We the Children, Page 3

  Watching him at the art room sink, Ben quickly saw that this man was a good mechanic. After shutting off the water supply, Lyman used a long, springy wire to unclog the drain. Then he replaced the worn-out washers and turned the water back on. He tested the faucets and the drain, and finally he mopped the floor. The whole job only took him about ten minutes.

  Done, the custodian gathered up his tools. As he walked toward the back tables on his way out the door, Ben kept his eyes glued to his book, and he put his hand over a little sketch he had made on an index card—a tall man with a long, thin face. And he tried to keep his tongue still. But he could feel Lyman looking at him, evaluating him.

  And as the wheeled bucket rolled past and out into the hallway, Ben caught another faint whiff of vomit.

  CHAPTER 5

  Trust

  It was almost three thirty, and Ben glanced back over his shoulder as he went down the front steps of the school. He had made it from the art room, up to his locker on the third floor, and then back down to the front doors, all without running into the janitor—or smelling any more vomit. A clean getaway.

  Outside in the bright sun and clear ocean breeze, he wanted to laugh at himself for feeling so spooked by Lyman.

  But he didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. The man was . . . reptilian—a word he had noticed on that dinosaur bulletin board.

  He hurried straight ahead to the seawall, and then turned right and went south, still on the school grounds. One . . . two . . . three . . . As he walked, Ben began to count the bollards, squat little stumps of iron dotted along the harbor wall. Sailors had once used them for tying ships to the shore, but now they were mostly seagull perches.

  Except at this moment, he spotted Jill sitting on one about thirty feet away, face tipped toward the sun, her straight brown hair tucked behind one ear and slanted across her neck. And Ben decided that when her mouth wasn’t full of tuna salad, she was sort of pretty.

  “Hey,” Ben called. “What are you doing here?” But he knew exactly what she was doing.

  She turned and smiled. “Just hanging out—nice weather.”

  When he got closer, she picked up her backpack and walked alongside him. They left the school grounds, crossed Washington Street, and continued south on the harbor walk beside Atlantic Avenue, neither of them talking.

  About fifty yards out on the water to their left, someone suddenly yelled, “Jibe-ho!”

  They both turned just in time to see a tall white sail go whipping from one side to the other of a low-slung boat—while the two people on board ducked low to keep from being whacked by it. Ten seconds later, the guy steering the sailboat shouted the command again—“Jibe-ho!”—and again, both of them ducked as the sail went flying past the other way, just inches above their heads.

  Jill shook her head. “Look at those guys—they’ve been out there almost every afternoon for the past two weeks, yelling stuff like ‘starboard,’ and ‘jive-ho’—they sound like Captain Hook or something.”

  Jill walked home this way every day, unless she had after-school orchestra and needed a ride for her cello. She and her parents and her two little brothers lived in a condo on Jefferson Street.

  “Yeah,” she went on, “and they probably walk around with eye patches, and carry parrots on their shoulders—‘Avast there, matey!’ And that spray shooting up all over the place? They’ve got to be freezing out there. Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “First of all,” Ben said, “it’s not ‘jive-ho,’ it’s ‘jibe-ho’—‘jibe,’ with a b. And second, that’s a warning you have to yell when you steer off the wind like that, or else someone’ll get killed when the sail whips past your head. And those guys definitely know what they are doing. That’s Tom Arndt and Ray Cahill, two of the top racers on the East Coast, and they’re training for the U.S. Junior Championships in August. And I’ll bet you anything they’ve got wet suits on under their foul-weather gear, so they’re warm as toast. And . . . I wish I was out there, right now.”

  Jill stared at him. “So . . . like, what? You’re a sailor?”

  Ben blushed a little. “Yup, at the Bluewater Sailing Club. I’ve got my first race of the season on Saturday afternoon. So it’ll be my turn to freeze. And yell stuff that sounds like Captain Hook.”

  “On a boat like that?” she said, nodding toward the bay.

