Code Name Cassandra

by Meg Cabot

  The other boys giggled. In spite of the fright Shane had gotten the night before—and I had ended up letting him sleep inside; even I wasn’t mean enough to make him sleep on the porch after the whole Paul Huck thing—he was back to his old tricks.

  Next time, I was going to make him spend the night on a raft in the middle of the lake, I swear to God.

  “Apologize,” I commanded him.

  Shane said, “I don’t see why I should have to apologize for something I didn’t do.”

  “Apologize,” I said, again. “And then get that tick off that poor dog.”

  This was my first mistake. I should have removed the tick myself.

  My second mistake was in turning my back on the boys to roll my eyes at Dave, who’d been watching the entire interaction with this great big grin on his face. Last night, he and Scott had confided to me that all the other counselors had placed bets on who was going to win in the battle of wills between Shane and me. The odds were running two to one in Shane’s favor.

  “Sorry, Lie-oh-nell,” I heard Shane say.

  “Make sure you mention this,” I said, to Dave, “to your—”

  The morning air was pierced by a scream.

  I spun around just in time to see Lionel, his white shirt now splattered with blood, haul back his fist and plunge it, with all the force of his sixty-five pounds or so, into Shane’s eye. He’d been aiming, I guess, for the nose, but missed.

  Shane staggered back, clearly more startled by the blow than actually hurt by it. Nevertheless, he immediately burst into loud, babyish sobs, and, both hands pressed to the injured side of his face, wailed in a voice filled with shock and outrage, “He hit me! Jess, he hit me!”

  “Because he make the tick explode on me!” Lionel declared, holding out his shirt for me to see.

  “All right,” I said, trying to keep my breakfast down. “That’s enough. Get to class, both of you.”

  Lionel, horrified, said, “I cannot go to class like this!”

  “I’ll bring you a new shirt,” I said. “I’ll go back to the cabin and get one and bring it to you while you’re in music theory.”

  Mollified, the boy picked up his flute case and, with a final glare in Shane’s direction, stomped off to class.

  Shane, however, was not so easily calmed.

  “He should get a strike!” he shouted. “He should get a strike, Jess, for hitting me!”

  I looked at Shane like he was crazy. I actually think that at that moment, he was crazy.

  “Shane,” I said. “You sprayed him with tick blood. He had every right to hit you.”

  “That’s not fair,” Shane shouted, his voice catching on a sob. “That’s not fair!”

  “For God’s sake, Shane,” I said, with some amusement. “It’s a good thing you went to orchestra camp instead of football camp this summer, if you’re gonna cry every time someone pokes you in the eye.”

  This had not, perhaps, been the wisest thing to say, under the circumstances. Shane’s face twisted with emotion, but I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or pain. I was a little shocked that I’d managed to hurt his feelings. It was actually kind of hard to believe a kid like Shane had feelings.

  “I didn’t choose to come to this stupid camp,” Shane roared at me. “My mother made me! She wouldn’t let me go to football camp. She was afraid I’d hurt my stupid hands and not be able to play the stupid flute anymore.”

  I dried up, hearing this. Because suddenly, I could see Shane’s mother’s point of view. I mean, the kid could play.

  “Shane,” I said gently. “Your mom’s right. Professor Le Blanc, too. You have an incredible gift. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

  “Like you, you mean?” Shane asked acidly.

  “What do you mean?” I shook my head. “I’m not wasting my gift for music. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “I’m not talking,” Shane said, “about your gift for music.”

  I stared at him. His meaning was suddenly clear. Too clear. There were still people, of course, standing nearby, watching, listening. Thanks to his theatrics, we’d attracted quite a little crowd. Some of the kids who hadn’t made it to the music building yet, and quite a few of the counselors, had gathered around to watch the little drama unfolding in front of the dining hall. They wouldn’t, I’m sure, know what he was referring to. But I did. I knew.

  “Shane,” I said. “That’s not fair.”

  “Yeah?” He snorted. “Well, you know what else isn’t fair, Jess? My mom, making me come here. And you, not giving Lionel a strike!”

