the Sevens, or another threat from Kane and his little tribe of scumbags?

Laney strolls past the window in the door of the phone booth, and I swing it open to catch her.

“Careful!” She swerves around me. “You almost nailed me.”

“Laney!”

She must recognize the fear on my face because she hightails it back toward me.

I show her the phone in my shaking hand. “He called.”

“Who?”

I stare at the receiver in my hand. “He called himself Number Seven—the same name that was on the email.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. She takes the phone from me and hangs it up. Then she grabs my wrist and tows me down the empty hall. “What did he say?” she whispers. “What did he want?”

“Umm.” I close my eyes to focus. “He said, ‘Look under the doormat.'”

I open my eyes in time to see Laney jogging to the front foyer. “Wait,” I tell her. “We can't be sure this isn't a trick from Kane or the Pillars. Just to be careful, I better get it.”

She hesitates, then nods.

I peer down the empty halls that connect to the entryway, then grab a black envelope from under the doormat on the porch and start to bolt to my room.

“Wait,” she says, “I want to see too. We're a team, remember?”

“Fine. Let's find a private place.”

I follow Laney around the house looking for somewhere we can be alone. Mom Shanahan is in the kitchen now, and of course she's sitting in a chair that has a perfect view of Laney's bedroom. Dad is in his office, two doors down from my room, and Jake's using the computer room. Chris and Marcus are playing video games in the family room. Mike is folding clothes in the laundry room, and Juan and Joshua are playing pool in the basement. After canvassing the entire house, we're back where we started, standing in the hall outside the bathroom.

I like my family, but there's never any privacy. The only place you're ever alone is the shower. I look at Laney and consider it for a second. My thoughts drift and I feel myself flush.

Laney throws her hands in the air. “I give up. Where are we supposed to read this?”

I nod my head toward the bathroom door.

“What?”

I nod at the door a couple more times.

“The bathroom?”

I lift an eyebrow. “Got a better idea?”

Laney sighs and looks around. She glances down at the envelope hanging out my hoodie pocket and slowly tiptoes into the bathroom. I lock the door behind us.

This is the main bathroom all us guys share. It's basically a locker room with rows of sinks and stalls, a bench, and a huge mirror on one wall.

Laney looks around and whispers, “I've always wondered what it looks like in here.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Want me to show you how the showers work?”

Laney rolls her eyes and yanks the letter from my pocket. She spends a minute going over it. “It's another clue from the Sevens.”

I look over her shoulder. “How can you be sure?”

“The writing is the same. Plus, they've all come in the same black envelope.”

She holds the note between us and leans into me so we can read it together. I get distracted when a lock of her soft hair brushes against my cheek. I can smell her lavender lotion again. Her body is snuggled against me, and I keep thinking how the showers are only a few feet away. I can't help but stare at her mouth as she reads to herself. Her lips are full and red and her breath smells like peppermint.

She glances up and startles me. “What do you think?”

I haven't read a single word of it. I open my mouth but I can't think of an answer to BS my way out of this one. She waits for a response, but all I can do is stare back. Our bodies are pressed together. Our mouths are just inches apart. If I dip my face forward just slightly, I could taste that peppermint myself. I've done this move a hundred times before, but right now I'm frozen with fear.

The next few seconds pass in slow motion. She blinks her dark lashes at me and I watch the corners of her mouth curl up. With any other girl, I'd read that as an invitation. But Laney isn't any other girl. One stupid move screws up everything. Still, the peppermint draws me an inch closer.

Laney doesn't flinch. She's staring up with her big doe eyes when I finally decide it's now or never. But the moment I tilt my head down toward hers, she turns back to the letter. My nose grazes her hair and I jerk my head away, twisting it around like I was stretching my neck.

“Looks like we'll be back at Founders Hall tomorrow,” she says.

Unable to form words, I nod.

“You've got the homecoming game at night. Should we meet after school?”

More nodding.

She hands me the paper and unlocks the door with a loud click that echoes in the bathroom and my brain. My shaking hands fold the note and stuff it in my pocket. Laney opens the door and steps into the hall.

Just when I'm thinking my life can't get any more complicated, I rush out behind her … and run smack into Mom Shanahan.

Eighteen

It's the mother of all gasps.

Mom jumps back, her expression contorting into all kinds of shock and worry. She stares open-mouthed at me, wearing the second-most-horrified face since the existence of mankind.

I'm pretty sure I've snagged the prize for first.

“Oh-oh-oh-oh,” Mom stutters, her voice getting louder with each
oh
. She waves her pointer finger between Laney and me.

“What?” Laney says.

Mom's eyes draw tight, probably to hold in all the steam coming from her ears. “Don't you ‘What?' me, Delaney Shanahan,” she says through locked teeth. “What were you doing in the boy's bathroom with Talan?”

In a BS answer that makes me look like an amateur, Laney says, “I thought I heard someone crying in there when I walked by. I knocked on the door but no one answered, so I went in to check.”

Mom's eyes travel back and forth between us like they're collecting data for some lie-detector program in her brain. “What would Talan be crying about?”

My eyes roam the ceiling looking for an excuse. Fortunately, Laney's got this.

“He just got dumped, Mom. It's private. Geez, Mrs. Nosy. Do you mind?”

Mom studies my face with slitted eyes. “It doesn't look like he was crying to me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. What other reason would I have to be in the bathroom with Talan?”

“You're two teenagers with normal hormones?”

“Mom, gross! He's like my brother.” She fake gags and casually walks away.

Mom stands in the middle of the hall shaking her head, her arms folded across her chest. Laney sounded pretty convincing, but there's no reason to stand here and give Mom more reasons to doubt us. Playing heartbroken, I bow my head and shuffle into my room.

The minute the door shuts, I crash on my bed and cover my face with my pillow. Thank God I didn't kiss her. Her words sting my brain: “Gross! He's like my brother.”

It plays over and over like a recurring nightmare. According to Laney, we're trapped inside the black hole of just-friends.

I bend the pillow behind my neck and pull out the Sevens note to take my mind off it.

Third Test
-
Compassion:

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is

fighting a hard battle.”
-
Plato

More secrets abound
Where the last one was found.
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.
Your founder was wise … indeed.
Are you?

Laney's right. The first two lines of the poem send us right back to Founders Hall. And it's the same two closing lines from the riddle we just solved. Outside of that, I got nothing.

I'm buttering toast in the kitchen the next morning when Laney walks up. She stands next to me and pops in two slices for herself. She whispers, “Were you impressed with my quick thinking yesterday? Mom totally bought it.” She smirks at me. “I could have a career as a double agent.”

I actually still feel kind of crappy about the whole thing. “Oh yeah, you're a real badass.”

Her face pinches. “What are you all pouty about?”

“Nothing.” I bite off a chunk of toast and swallow it down hard.

“Tell me. We're partners, remember? We shouldn't have secrets.”

“No.” I take another mouthful and turn my back to her.

She grabs my arm and spins me around. “What is it? Did I do something? Share, Michaels.”

I lean back against the counter and cross my arms. “I'm a guy. Guys don't share.”

“Guys don't share, huh?” Her sigh sounds like a groan. “Listen, I don't want another fight. We need each other. If you're upset about something, just say it.”

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.”