  Ben shook his head. “That’s a 420—that takes two people to sail it. I’m racing a boat called an Optimist. It’s tiny, only about seven feet long, so you do everything yourself—man the tiller, haul the sheet, bail out the bilge, everything. But there’s no jib to trim, so it’s pretty basic. And its got a deeper hull, so there’s not as much spray hitting you. Sometimes.”

  “Listen to yourself,” she said, “‘haul the sheet,’ ‘man the tiller’—it’s a foreign language. And what the heck is a jib?”

  Ben pointed at the 420, now tacking along parallel to the shore. “See the smaller sail there at the bow of the boat? That’s the jib. And the tiller controls the blade in the water behind the boat that steers it, and the sheet is the rope that controls the mainsail. You have to learn the terms, but that’s true for anything when you’re new at it—even playing chess.”

  “So, how long have you been doing this?”

  “Taking lessons? Two years. There’s tons to learn, especially about racing—all these rules. But you should try it out sometime, just sailing around a little. I bet you’d like it.”

  “Well, maybe in August,” she said. “On a calm day. When the water’s not like ice.”

  They started walking again. Ben was headed for Parson’s Marina, which was five blocks south of Jill’s street. He was staying with his dad this week, because that was the deal: a week with Dad, a week with Mom.

  Staying with Dad meant coming home after school to an empty sailboat, an old thirty-four-foot yawl named Tempus Fugit—Latin for “Time Flies.” He’d been trying to act cheerful about the new arrangements, but he hated the whole thing. He hated keeping clothes at two different places, and he hated having to remember where he was when he woke up each morning. And most of all he hated how his mom and dad avoided talking about stuff they all used to do together.

  In summers past they had sailed northward along the coast as far as Nova Scotia, and one year they went south all the way to Chesapeake Bay. As a family. Mom and Dad and Ben—that’s how it had always been. And that’s what he wanted.

  And the big plan for this summer had been a long voyage to the Bahamas, maybe even to South America. As a family.

  But it wasn’t happening.

  The one good thing about living with his dad was the hour or two he got alone on the boat after school. His dad taught math at Beecham High School, which was about fifteen miles west. He also coached boys lacrosse, so in the spring he almost never got home before five. Which was good. Ben liked having time to think. And he also liked taking his time as he walked along the harborside. Alone.

  Still, Ben was glad Jill had waited. He’d done some more thinking during detention, after Lyman left the art room. And he had made a decision.

  As they passed Adams Street he said, “At lunch today? There was stuff I wasn’t sure I could talk about, and then I got all freaked out after . . . well, here.” He pulled the gold coin from his pocket and handed it to her. “Take a look at this.”

  They stopped as Jill examined the coin. She read both sides, then looked at Ben, her eyes wide. “Where did you get this?”

  Ben told her everything—about helping Mr. Keane in the morning, what he’d said about the school, and his warnings about the new janitor. “And right at the end he said I had to fight for the school now. And he made me swear to keep it all a secret. So that’s why I pretty much lost it when we heard that announcement.”

  Ben also described what had happened with Lyman after school. When he was done, Jill was quiet, thinking. They began walking again.

  She smiled a little as she handed the coin back. “So . . . how come you decided it w
as okay to tell me about it?”

  Ben felt a blush begin to creep up his neck, but he squashed it like a cockroach. In a cold, logical tone of voice, he said, “Because if you had been the kid who helped Mr. Keane this morning, he would have looked into your face instead of mine. And he would have handed the coin to you—I’m sure of it. He would have trusted you.”