  And with that, he took off without another word.

  “Shane,” I called after him. “Come back here. I swear, if you don’t come back here, it’s the porch with Paul Huck for you tonight—”

  Shane stopped, but not because I’d intimidated him with my threat. Oh, no. He stopped because he’d fun smack into Dr. Alistair, the camp director, who—having apparently heard the commotion from inside the dining hall, where he often sat after all the campers were gone and enjoyed a quiet cup of coffee—had come outside to investigate.

  ”Oof,” Dr. Alistair said, as Shane’s mullet head sank into his midriff. He reached down to grasp the boy by the shoulders in an attempt to keep them both from toppling over. Shane was no lightweight, you know.

  “What,” Dr. Alistair asked, as he steered Shane back around toward me, “is the meaning of all this caterwauling?”

  Before I could say a word, Shane lifted his head and, staring up at Dr. Alistair with a face that was perfectly devoid of tears—but upon which there was an unmistakable bruise growing under one eye—said, “A boy hit me and my counselor didn’t do anything, Dr. Alistair.” He added, with a hiccupy sob, “If my dad finds out about this, he’s going to be plenty mad, boy.”

  Dr. Alistair glared at me from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Is this true, young lady?” he demanded. He only called me young lady, I’m sure, because he couldn’t remember my name.

  “Only partially,” I said. “I mean, another boy did hit him, but only after—”

  Before I could finish my explanation, however, Dr. Alistair was taking charge of the situation.

  “You,” he said to Dave, who’d been standing close by, watching the proceedings with open-mouthed wonder. “Take this boy here to the nurse to have his eye looked at.”

  Dave sprang to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said and, throwing me an apologetic look, he put a hand on Shane’s shoulder and began steering him toward the infirmary. “Come on, big guy,” he said.

  Shane, sniffling, went with him … after pausing to throw me a triumphant look.

  “You,” Dr. Alistair said, jabbing his index finger at me. “You and I are going to meet in my office to discuss this matter.”

  My ears, I could tell, were redder than ever. “Yes, sir,” I murmured. It was only then that I noticed that there among the onlookers stood Karen Sue Hanky, her mouth forming a little V of delight. How I longed to ram my fist, as Lionel had his, into her rat face.

  “But not,” Dr. Alistair continued, pausing to look down at his watch, “until one o’clock. I have a seminar until then.”

  And without another word, he turned around and headed back into the dining hall.

  My shoulders slumped. One o’clock? Well, that was it. I was fired for sure.

  Because of course there was no way I was making my meeting with Dr. Alistair. Not when I had an appointment at the same time to check out the situation with Keely Herzberg. I mean, my job was important, I guess. But not as important as a little girl who may or may not have been stolen from her custodial parent.

  Remember what I was saying about how complicated my life had gotten lately? Yeah. That about summed it up.

  “I told you,” Karen Sue said as soon as Dr. Alistair was out of earshot, “that violence is never the answer.”

  I glanced at her sourly. “Hey, Karen Sue,” I said.

  She looked at me warily. “What?”
/>   I made a gesture with my finger that caused her to gasp and go stalking off.

  I noticed that a lot of the other counselors who were still standing there seemed to find it quite amusing, however.

  C H A P T E R

  10

  He was late.

  I stood on the side of the road, trying not to notice the sweat that was prickling the back of my neck. Not just the back of my neck, either. There was a pool of it between my boobs. I’m serious.

  And I wasn’t too comfortable in my jeans, either.

  But what choice did I have? I’d learned the hard way never to ride a motorcycle in shorts. The scar was gone, but not the memory of the way the skin of my calf, sizzling against the exhaust pipe, had smelled.

  Still, it had to be a hundred degrees on that long, narrow road. There were plenty of trees, of course, to offer shade. Hell, Camp Wawasee was nothing but trees, except where it was lake.

  But if I stood in the trees, Rob might not see me when he came roaring up, and he might whiz right on past, and precious moments might be lost… .

