The Map Trap Page 3

  It was a huge mess.

  A big pothole near County Road 2150 jolted him back into the present, and three minutes later, as the bus squealed to a stop at the mailbox across from his house, Alton made himself face an ugly fact: Quint Harrison had stolen his maps.

  As he stood up and walked down the aisle and got off the bus, he ran through his reasoning.

  Opportunity?

  Yes. Quint knew where Alton stored his books and things, because the wooden cubbies along the back wall of Miss Wheeling’s room were all labeled, and they were wide open—no doors. And Quint was in and out of that room all day.

  Motive?

  Yes. Since he and Quint had gotten kicked out of the library by Mrs. Lomax, the guy had only had the chance to look at one map . . . so certainly he would want to see more—like, totally, dude!

  And maybe that had been Quint’s original plan, just to check out the other maps in the folder. After looking through all of them, Quint had probably realized how desperate Alton would be to get them back—he must have known that! But maybe the temptation to show them to others was too much. Maybe Quint had decided to show the maps to all his friends, to make himself even more popular—maybe he already had! Maybe he had already scanned them and posted all of them online!

  That thought made Alton’s stomach churn even worse. Because if those maps got spread around, it would be a long, long time before he would be making any new friends at school. Because on every map down in the lower right-hand corner, he had proudly written: By Alton Ziegler.

  The bus roared away, and a chilly wind from the north rustled through the dry soybeans across the road from his house. But Alton didn’t notice any of that. He had to get that folder back.

  And since he hadn’t found it at school, he was going to have to take this battle right to Quint’s front door.

  And the sooner he got there, the better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOT TOPICS

  Hi, Mom, we’re home!”

  Beth was Alton’s little sister, and she sang out that announcement every school day afternoon.

  “Hi, Beth—hi, Alton. I got some new yogurt today, all your favorite flavors. I’m in the middle of something, so I’ll see you in about ten minutes, okay?”

  Alton frowned and headed for the kitchen.

  He was glad he’d have a little time before he had to answer twenty questions about his school day. His mom was a bookkeeper for three different businesses in the area, and she worked from home most days. She always made it a point to be there when Alton and his sister got home from school, and she always wanted to know everything.

  He pulled open the refrigerator, and Beth was there next to him.

  “Can you get me down a strawberry-banana, please?”

  Alton started to hand her a cup of yogurt.

  “And can you pull the foil off for me?”

  He glared at her. “Should I go get a spoon and feed it to you too?”

  Beth stared up at him. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

  Alton felt a sharp stab of shame. “Hey, I’m sorry, Bethie—here, I’ll take off the foil. And don’t cry—I’m just a big jerk, that’s all.” He opened the container and held it out to her.

  Beth was in second grade, and she rode the bus with Alton every day. This afternoon he hadn’t even noticed her. But she had noticed him.

  She brushed at her eyes, and then smiled and took the yogurt. “It’s okay, Alton. You’re not a jerk. You’re just sad today. I saw you frowning all the way home. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing much. I just . . . lost something, that’s all.”

  She brightened up. “I’m really good at finding things!”

  Alton smiled. “I know you are, but I’ve got to find this thing on my own.”

  “Okay,” she said. She ate a spoonful of yogurt, and then added “But if you need me to help, tell me. Because I don’t want you to be sad.”

  Alton patted her on the head. “Thanks—that means a lot.” And he meant it.

  His mom called out, “Alton? Can you tell me why I just got a text from Heather addressed to you? On my phone?”

  “Simple,” he called back, his mouth full of yogurt. “Because my dumb little phone doesn’t get texts, remember? If I had my own smartphone with a decent service plan, then I could get my own texts, like all the other sixth-grade kids do. And I’d always have a GPS receiver in my pocket, too.”

  This was a hot topic in the Ziegler home.

  His mom stood at the kitchen doorway now, her phone in her hand.

  “All the other sixth graders text with smartphones? All of them?”