  More silent walking. Then Jill said, “I mean, the coin is amazing and everything, and Mr. Keane probably meant all that stuff he said, like about fighting off the big attack on the school. But the whole town is serious about this thing now. And the new middle school on the other side of town? It’s halfway built. And it’s actually very cool—the gym is huge, and so’s the swimming pool, and it’s got a stage big enough for a whole orchestra, and the—”

  “Are you nuts?” Ben wheeled to face her. “Remember the fifth-grade field trip to Plimouth Plantationland last year? That place is run by the same company that bought the school. There were probably four thousand people there the day we went, and school wasn’t even out yet. And everybody had to pay seventy dollars just to get through the gates, not to mention all the stuff they sell inside the park. A big park like that makes millions and millions every month—so much money. Think what it would mean if something like that was here, right here. And all those dumb historical exhibits, and the cheesy rides, and . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Jill, “like that Giant Bucket Drop? Amy and I, we screamed sooo loud! And we dropped down the well six times!”

  Ben talked over her. “. . . and don’t forget all the cars and buses coming to town every morning, and then leaving every night. So that’s pollution. And think how crowded it would be downtown, and on the beaches, and here along the harbor walk. ’Cause all those people are going to want food and souvenirs and everything. And didn’t you see those posters they put up everywhere last fall? ‘Coming to Edgeport: Tall Ships Ahoy! The Greatest Nautical Theme Park in the World!’ They’re gonna wreck the waterfront and take over the whole harbor!”

  Jill cocked her head to one side. “Just last summer I heard you say it might be fun to have an amusement park in town. And you also said—”

  “But that was, like, ages ago,” he interrupted. “Can’t you see? They’re gonna ruin this entire town! Not to mention the school.”

  “Hey,” Jill snapped, “don’t yell at me—I get what you’re saying. But lots of people want all those new tourists. And they want the new school, too. That company is bringing tons of money to this town. I mean, my mom’s in the Historical Society, and they’ve been trying to fight this for two years—they went to all the meetings, hired a big lawyer, did everything they could. And my mom says now it’s all over.”

  Ben glared at her. “So I should go stick this coin in a drawer with my socks and forget all this. Is that it?”

  Jill glared back. “No, that’s not it, but you know what? You go and do whatever you want. ’Cause you really don’t want to talk about things, or even think—you just want to shout and gripe and feel all sorry for yourself—‘Boo-hoo, they’re changing my happy little town!’ Change happens, Benjamin. So face it. And go face it by yourself, because I don’t need the drama!”

  She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Ben didn’t try to stop her. He jammed his hands into his front pockets and marched ahead toward the marina, a deep scowl on his face.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Jill turn right onto Jefferson Street and walk uphill toward the front door of her building. And at the last possible moment, when he could have called out to her, he didn’t.

  He gritted his teeth, scowled harder, and walked straight ahead—with the captain’s gold coin clenched in his fist.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tipping Point

  When Ben got to the entrance of Parson’s Marina, he didn’t wave to Kevin, the watchman in the gatehouse. He stomped down the slanted wooden walkway, stomped along the connector pier, then headed out onto the farthest dock, still stomping, hands still jammed tight into his pockets.

  The incoming tide and a light swell in the harbor made the floating dock system sway and roll underfoot. Ben didn’t notice. He had spent so much time on and around boats that he never lost his balance, never got seasick.

  The Tempus Fugit lay in its slip about halfway out the long dock, but Ben didn’t stop when he reached the sailboat. He dumped his book bag onto the walkway and kept stomping.

  At the very end of the dock, almost four hundred feet from shore, he stopped. He pulled the coin from his pocket and cocked his arm way back. Six noisy seagulls instantly swooped into the air in front of him, fighting for the best position in case he pitched some food. He brought his arm forward, snapped his wrist—and held tight to the coin.

  He couldn’t let go.

  The seagulls clearly felt tricked. They gave him a good scolding, then veered off to chase a fishing boat.

  Shoulders slumped, almost in tears, Ben looked toward the shoreline of the town. Instantly, his eye picked out the Oakes School with its twin chimneys and center cupola. It was the largest building along the waterfront, and the afternoon sun glinted from the weathervane. It was the major landmark, the one unmistakable feature of the town’s skyline.

  He thought of all the times he had sailed out of this harbor with his mom and dad. And whether a voyage was long or short, there had always been a moment when the boat would come about and head back toward Edgeport. And clearing Elder Point from the north or rounding Cape Lee from the south, when Ben saw that familiar shoreline, it had always looked like home.

