Code Name Cassandra 1-2

by Meg Cabot

  Oh, they built the ship Titanic

  To sail the ocean blue.

  They thought it was a ship

  No water could get through.

  But on its maiden voyage

  An iceberg hit that ship.

  Oh it was sad when the great ship went down.

  Chorus:

  Oh it was sad

  So sad

  It was sad

  It was sad when the great ship went down

  To the bottom of the—

  Husbands and wives, little children lost their lives

  It was sad when the great ship went down

  Kerplunk

  She sunk

  Like junk

  Cha-cha-cha

  Everything was going along swimmingly until I caught Shane, between verses, shoveling down all of Lionel's ice cream—the one food item of which there were no second helpings served at Camp Wawasee, for the obvious reason that, without this restriction, the campers would eat nothing but mint chocolate chip.

  "Shane!" I bellowed. He was so surprised, he dropped the spoon.

  "Aw, hell," Shane said, looking down at his ice cream-spattered shirt. "Look what the lesbo made me do."

  "That's three, Shane," I informed him calmly.

  He looked up at me bewilderedly. "Three what? What are you talking about?"

  "Three strikes. You're sleeping on the porch tonight, buddy."

  Shane sneered. "Big deal."

  Arthur said, "Shane, you dink, that means you're going to miss out on the story."

  Shane narrowed his eyes at me. "I am not missing out on the story," he said evenly.

  I blinked at Arthur. "What story?"

  "You're going to tell us another story tonight, aren't you, Jess?"

  All the residents of Birch Tree Cottage swiveled their heads around to stare at me. I said, "Sure. Sure, there'll be another story."

  Tony poked Shane. "Ha, ha," he teased. "You're gonna miss it."

  Shane was furious.

  "You can't do that," he sputtered at me. "If you do that, I'll—I'll—"

  "You'll do what, Shane?" I asked in a bored voice.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "I'll tell," he said menacingly.

  "Tell what?" Arthur, his mouth full of fries, wanted to know.

  "Yeah," I said. "Tell what?"

  Because of course I'd forgotten. About Shane barging into my room the night before, and catching me with Taylor's photo. I'd forgotten all about it.

  But he wasted no time reminding me.

  "You know," he said, his eyes slitted with malice. "Lightning girl."

  I swallowed the mouthful of pizza I'd been chewing. It was like cardboard going down my throat. And not just because it was cafeteria food.

  "Hey," I said, attempting to sound as if I didn't care. "Tell whoever you want. Be my guest."

  It was a feint, of course, but it worked, taking the wind right out of his sails. His shoulders slumped and he studied his empty plate meditatively, as if hoping an appropriate reply would appear upon it.

  I didn't feel the least bit sorry for him. Little bully. But I wasn't just mad at Shane. I was peeved at Lionel, too. How could he just sit there and let people pick on him like that? Granted Shane outweighed him by fifty pounds or so, but I had bested far bigger adversaries when I'd been Lionel's same age and size.

  After lunch, as we were walking toward the music building, where the kids would continue their lessons until free play at three, I tried to impress upon Lionel the fact that, if he didn't stand up for himself, Shane was just going to keep on torturing him.

  "But, Jess," Lionel said. He pronounced my name as if it were spelled Jace. "He will pound on me."

  "Look, Lionel," I said. "He might pound on you. But you just pound him back, only harder. And go for the nose. Big guys are total babies when it comes to their noses."

  Lionel looked dubious. "In my country," he said, trilling his r's musically, "violence is looked upon with disfavor."

  "Well, you're in America now," I told him. The other Birch Trees had disappeared into their various practice rooms. Only Lionel and I remained in the atrium, along with a few other people.

  "Look," I said to him. "Make a fist."

  Lionel did so, making the fatal error of folding his thumb inside his fingers.

  "No, no, no," I said. "Hold your thumb outside your fingers, or you'll break it, see, when you smash your knuckles into Shane's face."

  Lionel moved his thumb, but said, "I do not think I want to smash Shane's face."