  “Okay,” Alton said, “seventy-two percent of them do—I took a survey. So that’s almost three-fourths. And no matter what the statistics are, I should definitely have one of my own. I should.”

  Beth said, “Well, if Alton gets a new phone, I should get one too!”

  Alton said, “You don’t even have a regular cell phone—and you know the percentage of second graders who have their own phones? It’s about zero. So just be quiet, okay? This is between Mom and me.”

  “Fine,” said Beth. “But you can forget about me helping you find that thing you lost.” And for emphasis she stuck a huge spoonful of yogurt into her mouth and turned her back to him.

  “What thing?” his mom said. “What did you lose?”

  As casually as possible Alton said, “Just some maps I made. But I think a guy in my social studies class picked them up. And I’m going to ride my bike over to his house in a little while and get them back.”

  His mom said, “Say, speaking of maps, I turned in an article to the Observer about using computer tax programs, and when I saw Mrs. Girard, she asked me if you might be interested in making a map about the town’s history. She remembers that map you sent her about the migrating birds. She’s planning a feature in February about how the town has changed from 1903 to the present day.”

  Glad that the conversation had shifted, Alton said, “I could do that. . . . Do you think she’ll pay me?”

  “Well . . . I think she’s hoping you would do it for free—you didn’t get paid for the last map.”

  “Mom, I was in second grade then, and I drew that map with crayons. This one would be a lot harder, with tons more detail—it would be a real map.”

  “I’m in second grade,” said Beth, “and I make real maps all the time!”

  “Of course you do, sweetie,” her mom said. Then to Alton, “You should call her up. If you’re reasonable, she’d probably be happy to pay you something.”

  “Okay,” said Alton. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  His mom stared. “You’re calling her right now?”

  “No,” Alton said. “I have to text Heather back. I know she wants to go out geocaching, and I can’t this afternoon. And I don’t want to call her, because she’ll argue and try to talk me into it.”

  With a sigh, his mom handed over her phone. But she stood there with her hand out, waiting for him to finish the text.

  When he gave it back to her, he said, “I’m going upstairs and do some homework before I ride over to Quint’s house to get my maps.”

  “Quint? Quint who?”

  “Is he a quintuplet?” asked Beth.

  “No, he’s not a quintuplet,” Alton said. And to his mom, he said, “His name is Quint Harrison, and he lives in town on the west side. So it’s a short ride. And I’ll wear my helmet and I’ll have all my lights on, and I won’t be gone for more than half an hour, okay?”

  “All right. But let me know when you leave.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “And will you just ask him if he’s a quintuplet?” said Beth. “Please?”

  Alton smiled at her as he picked up his backpack. “Sure. I’ll ask him—I promise.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NAVIGATION

  As Alton rode due east on County Road 1145, the low afternoon sun threw his shadow way out ahead of him. By his calc
ulation, each spin of his bicycle wheels moved him 6.98 feet closer to his destination. He was traveling at about thirteen miles per hour, and the total trip was only about two and a half miles. So this was going to be a pretty short ride—no more than seven minutes.

  Alton loved his bike. It had twenty-one gears, and it had skinny tires that held a hundred pounds of air pressure, so pedaling was easy. Living in the flattest county in Illinois also helped with the pedaling. And with land so flat and nearly all the roads running either north–south or east–west, it was almost impossible to get lost—which was a feeling he liked.

  At the moment, he was navigating a very simple course:

  At end of driveway, turn left onto CR 1145 North.

  Ride east for 1.13 miles.

  Turn left onto CR 2150 East.

  Ride north for 0.78 miles.

  Turn right onto West Jackson Street.

  Ride east 0.63 miles to 5233 West Jackson Street, a house on the right.

  And at 5233 West Jackson, Alton was planning to walk up to the front door and ask for Quint.

  He wanted his arrival to be a complete surprise. There was no guarantee Quint would be home, but by planning to arrive at five o’clock, he felt good about his chances.

