This Isn't What It Looks Like (16 page)

And a good thing it was, too, because he would need to summon all of his paranoia power and more in the next few moments.
Only a true Superhero of Hypochondria, a Master Presenter of Medical Symptoms, a World-Class Worrier, a True Warrior of Words,
could create an emergency big enough to draw hospital staff from the upper floors.

“HELP! HELP! HELP!” he screamed again and again at the top of his lungs, grateful that he no longer seemed to have any trouble
exercising his vocal cords.

And then he dropped to the floor, writhing and flailing his arms.

As soon as the first orderly rushed over, Max-Ernest started fluttering his eyelids and looking upward so that the whites
of his eyes showed.

And then, the
pièce de résistance
, he bit down—and his mouth erupted with foam.
^*

Watching through the window, Benjamin smiled. Max-Ernest was a skilled actor—though not, Benjamin reflected with satisfaction,
as skilled an actor as Benjamin himself.

Turning away from the delightfully comic spectacle of Max-Ernest’s staged epileptic fit, Benjamin walked quickly toward the
hospital’s main entrance.

Inside, a light was flashing over the front desk. The nurse behind the desk stood with her back to the door, listening to
the intercom.

“All available staff to Emergency, please. All available staff.”

Quickly glancing around the room to confirm that it was empty of incoming patients, the nurse left her post and rushed off
in the direction of the emergency room.

It was just as they’d planned.

Or rather just as Benjamin had planned. There were one or two key parts of the evening’s agenda that he had conveniently failed
to mention to Max-Ernest. If all went swimmingly, Max-Ernest would never know what an important moment he was missing. Not
until it was too late, anyway.

Consulting Max-Ernest’s scrupulously detailed map, Benjamin proceeded toward the third elevator from the right.

The one marked PICU.

Thank you, Max-Ernest, he thought. And to think, I’m supposed be the one helping
you
! When
this is all over, I’ll have to send you a present. Some new magic tricks, perhaps?

He had a hunch Max-Ernest would soon be wanting nothing more than to disappear in a puff of smoke. Poor Max-Ernest…

By now, three nurses, two orderlies, and a doctor were standing in a circle around the tragically ill boy lying on the floor.
Would-be patients in waiting-room chairs stared with a mixture of curiosity (what is
wrong
with that guy?) and resentment (why is he getting so much attention when I’ve been here for three hours?).

“Yes, that’s right—I’m having chest pain and shortness of breath,” gasped Max-Ernest, wheezing noisily. “It’s… very… short…
see—”

He knew those were the things that were supposed to command the most immediate attention in a hospital, but for some reason
the doctor didn’t seem to see it that way.

“Those aren’t necessarily symptoms of epilepsy,” said the doctor, regarding him skeptically from above.

“I know—it’s unrelated. My asthma. Combined with an allergic reaction, I think.”

“To what?”

“Vinyl. The flooring is vinyl—see.”

“You’re having an allergic reaction to the floor in here?”

“Yes. The floor is highly toxic. I think you should consider replacing it.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here in the first place. Or was your reaction anticipatory?”

Max-Ernest nodded vigorously. “Well, that and the fact that I was undergoing cardiac arrest.”

The doctor leaned down to feel Max-Ernest’s pulse. She put a stethoscope to his chest and listened intently.

Max-Ernest breathed in and out as fast as he could—to no avail.

The doctor smiled, standing. “Well, you can rest easy—I’m very confident you’re not having a heart attack.”

“Oh, that’s just because I have white-coat syndrome. You know, when you see a doctor and suddenly your symptoms disappear—but
then they come back when the doctor’s gone?”

“Actually, white-coat syndrome, otherwise known as white-coat hypertension, is almost the exact opposite of what you’re describing,”
said the doctor smoothly. “It’s when the sight of a doctor induces high blood pressure in patients who otherwise
exhibit normal blood pressure. For some reason, I don’t think that’s your problem.”

Max-Ernest silently cursed himself. How could he have gotten that wrong? It was so unlike him! He must be nervous.

