The Potato Chip Puzzles: The Puzzling World of Winston Breen (11 page)

Winston said, “I never heard of your school. Where is it?”

“Over in North Hendricks. It’s a private school. Very exclusive.” He said this last part not like he was bragging but like he was making fun of people who brag about things like that.

Mal said with some interest, “You rich?”

Michael shrugged. “Pretty much.” This, too, he said as if being rich was simply a fact of life. “My dad owns a real estate company. Big bucks.”

“What’s with the outfits?” Jake asked.

Michael rolled his eyes. “School uniforms. We have to wear these every day, if you can believe it.”

“Yeah, but you’re not in school.”

“Doesn’t matter. As long as we’re representing the school, we have to wear our uniforms. That’s what Mr. Meyer says, anyway.” Michael jerked his head backward, indicating his teacher.

“Your football team must be something to see,” said Mal.

Michael gave a snort of laughter. “Heh. If Mr. Meyer was the football coach, they really would have to play in these business suits. The other team could tackle us by yanking our neckties.”

They shared a good-natured laugh. Could this kid really be the cheater? Anything was possible, but Michael seemed all right—a genuinely good guy. He said now in a low voice, “Any other teacher would have let us wear jeans like normal kids. Mr. Meyer was not my first choice for a teacher to take us around on this today.”

“I know the feeling,” Winston said.

They walked in amiable silence for a couple of minutes, Winston occasionally jotting down or erasing letters as they continued through the labyrinth. None of the Demilla kids were writing anything down. Winston guessed Michael was keeping track of the letters in his head.

And then they astounded themselves by coming across the maze’s exit. For a moment, none of them could believe it—Winston had grown used to the idea that they’d be wandering around in here for the rest of the day. Delighted, they stepped out into a wide field, a disorienting and wonderful feeling after so much time spent closed up by the hay-bale walls.

“Finally!” Jake said. He pumped both arms in the air like a victorious boxer.

“I’m never doing one of these things again,” said one of the Demilla girls.

“Not for a million dollars,” said the other.

“Unless there’s another one later today,” Mal said. The girls looked at him with horror.

START

Mr. Garvey said, “Okay. My boys, come over here, please.”

Winston and his friends said “see you later” to Michael. Mr. Garvey escorted them a few yards away so that the Demilla team couldn’t hear them.

“So,” he said. “Do we all have the same answer?”

Winston said, “If you take the letters as you move from start to finish, you get the word THRESH.”

Mal said, “I got that, too.”

Mr. Garvey nodded. “Me too. And it makes sense, since a thresher is something you find on a farm. Jake, type it in, let’s see what we’ve got.”

Jake had already turned on the computer. He pushed buttons now, and after a moment looked up, smiling. “We got it.”

Mr. Garvey gave a little fist pump. “Two down. Let’s get going.”

Winston looked up to see Michael walking over to them, a sheepish expression on his face. Behind him, the other members of the Demilla team watched him. None of them looked happy.

Michael tried finding a smile as he said, “Uh, hey, guys . . . what answer did you get for this?”

The answer word bubbled up in Winston’s throat, but he swallowed it back down. He might not have shared Mr. Garvey’s passion for take-no-prisoners competition, but even he understood that he couldn’t simply give an answer to another team.

Jake understood that, too. “C’mon, we can’t tell you that,” he said.

Michael looked pained. “Yeah, of course not. Sorry. Can you confirm the answer? What we’re typing into the computer isn’t working.”

“What did you get?” Winston asked.

“We got the word THUDS.”

Winston shook his head. “That’s not right.”

Michael slumped. The Demilla team made a mistake and had come up with the wrong answer. What were they supposed to do? Michael turned back to his team and shook his head. His teacher and the two girls looked at each other, dismayed. The teacher, Mr. Meyer, came over, frowning.

“We really have the wrong answer?” he said to Michael.

“It sure looks like it.”

Mr. Meyer looked at Mr. Garvey, smiling ruefully. “Perhaps you can give us a small break here. You know we went through the maze, the same as you.”

Mr. Garvey, his expression carefully neutral, said, “Solving the maze was only part of it. You know that. You had to keep track of the letters you passed as you went along.”

“I believe I did,” Mr. Meyer said.

“You must have made a mistake. I’m sorry.” They all stood there for another awkward second. Perhaps Mr. Garvey was waiting for the Demilla team to admit defeat and walk away. When that did not happen, Mr. Garvey said softly, “Come on, boys. We need to get going.” He looked at Mr. Meyer and said with some sympathy, “Good luck.”

