This Isn't What It Looks Like

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  I feel bad.

  In an odd way, that felt good.

  Usually, being bad at feelings, Max-Ernest didn’t feel bad, he felt badly (the same way he threw badly, although Yo-Yoji had helped a little with that). But today, you could say, he was feeling bad well. That is not to say he was feeling well, exactly, but rather that he was doing a good job of feeling bad.

  He was so pleased with this formulation that he almost repeated it aloud, but—sadly—there was no one to hear it.

  The two other kids at the Nuts Table, Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob, didn’t count. For one thing, they were sitting at the far end of the table and he would have had to shout. For another, they hadn’t so much as said hello to him. (Then again, Max-Ernest hadn’t said hello, either. Hello wasn’t really done at the Nuts Table.)

  Daniel-not-Danielle was a soft-spoken caramel-skinned boy with exceptionally long dreadlocks that he refused to cut, despite the fact that they were always covering his face. Although he would have preferred to call himself by his given name, Daniel, he’d had to correct the pronunciation so many times that the correction itself became his name.

  Glob was a pimply and very pale-skinned boy who was even lower on the school pecking order but who enjoyed an inordinate degree of power in the “convenience food” industry. His junk food–reviewing website—The Glob Blog—was read by thousands of fast-food fans, and his opinions, it was said, could make or break a product in its first week.

  Max-Ernest knew them as he knew everyone at the Nuts Table, but he didn’t know know them. That is, he wasn’t friends with them. On the other hand, he wasn’t enemies with them, either.*

  As an experiment, Max-Ernest moved several seats closer to the two boys in question. They didn’t welcome him, nor did they protest.

  He took this as a positive sign.

  “I thought he was an aristocrat, like a lord or a count or something—from England,” Daniel-not-Danielle was saying in a voice just barely above a whisper. “But then I heard he was an ex-convict who just got out of juvenile hall because of DNA evidence!”

  At first, hearing the words lord and count, Max-Ernest assumed they were talking about what everyone at school was talking about: the Renaissance Faire. But as he listened in on Glob and Daniel-not-Danielle, he realized their topic was something else altogether: apparently, their school had been graced with the presence of an important new luminary.

  “He’s neither. He’s a child actor,” said Glob, munching on a new, experimental variety of lime-green, spearmint-flavored, breath-freshening popcorn. (Food companies were always sending Glob free samples of the latest Exploding Cherry-Bomb Bubble Gum and Nacho-Cheese Extreme Potato Chips in the hopes of a favorable mention on his website.) “He’s on hiatus.”

  Daniel-not-Danielle looked distressed. “He hates us? But he doesn’t even know us.”

  “No, idiot, hiatus. He’s on hiatus. It’s what they call summer vacation when you’re on a TV show. Except when my blog goes on the food channel, we won’t really have a summer vacation because cable is on a different schedule.” He pulled a half-eaten popcorn kernel out of his mouth and inspected it. “These things are totally disgusting, but you kind of want to keep eating them—it’s weird.”

  “Oh,” said Daniel-not-Danielle. “Well, either way, he’s definitely a genius. They say he’s fluent in twelve languages. Like even Belgian.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Max-Ernest, cutting in. He was finding himself increasingly resentful of this brilliant new student.

  “Why? Because it’s more languages than you speak?” Glob asked. (His sarcasm was a little less sharp than it might have been, owing to his mouth being full of green popcorn.)

  “No. Because there’s no such thing as Belgian.”

  “Is so. What about Belgian waffles?”

  “What about them? Waffles don’t speak any languages at all, last time I checked. The point is, in Belgium they speak French and also Flemish, which is actually a kind of Dutch. How ’bout that?”

  “Whatever,” said Daniel-not-Danielle. “So maybe he speaks Flemish.”

  “Yeah, and don’t dis Belgian waffles,” said Glob. “Medieval Days Restaurant gave me, like, a hundred bucks’ worth of coupons to try theirs. Now they’re gonna sponsor my blog during Ren-Faire. And this time they’re paying cash!”

  Max-Ernest turned away. He felt like a jerk. Why was he bothering to talk to them? And why had he gotten so worked up about this aristocrat or actor or whatever-he-was new kid? He was supposed to be focused on saving Cass and saving Cass alone.

  Suddenly, Max-Ernest missed her intensely. If a moment ago he was feeling an ache, this was more like a searing pain. With Cass he could argue about Belgium for hours and not feel like a jerk. She might laugh at him for obsessing about the differences between, say, Flemish Dutch and Dutch Dutch, but whenever she laughed at him she was always laughing with him at the same time. If that made any sense.

  “Wait—that’s him!” said Glob.

