Curse of the Spider King (21 page)

It was short-lived, however, for the teachers took their turn. With the teachers comfortably in the lead 504 to 410, Mr. Phitzsinger announced to the crowd: “One round to go! Students, take up your bows, nock your arrows, and fire when ready!”

Tommy and the three kids in his line stared at one another. Haley Shoop would have been their fifth. Now what would they do? Tommy ran behind the lines of student archers to the gym teacher. “Mr. Phitzsinger, we only have four in our line. We don't have to take a zero for the fifth set, do we?”

“No, Son, I went over this yesterday. One of you can just take another turn.”

Tommy relayed the news to the students in his line. “You do it,” they replied unanimously. Tommy swallowed. It felt like the collar of his shirt had just tightened two sizes. Maybe his new skills had been a fluke, like a first-time bowler getting a couple strikes in a row. And now the entire gym would be staring at him while he shot. He stepped up to the firing line and took up his bow once more.

Again, the bow felt comfortable in his hand, as if he'd used the same bow for years. And, in spite of the pressure, Tommy felt sure he could hit the bull's-eye. He turned around. Tons of smiling sixth and seventh graders, sprinkled with aloof eighth graders. A few teachers and parents, and . . .
Mrs. Galdarro!

Tommy hadn't noticed her there before, seated among the students and a few parents at the top of the bleachers. But what was that look on her face? She was staring right at him. Worry creased her brow and lined the corners of her eyes. The absence of her confident smile felt to Tommy like the sun had just been covered with dark clouds.

Tommy gave her a half wave and saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He started to turn back to the target, but something caught his attention. At the top of the next set of bleachers, about forty or fifty students to Mrs. Galdarro's left, sat a man in a gray coat. Tommy couldn't see the man's features under his wide-brim hat but felt sure he was watching.

It's him!
Tommy thought urgently.
The guy with the black car.

He did have a visitor sticker on his coat, though. That meant that he had to have checked in at the main office, but still. Tommy shivered and turned around. His thoughts were all over the place, and it took him a moment to focus on the target. But once he locked on, the confidence began to build once more. He didn't just feel—
he knew
—he could hit the bull's-eye all three times. The question was, should he?
Why not?
Tommy wondered.
We need the points.

Still, he kept thinking of the peculiar man.
But I'm safe, right? I'm
in school. Nothing can happen to me here.
Tommy thought of Mrs. Galdarro's troubled look. He altered his aim just a fraction and proceeded to fire off three nine-point bull's-eyes, less-than-perfect center-ring bull's-eyes, but still satisfying.

By the time the students' fifth-round scores went up, the gymnasium was already rocking. Students hooted and hollered, declaring victory over the once-fearsome seventh-grade teachers. Mr. Phitzsinger posted the score: Students 570, Teachers 506.

“Go, FALCONS! Go, FALCONS! GO!”
The chant went up.
Boom-boom-thwack!
The stomping and clapping began again. But the archery meet was not over. The teachers hadn't had their fifth round, and Mr. Belanger was part of that rotation.

They came forward, full of adult confidence. All they really needed was sixty-five points, and it seemed sure they would get it. Tommy and the other student archers sat on the bottom step of the bleachers and watched. The gym became quiet. The teachers began to shoot. The crowd groaned with every arrow that hit the target.

Tommy buried his head in his hands as Mr. Belanger got a bull's-eye. Still, some of the teachers had apparently lost their groove. Several of their arrows lodged in the two-point white circles or missed the target altogether. Hearing the cheers, Tommy looked up. He wished he could see the scores change as the arrows struck home, but he'd have to wait it out.

Brock, his forearm wrapped in ice, plopped down next to Tommy. “What's going on?” he asked. “I could hear the cheers from the health room.”

“We tore it up during the last round.” Tommy grinned. “Since Haley wasn't there, Mr. Phitzsinger let me shoot again.”

Brock looked up at the scoreboard. “Cool! How'd you do?”

“Um . . . twenty-seven points.”

“SWEET!”

“Ah, the teachers are finished,” said Tommy. “I can't look.”

One by one, the seven teachers brought their score sheets to the gym teacher. The gym filled with nervous whispers. Mr. Phitzsinger shook his head a few times as he entered the scores. Then, after an agonizing few seconds, the final score went up: Teachers 579, Students 570.

