This Isn't What It Looks Like-secret 4

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  Was it really possible the chocolate didn’t work? Max-Ernest wondered. As happy and relieved as he was about Cass’s recovery, happier and more relieved than he’d ever been about anything before, he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed.

  And more than a little worried about what this meant for the future of the Secret.

  1. Cass and the Secret

  Cass’s first flash of memory came late that night, when she slipped under the covers of the hospital bed. (Her mother refused to let her sleep in her own bed until she’d been evaluated by a doctor.) Caught between the sheets was an odd gold monocle with two lenses. Cass didn’t know where it came from (later, of course, she would learn the story from Max-Ernest), but she knew that she’d seen it before. And when she looked through it, the sensation was familiar—so familiar that it didn’t even surprise her when she noticed the monocle gave her X-ray vision. She held on to the monocle and studied it for the better part of an hour, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d seen it five hundred years earlier or merely five weeks earlier.

  She didn’t need a monocle. She needed a crystal ball.

  Still, she clutched it like a baby clutching a blankie. It was, she hoped, her key to unlocking the secrets of the past, and to learning the Secret that it was her mission to guard in the future.

  When she woke up in the morning, she remembered a bit of more of her journey, but only the way you remember a dream: in little fragments that make no sense when you try to put them together.

  “There was a bright light, a ghost, a flying sword, a Renaissance Faire… or was that last year’s field trip? It’s all so confusing!” she told Max-Ernest on the phone.

  As for the big questions, she couldn’t even remember whether she’d found the Jester, let alone whether she’d learned the Secret.

  At this point, dear Reader, you know more about her life than she did.

  Over the next few weeks, her mother celebrated Cass’s miraculous recovery, squeezing Cass every other minute and rarely letting her out of her sight (which was annoying but at the same time kind of nice), and Cass’s doctors kept calling her in for checkups and exams, desperately trying to explain what happened to her (which was funny but mostly aggravating). Cass, meanwhile, grew increasingly despondent—and increasingly certain that her epic journey had never taken place. She’d merely experienced a few chocolate-induced hallucinations and caused everyone a lot of anguish for nothing.

  The worst was when Pietro visited, posing as a hospital social worker who wanted to help Cass “reintegrate into the society of the outside world.” (A funny role for a hermit like Pietro to choose; Cass couldn’t think of anyone less integrated into society.) Cass was pleased to see him, of course, and couldn’t help welling up when he told her how proud he was of her for having embarked on such a perilous expedition, but the words that followed were hardly reassuring.

  “Please try and remember as much as you can, cara,” he said. “I do not want to put any more of the pressure on you, but I am afraid if too much of the time passes, you will never remember this thing that you alone can know. That you alone must know.”

  “Can you help? Like hypnotize me or something?”

  Pietro shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot. Nobody can. It is too dangerous. The temptation to learn the Secret for myself, it would be too great.”

  Cass sank further into despair. What kind of Secret Keeper was she? She didn’t even know if she knew the Secret.

  2. Max-Ernest and PC

  Once Cass was safely returned to the present, Max-Ernest, naturally, was very curious to hear about her trip to the past—if indeed it was a trip she had made. Unfortunately, as much as he would have liked to spend all his time devising games and tests to jog Cass’s memory, Pietro had given him strict instructions not to do precisely that.

  “She must remember this on her own—for two reasons,” said the old magician. “First, there is the danger you would learn the Secret. I do not say you would do so on purpose, but… it is a danger. Second, if she is pushed too hard, we do not know, her brain, it is fragile. The coma, it might return. We could lose her again to the past.”

  Even if he’d wanted to disobey Pietro, Max-Ernest immediately became far too busy to spend much time with Cass. The very night that she recovered from her coma, Max-Ernest found himself returning to the hospital to visit another patient. This time, he didn’t have to sneak in; the patient was an official family member. His baby brother. Born several weeks prematurely. And very small. But nonetheless thriving.

  “He looks like a peanut, a really old peanut,” he told Cass the next day. “Why do newborns always look so old?”