Winston waved at Michael. He felt awful for them, but Mr. Garvey was right—the Demilla team had made a mistake, and they would have to figure out what to do about it. And there was only one thing they
could
do: Go through the maze again and pay more attention this time.

“Well, now we know we’ve pulled ahead of one other team,” Mr. Garvey said as they approached his car. Winston looked behind him to see the Demilla team standing once again at the entrance to the maze. They had to go in, and they knew it . . . but none of them were willing to take those first dreadful steps.

Mr. Garvey was unlocking the doors to his car when Mal said, “So maybe we can run across the street and get some sandwiches at the farm shop.”

Their teacher looked amazed, even appalled. He couldn’t seem to think of any way to respond other than, “What?”

Mal said, “Well, it’s nearly lunchtime.”

Mr. Garvey waved his hands in the air like a television preacher praying for strength. “Guys!” he said. “My young teammates! Does anybody remember the flat tire that cost us twenty minutes? How about us wandering around the space museum like a bunch of lost sheep? We’re slowly gaining back the time we lost, and now you want to stop for lunch?”

As if to bolster his point, a car drove by and the driver gave them a sarcastic little salute. There were three kids in the car, wearing satisfied smiles. It was Rod Denham and the Lincoln Junior High team. Mr. Denham steered out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. Mr. Garvey watched them go, his teeth clenched. He then turned back to his team and spread his arms as if to say, “See?”

But Mal said, “We gotta eat sometime.”

Winston expected Mr. Garvey to start yelling, but for once he maintained his temper. “We will eat in the car while we drive to the next location. I’ve got snacks, drinks, and beef jerky. You won’t starve to death.”

“Beef jerky?” Winston asked.

“Good, fast energy,” Mr. Garvey said, unlocking his car’s hatchback. He dug through one of the grocery sacks and came out with a pouch. “Here,” he said, handing out slabs of jerky.

Winston had never had beef jerky before and wasn’t about to start now. It looked like something a person could use to make a pair of shoes. Jake bit into his slab and tore off a piece, like a German shepherd with a chew toy.

“In the car, please, boys,” Mr. Garvey said. “If you don’t like beef jerky, I’ve got other things, but let’s figure it out while we’re moving.”

Winston spied a box of cereal bars and grabbed it. A couple of those and his stomach would stop growling. Plus, there was an unexpected bonus: a puzzle on the back of the box. He had meant to take a couple of bars and put the rest back, but now he cradled the whole box in his arm as he got into the car.

Mal gave him a funny look. “Hungry?” he asked.

Winston showed him the back of the box, and Mal nodded, understanding immediately.

The kids settled into their seats, but before Mr. Garvey could open the driver’s side door, a small SUV came speeding up. It stopped abruptly in the neighboring parking spot, almost hitting Mr. Garvey in the process. The math teacher had to jump onto the hood of his car to avoid getting creamed.

Every door in the SUV opened simultaneously, and the Brookville Brains came boiling out, determined and angry looking, like athletes sprinting onto the field before the big game.

“Watch where you’re going!” Mr. Garvey yelled, arms outspread indignantly.

The Brookville teacher marched over to Mr. Garvey, his face bright red. In his T-shirt and baseball cap, he looked like a coach about to argue with the umpire. “Don’t you tell me to watch anything,” he said angrily. He waved a finger in Mr. Garvey’s face.

Mr. Garvey looked stunned—he’d expected a mild apology, not this explosion.

“For all I know, you’re the one behind all this,” the teacher growled. “I know this wasn’t an accident. Don’t think I’m fooled! We were ahead, so you wanted to take us down!”

Mr. Garvey said, “What are you talking about?”

The Brookville teacher’s fury only increased at this simple question. “I’m talking about the flat tire I just spent half an hour fixing. What else would I be talking about?”

 

ONE OF THE BROOKVILLE KIDS
approached their teacher cautiously. “Mr. Regal, sir, we found the puzzle. We have to go through that maze over there.”

Mr. Regal glanced at his teammate. Red-faced and furious, he looked like the last man in the world you’d find cavorting through a hay-bale maze. “All right. You kids get to it,” he said. “I want to talk to our competition here for a moment.” He laced the word
competition
with smoky anger. Winston wondered if he really thought Mr. Garvey was somehow responsible for their flat tire. More likely he was just lashing out at the world.