The Mysterious Benedict Society (21 page)

“Except Martina,” said Reynie. “She looked like she wanted to throttle us.”

S.Q. laughed. “She probably does! You’re showing her up. Perfect quiz scores are extremely rare. If you boys continue like this, you’ll be Messengers in no time — and so naturally the Messengers hate you. There’s a limited number of Messengers, you see, and no guarantee that any will
stay
a Messenger. Have a bad week on your quizzes and another student might take your spot.”

“Does that happen often?” Reynie asked.

“Hardly ever,” S.Q. said. “Messengers can’t bear to lose their special privileges. I remember how awful I felt whenever I had to turn in
my
sash and tunic. Happened to me several times. But eventually I got all the lessons down like butter — like a pat of butter — got them
down pat
— and never lost my position again. Until I was made Executive, that is. Anyway, I suppose to Martina you seem like a threat. I understand her feeling, though of course there’s no call for her to be so cranky about it.”

Cranky
was hardly the word, Reynie thought.
Venomous
was more like it. They would have to watch out for Martina Crowe.

R
eynie and Sticky spent the rest of the morning looking nervously over their shoulders. Between classes they hurried through the corridors, not wanting to be ambushed by Martina, and when at lunchtime they spotted Martina lingering near the cafeteria counter, they put off getting their lunches despite the insistent growling in their bellies. Instead they found a table and waited for Kate and Constance. When the girls returned from the counter, Reynie and Sticky quickly related what S.Q. had told them about Messengers, and also what had happened with Martina. The cafeteria was so absurdly loud they could speak in normal voices and not be overhead, but it was all Kate could do to keep her voice below an outraged shout.

“Where is Martina now?” she said, glancing left and right.

“I’m trying
not
to see her,” Sticky said.

“Easy, Kate,” Reynie said. He nodded discreetly toward a distant table. “She just sat down at one of the Messenger tables. Every now and then she shoots darts with her eyes. But let’s not worry about it. We’ll need to avoid her, that’s all.”

Constance wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Hey, when you boys get your lunch trays, bring me back some ice cream.”

“Whatever happened to asking?” Sticky said. “Whatever happened to
please
?”

Reynie looked at Constance, who by way of answering Sticky was poking her tongue out. She did have terrible manners, it was true: She spilled food with abandon, chewed with her mouth open as often as not, and held her utensils like shovels. But Reynie found her behavior more sad than irritating. He knew she must never have had anyone to teach her better manners. He had no idea what her life had been like before — Constance hated being asked questions and generally ignored them, or else responded by making rude sounds — but it was obvious she’d had little guidance.

Constance noticed Reynie looking at her. She bugged her eyes and opened her mouth to show him her chewed-up food. She didn’t like being looked at any more than she liked being asked questions.

Reynie and Sticky went up to the counter to order their lunches. The Helpers were stirring soups and tossing pizza dough and otherwise attending to a huge array of dishes, all of which smelled heavenly, and the boys’ mouths were watering like sprinkler systems. Reynie finally settled on lasagna and chocolate milk — and ice cream, since Sticky refused to do Constance’s bidding. Reynie just didn’t feel like dealing with a whining session.

The Helper who took his order nodded silently, averting her eyes, and set about preparing the tray. Reynie watched her uneasily. Only a few Helpers had ever spoken to him, and not one had made eye contact. Apparently Mr. Curtain had laid down strict rules about this. It was a strange requirement of the workers’ jobs, this constant show of deference, but the Helpers met it admirably. In fact they were so silent and shy of eye contact that Reynie tried not to greet them or even look at them much. To him this felt profoundly rude, but doing otherwise always seemed to make the Helpers uncomfortable.

Sticky must have been thinking about the same thing, because when they had rejoined the girls at the table, he said, “Can you imagine a worse job than being a Helper?”

“Aren’t they a sad lot?” said Kate. “No talking, no eye contact. No way I could work a job like that — I’d have to be sedated.”

“Hey, maybe they
are
being sedated,” Sticky suggested. “Maybe there’s something in their food!”

Kate shook her head. “I’ve seen them eating the same food they serve us, and we’re just fine, aren’t we?”

