The Mysterious Benedict Society

  “And none of us watches television or listens to the radio,” said Kate, “because of our minds’ unusually powerful love of truth, right?”

  Sticky scratched his head. “I don’t see how watching television is going to make us Messengers any faster.”

  “Wait a minute!” Reynie said, leaping to his feet. “Our love of truth!”

  The others fell silent and looked at him. Reynie had begun to pace and whisper to himself. “Become what we’re not . . . to become Messengers faster . . . and Mr. Benedict knows that we’re not, because . . . yes, I think I have it!”

  Kate shone her flashlight at Reynie, who stopped in his tracks. His exultant expression shifted into one of doubt, and he squinted uncomfortably in the flashlight beam. He cleared his throat, hesitated, and cleared his throat again.

  “Well?” Constance demanded. “What’s the big idea?”

  At last Reynie managed to come out with it. And it was no wonder the others hadn’t thought of it themselves, for what Reynie suggested was something that would never have occurred to them, something quite foreign to their natures, something none of them had ever attempted.

  They must learn how to cheat.

  “It only makes sense,” Reynie quickly explained, when he saw his friends’ horrified expressions. “None of us accepted Rhonda’s offer to cheat, remember? That was part of the test. Mr. Benedict is saying we must become what we are not — cheaters — so we all can become Messengers more quickly!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Kate cried. “That can’t be what Mr. Benedict means!”

  Sticky was shaking his head. “Didn’t he choose us because we didn’t cheat?”

  “Well, I’m all for it,” Constance said with a snort. “Let’s cheat like the wind!”

  Kate was appalled. “I can’t believe you two! Where’s this powerful love of truth Mr. Benedict talked about?”

  Reynie wasn’t surprised by his friends’ responses. He too had been wary of the notion when it occurred to him. But were they not secret agents? Was not their very presence on the island a deception? Kate and Sticky’s reaction was just an instinctive response, he thought; they would come around in a minute.

  Still, Reynie was troubled by Kate’s question. Where was his powerful love of truth? His mind resisted the hidden messages . . . but maybe not as much as his friends’ did. How could he know? Hadn’t he been sorely tempted to cheat on Mr. Benedict’s tests, when Rhonda made the offer? Was he perhaps not quite the truth-loving brave soul Mr. Benedict and everyone else thought him to be?

  “Get real,” Constance was saying. “Mr. Curtain is the big deceiver, remember? We can beat him at his own game!”

  Kate and Sticky had their doubts, but they were less adamant now. Sticky was polishing his glasses, saying he supposed it might be all right, and Kate had begun to pace, saying, “It’s just that I never imagined myself . . . I don’t know, it’s just hard for me to think that way. Reynie, do you really think that’s what Mr. Benedict is suggesting?”

  “There’s one way to find out,” said Reynie, who really hoped he was right — not because he wanted to cheat, but because if cheating was Mr. Benedict’s idea rather than his own, Reynie would feel better about himself.

  Sticky sent their query at once: Please advise about cheating.

  A few minutes later a light began flashing in the woods. Sticky relayed the message as it came: Do Not

  “I guess that settles it,” Kate said.

  “There’s more,” said Sticky.

  The rest of the message was this: Get Caught.

  “I guess that settles it,” said Constance.

  “Cheating practice” occupied the Mysterious Benedict Society for two full hours that night. The moment the children received permission, they applied themselves to finding the best strategies for “earning without learning,” as Constance called it. None of them had ever tried it before, and at first they made a very poor showing indeed. But they were nothing if not quick learners, and by the time they called it a night, they all felt reasonably confident they could cheat a cheater out of cheating lessons, nine times out of ten.

  Their hard work paid off the next morning. The girls’ quiz scores finally began to improve. Given her height and sharp eyesight, it was simple enough for Kate to sit behind Reynie and copy over his shoulder, while Reynie kept his paper at a helpful angle. Their greatest difficulty lay in watching out for witnesses, but Kate and Reynie were good at this, and their teamwork produced excellent results. In fact, they were so heartened by their success that not even the morning’s hidden-message broadcasts dimmed their optimism.