The seventh-grade teachers were victorious. A collective groan went up from the students. The teachers made a big show of bowing to the crowd and shaking hands with the student archers. Tommy couldn't believe how the day had worked out. He'd entered the gym hoping to at least hit the target once. And then Haley Shoop had stayed home sick, which meant his lack of skill would be that much easier to notice. But somehow, he'd shot well. No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like in the span of a day, he'd realized archery was something he'd always been meant to do. His shooting had gotten the seventh graders so close to beating the teachers, only to fall nine points short. “Bah!” Tommy shrugged. It had still been a memorable day.

When Tommy turned his head again, Brock was gone. He was over talking to Mr. Phitzsinger.
What's he up to?

Mr. Belanger came over to Tommy. “So what's the deal, Bowman?” he asked playfully. “Your parents Olympic archery champions or something?”

“Uh, no,” said Tommy, keeping one eye on Mr. Phitzsinger. “I don't think so.”

“Well, that's the first time I've ever seen a student shoot a twenty-nine-point set.” Mr. Belanger laughed that deep laugh of his. “And look what you did! You followed it up with twenty-seven! Bowman, that's amazing. If Haley had been here, the seventh graders would've ki—”

“Hold on just a minute!” Mr. Phitzsinger bellowed over the loudspeaker. “Teachers, please direct the students to sit back down in the bleachers.”

Mr. Belanger looked up. He and Tommy wondered what was going on. Brock stood next to Mr. Phitzsinger and gave Tommy a little nod. The gym teacher waited until everyone was seated. Tommy noticed Mrs. Galdarro had changed to a seat closer to the gym exit. The man in the gray coat hadn't moved at all. Tommy looked away quickly.

“The Falcon Day Archery Meet is not over yet!” announced Mr. Phitzsinger. It took the teachers a full thirty seconds of hollering, finger pointing, and shushing to restore order in the gym. “One of our seventh graders,” Mr. Phitzsinger went on, “did not complete his turn due to injury. He has one arrow left to shoot.” Near pandemonium spread across the gym, teachers standing and shushing the students. “A nine-point bull's-eye would tie it up. A ten-point bull's-eye will win it for the students. But because Brock can barely pull back the bowstring right now, he's elected to have Tommy Bowman shoot in his place!”

“Ohhhh, no!” Mr. Belanger shouted, raising his hands and making a big show of the new threat to the teacher's victory. “We're in trouble now!” The students were beside themselves with delight, their roar deafening.

Mr. Phitzsinger beckoned for Tommy to come to the center of the gym. Tommy grabbed the bow he'd been using and walked toward the cone. The cheering from the stands made Tommy's mind swim. He'd never,
never
felt so appreciated. He couldn't recall anyone ever clapping for him before.
This is the best day I've ever
—

His thoughts scattered like ants under a magnifying glass as halfway to the center cone, he made eye contact with Mrs. Galdarro. Her porcelain-smooth face was not only creased with worry but paler than usual. Her placid smile was replaced by an anguished frown. She seemed to be trembling. Tommy mouthed a silent “What?” to her. She shook her head subtly side to side.

“C'mon, Bowman!” bellowed Mr. Phitzinger. “The target's waiting. We're
all
waiting.”

Tommy stepped up to the cone and nocked his arrow.
What's
wrong with Mrs. Galdarro?
he wondered.
She'd shook her head. No? No
what? She couldn't mean . . .

The students began the
“Go, FALCONS! Go, FALCONS! GO!”
foot stomping. Some of the teachers even joined in. The gym was as loud as Tommy had ever heard it. He took a deep breath, raised his bow, and took aim. As he drew the imaginary line that would send the arrow plunging straight into the bull's-eye, something gurgled in his gut.
Mrs. Galdarro couldn't have meant I shouldn't take the shot. Could
she?
It was too late. He was at the shooting line. All the students were counting on him. And everyone was watching. Tommy turned his head just slightly. The man in the gray coat was definitely watching. He'd leaned forward. Tommy thought he could see the gleam of the man's eyes. Why was he wearing a hat inside the school building?

The bow suddenly felt heavy, and Tommy lowered his aim just a bit. “C'mon, Bowman,” Brock whispered urgently. And a few kids in the stands right behind Brock began to chant: “Bowman, Bowman, Bowman.” Then the whole section joined in. Soon the entire gym rang out with cheers. “Bowman, Bowman, Bowman!”