  “He’s not coming to the Nuts Table, is he? Now that’s impossible,” said Daniel-not-Danielle.

  Glob and Daniel-not-Danielle were openly staring at a boy who was walking—no, sauntering—toward them. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking him for anybody else at school. Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, he wore a striped suit and a bowtie, and instead of a backpack, he carried a briefcase, giving the impression of a dapper businessman rather than a middle-school student. Sunlight illuminated his golden curls and created bright sparkles in the large glass lens that covered his left eye.

  “It’s not impossible. Anybody can sit here,” said Max-Ernest stubbornly, although he knew what Daniel-not-Danielle meant. “Besides, it’s always possible he’s really allergic to nuts,” he added.*

  “What’s that over his eye? Is it a magnifying glass or something? Maybe we can use it to light a fire,” said Glob excitedly.

  “It’s a monocle,” said Max-Ernest. “It’s like glasses for one eye. Rich guys used to wear them in the old days.” And some magicians, he thought. Which was how he knew about monocles.

  “He is—he’s totally coming to our table,” said Daniel-not-Danielle.

  Indeed, he was waving in their direction.

  “Hullo, Max-Ernest, my dear fellow!”

  Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob turned in unison toward Max-Ernest. Judging by their expressions, the only thing they thought more unlikely than the new boy visiting the Nuts Table was that he should know Max-Ernest by name.

  EMERGENCY DRILL

  ATTENTION, READER:

  WE ARE SORRY TO INTERRUPT YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF A CHAPTER BUT AS YOU KNOW, EMERGENCIES ARE NOT ALWAYS SCHEDULED AT CONVENIENT TIMES. INDEED, THEY ARE NOT SCHEDULED AT ALL. THAT IS WHY THEY ARE EMERGENCIES.

  THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK HAS HIRED US, THE TEAM OF EMERGENCY AGENTS, SPECIALISTS, AND ENGINEERS—MORE POPULARLY KNOWN BY OUR ACRONYM, T.E.A.S.E.—TO CONDUCT THIS DRILL IN ORDER TO ENSURE THAT YOU ARE PREPARED FOR A GENUINE EMERGENCY. ALTHOUGH THIS IS ONLY A DRILL, YOUR FULL COOPERATION AND PARTICIPATION ARE IMPORTANT FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION AND THE PROTECTION OF OTHERS. ALSO, IT IS NECESSARY IF WE ARE GOING TO BE COMPENSATED FOR OUR WORK. (PSEUDONYMOUS BOSCH, THAT CHEAP @$%@#%$&!!, REFUSES TO PAY US IN ADVANCE.)

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  YOU ARE ON THE SCHOOL BUS. YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOME SICK AND YOU HAVE THE SEAT TO YOURSELF. YOU ARE QUIETLY READING A BOOK—THIS BOOK, THE BOOK IN YOUR HANDS NOW, ALTHOUGH NO ONE ON YOUR BUS WOULD KNOW
IT BECAUSE YOU HAVE, OF COURSE, DISGUISED THE BOOK AS DISCUSSED EARLIER.

  IF YOU MUST READ A SECRET SERIES BOOK IN PUBLIC, EVEN SOMEPLACE SAFE AND FAMILIAR-SEEMING, LIKE A SCHOOL BUS, IT IS BEST TO GLANCE UPWARD EVERY ONE OR TWO MINUTES TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE NOT BEING OBSERVED BY ANY POTENTIAL MIDNIGHT SUN MEMBERS. SADLY, YOU HAVE GOTTEN A LITTLE OVERINVOLVED IN THE STORY (SHAME ON YOU!) AND YOU HAVEN’T LOOKED UP IN MORE THAN TEN MINUTES.

  NOW IMAGINE THIS: SUDDENLY REALIZING YOUR ERROR, YOU LIFT YOUR HEAD AND GLANCE OUT THE WINDOW. RUBBING YOUR EYES AND SHIELDING THEM FROM THE SUN, YOU DON’T AT FIRST SEE ANYTHING AMISS.

  GRADUALLY, YOU REALIZE THE BUS IS STOPPED AT A CROWDED INTERSECTION. THE POWER IS OUT AND THE TRAFFIC SIGNALS ARE REPEATEDLY BLINKING RED. A TRAFFIC COP IS STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSECTION, DIRECTING TRAFFIC. WAIT A SECOND, SHE—WELL, OF COURSE, SHE’S WEARING WHITE GLOVES! IT’S PART OF HER UNIFORM. PERFECTLY NATURAL. NO CAUSE FOR ALARM. NONETHELESS, YOU CAN’T HELP EXPERIENCING A SMALL SHIVER.