  His parents, alas, did not fare quite as well as their new son. It seems they’d been avoiding the subject of names up until now, knowing how problematic it had been in the past (when their inability to settle on a name for Max-Ernest had resulted in his having two names and in their having two households). Sadly, avoidance had not healed old wounds. No sooner had their baby arrived than they started fighting about what to name him.

  “We have to name him after my Uncle Clay,” declared Max-Ernest’s mother.

  “No, we must give him the name of my Uncle Paul,” countered Max-Ernest’s father.

  In the end, when neither parent would give in, their second son was given two names like their first: Max-Ernest’s brother became Paul-Clay.

  Max-Ernest was not surprised and was only somewhat disappointed to see their argument escalate so quickly. He had been expecting them to fall out of love and re-divorce sooner or later—although perhaps not in the space of a single hour with a newborn baby crying one foot away.

  Needless to say, once they were again living on opposite sides of their house, Max-Ernest’s father was not about to let Max-Ernest’s mother take care of his baby. And Max-Ernest’s mother refused to let Max-Ernest’s father take care of her baby. The situation called for a Solomonic solution.* Yet Max-Ernest feared if he offered to split Paul-Clay in half, they would take him up on it. After all, they had split their house in half more than once. The only way Max-Ernest could make peace, and also ensure Paul-Clay remained in one piece, was to offer to feed and care for the baby himself. They gratefully agreed.

  Knowing how much he’d always disliked having two names, Max-Ernest shortened the tiny baby’s name to PC and proceeded to take charge of his little life.

  For Max-Ernest, the next month was a nonstop series of diapers and bottles and burp cloths and sponge baths. I won’t go into detail about the first diaper change. Or even the second. Or third. Or fourth. Or fifth. But I will tell you that the sixth went smoothly, as did most diaper changes thereafter. Perhaps Max-Ernest was not the most natural caregiver in the world, but what he lacked in instinct he made up for in determination. When the baby was asleep, Max-Ernest read baby how-to books and watched videos and consulted medical professionals (the receptionist at the hospital was particularly helpful). During school hours, he arranged for his parents to “babysit” their own child according to a schedule so evenly divided and so strictly enforced that neither parent could complain of unfairness. Max-Ernest was such an efficient and unbending taskmaster that his parents, each of whom had previously been desperate to hold on to the baby, began to rebel and started to skip out on their babysitting sessions. In order to keep them in line, he had to start paying them to babysit with the allowance money they gave him.

  By the end of the month, I am proud to say, Max-Ernest may well have been the most expert baby wrangler in middle school.

  3. Yo-Yoji and the Nuts Table

  Of our three young heroes, only Yo-Yoji had much contact with the older Terces members during the ensuing weeks. Violin master and Terces chief of physical defense Lily Wei had finally deemed his violin playing sufficiently advanced that he might forgo one hour of violin practice a day and devote it to martial-arts training. Yo-Yoji was ecstatic and spent as much time as he could under her martial/musical-arts tutelage. As Cass mentioned, Yo-Yo
ji had once eaten Sir Hugo’s chocolate and had visited his ancestral past himself; it seemed now that whatever samurai spirit had then possessed him had left Yo-Yoji with a residue of samurai skills.

  When, three weeks after her recovery, Cass’s mother at last allowed Cass to return to school, and the three friends were reunited once more at the Nuts Table, Yo-Yoji gave a whispered update on the doings of the Terces Society. The report was not long. Owen, as usual, was away on assignment. Mr. Wallace, the certified public accountant who was secretly the Terces Society archivist, was spending every waking hour buried in files, searching for documents for Pietro. Pietro, meanwhile, was obsessively playing Tarocchino day and night.

  “He says he’s trying to figure something out about the Midnight Sun, but I think that old dude just likes to gamble.”

  “He wouldn’t tell you what he’s worried about?” asked Cass, hoping that she, Cass, wasn’t the subject that Pietro was losing sleep over.