  Sticky and Constance’s cheating strategy was more complicated. Constance was too short to copy over a shoulder, and note passing was much too risky, so at last Reynie had suggested Morse code. Notoriously fidgety, Sticky signaled the answers by tugging his ear or tapping his temple — motions he disguised with head scratches, collar-straightening, and spectacle-polishing — and Constance sat in the back row, where none of the other students would notice her watching him.

  The strategy worked, but not without problems. In the corridor between classes Constance complained under her breath, “Every time you have a real itch, I get the wrong answer.”

  “Sorry,” Sticky said sheepishly. “I get itchy when I’m nervous. I’ll try to do better.”

  “Don’t just try,” Constance said. “Actually do better.”

  “Hey, my fidgeting isn’t the only problem, you know!” Sticky hissed. “It would help if you had practiced your Morse code at all!”

  Constance’s face turned so red, her pale blue eyes glistened so brightly behind angry tears, and her wispy blond hair was in such a state of dishevelment that she looked more like a small child’s painting of a person than an actual person herself. A fierce display of vivid colors in odd proportions, she seemed to have stepped right out of a canvas for the sole purpose of throwing a fit.

  “Now, children,” Kate said in a motherly tone, stepping between them. “Let’s not quibble about who’s to blame. Blaming is wrong. The important thing is to get along with one another, so that we may have better success cheating.”

  “Not funny,” said Constance, but the joke did take the edge off her fury, and she said no more.

  Nor did Sticky, who regretted his outburst, not least because it was imprudent to discuss cheating in the corridor, and even worse to mention Morse code. Was he crazy? What if he’d been overheard? The very prospect of the Waiting Room made him woozy.

  And so the morning passed: struggling to ignore hidden-message broadcasts, concentrating on the lessons, cheating on every quiz. The four had a bit more to think about than the other students. Yet the boys continued making perfect scores, the girls were coming along nicely, the broadcasts eventually let up, and by lunchtime everyone was in an upbeat mood.

  At the same time, they were on high alert for clues. Between classes they’d heard the rumor that Charlie Peters, one of the oldest Messengers at the Institute, was graduating. He hadn’t been in class all day, and some Executives had been seen with him in the dormitory that morning. This was the usual thing, someone said. Graduates never spoke to a soul when they left — apparently they were too high and mighty even to say good-bye to old friends. They had no choice, said another student; the Executives never allowed it.

  “I wonder what that’s all about,” Reynie said as they made their way to the cafeteria for lunch.

  “Good question,” Kate said. “And here’s our chance for some answers.” She pointed down an adjoining corridor, where S.Q. Pedalian had just appeared, escorting Charlie toward a distant exit. “Quick, you try to talk to him while I distract S.Q.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Constance asked. But Kate had already dashed off down the corridor, and Reynie and Sticky were hurrying after her.

  “S.Q.! Hey, S.Q.!” Kate called out. “I wanted to ask you a question about your lecture this morning.”

  S.Q. turned to see Kate barrel
ing toward him. “I’m afraid I can’t talk right now, K —”

  Before S.Q. could finish, Kate took a spectacular fall. Her feet shot out from under her; her arms and legs flew in every direction; her bucket clanged and scraped against the stone floor, sending up sparks; and at last — with her feet first in front of her and then somehow behind her — Kate tumbled and slid to a stop a few yards away from S.Q., where she did a very convincing job of rolling her eyes back into her head.

  “Kate!” S.Q. cried, hurrying to check on her as the boys came running up. “Step back!” he ordered. “Give her room to breathe!”

  As Kate made a great production of fluttering her eyelashes and rolling her eyes loopily about, Reynie and Sticky edged past S.Q. to talk to Charlie Peters, who stood a little distance away, gazing impassively down the corridor, apparently not the least interested in Kate’s fate. A terribly pale boy, with pale eyes, pale hair, and pale skin, Charlie looked like a figure made of wax. When the boys approached, he didn’t even acknowledge them. He wore a faintly confused expression, as if he couldn’t see why he had to leave the Institute, why he couldn’t just keep on being a Messenger forever.