  "Sure, you do," I said. "And when you do, you don't want to break your thumb. And remember what I said. Go for the nose. Nasal cartilage breaks easily, and you won't hurt your knuckles as much as if you went for, say, the mouth. Never go for the mouth."

  "I do not think," Lionel said, "we have to worry about that."

  "Good." I patted him on the shoulder. "Now go to class, before you're late."

  Lionel took off, clutching his flute case and looking down, a little warily, at his own fist. From the other side of the atrium, I heard applause. Ruth, Scott, and Dave were standing there with, of all people, Karen Sue Hanky.

  "Way to discharge that volatile situation, Jess," Ruth commented sarcastically.

  "Yeah," Scott said with a snicker. "By teaching the kid to throw a punch."

  Dave was feigning thoughtfulness. "Funny, I don't remember them teaching us that particular method of conflict resolution in counselor training."

  They were joking, of course. But Karen Sue, as usual, was deadly serious.

  "I think it's disgraceful," she said. "You teaching a little boy to settle his problems with violence. You should be ashamed of yourself."

  I stared at her. "You," I said, "have obviously never been the victim of a bully."

  Karen Sue stuck out her chin. "No, because I was taught to resolve my differences with others peacefully, without use of force."

  "So in other words," I said, "you've never been the victim of a bully."

  Ruth laughed outright, but Scott and Dave both put their hands over their mouths, trying to hide their grins. Karen Sue wasn't fooled, though. She said, "Maybe that's because I don't go around aggravating people like you do, Jess."

  "Oh, that's nice," I said. "Blame the victim, why don't you?"

  Now Scott and Dave had to turn toward the wall, they were laughing so hard. Ruth, of course, didn't bother.

  The tips of Karen Sue's ears started turning pink. The way I noticed this is that she was wearing this blue headband—which matched her blue shorts, which matched her blue flute case—and the headband pulled her hair back over her ears, so that it fell into these perfect curls just above her shoulders. Oh, and it also showed off her pearl earrings.

  Have I mentioned that Karen Sue Hanky is kind of a girlie-girl?

  "Well," she said primly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my cottage now to put my flute away. I hope you enjoy your tutorial with Professor Le Blanc, Jess. He told me that I play exceptionally."

  "Yeah," I muttered. "Exceptionally crappy."

  Ruth elbowed me.

  "Oh, please," I said. "Her flute isn't even open hole. How good can she be?" Besides, Karen Sue had already flounced out. No way she'd overheard me.

  Scott, still chuckling, said, "Listen, Jess. Dave and I had an idea. About this ghost story thing of yours. What do you say to teaming up?"

  I eyed them. "What are you talking about?"

  "Like our cabins could get together after Pit tonight, and you could tell them all another one of those ghost stories. You know, like the one you told last night, that had your little guys so scared, they wouldn't get out of bed afterwards."

  "We could bring our guys over," Dave said, "around nine-thirty."

  "Yeah," Scott said, glancing shyly in Ruth's direction. "And maybe your girls would want to come, Ruth."

  Ruth looked surprised—and pleased—at the suggestion. But reluctance to subject her girls to the likes of Shane overcame her desire to spend q
uality time with Scott.

  "No way," she said. "I'm not letting any of my girls around that little nightmare."

  "Maybe Shane'd behave himself," I ventured, "if we threw some estrogen into the mix." It was an experiment they'd tried during detention back at Ernest Pyle High, with somewhat mixed results.

  "Nuh-uh," Ruth said. "You know what that kid did during all-camp rehearsal this morning?"

  This I hadn't heard. "What?"

  "He opened a trumpet's spit valve all over some Frangipanis."

  I winced. Not as bad as I'd feared … but not exactly good, either.

  "And it wasn't," Ruth went on, "even his instrument. He'd stolen it. If you think I'm letting my girls near him, you're nuts."

  I figured it was just as well. It wasn't like I had a ghost story on hand that I could tell in the presence of a couple of guys like Scott and Dave. They'd know I was plagiarizing Stephen King right away. And how embarrassing, to be sitting there telling some story with my would-be boyfriend Rob as the hero, in front of those guys.