  Yo-Yoji shook his head. “I guess it’s really top secret. He said he sent Max-Ernest a warning about it.”

  Max-Ernest frowned. “Me? What warning?”

  Yo-Yoji shrugged. “No idea. All I know is, he’s really hoping Cass remembers more stuff. It’s almost like he thinks she’s the only one who can stop whatever it is—Oh wait. I wasn’t supposed to say that. He doesn’t want to—”

  “He doesn’t want to put any more pressure on me, I know,” said Cass, miserable. “Thanks for telling me anyway.”

  “Sorry—”

  The conversation got cut short by the arrival of Glob and Daniel-not-Danielle at the Nuts Table.

  “OK, who wants a free dinner at Medieval Days after Ren-Faire next week?” asked Glob, laying a couple of restaurant coupons in front of Max-Ernest. “Oh, I forgot—” He picked up the coupons before Max-Ernest could grab one. “You’re not interested in Medieval Days, are you, Max-Ernest?”

  “C’mon, Glob, give it a break,” said Daniel-not-Danielle from behind his dreadlocks. “Either give him the coupons or don’t. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Free dinner? I don’t know about Max-Ernest, but I’m all over it,” said Yo-Yoji.

  “Me, too,” said Cass.

  Cass wasn’t sure how she felt about Max-Ernest’s new non-friends at the Nuts Table. She couldn’t help resenting a little their intrusion on her life, and she didn’t relish the prospect of dinner with Glob. But, she thought, if the Renaissance Faire doesn’t help my memory, maybe Medieval Days will. Who cares if Renaissance and medieval aren’t the same thing?

  “Oh well, guess you’re out of luck, Max-Ernest,” said Glob. “Only had two.”

  “Actually, if he wants, he can have mine… I can’t go,” said Daniel-not-Danielle.

  “You’re not going to Ren-Faire?” Glob looked horrified.

  “Sorry, man. There’s that comic book convention, remember? My dad is so desperate for me to read anything with the word book in it, he said I could go even if I had to skip school.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say,” Glob sputtered. “That’s… that’s betrayal!” Reeling from the shock, he sat down at the table.

  Rolling his dreadlock-covered eyes, Daniel-not-Danielle sat down across from him.

  There was no way for the others to continue talking without the newcomers hearing. The question of Pietro’s warning would have to wait.

  The Nuts Table had rarely been so silent.

  But that night, Cass dreamed about an eye, dark green and almost reptilian, staring at her through the Double Monocle. She awoke with a sense of foreboding, wondering just what Pietro’s warning might have been.

  ABOUT GLOB

  Wassup, Munchers? If you’re reading this you probably know who I am, and if you don’t, like, where have you been, man? No, seriously, just in case you stumbled on this website by accident or, like, you did a search for “best blog in the universe” and wound up here, lol, I’m that guy you know who will eat anything once. And a lot of things twice. Just nothing that grows in dirt. Veggies suck!!!!! But I will make an exception for potatoes because some total genius figured out how to turn them into French fries. French fries rule! Especially the curly kind. And Cajun seasoning never hurts. Just sayin’. But enough about me—get ready to munch! Oh wait. I’m the one munching. Get ready for ME to munch! Don’t be jealous. Or not TOO jealous. Ha ha.

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  September X, XXXX

  THE RENAISSANCE FAIRE

  LIVE BLOGGING

  9:20 AM*

  Hear ye! Hear ye!

  Ha ha. Did you think I was going to go all Shakespearean on you? Actually, I thought about it but it’s too hard to write like that. Anyway, welcome to the Glob Blog’s official live blogcast of the Xxxxx School Annual Field Trip to the Renaissance Faire. We’re about to get off the bus and me and my handheld computational device are ready for some tasty Ren-Faire eats. Wait, what’s that I hear? Methinks it’s Ye Olde Bloomin’ Onion calling my name!