  “She’ll be fine,” Reynie said, jerking a thumb toward Kate as if Charlie might actually care. “Falls down a lot, but she always recovers.”

  “What?” Charlie said, looking at the boys for the first time.

  Reynie’s face took on a sympathetic expression. “Oh, I guess your mind’s on other things, since you’re graduating. No one could blame you for that. I’ll bet you’re sad to go, aren’t you? You’ll miss all those special privileges.”

  “What special privileges?” Charlie said warily. “I don’t remember any special privileges. Being a Messenger is a responsibility, a matter of leadership. When you’re a Messenger, you’re so busy helping Mr. Curtain that you hardly have time to think. In fact,” Charlie said, looking disappointed now, “in fact, it seems like only yesterday I was made Messenger, and now I’m going home already. I’ve been so busy that everything in between seems like a blur.”

  “Busy doing what?” Sticky asked.

  Behind them, S.Q. was struggling to help Kate back to her feet. Kate was making it difficult by slipping on things that had spilled from her bucket.

  Charlie grew agitated. He glanced left and right, then fixed them with a decidedly suspicious look. “I can’t say.”

  “But why not?” Reynie urged. “Did they threaten you? Can you tell us anything?”

  Charlie shook his head doubtfully. He seemed to be considering, though, and the boys felt their hopes rise. Then he shook his head again, more vigorously this time. He seemed extremely distressed by their questioning. “I can’t say,” he repeated. “I really can’t.”

  “— lucky to be alive,” S.Q. was saying to Kate behind them. Then his voice sharpened. “Hey! You boys get away from Charlie!”

  “Okay, bye, Charlie,” Reynie said quickly, and Sticky gave a playful salute, but Charlie only stared at them with a distraught expression, as if they’d done him some grievous wrong. Casting the boys a disapproving look, S.Q. took Charlie’s arm and led him away toward the exit.

  “Any luck?” asked Constance, who had finally come down the corridor and was standing there, conspicuously unhelpful, as Kate gathered her things.

  Reynie picked up Kate’s slingshot and handed it to her. “He isn’t talking. He wouldn’t say why.”

  “I did all that for nothing?” cried Kate, dismayed.

  “I’m not sure,” Reynie said. “There’s something curious about what Charlie said. Something . . .” He frowned. “I’m going to have to think about it.”

  “Anyway, Kate, don’t tell us you didn’t enjoy doing that,” Sticky said.

  “That’s true, I did,” Kate admitted, with an impish grin. “How did it look?”

  “Like you fell out of an airplane,” Reynie said as they started toward the cafeteria again.

  “Really?” Kate gazed at him with shining eyes. She was deeply touched.

  Tests and Invitations

  During the last class of the day, near the end of the lecture review, the classroom door flew open and Jackson came in. “Don’t mind me,” he said to the Executive he’d interrupted, though from the way Jackson strutted, it was clear he enjoyed the attention. “Just posting the new Messenger list.”

  Every student in class sat up straighter. The new Messenger list! It was well known that the list hadn’t changed in over a month. Now Charlie Peters’s departure had left an open slot. Who had filled it? As Jackson hung the paper at the front of the room, everyone strained their eyes to make out the names. Kate was the only one sharp-eyed enough to succeed. “No luck yet,” she whispered to Reynie. “Your name’s not on it.”

  The moment class was dismissed, the students swarmed toward the list. Martina Crowe, the first in line by virtue of her sharp elbows, announced that Bonnie Hedrickson was the new Messenger. This prompted a collective moan of disappointment. Still, no one stepped out of line. Everybody wanted to see for themselves, perhaps hoping Martina was playing a joke, or that Bonnie’s name would magically disappear, replaced by their own.

  The Mysterious Benedict Society had gathered near the back. “Let’s get out of here,” Kate said. “It’s Bonnie, all right. I saw her name.”