  As he signaled and made a smooth left turn onto County Road 2150, Alton got a familiar sensation—like he was rolling across the surface of a map as big as the Earth.

  Which was a pretty goofy idea. The map of Illinois on the wall in his room showed a shrunken image of the whole state, including all the roads and towns and rivers and railroads and state parks and airports and everything, and it was drawn so that one inch on the map represented twelve miles on the ground. But if that map were redrawn so that one inch on the map was the same as one inch on the ground? Then the map of Illinois would be the same size as Illinois itself!

  To hang that map up, you’d need a wall as big as the sky, and to look at it, you’d have to fly around in a helicopter or something. And if you spread that full-scale map out onto the ground, then the only way to use it would be to do what he was doing right now—travel around on it! Which would defeat the whole idea of a geographical map. Because a map was a symbol, a small image of a big area, and it was supposed to let you see how to get from one location to another one without having to actually go there. . . .

  A huge grain truck shot past him doing about fifty-five, and the sharp blast of air and fumes caught Alton off guard. His front wheel wobbled, and the bike veered toward the shoulder, but he tapped both brakes and managed to stay on the blacktop.

  Alton stopped thinking about imaginary maps and paid attention to real road conditions.

  Two minutes later the farmland stopped, and the small town of Harper’s Grove began, with the streets carving the land into square blocks, and with the houses all numbered and arranged neatly, side-by-side.

  And three minutes after that, Alton turned into the driveway at 5233 West Jackson. He rode right onto the front walk, laid his bike on the grass, pulled off his helmet, marched up the steps to the porch, put his finger on the doorbell . . . and froze.

  What do I say?

  He could start with something like, There’s a problem we need to talk about, Quint. Or Listen, I know you took my maps, so hand ’em over! Or . . . maybe he needed to sound even tougher than that: Hey, hand over those maps right now, or I’m making a map of your puny, slang-infested brain, and I’m going to paste copies of it all over the school!

  But Alton couldn’t imagine himself saying any of those things. He gulped and lifted his finger off the doorbell, then took a step backward.

  I’ve got to get out of here!

  Before he could move, the door whipped open.

  Quint was all smiles. “Dude! Like, how did you get here? Oh, wait—duh! A map! You totally used a map, didn’t you?”

  “Um . . . yeah, I—I did,” Alton stammered. “I used a map.”

  “So, like, how come you came over?”

  Alton looked Quint right in the eye. “You don’t know why I’m here? You have no idea?”

  “No,” said Quint. “Why?”

  Alton’s own failures as a liar had made him an expert at spotting the lies of others. And in Quint’s wide-open face he saw nothing, no hint of dishonesty.

  “So . . . you don’t know where my maps are, the ones I had in the library on Monday?”

  Quint shook his head, and then his eyes suddenly narrowed. “Whoa—like, did you think I took them? Like, that I stole them? Dude, I would never do that!”

  Alton felt his face getting warm. “Well, it’s just that I had to ask you, because I haven’t been able to find them . . . and I’ve looked everywhere. Um . . . and I thought you might know something. . . . That’s all.”

  Quint nodded slowly. “I totally get that. But I haven’t seen ’em, not since Monday.” Then he grinned. “ ‘Miss Wheeling’s Brain’—that map is epic! Hey, come on in, okay? I’ve got to ask you something.”

  Alton was surprised by the invitation, but he followed Quint inside.

  The TV was on in the living room, and Quint aimed his thumb at a girl on the couch who looked like she was sixteen or seventeen.

  “That’s my sister. Hey, Liz, this is Al—I mean, Alton. From school.”

  The girl glanced up for half a second and gave Alton a tiny nod.

  A voice called out, “Bring ‘Alton from school’ into the kitchen and introduce him to your mom and me!”

  At the kitchen doorway, Quint said, “This is my mom and dad. And this is Alton Ziegler.”

