Finney and the Secret Tunnel: A Finney and the Mathmysterians Adventure

By Jamie Lane Barber

Booby-trapped tunnels. Secret societies. Puzzles. A buried secret.  

Finney's sixth-grade math teacher might hand out too many worksheets and have a weird hang-toothed smile, but there's something sincere about her that nudges Finney to follow her trail when she goes missing. Making her way through secret tunnels bene

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Elevate
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685124724

Jamie Lane Barber

Jamie Lane Barber grew up in the southern California sun but enjoys her days now on the east coast in Virginia Beach. On top of writing and running a digital marketing agency, Jamie fills her time with shuttling her children between activities. Her kids and two crazy dogs help keep Jamie on her toes and always busy. Jamie enjoys karaoke nights with her husband, musical theatre, escape rooms, a tasty red wine, and, of course, reading.

Book preview

Chapter One: The Secret Life of Ms. Swindell

Trouble . The word nipped at Finney, her insides smacking around like an out-of-lake fish.

Okay, maybe not a fish. Truthfully, she’d never been fishing to experience that sort of slimy, floundering reaction, what with Mom too busy and Dad well—gone. But the way the word trouble thrashed at her nerves had the same sort of clamminess she imagined.

As the minute hand on the clock pinged closer to the six, she peeled back the last flecks of her electric blue nail polish and squirmed in her leg-numbing plastic chair. She wasn’t ready to go home and face the problem. Not yet.

Finney’s head bobbed up as Ms. Swindell slipped papers to each student, following the odd circle of desks that formed a spiral in the middle of the room. A tooth hung over her teacher’s bottom lip in a sideways smile.

It wasn’t that Finney liked being at school exactly. She hated the way Ms. Swindell’s smile crooked a little too much to the right to be genuine and how her eyebrows pinched together a tad too often to seem friendly. But even then, school wasn’t so bad. It beat…Trouble.

She shifted in her desk and wiggled her tingling toes as blood flow returned to them.

Complete your math review worksheets, Ms. Swindell said to the first half of the room as she continued circling the desks.

Muted whispers hissed amongst classmates.

For the love of Domino’s pizza, more worksheets? she said under her breath. Can’t we just get started on our homework already if it’s just the same stuff anyway? Finney leaned back in her chair, dipping her head as untamed brown hair fell over her eyes.

Her friend Erika twisted a handful of braids and nodded. Then she rubbed her lips together nervously as Ms. Swindell inched behind her.

The teacher raised her eyebrows and placed Erika’s paper down without making eye contact. When she reached Finney’s desk, she bent down until Finney felt her burning gaze.

Oh, snap. Did she hear that?

She froze, holding her breath as her teacher’s disapproving mug scowled like a bloodhound right in front of her nose. An overpowering floral scent wafted from Ms. Swindell, and hot breath huffed from her lips onto Finney’s skin.

I teach you what is most important. Ms. Swindell smashed her nail-bitten finger onto Finney’s paper. Her voice blared, and the rustling of papers quieted as all eyes pivoted.

Finney wriggled in her chair, but not because of the eyeballs on her. She was used to being scolded. Well, no one gets used to it exactly—a pinch twinged within her chest as it always did—but she was accustomed to stares from her classmates as they looked on with judging eyes. The thing was, Ms. Swindell was not one of the teachers who often treated her like she was doing something wrong—and she always seemed to be doing something wrong, even when she didn’t mean to.

Functions are like machines, Ms. Swindell continued with intensity. They make the world go round. Ratios make up everything we have. Without all of what is on this paper, you literally have nothing in the world around you but empty chaos.

Finney fidgeted. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it when she was nervous or bored, or just being Finney really, and though this was the most inopportune time, she played with her fingers and swung her feet, accidentally kicking the metal legs of her chair until they rang out.

Are you paying attention? Locks of Ms. Swindell’s dark, frizzy hair fell over her crooked nose as she hovered lower. Ruffles from a loud printed top spilled out of her black blazer sleeves, tickling Finney’s hands.

The truth was Finney was always paying attention. She could focus on the smallest detail, like the fly buzzing near the classroom door, and still manage to hear and feel and think about everything her teacher was saying to her.

She straightened stiffly and nodded. Uh-huh.

That was enough to satisfy Ms. Swindell.