All images of the gray-coated visitor, of Mrs. Galdarro's worry, and of crazy warnings vanished from Tommy's mind. He had to come through for the crowd.

Tommy felt his pulse slow and locked his gaze to the center of the target. Not just the bull's-eye but the absolute center of the bull's-eye. He lifted the bow and lined up the shot. He decided to give it a little something extra, so he pulled the bowstring back beyond his cheek. And then he let it fly. As before, his eyes seemed to go with the arrow, but only for a split second. A puzzling kind of gasp from the stands behind him led Tommy to conclude he'd somehow missed the bull's-eye.

The murmur in the gym climbed in urgency. Tommy looked at the target.
No, I couldn't have missed the entire target.
But as Tommy stared, he noticed a black X in the center of the bull's-eye.

Mr. Phitzsinger loped across the gym floor to the target and stooped down. He looked strangely at Tommy and then turned to work at something behind the target. He was there, struggling for twenty, thirty seconds before pressing his knee into the target and giving a hard tug. A few seconds later, he emerged with Tommy's arrow.

“A ten-point bull's-eye!” he announced. The gym had been loud before. Now it was bedlam. Students ran down the bleachers, hooting and hollering. A crowd of hysterically happy sixth, seventh, and eighth graders surrounded Tommy, patting him on the back, high-fiving him, and even tousling his hair.

“Unbelievable, Bowman!” Mr. Belanger shouted. “You nearly shot the arrow through the target! Unbelievable!”

Mr. Wilson, the principal, even found his way through the jostling kids to congratulate Tommy. “You've just made Falcon Day history, young man,” he said, patting Tommy repeatedly on the shoulder. “This is the first time the seventh graders have ever beaten the teachers at the archery meet. And they owe it . . .” Mr. Wilson went on, but Tommy became distracted and lost his words. Just above the principal's left shoulder, a gray figure descended from the stands. Tommy watched the visitor as he left the gymnasium. His gray jacket and hat filtered through the mass of oblivious students and disappeared around the corner of the bleachers.

Mr. Wilson patted Tommy one more time on the shoulder, and then took the mic from the gym teacher. “All right, students, that was quite an event. But Falcon Day isn't over. Your teachers and parents have been busy setting up the classrooms for your afternoon activities. You are officially dismissed. Enjoy the day you've earned!”

Tommy reluctantly wandered behind the departing crowd. His eyes darted left and right. Whoever that visitor was, he seemed to be gone. Tommy followed a line of students through the gym exit.

In a split heartbeat, from the corner of Tommy's eye, a swift, dark shadow approached. A strong hand seized Tommy's arm and pulled him toward the stairwell outside the gym. A voice said, “That was a mistake.”

Tommy tried to jerk away, but the grip was firm. “Mrs. Galdarro?” He blinked at her. “I thought . . . I was afraid—”

“No, I am not him,” she said. “And you are very fortunate that I am not, after your foolish demonstration in there.”

“The bull's-eyes?”

She nodded.

Tommy smacked himself in the forehead. “That's what you were trying to tell me.”

“Yes,” she replied. “I thought I made it very clear that you should shoot more modestly. And I was not the only one, was I?”

Tommy's brow crinkled. “I don't know wha—”

“Oh, yes, you do, Tommy Bowman. There was a voice in your heart, was there not? An unspoken warning . . . you knew you were not supposed to keep shooting the bull's-eyes. But you did anyway. You even put an arrow so far into the target that your school's strongest teacher could barely loosen it. Your desire to be a hero to your classmates overcame the warning in your heart.”

“How . . . how did you . . . ?”

“Not here and not now,” she said. A cheerful whistle cascaded down the stairwell. “Oh, good,” said Mrs. Galdarro. “I hoped he would hurry.”

Mr. Charlie, the school custodian, came
tip-tapping
down the stairs. He carried a long-handled mop and continued whistling until he stood beside Mrs. Galdarro. “How many?” he asked.

“One on the inside,” she replied. “But certainly others wait among the trees. You will see to them, won't you?”

Mr. Charlie winked at Tommy. “Oh, I'll see to them all right. Uh-huh. But I'll have to visit my closet first.”