  Dave must have noticed my reluctance, since he said, "We'll bring popcorn."

  I could see there was no way of getting out of it. And free popcorn is never anything to be sneered at. So I said, "Well, all right. I guess."

  "Awesome." Scott and Dave gave each other high fives.

  I winced again, but this time it had nothing to do with Shane. Dave had jostled me so that a sharp corner of Keely Herzberg's photo, tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, jabbed me into remembering that I had a little something else to do tonight, too.

  C H A P T E R

  8

  "Paul Huck was a guy who lived down the road from me."

  I had figured out a way to not embarrass myself in front of Scott and Dave. I'd abandoned the rehashing of an old Stephen King story and opted for a ghost story my dad used to tell, back when my brothers and I had been little and he'd taken us on camping trips to the Indiana backwoods—trips my mother never went on, since she claimed to be allergic to nature, and most particularly to backwoods.

  "He wasn't a very bright guy," I explained to the dozens of rapt little faces in front of me. "In fact, he was kind of dim. He only made it to about the fourth grade before school got too hard for him, so his parents let him stay home after that, since they didn't put much stock in education anyway, on account of none of the Hucks ever amounting to anything with or without having gone to school—"

  "Hey." A small, high-pitched voice sounded from behind the closed porch door. "Can I come in now?"

  "No," I shouted back. "Now, where was I?"

  I went on to relate how Paul Huck had grown into a massive individual, stupid as a corncob, but good at heart.

  But really, I wasn't thinking about Paul Huck. I wasn't thinking about Paul Huck at all. I was thinking about what had happened right after I'd agreed to allow Scott and Dave have their cabins stage a mini-invasion on mine. What had happened was, I had gone for my tutorial with Professor Le Blanc.

  And I had ended up nearly getting fired.

  Again.

  And this time, it hadn't been because I'd been making personal use of camp property, or teaching the kids risqué songs.

  Then why, you ask? Why would the famous classical flutist Jean-Paul Le Blanc attempt to fire a totally hip—not to mention talented—individual like myself?

  Because he had discovered my deepest secret, the one I hold closest to my heart. . . .

  No, not that one. Not the fact that I am still very much in possession of my psychic gift. My other secret.

  What happened was this.

  Right after Scott and Dave and Ruth took off, I sauntered over to the practice room where I was supposed to have my lesson with Professor Le Blanc. He was in there, all right. I could tell by the pure, sweet tones emanating from the tiny room. The practice rooms are supposed to be soundproof, and they are … but only if you're in one of the rooms. From the hallway, you can hear what's going on behind the door.

  And let me tell you, what was going on behind that door was some fine, fine Bach. We're talking flute-playing so elegant, so assured, so … well, passionate, it almost brought tears to my eyes. You don't hear that kind of playing in the Ernest Pyle High School Symphonic Orchestra, you get what I'm saying? I was so entranced, I didn't even think to knock on the door to let the professor know I'd arrived. I never wanted that sweet music to end.

  But it did end. And then the next thing I knew, the door to the practice room was opening, and Professor Le Blanc emerged. He was saying, "You have a gift. An extraordinary gift. Not to use it would be a crime."

  "Yes, Professor," replied a bored voice that, oddly, I recognized.

  I looked down, shocked that such lovely music had been coming from the flute of a student, and not the master.

  And my jaw sagged.

  "Hey, lesbo," Shane said. "Shut the barn door, you're lettin' the flies in."

  "Ah," Professor Le Blanc said, spying me. "You two know one another? Oh, yes, of course, Jessica, you are his counselor, I'd forgotten. Then you can do me a very great favor."

  I was still staring at Shane. I couldn't help it. That music? That beautiful music? That had been coming from Shane?

  "Make certain," Professor Le Blanc said, resting his hands on Shane's pudgy shoulders, "that this young man understands how rare a talent like his is. He insists that his mother made him come to Wawasee this summer. That in fact he'd have much preferred to attend baseball camp instead."