  9:35 AM

  OK, right now they’re walking us through the “village square” and I just stopped at a place where they’re selling bongo drums and bracelets and other hippie stuff ’cause there’s a plug where I can charge up. It’s supposed to be “market day” but I’m pretty sure in the Renaissance they weren’t selling tie-dye T-shirts. Next to the square is a big outdoor stage. “Theater in the round” they call it ’cause it’s, duh, round. Onstage now there’s some guy juggling and telling jokes but nobody’s really listening.

  So Mrs. Johnson, our principal, is Queen Elizabeth again and she’s walking around making everybody bow and curtsy. Amber and Veronica (surprise surprise) are her ladies-in-waiting. They keep fanning her with these big feathers and holding her dress. This is what I want to know, why does Mrs. Johnson get to be Queen? Not that I want to be Queen!! King for the day, that would be me. But not King Elizabeth!!! That would be Daniel-not-Danielle. Heh. Just kidding! Or how about King Egbert-not-Elizabeth?? Kidding. Sorry, dude. But you got to admit it was funny. That’s what you get for staying home “sick” today!

  By the way, kind of off the subject, but did you know that in Shakespeare’s time, all the actors playing the girl parts were guys? Our new school secretary, who’s kind of our Ren-Faire escort, just told us that. Which is pretty funny considering she’s a girl dressed as a guy today—sort of. She’s got a jester outfit on and she’s calling herself Lady Fool.

  Oops. Better unplug. Everybody’s moving.

  10:53 AM

  So what about the chow, you ask? I keep thinking there’s going to be some of those big drumsticks you see in those pictures of King Henry the whatever-eth. Or maybe a pig roasting on a spit. But the closest thing I see in Her Majesty’s Food Court is a hot-dog stand with one of those old-fashioned British signs calling it the Regal Beagle. Oh, wait—they have corn dogs! My favorite kind of dog. Well them and my cocker spaniel, Munchie, lol. Let’s see, what else? There’s Sir Lancelot’s Chicken on a Stick… the Fishwife’s Fish and Chips… Btw, Glob Blog Tip: Malt vinegar = awesome on fries, which is actually what chips are. (English people sound all smart but they don’t even know the difference between a chip and a fry! Ha ha.)

  We’re on the way to see a “camera obscura,” whatever that is. Some kind of dark room. People are joking that it’s a kissing booth. Really mature, huh? After that, it’s the big joust. Excuse me, the Medieval Days Royal Tournament and Joust. (Sorry, Medieval Days! Your Belgian waffles rock even if your burgers suc
k—kidding! No really, the burgers are good, guys. And I’m not just saying that because they’re paying me. Or am I? Ha ha.)

  Anyways, I think I might have to hang by myself for a minute—let’s see, camera obscura or corn dog? No contest, right? If Mrs. Johnson finds out, do you think she’ll have me beheaded?

  11:09 AM

  Hi again. Tell the truth, did you think the Globster would have the huevos rancheros to ditch the field trip? Wrong!

  o(^_^o)

  (o^_^o)

  (o^_^)o

  (does victory dance)

  So first I wait behind the hot-dog stand while everybody leaves to go to the camera obscura, which is no big deal except this guy from school named Max-Ernest almost blows my cover by saying hi really loud. He’s, like, the least cool-acting person I’ve ever met. Even by Nuts Table standards. (And HE thinks he’s too good to put on a pair of tights? Note to self: if you ever need a spy or start a secret society or something, do NOT invite him.) So anyway, after everybody’s gone and I don’t have to pretend to be super-interested in wind chimes anymore, I go up to the counter of the Regal Beagle. I’m about to order my corn dog, extra mustard, extra relish, when all of a sudden I smell this smoky barbecue smell. Forget hot dogs, that’s gotta be my pig on a spit! So like the saying goes, I follow my nose.

  I figure I’ll find a bbq right behind one of the food stands but actually there’s this dried-up riverbed and then woods. That’s it. End of Ren-Faire. I was gonna turn around but then I hear this crackling sound on the other side. I don’t see anybody but when I look close there’s some footprints leading into the woods. And when I look up there’s a puff of smoke coming from somewhere deeper in. The bbq!