The Mysterious Benedict Society

“I can see it in you,” Reynie said with perfect conviction. “You’d hold fast tomorrow even if I didn’t have a plan — which I do. When your friends really need you, they can count on you. I just know it. And I do need you, Sticky. I need you here as a friend.”

  Sticky’s eyes flickered like a candle on the verge of guttering. “It’s . . . nice of you to say,” he said doubtfully. Then he shuddered. “But Reynie, it’ll kill me if I have to go back to that place. All those hours, with every second crawling by — and other things crawling by, things you can’t see — constantly sinking into that goop, the smell so horrible, like something dead, like maybe it’s yourself that’s dead —”

  “You won’t have to spend another day in there,” Reynie said. “I swear it.”

  “You bet your boots you won’t,” said Kate, whose head appeared in the ceiling above them. She lowered Constance into the room. “If they send you back there, we’ll find a way to get you out, no matter what. Okay, chum?”

  Shakily Sticky rose to his feet.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Reynie said. “I’m sure you’ll see Mr. Curtain first thing in the morning.”

  “But that’s no good, either! It’s terrible! How can I keep from giving you all away? He knows we’re friends, he knows I was cheating, and he’ll just put two and two together. . . .” Sticky caught his breath, held it a moment, and started over. “Okay, you mentioned a plan, didn’t you? Do you really have one?”

  “I’ll tell you about it,” Reynie said, handing him a roll, “but first you should eat. I smuggled some food for you.”

  For the first time, Sticky’s eyes brightened and stayed bright. “I am awfully hungry.”

  “Ten o’clock!” roared Jackson from just outside the door. Everyone jumped. No one had heard him creeping down the hallway. “Lights out!”

  As he hurried to the light switch, Reynie gave Kate a questioning look.

  “We turned ours off before we left,” she said a little too loudly.

  Immediately Jackson rapped at the door. “Do you boys have someone in there with you? You know that’s against the rule. No room visits, period! And even more no room visits during lights out!”

  “It’s just the two of us,” Reynie replied.

  This was just what Jackson had hoped Reynie would say. If he caught the boys with visitors now, they were not only breaking one of the Institute’s very few rules, but lying about it as well. He flung open the door and switched on the light. “Aha! There you —” but he cut himself short, for he saw only the two boys, sitting on the floor.

  “Isn’t the light supposed to be off?” Reynie asked him.

  With a scowl Jackson reached to turn off the light, then thought better of it. “Not just yet,” he said, strolling over to the wardrobe. “First I’d like to see who you have in here.” He threw open the wardrobe doors.

  Nothing but clothes inside.

  “If you don’t mind, we’d like to get some sleep. Sticky’s had a long day.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Jackson said, kneeling to look beneath the bottom bunk. Only the boys’ suitcases. He rose and stared at Reynie, who smiled pleasantly, and then at Sticky, who only shrugged. Jackson sneered. “How did you like the Waiting Room, George?”

  Reynie suddenly boiled over with anger. He had spent the evening in such a state of emotion, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “How can you do that to people, Jackson? Send them to a place like that, and then tease them about it?”

  Jackson feigned puzzlement. “What do you mean, ‘a place like that’? The Waiting Room isn’t such a bad place. And it’s perfectly safe. A little mud never hurt anyone. Washes right off, doesn’t it? It may have a bit of an odor, but an odor can’t hurt you any more than mud can — or darkness, for that matter. Darkness is good for you. Rests the eyes. Prevents sunburn . . .”

  Livid though he was, Reynie fought to regain control of himself. He should never have said anything in the first place. It did no good to argue with an Executive.

  Jackson was still lecturing with obvious pleasure. “And yes, I suppose there are a great many flies and beetles and crawling things — but they didn’t bite or sting, did they? You aren’t afraid of a fly, are you, George?”

  “No,” Sticky replied in an even tone. But he was glaring at Jackson. It was such an angry look — so full of defiant outrage — that Reynie actually felt encouraged. There was strength in Sticky. It was just easy to miss. Easiest of all for Sticky himself.

  Jackson missed it, too. “Of course you aren’t. So let’s hear no more nonsense,” he said, screwing up his face as if talking to a pitiful baby, “about the Waiting Woom being such a nasty wittle pwace.” Then he grinned wickedly, shut off the light, and left the room. His boots thumped away down the corridor.

  Constance’s stifled voice called out, “Good grief! Do you intend to keep me in here forever?”

  “Quiet,” Reynie whispered, peeking out the door. The corridor was empty. He nodded at Sticky, who dragged his suitcase from beneath the bed.

  “It’s a good thing you’re so small,” Sticky whispered as Constance climbed out.

  “Oh, yes, lucky me! So small you can pack me in the luggage. Why don’t you try curling up in a suitcase?” Constance said, forgetting that Sticky had spent his entire day standing in filth, darkness, and bug swarms.

  The ceiling panel slid aside and Kate dropped down into the room again. “Now what’s this about a plan?” she said, as if they’d never been interrupted.

  Punishments and Promotions

  Both boys were awake before dawn. And they had stayed up late the night before, going over the plan. But Sticky wasn’t at all sleepy. Fear was keeping his eyes wide open. As he got dressed in the dark, he whispered up to the top bunk, “Reynie, they didn’t happen to blindfold you when you went to Mr. Curtain’s office, did they?”

  “A blindfold? No.”

  “Then I guess I’ll know right away if I’m going to the Waiting Room. That’s something, I suppose.”

  Reynie rolled over and looked down from his bunk. “They blindfolded you? Why?”