They all looked uncomfortably at Constance, who had finished gulping her ice cream and let her sticky chin drop to her chest. Her eyelids were fluttering, and her breathing had deepened into a snore.

“Well, but she was that way before we got here,” said Reynie.

It was a long and wearisome day. The afternoon classes went much the same as the morning ones: First Reynie would feel heartened by how well he and Sticky had done on the quiz, then dismayed by the hateful looks their successes brought them — from other students and Messengers in general, but especially from Martina. And if Kate and Constance were drawing no such unpleasant attention themselves, it was only because they were having a terrible time with the quizzes, which was even more discouraging.

When the last class was dismissed, the four of them went out onto the plaza and sat on a stone bench. (All but Kate, who bounced in place, burning off energy.) Most of the Institute students spent the hour before supper playing in the gym, or else watching television in their rooms, but the Mysterious Benedict Society had wanted a little time to themselves. As it turned out, they spent their whole time on the plaza undisturbed by Martina or anyone at all, and yet they spoke hardly a word. The reason was that they could not stop staring — with a curious mixture of fascination, fear, and uneasiness — at Mr. Curtain in his green-plaid suit, silvery glasses, and demonic wheelchair.

The plaza was a favorite spot of his. The children had seen him there the day before, too, and also at night. It was well known that Mr. Curtain often sat there for an hour or so in the afternoons, during which time no one ever disturbed him but Executives — and
they
came to him only with urgent matters. This afternoon was no different. Everyone who crossed the plaza gave Mr. Curtain a wide berth, and no one ever passed in front of him, as he seemed to delight in gazing off toward the bridge in the distance, and no one wished to disrupt his view.

Gazing aside, Mr. Curtain was hardly idle. He had a stack of newspapers with him and was going through them meticulously, occasionally marking things, and smiling mysteriously. From time to time he opened a large book, which he carried in his lap, and made a note inside it. Then he would gaze off into the distance again. Eventually Mr. Curtain spun around and shot across the plaza, disappearing inside the Institute Control Building and snapping the children out of their trance.

Having spent so much time staring, and since at supper they were unable to get a table to themselves, the children would have to wait until after lights out for any secret discussions, for the evenings were devoted to studytime. It was essential that Reynie and Sticky continue to do well on their quizzes — especially if Kate and Constance didn’t
start
doing well. And, at any rate, one of the few rules the Executives seemed willing to admit to was that students were not allowed in one another’s rooms. Private meetings among regular students were the sort of thing strictly frowned upon at the Institute, where all secrets were reserved for Messengers and Executives.

There was no prohibition regarding the dormitory corridors during studytime, however, and before the children holed up in their rooms to labor over their notes, they lingered a few minutes outside the door to Reynie and Sticky’s room. If they didn’t talk to each other now, it was only because they were eavesdropping. They had discovered that, at this time of day, there was a considerable amount of activity and conversation in the corridor, which always provided an opportunity to learn something. Here and there along the corridor, little clusters of students stood talking, reluctant to knuckle down and study yet, and a steady stream of children toting toothbrushes and toiletries passed in and out of the bathrooms.

This evening the most obvious eavesdroppees were Reynie and Sticky’s neighbors, a couple of thick-headed, thick-middled older boys who had made a point of never speaking to Reynie and Sticky. The boys stood in their doorway playing a game that involved kicking each other in the shins without crying out, and as they kicked and grimaced back and forth, they speculated endlessly about the Messengers’ secret privileges. This was a favorite conversation among non-Messengers, but never a productive one, and it was no different with these boys. It soon became clear neither had any idea what the privileges were, only that they were much to be coveted.

The boys’ talk quickly wore thin, and Reynie was just about to give up and go study when Jackson’s voice boomed down the corridor: “Corliss Danton! There you are!”

A few doors down, Corliss Danton jumped. (Everyone jumped, but Corliss jumped the highest.) He turned to look with strangely guilty eyes at Jackson, who came marching toward him through the little clusters of students, all of whom flattened themselves against the walls to let him pass. The corridor, just moments ago all gossip and hubbub, fell silent as a graveyard. Corliss straightened his Messenger sash as Jackson came up. “What — what’s the matter, Jackson?”