“I think the only white coat we need here is one to put on you.” The doctor gestured to the orderly. “Straitjacket, please!”

Max-Ernest turned pale. He knew all about straitjackets from reading biographies of Houdini and other escape artists—and that’s
how he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape from one. “I’m not crazy! I just have Munchausen syndrome,” he said desperately
(referring to the medical disorder that consists of fabricating medical disorders). “I can control it, I promise!”

“You no more have Munchausen syndrome than I’m a munchkin in Oz,” declared the doctor, towering over Max-Ernest.

The nurse from the reception area strode in. She looked down at Max-Ernest in surprise. “Max-Ernest?! What are you doing here?
Are you OK?”

Max-Ernest jumped to his feet. “Nothing! It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Not waiting for a response, he sprinted toward the exit.

Taken by surprise, the nurses and staff watched him go for a moment before running after him.

“Hey, we have to be fast,” Max-Ernest whispered, entering Cass’s room. “Benjamin, can you hear me—?”

Benjamin, who had been leaning over Cass, stood up straight, startled. His monocle fell to the floor. Fumbling, he picked
it up and restored it to its place covering his eye.

“Sorry if I scared you,” continued Max-Ernest. “They figured out I was faking. They even figured out I was
faking
faking. Like that I didn’t even have real Munchausen syndrome. It was fake Munchausen. Which, if you think about it, is a
fake
fake
syndrome
syndrome…. Anyway, they’ll be here any second—” He stopped, seeing Benjamin’s expression. “What happened? Is she OK? Were
you able to see inside her head?”

“Yes, for a second, I almost… saw…” Benjamin seemed to be in some kind of trance, as if still half inside Cass’s mind. “I
almost… I almost reached her…. And then you…” He trailed off.

“You mean you…? Wow, that’s great!” said Max-Ernest, excited. “If I stall the nurses for another minute, would that be enough
time to… to reach her?”

Benjamin nodded, staring down at Cass. “I think so….”

“OK. Maybe I can just run around the floor and make them chase me. How ’bout that?”

“Yes… yes. Good idea…”

Max-Ernest hesitated in the doorway, staring at Benjamin. He was thrilled that Benjamin was on the verge of success, and yet
he felt strangely uneasy.

“What did you see before… or almost see?”

“The Secret,” said Benjamin softly. The jagged line of Cass’s heart monitor reflected eerily in the monocle—a moving crack
in the glass lens. “She was thinking about the Secret, I could tell. I was so close….”

“The Secret? What do you know about the Secret?” asked Max-Ernest, his guard immediately up.

“Oh, I don’t know about it at all, really,” said Benjamin quickly. He looked up at Max-Ernest, regaining his composure. “It’s
just that I couldn’t help picking up from you that Cass was looking for the Secret—
a
secret, I should say. There are so many secrets in the world, after all!”

“Right. I guess I should have tried to hide it more….,” said Max-Ernest. But I did try to hide it—my mind couldn’t be
that
transparent! he thought.

“Perhaps, but I would have seen anyway.”

But you said you never looked into people’s minds without asking, Max-Ernest thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.

“Now go,” said Benjamin. No longer in his trancelike state, he appeared completely alert—on edge, even. “I need to be alone.
It’s very important.”

Max-Ernest stared at his friend. Or rather at the boy he’d thought was his friend.

He couldn’t trust Benjamin; he knew it now with certainty.

“Um, you know what, I don’t think there’s time, after all. The nurses’ll be here any second. We better get out while we can.”

“Just give me one minute with Cass, old chum. I’m afraid I really must insist. Let me worry about the nurses.” Benjamin took
a step toward Max-Ernest. It was clear that if Max-Ernest didn’t leave, Benjamin was prepared to push him out the door.

“No, I don’t think so….”

Max-Ernest started looking around the room for an object—a broom or mop maybe?—with which to protect himself and Cass if necessary.

“Max-Ernest? What is going on here? I need an explanation or I’m going to have to call security right now!”

The boys turned.

The nurse from reception was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, the janitor behind her.

The jig, as they say in the crime business, was up.