Though she definitely wasn’t her favorite teacher and more cranky than Mrs. Preston from the fifth grade, Finney appreciated that Ms. Swindell, unlike most adults, didn’t harp on her about focusing. Instead, she always took her responses as the truth.

Ms. Swindell let her be and continued passing out papers until her stack was gone.

Phew.

She returned to her desk in the front of the room and cranked up some classical music. It’s good for the brain, she would remind them from time to time.

Finney slid her tongue through a crevice between her teeth where one tooth stubbornly refused to grow back in. She was the only twelve-year-old she knew with a missing tooth close to the front. Don’t worry. It’ll grow in, in due time, she could hear Mom say.

She bit down on her lip and penciled in her first row of answers. Her eyes flicked to Ms. Swindell between each problem as her teacher whacked piles of papers off her desk into the trash can.

What is she doing? Finney whispered to Erika. She was careful to be quieter this time.

Erika slowed her writing, and her dark brown eyes ticked to their teacher.

Oh my. What was I thinking? Ms. Swindell paused, flapping her hand to her chest dramatically. This won’t do at all…not at all, she mumbled to herself.

Ms. Swindell bumbled behind her desk, dragging a large black paper shredder over to the nearest plug. One by one, she fed pages into its teeth. An awful grinding sound grated into Finney’s ears as the shredder chomped and chewed through paper.

She covered her ears and scanned the room. Everyone was staring at Ms. Swindell.

Erika rolled her eyes. She’s extra crazy today.

She definitely seems stressed out. Finney tilted her head.

Nothing unusual had happened that day that warranted it. Ms. Swindell always made sure the class was on its best behavior. The worst of it was Finney getting reprimanded. So why was Ms. Swindell acting strange?

Then Ms. Swindell did something truly odd. She walked up to Finney and placed a blank piece of paper in front of her face.

This is important, Ms. Swindell winked.

What is? Finney scrunched her nose, flipping the paper over. The front and back were both empty. Subtle creases lined the paper, but it was stark white.

Exactly, said Ms. Swindell.

Huh? Finney’s eyes widened.

Ms. Swindell simply turned away. Then, like she usually did when the kids were hammering away at worksheets, she ducked into the supply closet on the far side of the room. Never had Finney ever experienced a teacher who would disappear for periods of time, but Ms. Swindell was, well…different.

What did she give you? Erika huddled forward.

A blank piece of paper. Finney held it up. Um, thanks for the scratch paper? How was this important? Maybe she was trying to say something about the math comment earlier. Very strange.

I never know what she’s thinking. Erika shook her head.

Me neither. Finney sighed.

You’re getting secret notes from the teacher now? I bet the only reason Ms. Swindell pays any attention to you at all is because you’re weird like her. Angelina Beaufort leaned over with her mouth curled up sourly.

Don’t be jealous. Erika smirked and rolled her eyes at Angelina. You don’t have to be teacher’s pet all the time.

She’s hardly teacher’s pet. More like a teacher’s nightmare. Ms. Swindell’s just too crazy to see it. Like I said—weird. Angelina shook her head.

Weird. The word soared through Finney like a warm, familiar breeze. While she felt normal, her classmates didn’t hesitate to point out the myriad of mismatched prints she wore or how she always ended up alone in the lunchroom on days Erika was absent.

She was made up of something different than most people, of that she was certain. Like how teddy bears are loaded with shredded cotton, and people are normally filled with things like blood and organs, Finney was sure her stuffing was made of something else. She must’ve been made of things that didn’t go together, like hot chocolate and cotton candy. Yes, that was it. Whatever the fluff inside her was, it had to be bright and colorful and bursting to break free.

But one day, she’d do something important. Then, people would realize who she really was. She ran her fingers over a thin book on Susan B. Anthony wedged inside her desk. That’s what people with colorful stuffing do…important things that get printed in books. At least she told herself this.

Still, Angelina’s comment sank like rancid food to the pit of her stomach. As much as she wanted not to care, a lingering ache proved she did.

Angelina glared at her before returning to her worksheet.

Warm tears smudged the bottom of Finney’s eyes. Don’t cry. She took a deep breath as air caught in the back of her throat. She stared at the grains in her desk, trying to will the tears away. She wouldn’t let anyone see she was hurt. It was better that way. She’d cried before, during unrelenting teasing, and it only made things worse. Not this time.