“You know what the matter is, Corliss,” said Jackson. “Mr. Curtain needs to speak with you. I’ve come to show you to the Waiting Room.”

At the mention of the Waiting Room, Corliss — who was fair-skinned to begin with — turned positively white. The boys from the neighboring room flinched and took a quick step backward, trying to disassociate themselves. A murmur spread down the corridor.

“But… but…” Corliss cleared his throat. He tugged at the bottom of his tunic. “But come on, Jackson. Why would I be punished? What —?”

“You aren’t being punished. Mr. Curtain only wants to speak with you. But he’s busy at the moment, so you’ll have to wait. Come with me right now.”

Corliss shook his head and stepped back. “I… you know what? I don’t think so. I think I’ll just… just…” He glanced left and right, contemplating the corridor exits.

Jackson’s tone was casual but firm. “I understand you don’t like to wait, Corliss. Nobody likes waiting. But if you don’t want to go to the Waiting Room
and
lose your special privileges, then you’d better come along right now.”

Corliss cringed. “N-no, that won’t… won’t be necessary. I’ll go with you, Jackson. I suppose one way or another I’m going to have to wait, is that right?”

“One way or another.”

Corliss took a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay, you bet. Whatever Mr. Curtain wants. You’ll get no complaints from me.”

Jackson winked. “That a boy. Let’s get moving.” He put his hand on Corliss’s shoulder and walked him out the far exit.

The moment Corliss had gone, the corridor erupted into a cacophony of excited conversation. One girl even burst into tears; she’d once been to the Waiting Room herself, apparently, and was distraught at the mere mention of the place. As the girl’s friends tried to console her, Reynie and Sticky’s thick-headed neighbors were still staring at the exit through which Jackson had led Corliss as if to his doom.

“The Waiting Room,” one boy said. “I didn’t know
Messengers
ever got sent to the Waiting Room.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” said the other, shaking his head. “I think it’s bad luck to talk about it. I don’t need that kind of luck.” The boys went into the room and closed the door behind them.

Reynie and the others looked anxiously at one another.

“I think perhaps we ought to avoid being sent to the Waiting Room,” said Constance.

“You think?” said Kate.

Sticky took out his polishing cloth.

W
hen the ceiling panel slid aside that night, Kate’s was the only face that appeared.

“Where’s Constance?” Reynie whispered.

“Down for the count,” Kate replied. “Drowsiest kid I’ve ever met. Fell sound asleep at her desk. I couldn’t wake her.”

“I guess you can fill her in later,” Reynie said doubtfully, and Sticky shook his head with a look of disapproval.

“I’m so glad to see you boys,” Kate said, sitting on the floor. She crossed her legs in an elaborate, pretzel-like formation the boys would have thought impossible. “I’m sick of studying. I must have gone over my notes a hundred times, but none of it sticks in my head. It makes no sense! ‘You must work longer hours to have more time to relax’? ‘You must have war to have peace’? How are these ‘logical conclusions’? Please tell me!”

Reynie gave a weary laugh. “What about ‘It’s important to protect yourself because it’s impossible to protect yourself’?”

“Oh, yes, the hygiene lesson,” Kate said disgustedly. “That one’s the best. I would never have thought brushing my teeth could make me feel so hopeless.”

Reynie cocked his head. Something about what Kate said seemed familiar. But what was it?

“The stuff doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, either,” said Sticky, “but I don’t have trouble remembering it. I can help you study, Kate.”

“When?” Kate said, exasperated. “There’s never any time! No, I need to just do it myself.”

“Oh… oh, okay,” said Sticky meekly, his feelings obviously hurt.

Kate was too preoccupied to notice. She was absently braiding her hair into complicated knots, then unbraiding it again. “I really don’t get it, boys. What’s the point of learning this mush?”

It suddenly occurred to Reynie what had struck him as familiar. “I think it’s connected to the hidden messages! Remember that phrase we heard on the Receiver? ‘Brush your teeth and kill the germs’? That has to be related to the hygiene lesson, don’t you think?”