  SURVEYING THE STREETSCAPE FURTHER, YOU ARE SURPRISED TO SEE A MANHOLE COVER OPEN AND FLIP OVER ONTO THE ASPHALT. A CONSTRUCTION WORKER IN A YELLOW HARDHAT AND AN ORANGE JUMPSUIT CLIMBS OUT FROM UNDER THE STREET. HE IS ALSO WEARING WHITE GLOVES. PROBABLY THEY ARE WORK GLOVES, YOU THINK. BUT STRANGE THAT THEY ARE WHITE. NOT VERY PRACTICAL FOR CONSTRUCTION. WELL, THAT’S HIS PROBLEM. NO REASON TO PANIC.

  AT FIRST YOU THINK IT’S A TRICK OF THE LIGHT, BUT THE MAN SITTING AT THE BUS STOP ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE STREET ALSO APPEARS TO BE WEARING WHITE GLOVES. ON SECOND INSPECTION, YOU CONFIRM THAT, YES, HE IS, IN FACT, WEARING WHITE GLOVES. BUT WHY? GIVEN THE BLACK SUIT AND THE MUSIC STAND LEANING AGAINST THE BENCH NEXT TO HIM, MAYBE HE IS AN ORCHESTRA CONDUCTOR? CONDUCTORS WEAR GLOVES. THERE IS NO REAL EVIDENCE HE IS A MEMBER OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, AFTER ALL.

  AND YET. COMMON SENSE TELLS YOU: TWO PEOPLE WEARING GLOVES MIGHT BE A COINCIDENCE, THREE PEOPLE IS CAUSE FOR CONCERN.

  YOUR CONCERN HEIGHTENS WHEN A MARCHING BAND SUDDENLY EMERGES FROM BEHIND A LINE OF CARS AND STARTS CROSSING THE INTERSECTION RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR SCHOOL BUS. THERE ARE OVER A HUNDRED BAND MEMBERS—TRUMPETERS, TUBA PLAYERS, DRUMMERS, THE WORKS—ALL IN RED UNIFORMS DECORATED WITH GOLD BRAID.

  AND ALL WEARING WHITE GLOVES.

  YOU LOOK AT THEIR FACES, HOPING FOR A SIGN THAT THEY ARE A REAL MARCHING BAND—MAYBE A HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND—AND NOT AN ARMY OF EVIL ALCHEMISTS. BUT THEIR EYES ARE COLD. AND THEIR SKIN, WHILE YOUTHFUL, IS PALE AND ALMOST TOO TAUT. IN YOUR IMAGINATION, THEY TRANSFORM FROM A HANDSOME, HEALTHY MARCHING BAND TO A BAND OF SKELETONS, MARCHING ON THE DAY OF THE DEAD.

  BY NOW, YOUR PULSE IS RACING. YOUR MIND IS SWIMMING WITH FEARFUL THOUGHTS. THE BUS IS STOPPED AND CANNOT MOVE WITHOUT PLOWING THROUGH THE BAND. THIS IS THE CRUCIAL MOMENT. YOU HAVE SEEN THEM. BUT THEY HAVE NOT YET SEEN YOU.

  IT IS TIME TO ACT.

  THE DRILL STARTS…

  NOW.

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  Max-Ernest squinted, trying to make out the features of the boy waving at him. In truth, he was just as surprised as the others.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember your old comrade-at-arms!” the boy protested when he reached the Nuts Table. He smiled dazzlingly and removed his monocle. “It’s only been a year since our last teatime tête-à-tête.”*

  “A year and a half,” corrected Max-Ernest, finally recognizing him—but only barely. “Actually, a year and eight months.”

  “Ah, there’s the Max-Ernest we all know and love! Always exact, isn’t he? Don’t make a mistake around him—he’ll catch it every time,” said the boy, chuckling.

  The other two boys at the table laughed in appreciative agreement. The new kid had a peculiarly old-fashioned way of speaking, but he was so relaxed and self-confident that it didn’t seem weird so much as adult and sophisticated.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your chums?”

  It took a moment for Max-Ernest to understand the question, because first of all, he’d never heard the word chum spoken aloud (only read it in old books about a pair of brother detectives),* and second of all (as we established earlier), Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob weren’t his chums in the first place.

  “Um, OK. Daniel-not-Danielle, Glob, this is, uh, Benjamin Blake,” said Max-Ernest. “He used to go here.”

  At least it appeared to be Benjamin Blake.