She picked up her pencil and tried to focus on her work, but after a few minutes, Ms. Swindell reemerged from the closet.

Ms. Swindell flung her desk drawer open and quickly tucked a paper into her blazer. Indiscernible muted sounds clattered from outside the classroom door. Ms. Swindell’s eyes darted toward the noise as if alarmed, and then they flashed wildly over the room like an untamed lioness. Without a word, she walked back into the closet.

Does she seem jumpy to you? Finney asked.

Hmmm? Erika’s eyes were slow to lift from her paper. She had far more answers filled in than Finney.

Never mind, Finney said. She should get back to work.

Finney grated her lip over her teeth and returned to her paper, completing dozens of problems. She was on her sixth row of answers when her eyes began darting over the lowered heads of her scribbling classmates toward the supply closet. The door remained open, but no shuffling sounds swooshed from behind it. What was Ms. Swindell doing in the closet that could take so long? Maybe she just liked organizing and reorganizing supplies to avoid the class’s talking and bickering. Sometimes Finney wanted to escape it, too.

As the minute hand drew nearer to the twelve, Finney’s wondering spread to the entire class.

Simon Creeley spoke a little too loudly. Where did Ms. Swindell go? Is she having trouble finding her broomstick?

A few subdued snickers spurted from some of the kids’ noses.

Finney shook her head. Simon was the head of the mischief squad, if there ever was one.

Someone go get her out of the closet. The bell’s about to ring, and I’m pretty sure she’s supposed to dismiss us, Angelina said.

We’re not allowed in there, remember? a voice from the back of the classroom chimed in.

It’s a stupid rule. Just go check, Simon said.

Then, everyone began throwing in their opinions.

Maybe she had a heart attack in there.

Maybe she keeps a pillow in there, and she’s sleeping.

Or maybe she went to the bathroom, and no one noticed her leaving the classroom? Erika offered.

Someone would have noticed, Angelina replied.

We should just check, said Finney.

The whole class fell silent, and their eyes plummeted to their desks.

Finney inhaled a deep breath and rose from her desk without any encouragement or approval, marching straight for the closet. Maybe Ms. Swindell had just lost track of time and needed someone brave enough to jolt her from her work.

You’ll get in trouble for going in there. Erika’s thick black eyebrows rose with concern as she gritted her silver elephant necklace against its chain.

Finney glanced back at her friend, and her heart pounded a little faster with the reminder, but she’d already made up her mind. The rest of the class could mull over the possibilities, but she was determined to find answers. Ms. Swindell had been disappearing into the closet for weeks but never for this long.

Something was off. Ms. Swindell was up to something, and Finney wasn’t going to let it go.

She rounded the door, swung out wide as if to purposely block the students’ view. The closet was dark, so she hit her light-up bracelet as she searched for the switch. The row of bangles on her arm clanked as fluorescent green glowed from the front.

Yep, something’s definitely off.

I’m just looking for a new pencil sharpener, Finney blurted out. She immediately regretted the lie. It wasn’t like her to blatantly say something that was untrue.

Shelves thick with books and messy piles of paper lined the left wall. On the right, a smaller shelf with pencil boxes and dry-erase markers stretched to the corner.

Hmmm…The closet shouldn’t be dark. Finney spun slowly, her muscles tightening with every turn. And unorganized.

Ms. Swindell? I think it’s time for us to go home soon. Finney combed the small space, tapping her light-up bracelet again and again.

There were lots of things in the supply closet, from calculators to a globe, but no Ms. Swindell.

Her heart dropped. What was she expecting to find, really? Sure, she’d daydreamed about Ms. Swindell toying away at some mad scientist experiment in the closet. On other days, she’d just hoped her teacher was creating some exciting activity, like a massive game board to make up for all the worksheet and online quiz days. But to walk into a boring closet without any sign of Ms. Swindell or special projects felt impossible and, well…empty.

She’s not here, Finney called to the class, peeking out from behind the door.

Before the class could react, the bell rang. Students leapt from their desks and bounded for the door. With no Ms. Swindell to ensure an orderly dismissal, people pushed and scraped to get out as quickly as possible.