  Not that it mattered. I was going to be fired anyway, on account of missing my one o’clock meeting with Dr. Alistair. I was willing to bet that by the time I got back, all my stuff would be packed up and waiting for me by the front gates. Kerplunk, she sunk, like junk, cha, cha, cha.

  Sweat was beginning to drip from the crown of my head, beneath my hair and into my eyes, when I finally heard the far off sound of a motorcycle engine. Rob isn’t the type to let a muffler go, so his Indian didn’t have one of those annoyingly loud engines you can hear from miles away. I simply became aware of a sound other than the shrill whine of the cicadas that were in the tall grass along the side of the road, and then I saw him, clipping along at no mean pace.

  I didn’t have to—we were the only two people on the road for miles, Lake Wawasee being about as isolated, I was becoming convinced, as Ice Station Zebra—but I put my arm out, to make sure he saw me. I mean, he could have thought I was a mirage or something. It was one of those kind of blazingly hot sunny days when you looked down a long straight road and saw pools of water across it, even though, when you finally got to the pool, it had evaporated as if it had never been there … because, of course, it hadn’t been. It had just been one of those optical illusions they talk about, you know, in human bio.

  Rob came cruising up to me and then put out a booted foot to balance himself when he came to a stop. He looked, as always, impressively large, like a lumberjack or something, only more stylishly dressed.

  And when he took off his helmet and squinted at me in the sunlight with those eyes—so pale blue, they were practically the same color gray as his bike’s exhaust—and I drank in his sexily messed-up hair and his darkly tanned forearms, all I could think was that, bad as it had been, that whole thing with the lightning and Colonel Jenkins and all, it had actually been worth it, because it had brought me the hottest Hottie of them all, Rob.

  Well, sort of, anyway.

  “Hey, sailor,” I said. “Give a girl a ride?”

  Rob just gave me his trademark don’t-mess-with-me frown, then popped open the box on the back of his bike where he keeps the spare helmet.

  “Get on,” was all he said, as he held the helmet out to me.

  Like I needed an invitation. I snatched up the helmet, jammed it into place (trying not to think about my sweaty hair), then wrapped my arms around his waist and said, “Put the pedal to the metal, dude.”

  He gave me one last, half-disgusted, half-amused look, then put his own helmet back on.

  And we were off.

  Hey, it wasn’t a big, wet one or anything, but “Get on” isn’t bad. I mean, Rob may not be completely in love with me yet or anything, but he’d shown up, right? That had to count for something. I mean, I’d called him that morning, and said I needed him to drive for four hours, cross-country, to pick me up. And he’d shown up. He’d have had to find someone to cover for him at work, and explain to his uncle why he couldn’t be there. He’d have had to buy gas, both for the trip to Chicago and then back again. He’d be spending a total of ten hours or so on the road. Tomorrow, he’d probably be exhausted.

  But he’d shown up.

  And I didn’t think he was doing it because it was such a worthy cause, either. I mean, it was, and all, but he wasn’t doing it for Keely.

  At least … God, I hope not.

  By two-thirty, we were cruising along Lake Shore Drive. The city looked bright and clean, the windows of the skyscrapers sparkling in the sunlight. The beaches were crowded. The songs playing from the car radios of the traffic we passed made it seem like we were a couple in a music video, or on a TV commercial or something. For Levi’s, maybe. I mean, here we were, two total Hotties—well, okay, one total Hottie. I’m probably only Do-able—tooling around on the back of a completely cherried-out Indian on a sunny summer day. How much cooler could you get?

  I guess if we’d noticed from the beginning we were being followed, that might have been cooler. But we didn’t.

  I didn’t because I was busy experiencing one of those epiphanies they always talk about in English class.

  Only my epiphany, instead of being some kind of spiritual enlightenment or whatever, was just this gush of total happiness because I had my arms around this totally buff guy I’d had a crush on since what seemed like forever, and he smelled really good, like Coast deodorant soap and whatever laundry detergent his mother uses on his T-shirts, and he had to think that I was at least somewhat cute, or he wouldn’t have come all that way to pick me up. I was thinking, if only this was how I could spend the rest of my life: riding around the country on the back of Rob’s bike, listening to music out of other people’s car radios, and maybe stopping every once in a while for some nachos or whatever.