  "Football camp," Shane burst out bitterly. "I don't want to play the flute. Girls play the flute." He glared at me very fiercely as he said this, as if daring me to contradict him.

  I did not. I could not. I was still transfixed. All I could think was Shane? Shane played the flute? I mean, he'd said he played the skin flute. I didn't know he'd been telling the truth … well, partially, anyway.

  But an actual flute? Shane had been the one making that gorgeous—no, not just gorgeous—magnificent music on my instrument of choice? Shane? My Shane?

  Professor Le Blanc was shaking his head. "Don't be ridiculous," he said to Shane. "Most of the greatest flutists in the world have been men. And with talent like yours, young man, you might one day be amongst them—"

  "Not if I get recruited by the Bears," Shane pointed out.

  "Well," Professor Le Blanc said, looking a little taken aback. "Er, maybe not then …"

  "Is my lesson over?" Shane demanded, craning his neck to get a look at the professor's face.

  "Er," Professor Le Blanc said. "Yes, actually, it is."

  "Good," Shane said, tucking his flute case beneath his arm. "Then I'm outta here."

  And with that, he stalked away.

  Professor Le Blanc and I stared after him for a minute or two. Then the instructor seemed to shake himself, and, holding open the door to the practice room for me, said with forced jocularity, "Well, now, let's see what you can do, then, Jessica. Why don't you play something for me?" Professor Le Blanc went to the piano that stood in one corner of the walk-in-closet-sized room, sat down on the bench, and picked up a Palm Pilot. "Anything you like," he said, punching the buttons of the Palm Pilot. "I like to assess my pupil's skill level before I begin teaching."

  I opened my flute case and began assembling my instrument, but my mind wasn't on what I was doing. I just couldn't get what I'd heard out of my head. It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense that Shane could play like that. It just didn't seem possible. The kid had played beautifully, movingly, as if he'd been swept away by the notes, each one of which had rung out with angelic—almost aching—purity. The same Shane who had stuck an entire hamburger in his mouth at lunch—I'd sat there and watched him do it—bun and all, then swallowed it, practically whole, just because Arthur had dared him to. That same Shane. That Shane could play like that.

  And he didn't even care. He'd wanted to go to football camp.

  He'd been lying. He cared. No one could play like that and not care. No one.

  I put my
own flute to my lips, and began to play. Nothing special. Green Day. "Time of Our Lives." I jazzed it up a little, since it's a relatively simple little song. But all I could think about was Shane. There had to be depths, wells of untapped emotion in that boy, to make him capable of producing such music.

  And all he wanted to do was play football.

  Professor Le Blanc looked up from his Palm Pilot at some point during my recital. When I was through, he said, "Play something else, please."

  I launched into an old standby. "Fascinating Rhythm." Always a crowd-pleaser. At least it pleased my dad, when I was practicing at home. I usually played it at double time, to get it over with. I did so now.

  The question was, how could a kid who could play like that be such a total and complete pain in the butt? I mean, how was it possible that the person who'd played such hauntingly beautiful music, and the person who this morning had told Lionel he'd dipped his toothbrush in the toilet—after, of course, Lionel had started using it—be one and the same individual?

  Professor Le Blanc was rooting through his briefcase, which he'd left on top of the piano.

  "Here," he said. "Now this." He dropped a book of sheet music onto the stand in front of my chair.

  Brahms. Symphony Number 1. What was he trying to do, put me to sleep? It was an insult. We'd played that my freshman year, for God's sake. My fingers flew over the key holes. Open, of course. My instrument was practically an antique, handed down from some obscure member of the Mastriani clan who'd gotten it under questionable circumstances. Yeah, okay, so my flute was probably hot.

  The thing I couldn't figure out was what was God—and I'm not saying I'm so all-fired sure there is one, but for argument's sake, let's say there is—thinking, giving a kid like Shane talent like that? Seriously. Why had he been given this incredible gift of music, when clearly, he'd have been happier tearing down a field with a ball in his arms?