Don’t they understand something’s wrong? Finney’s head dropped. I guess they don’t care. Maybe she cared too deeply about things that couldn’t be explained. She swallowed hard as she fought to drown memories of sifting through picture boxes, trying to find clues to lead her to Dad. In that case, the explanation wasn’t as satisfying as the search had been.

The only person who remained in the classroom was Erika. She rushed to Finney, her teal backpack slung over her right shoulder.

Finney mustered a smile. Thanks for always having my back. She surveyed the closet again, trying to make sense of where her teacher had gone. She knew she’d seen Ms. Swindell enter the closet. Ms. Swindell definitely hadn’t come out. So where could she be?

C’mon. We should go.

We can’t. Finney’s insides twisted like doughy amusement park pretzels. She scanned every inch of carpet and wall as if it would somehow make her teacher materialize.

I told you, she probably went to the bathroom. Erika tugged on her friend’s shoulder.

That can’t be true. Finney wasn’t convinced. She pushed over books and swept aside papers. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. Just a clue as to how Ms. Swindell could have simply vanished.

We would have seen her go out the other way, wouldn’t w— Thud. A row of books limped over in a domino succession as Finney’s hands flew past them.

Erika’s eyes darted around at the noise.

Something was tucked behind the fallen books.

At least we found the light. Finney’s fingers trickled over a switch. She flicked it on.

But the light didn’t turn on. Instead, the floor quietly rumbled, and the bookcase swung outward until it opened up into a large dimly lit room.

Whoa.

It’s a secret door! Erika’s hands flew to her cheeks, and she lurched back.

Finney stepped forward, her scuffed, lime green tennis shoes moving from the tiles of the closet to the cement floor of the hidden room. Goosebumps prickled across her bare arms, and she rubbed at them, aware of how the temperature had dropped. A mahogany desk stacked with books hugged one wall. Above it, numbers in bold red paint graffitied the old bricks. The opposite side of the room was stark and unlit, boding a dark and unwelcoming feeling.

Whelp, might as well check it out. She gulped. Wondering was the one thing she couldn’t resist. If she knew anything for certain, it was that pursuing her wondering always got her into predicaments.

The strange room whispered indecipherable secrets into Finney’s ear, luring her deeper inside. Hairs bristled the back of her neck.

Erika followed close behind, and both girls crept slow and steady.

"So this is where she always goes." Erika ran her fingers along the bumpy wall.

I was right. A slight smile slipped through. Ms. Swindell had been up to something, even if it was the unexpected. But where is she now? Finney gazed at pockets of dark shadows. None of this makes sense.

She tiptoed to the desk on the far left as her eyes tracked the blackest corners of the windowless room. Everything looked so old. Beautiful miniature statues and sculptures, dusty with age, lined the floor nearby. Unhung paintings were piled against wood and brick.

Erika stiffened. "We should go. Do you remember that time when we built that ‘carnival ride’ in my backyard and rigged the Igloo cooler to a rope? It was, you know, supposed to flip us onto the trampoline? Yeah, this kinda feels like the moment just before I attached the rope to the top of the shed when I knew I should have said no."

Finney’s cheeks felt hot as she remembered the trouble she’d gotten Erika into, but this was different. C’mon. Finney’s voice carried further than she’d intended. Her eyes widened as she stopped to listen for a second. Once she was sure everything was still and silent around her, she continued, Don’t you want to know what Ms. Swindell’s been up to?

Not if it means she’s an art thief. Erika crept toward Finney. This stuff looks expensive. It would explain all of these paintings and sculptures and her secret hideout.

Nah. Finney shook her head. I don’t get the art thief vibe from her, you know?

Erika’s mouth stretched open. Are you kidding me? She’s perfect villain material!

Finney didn’t respond, but she certainly didn’t agree. Earlier in the year, she might have thought the same of her teacher, but not anymore. No matter how cranky Ms. Swindell was, there was something softer about her on the inside, a type of understanding in her Finney couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Like the time a substitute had told Ms. Swindell that Finney had thrown an eraser at other students and was disagreeable in front of the whole class. Finney hadn’t thrown the eraser to hurt anyone, of course. It’d been requested by Simon. Besides, she’d technically tossed it, not chucked it in some malicious way like the teacher made it sound. She was almost positive she’d seen Ms. Swindell roll her eyes, but more