  He had to admit that Jill’s questions had been fair. Yes, he’d known about the theme park idea for almost two years now, and yes, swapping an old school for a big amusement park used to seem like a great idea. But he was allowed to change his mind, wasn’t he? Especially after what Mr. Keane said. But maybe Jill was right. Maybe he was just scared about change—any kind of change.

  Focusing on the shore again, Ben tried to picture the skyline without the school. He tried to picture a big theme park there, tried to hear the screams of people on a roller coaster, tried to imagine the bright lights at night, with the constant music from the rides and the pavilions. And it made his stomach churn. It made him angry. But was he just being selfish, trying to keep everybody from changing “his happy little town”? Yeah, probably. But he had other reasons too, good ones.

  The dock rose up quickly beneath his feet, then dipped low as the wake of the fishing boat rolled by. Ben flicked his tongue across his teeth, and standing there, a sudden sharp memory flooded his mind.

  It was the Fourth of July when he was eight years old. He and his mom and dad had driven to Maine to visit his grandparents at their summer cottage on Shorey Pond. It was a hot day and he was wearing shorts, so the second they got out of the car, he had streaked for the water.

  He dove off the end of the dock and swam toward a buoy that warned the motorboats away from the beach. As he reached the buoy, he grabbed hold of it to catch his breath. It was made of hard plastic, half red and half white, about the size of a football.

  He held on and treaded water, and he wondered if he could pull the buoy completely under. In no time at all, he had wrestled it below the surface of the pond. Then he wondered what would happen if he sat on it. He pushed the buoy down deeper until he had it clamped between his knees. There he sat, and it lifted him halfway up out of the water.

  He yelled, “Hey, Grampa, look at me!” and he waved his arms.

  As he waved, his knees lost their grip on the slippery plastic, and at that exact moment, he looked down. The buoy shot upward and hit him squarely on the mouth.

  There was yelling and screaming, and Ben’s grandmother surprised everyone with her life-guarding skills. Blood gushed from Ben’s upper lip, which meant a trip to the emergency room.

  He sat beside his mom in the backseat. Up front, his dad gripped the steering wheel and drove their little hybrid car a lot faster than it wanted to go. His mom hugged Ben with one
arm and used her free hand to help hold a towel and a plastic bag of ice against his lip.

  It was a thirty-mile trip, and about halfway there, Ben suddenly pushed the ice bag away and sat up straight. He leaned forward, grabbed the rearview mirror, and tilted it until he could see his face. Then he pushed up his top lip. That made the cut hurt like crazy, but he had to look at what he could feel with his tongue: Both his front teeth were half gone, snapped clean off.

  As he stared at those stubs, one a little shorter than the other, a scene poured through his mind, almost like watching a movie. He pictured the buoy shooting upward, saw it hit his mouth, and then, a second later, he saw two tiny white rectangles, his own front teeth—his permanent teeth—gliding slowly down and down and down through the dark water until they finally settled on the bottom of the pond.

  And at that moment, he realized those white bits were still there, lying among the leaves and pine needles and rocks and tree branches and fish bones and mussel shells, down there with all the other stuff that had piled up on the bottom of Shorey Pond ever since the prehistoric glaciers melted.

  Looking at his broken teeth in the mirror, he recalled seeing the teeth of an Egyptian mummy at an exhibit in Boston—a four-thousand-year-old grin. Those teeth had never been wrapped up or embalmed, because teeth last and last, all by themselves.

  And sitting back down next to his mom in that speeding car, Ben knew that his very own front teeth were now part of something else. Two actual little pieces of himself were going to be down on the bottom of that pond. Forever.

  That was the moment when Ben first glimpsed how every single moment happens only once during a person’s lifetime; and how each moment arrives in a particular order, one event after another; and how every separate event shapes all the other events that come next. Forever.

  And Ben also knew that from then on, his smile would be different too. Forever.