  When Max-Ernest had last seen Benjamin, he’d been several inches shorter and had looked years younger. But it was the way he spoke now more than the way he looked that represented the biggest change. The old Benjamin had mumbled his words to such an extent that almost nobody could decipher them. What’s more, whenever somebody bothered to figure out what he was saying, it turned out that his ideas were even less intelligible than his words. As an extreme synesthete, his senses were all entangled with each other, and his thoughts were a confused jumble of colors and sounds, tastes and smells.**

  Today his speech was a study in perfect elocution. He sounded, not to mention looked, like the star of an old black-and-white movie. Most surprising of all was his manner; once shy and awkward to the point where he nearly couldn’t function in normal life, he was now all cheerful insouciance and casual savoir faire.*

  “I thought you were at a spec—I mean, a different school now,” said Max-Ernest when he’d recovered from his initial shock.

  He and Cass had been told that Benjamin was going to a “special” school for kids with disabilities.Because of Benjamin’s value to the Midnight Sun, they were supposed to be keeping an eye on him for the Terces Society. (At one time, the Midnight Sun had believed Benjamin’s unique brain chemistry might be the key to unlocking the formula of the Secret.) But they’d figured a school like that would keep him safe, so they had pretty much allowed themselves to forget about him. With a flush of guilt, Max-Ernest realized they’d never even checked to make sure Benjamin had enrolled. He could have been anywhere for all Cass and Max-Ernest knew. The Midnight Sun had kidnapped Benjamin once before; it was a stroke of luck they hadn’t kidnapped him again.

  “Oh, but I was at a special school—very special,” said Benjamin. “The New Promethean Academy. It was sort of a finishing school. You know, to teach proper social decorum and so on and so forth. But in my case you could say it was a starting school as well. I feel they really brought me to life.”

  Max-Ernest couldn’t disagree. Although he wasn’t sure that he didn’t prefer the old, nonliving Benjamin.

  “May I sit down?”

  Max-Ernest nodded and Benjamin took Cass’s seat. (It was very likely the first time in the history of the Nuts Table that somebody had asked permission before sitting.)

  Max-Ernest tried to think of something to say to the old-friend-now-stranger in front of him. “So… are you going to enter a painting in Renaissance Masters this year?”

  Renaissance Masters was the name of a student art competition held in conjunction with the Renaissance Faire. Benjamin Blake had won the year he’d entered it.

  “No, I don’t paint anymore.”

  “Really?”

  Max-Ernest was surprised. In the past, apart from being a prizewinning artist, Benjamin had loved painting. Painting was almost the only way he could communicate with the outside world.

  “Oh, art is a childish pursuit, don’t you think? Unless you’re a truly great artist, I mean. If you’re not going to be Michelangelo or Raphael, what’s the point? I detest mediocrity.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Max-Ernest reflexively. Then he thought about it for a moment. “Except how do you know if you’re going to be great at something if you don’t try? Michelangelo didn’t know he was going to be Michelangelo until he was… Michelangelo. How ’bout that?”

  Benjamin smiled witheringly. “So encoura
ging! So wise! You sound like one of my poor little parents.”

  Max-Ernest blushed. He had to admit, it did sound like something a parent would say. “Anyway, some people thought you were great.”

  “Sure, compared to most kids. But my destiny lies elsewhere.” Benjamin held his monocle to the light and peered into it for a moment, as if his destiny might lie inside it.

  Max-Ernest noticed that there were two lenses, one on top of the other. That was why the monocle had bulged slightly out of Benjamin’s eye socket. “Wow, I’ve never seen a monocle like that. It’s like a visual oxymoron. You know, because mono means one but it’s got two lenses. Actually, you could say it’s a visual visual oxymoron. You see the contradiction in terms, so it’s visual in that sense. But it’s also visual in the sense that you look through it. How ’bout that?”

  “Huh. I never thought about it that way,” said Benjamin, quickly bringing it back up to his eye.

  “Does the second lens make it stronger or something?”

  “Something like that… Now, on to serious matters. How is our friend Cassandra? I am so concerned about her. She’s still in the hospital, I take it?”

  Max-Ernest frowned. “How did you know she was in the hospital?” he whispered. He looked over at Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob, making it clear that they weren’t meant to be included in the conversation. They turned away (but somehow I doubt they stopped listening).

  “I thought everybody did. I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret.”

  Max-Ernest regarded his old/new schoolmate with alarm. If an outsider like Benjamin knew about Cass, then anybody might. Even the Midnight Sun. Max-Ernest wasn’t sure what they would do with the information—kidnap Cass from the hospital? poison her IV?—but he didn’t want to wait to find out.

  His mission was more urgent than ever.

  “Anyway, don’t tell anyone else—she wouldn’t want people to talk about it,” he said. “And don’t worry about her—she’ll be OK soon.”