Three minutes earlier, Max-Ernest would have been bitterly disappointed to see them show up. Now, he was relieved.

“Sorry, wrong room,” said Benjamin quickly. “Looking for my grannie!”

He rushed out without looking anybody in the eye.

Max-Ernest was unable to leave so quickly. He had to talk to a hospital administrator first.

Thankfully, the nurse persuaded the hospital not to press charges (as some had wanted), or even to have Max-Ernest committed
to the mental ward (as others had suggested). Grief over Cass, she said, was responsible for his crazy behavior.

Nonetheless, Max-Ernest left the hospital totally despondent. Time, he knew, was running out. And he seemed further away from
saving Cass than ever.

And yet when he got home and saw Yo-Yoji’s e-mail, he was flooded with relief. While Cass’s condition was critical, at least
one tragedy—a potentially
drastic one—had been averted. As it turned out, Max-Ernest had been right not to trust Benjamin—more right than he possibly
could have known:

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
DUDE, YOU BETTER READ THIS RIGHT NOW!!!

To:
[email protected]

Jfstnm, Lro, u r lnfmc pjayne darenr tdam am afr cuftar fm bromt ob ky latdrook kfrror… Gust cot laih brok Bugf ame saw yr
n-kafj alout Lnmgakfm. Soumene so rameok, tdn way dn idamcne, so F efe a jfttjn makn snarid. Modtfmc… Lut tdnm F joohne up
tdat sidooj dn wnmt to, ame cunss wdo’s “dnae ob sidooj” at Mnw Prokntdnam… A cuy makne… eruk rojj, pjnasn… Juifamo Lnrcako.
Ud-dud. Er. Brnahfm’ J!!! Ynp, Lnmgakfm’s sidooj was rum ly Kfemfcdt Sum! Eummo wdat ft knams… Spy??? Enbfmftnjy MOT COOE.
Ajnrt ajnrt ajnrt! Pjz tnjj kn wdnm u cnt tdfs so F iam rnjax ame co laih to lufjefmc cakn jnvnjs.
^*

Lates! Y-Y

\m/ (>.<) \m/

(Rock On!)

Being the Story of a Green Pea, a Baby Boy, and a Jar of mayonnaise

F
rom time to time, some of my more adoring fans (OK, OK, some of my more suspicious readers) ask me if it is really and truly
true that I almost drowned in a jar of mayonnaise when I was a young child. I’m not certain in which of my many, many major
media interviews they happened to read this story (OK, OK, it was the interview I conducted with myself at the end of my second
book, and who better to conduct it, I ask you) but it is time I settled the question once and for all.

The answer is: yes, I did.

Here is how it happened:

As hard as it is to believe now, there was once a time when yours truly, Pseudonymous Bosch, was just a Baby Bosch. An innocent
infant who knew nothing of secrets, let alone
the
Secret. Who had never heard of the Terces Society or the Midnight Sun. Who had not yet even tasted his first bite of chocolate.

This unformed child, this unfinished project, this unbaked loaf, this unsculpted clay, this unwritten novel, this baby was
I.

Do not think for a second that I am trying to gain your sympathy, but I was not a happy baby. What with my parents always
fighting over me (oh, did I mention the tragedy of my broken home?) and my insides always fighting with themselves (oh, did
I mention the curse of my acid stomach?), I spent so much of my babyhood crying inconsolably that fights seemed to break out
wherever I went.

No, I am not looking for your sympathy, but a crying baby has no friends. None. You try listening to a baby cry for five minutes
or ten minutes or twenty minutes or for months and months on end as I cried. See if you don’t want to throttle the poor little
lamb.

Not for the crying baby the clucking and the cooing of Grandma Jo. The sneaking of sweets by Grandpa Carl. The pinching of
cheeks by Aunt Martha. At best it’s a pitying glance and a shake of the head. You’re lucky if nobody throws a shoe at you.

No, really, honestly, I am not looking for sympathy. Keep your tissues to yourself. Don’t send me flowers or consolation cards.
I have no use for your well-meaning words.