  Quint’s mom was sitting at the table in front of a laptop, and his dad was standing at the stove, stirring a big pot of something that smelled like stew or maybe soup.

  Alton felt awkward, but he managed to smile at them. “Glad to meet you.”

  “It’s good to meet you, too,” his mom said. “Do you live nearby?”

  “Not too far,” Alton said, “pretty much straight west on County Road 1145. I rode my bike over.”

  “You know, I think we met your mom and dad at the PTO book fair last year. And you have a sister—am I remembering that right?”

  Alton nodded. “My little sister, Beth—she’s in second grade this year.”

  “Sounds nice,” Quint said. “Wanna trade?”

  His sister called from the living room, “I heard that, Squint.”

  He called back, “You were supposed to hear it, Lizard.”

  “That’s enough,” his mom said.

  Quint said, “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to ask Alton about some school stuff, okay?”

  She wasn’t going to be hurried. “Can you stay for dinner, Al?”

  “Um, thanks, but I’ve got to ride back home. It’s a school night.”

  “Maybe another time, all right?”

  “Sure . . . thanks.”

  “This way,” Quint said, and he led Alton back through the living room and up the stairs near the front door.

  His bedroom was the first door on the left. Alton didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t what he saw. Because Quint’s room was loaded with books. Also model trains. And plastic dinosaurs. Plus a collection of rocks and a deadly looking hammer lying alongside four or five books about geology and minerals.

  On top of a bookcase Alton spotted seven pocketknives carefully laid out in a line, and some of them looked old. And next to the knives there was a bunch of rusty railroad spikes. He also saw a hiking stick leaning in a corner. The bed was a big mess and there were clothes and shoes all over the place, but this was not the room of a kid who vegged out in front of video games or sat around watching Nick at Nite reruns all the time. Which was sort of how Alton had pictured Quint’s life, because of all the slang.

  Quint was leaning over a large table that he apparently used as his desk.

  “Dude, check this out. I started making a list of the railroads that used to run through Illinois, and then I found out about all these abandoned railroad beds. I know this map is super-lame, but it’d
be awesome if you had any ideas about jazzing it up.”

  Alton took a look. What Quint had so far was a sheet of plain paper where he’d traced a basic outline of Illinois. Six or seven major cities had been placed in roughly the correct locations, and then he’d used half a dozen colored markers to draw in different stretches of abandoned railroad tracks. With a fine-point black pen he had written a little about each one. He was getting his information from six or seven other maps that he’d printed out from several websites.

  “Wow—I had no idea there were so many abandoned tracks around!”

  “Yeah, I know—crazy, right? So far it’s, like, more than a thousand miles of track in Illinois, and I keep finding even more—it blows my mind!”

  Alton’s mind was blown too. Racing through a big collection of new information always made him feel sort of lost—and that always made him want to get everything organized on a map. Because this information could be laid out in a lot of different ways. First of all, there would have to be a comprehensive list of—

  Quint interrupted his thoughts. “See this bit here that I drew in green?” He put his finger on the map at a line that looked like it was a little south of Champaign. “My dad and I hiked that this summer—nine miles of the old Wabash Railroad.”

  Alton nodded toward the bookcase. “Is that where you got the spikes?”

  “Totally.” Quint went and picked one up. “So . . . like, a hundred and fifty years ago, some guy with a humongous hammer pounded this thing into a chunk of wood to hold the rails steady. And you know who rode on those rails? Abraham Lincoln! Way cool, huh?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Alton. “That’s pretty amazing.”

  “Here.” Quint handed the spike to him. “You want it? I’ve got loads of ’em.”

  “Really?” Alton said. “Thanks!”

  “So, check this out,” said Quint. “I already asked Mr. Troy if I could make a project out of this stuff for my fall report, and he said it was cool. So, like, how about we both work on it?”

  The mention of school reminded Alton why he’d come here in the first place.