  “You three go on,” said Reynie, who felt strangely compelled to see the list up close. “I’ll meet you on the plaza.” And so the others left, and Reynie got in line, wondering why he felt drawn to look. Perhaps he was not so different from the other students after all. Perhaps he, too, hoped for something impossible.

  “The secret privileges!” said a girl wistfully.

  “And those tunics!” said a boy. “I’ll get on that list if it kills me!”

  Reynie leaned sideways to see who was at the front of the line. Rosie Gardener and Eustace Crust, the two special recruits. Despite their confusing behavior, Reynie still suspected them of having been kidnapped, and he found himself wondering yet again how they had come to be so pleased with their fates. Those initial dazed expressions long since evaporated, the special recruits were all eagerness now, and both had greedy glints in their eyes. Reynie watched them leave the room with an unexpected pang of sympathy. Who had they been before? Had they, like Sticky, run away from home? Had they ever known parents at all? What kind of miserable life had they had, that the Institute seemed so wonderful to them now?

  As the line moved forward, Reynie had a flash of insight. He imagined the special recruits’ futures as they themselves must imagine them: With nowhere else to turn, no parents or grandparents begging for their returns, they would devote themselves entirely to the Institute. They would rise through the ranks of Messenger, wear their fancy tunics and sashes, and one day, when the time came, they would turn their backs on the outside world to become Executives. It wouldn’t matter how they had come here, or what had come before. That part was already forgotten, or else would be forgotten in the pleasurable rush of being important. Of being a part of something.

  Standing before the list now, Reynie didn’t even look at it. His sympathy, he realized, had shifted into something else, a different feeling altogether. What was it? It certainly wasn’t pleasant. Then with surprise he recognized it: jealousy.

  “How strange,” Reynie said to himself.

  “What is strange?” said a man’s voice.

  Reynie whirled to find himself face-to-face with Mr. Curtain, who stared keenly at him from behind his silver lenses. Lost in thought, Reynie had lingered after all the others had filed out, and now he found himself alone with the Sender himself.

  “I — I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “You said something was strange,” said Mr. Curtain, drumming his fingers upon a great, thick book in his lap. “I daresay you were referring to the Messenger list.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Reynie said, then lied: “I expected to find my name on it. I’ve been making perfect scores.”

  “That is what I thought,” said Mr.
Curtain. “The minds of children are easily read, even gifted children like yourself, Reynard.”

  “I’m glad you think I’m gifted,” said Reynie, sensing an opportunity. “I want to become a Messenger more than anything.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mr. Curtain. “All the Executives have reported how well you’re doing. Both you and your friend George Washington have far exceeded expectations. In fact, in the history of the Institute, no one has ever mastered so much material so quickly.”

  Mr. Curtain’s chair had been rolling closer, slowly, almost imperceptibly, so that now their faces were very near to each other. “It is a strange coincidence, is it not, that two such gifted children should be admitted to the Institute at the very same time, and that they should be such close friends?”

  Hidden behind those reflective lenses, Mr. Curtain’s expression was difficult to read. Was he suspicious? Reynie’s heart, already beating double-time, kicked into a higher gear. “As for being admitted at the same time,” he said, “that is a coincidence. But it’s no surprise that two good students should become good friends, especially if they’re roommates.”

  “True,” said Mr. Curtain with an approving crook of one eyebrow. “You are a bright child, a very bright child, Reynard, and I believe you would make a fine Messenger. Do you believe that yourself?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, very much!” cried Reynie with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  “Good. But you must remember, Reynard, that you are new. Your time has not yet come. Not yet. It will come soon, however, if only you are patient. I trust you are capable of patience?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Curtain.”

  “That is all we ask, my boy. I must confess I am not a patient man myself.” Here Mr. Curtain’s voice changed. Where it had been briefly paternal and encouraging, it now turned searching. “Take, for example, your female friend, the diminutive Miss Contraire. I am losing patience with her. My Executives have just reported that although her quiz scores are improving, she remains quite unruly — sleeping during lessons, refusing to speak when questioned, making sour faces at the Executives, that sort of thing.”