  I don’t know what was occupying Rob’s thoughts so much that he didn’t see the white van on our tail. Maybe he was having an epiphany of his own. Hey, it could happen.

  But anyway, what happened was, eventually we had to pull off Lake Shore Drive in order to get where Keely was, and little by little, the traffic thinned out, and we still didn’t notice the van purring along behind us. I don’t know for sure, of course, because we weren’t paying attention, but I like to think it stayed at least a couple car lengths away. Otherwise, well, there’s no other explanation for it. We’re just idiots. Or at least I am.

  Anyway, finally we pulled onto this tree-lined street that was one hundred percent residential. I knew exactly which one Keely was in, of course, but I made Rob park about three houses away, just to be on the safe side. I mean, that much I knew. That much I was paying attention to.

  We stood in front of the place where Keely was staying. It was just a house. A city house, so it was kind of narrow. On one side of it ran a skinny alley. The other side was attached to the house next door. Keely’s house hadn’t been painted as recently as the one next to it. What paint was left on it was kind of peeling off in a sad way. I would call the neighborhood sketchy, at best. The small yards had an untended look to them. Grass grows fast in a humid climate like the one in northern Illinois, and needs constant attention. No one on this street seemed to care, particularly, how high their grass grew, or what kind of garbage lay in their yards for that grass to swallow.

  Maybe that was the purpose of the high grass. To hide the garbage.

  Rob, standing next to me as I gazed up at the house, said, “Nice-looking crack den.”

  I winced. “It’s not that bad,” I said.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said.

  “Well.” I squared my shoulders. I wasn’t sweaty anymore, after having so much wind blown on me, but I soon would be, if I stood on that hot sidewalk much longer. “Here goes nothing.”

  I opened the gate in the low chain-link fence that surrounded the house, and strode up the cement steps to the front door. I didn’t realize Rob had followed me until I’d reached out to ring the bell.

  “So what exactly,” he said, as we lis
tened to the hollow ringing deep inside the house, “is the plan here?”

  I said, “There’s no plan.”

  “Great.” Rob’s expression didn’t change. “My favorite kind.”

  “Who is it?” demanded a woman’s voice from behind the closed door. She didn’t sound very happy about having been disturbed.

  “Hello, ma’am?” I called. “Hi, my name is Ginger Silverman, and this is my friend, Nate. We’re seniors at Chicago Central High School, and we’re doing a research project on parental attitudes toward children’s television programming. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the kinds of television programs your children like to watch. It will only take a minute, and will be of invaluable help to us.”

  Rob looked at me like I was insane. “Ginger Silverman?”

  I shrugged. “I like that name.”

  He shook his head. “Nate?”

  “I like that name, too.”

  Inside the house, locks were being undone. When the door was thrown back, I saw, through the screen door, a tall, skinny woman in cutoffs and a halter top. You could tell she’d once taken care to color her hair, but that that had sort of fallen by the wayside. Now the ends of her hair were blonde, but the two inches of it at the top were dark brown. On her forehead, not quite hidden by her two-tone hair, was a dark, crescent-moon-shaped scab, about an inch and a half long. Out of one corner of her mouth, which was as flat and skinny as the rest of her, dangled a cigarette.

  She looked at Rob and me as if we had dropped down from another planet and asked her to join the Galaxian Federation, or something.

  ”What?” she said.

  I repeated my spiel about Chicago Central High School—who even knew if there was such a place?—and our thesis on children’s television programming. As I spoke, a small child appeared from the shadows behind Mrs. Herzberg—if, indeed, this was Mrs. Herzberg, though I suspected it was—and, wrapping her arms around the woman’s leg, blinked up at us with big brown eyes.

  I recognized her instantly. Keely Herzberg.

  “Mommy,” Keely said curiously, “who are they?”