  “Didn’t say. Jillson just dragged me onto the plaza, put the blindfold on, and spun me around until I threw up. I mean I literally threw up. Then she laughed and led me inside and down some stairs to the Waiting Room. I had to wear it when I left, too.”

  Reynie furrowed his brow. Why would they blindfold Sticky like that?

  Just then someone banged on the door. Sticky stared at the door a long moment before opening it. S.Q. Pedalian stood in the dusky corridor, eating a cinnamon roll. His mouth stuffed full, he beckoned for Sticky to follow him. The time had come.

  Sticky took a deep breath. “Wish me luck, Reynie.”

  Reynie nodded. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”

  Sticky followed S.Q. down the corridor. The dormitory was perfectly silent, save for the echo of their footsteps and the occasional gulping sound from S.Q., who was munching his cinnamon roll with gusto. Then they were outside in the chill morning air, where S.Q. stopped, licked his fingers, and — to Sticky’s horror — reached into his pocket.

  “S.Q.?” Sticky asked in a strained voice. “Am I . . . am I to wait a little longer, or —?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Curtain can meet with you,” said S.Q. casually, pulling out a banana, not a blindfold. “Now, Sticky” — S.Q. was the only Executive who ever called Sticky by his nickname, though only by accident — “that is, George, allow me to give you some advice. I’m an Executive, you know, and I understand the way things work around here.” Glancing left and right, S.Q. lowered his voice. “I like you, George, you’re a nice kid, and very bright. And you’re an orphan, which makes you a good candidate for Executive someday if you’ll just straighten right up and fly . . . if you fly straight and right . . .”

  “Straighten up and fly right?”

  “Yes, all of those,” S.Q. said, relieved. “My point is, don’t blow your chances right off the bat. Whatever you do, do not admit to Mr
. Curtain that you cheated. If you did cheat, I mean. I’m not saying you should lie. That’s even worse. Don’t admit to cheating, and don’t lie.”

  “You’re saying my best course of action right now is not to have cheated in the past.”

  “Exactly,” S.Q. said.

  “That’s helpful.”

  S.Q. grinned. “Thought it would be. Mr. Curtain hates a cheater more than anything. Otherwise he’s a genial fellow. So just keep that in mind during your meeting — the most important thing is not to admit you cheated.”

  “Thanks,” Sticky said in a weak voice. His head had begun to ache. S.Q.’s advice was exactly the opposite of Reynie’s.

  He would have liked some time to consider his new dilemma, but in less than a minute he was standing outside the metal door to Mr. Curtain’s office. Beads of sweat appeared on his smooth scalp. What should he do? If anybody should know this sort of thing, it would be an Executive. Yet S.Q. was not the brightest bulb in the Executive chandelier. Reynie, on the other hand, was very shrewd about people. . . . And now S.Q. was knocking on the door. Sticky rubbed his throbbing temples. He felt on the verge, once again, of growing paralyzed. Or worse: flub-mouthed.

  The door slid open. S.Q. motioned for Sticky to enter. Whatever course he chose, he had to choose it now.

  Mr. Curtain sat in the middle of the cold stone room, his fingers laced together, his chin lifted expectantly. The gigantic silver-eyed spider, waiting for the fly.

  “I’m sorry I cheated, sir!” Sticky declared as he went in.

  The door slid closed behind him, but not before he heard a shocked S.Q. mumbling something about the poor kid cracking under pressure.

  Mr. Curtain drummed his fingers on the journal in his lap, regarding Sticky with those unseen eyes. Sticky was hard-pressed not to fidget. A bead of sweat trickled down the curve of his bald head, made its way to his earlobe, and hung there, trembling. It tickled Sticky maddeningly, but he held still. Suddenly Mr. Curtain shot forward in his chair — Sticky nearly jumped out of his shoes — and screeched to a stop with his face inches away.

  “Do you care to explain yourself?” Mr. Curtain said coolly.

  Sticky had memorized the speech. (If he hadn’t, he might never have gotten a word out.) He stammered, swallowed, then began: “I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t want to do anything wrong. But she put so much pressure on me —”

  “You mean Constance Contraire, I assume,” interrupted Mr. Curtain with a look of satisfaction.

  “Constance? Oh, no, sir. She’s too stubborn even to let me help her with homework. I’m sure you’ve noticed how stubborn she is. You notice everything about everybody, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  “Hm,” said Mr. Curtain. “I have noticed that, it’s true. But if not Constance Contraire, then of whom are you speaking?”

  “Well, as I was saying, sir, she put so much pressure on me, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it, she being a Messenger and all —”

  “WHAT?” Mr. Curtain bellowed, his face instantly purple. “A Messenger? Snakes and dogs, I’ll —” He cut himself off, and for a few moments went absolutely silent, as if trying to decide just what horrible thing to do to Sticky. Send him back to the Waiting Room? Fling him into a patch of drapeweed? Crush him beneath the wheels of his chair?

  Sticky closed his eyes.

  When several moments had passed, however, without his being sent, flung, or crushed, Sticky opened one eye. The color had faded from Mr. Curtain’s face so that it no longer looked like an eggplant with glasses; only the tip of his lumpy nose retained a crimson hue. And he had begun drumming his fingers again. “George,” Mr. Curtain said, more calmly now, “why are you looking at me with one eye?”

  Sticky quickly opened his other eye. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Curtain. “Now explain yourself. Are you telling me a Messenger made you cheat?”

  “I’m sorry to say so, sir. It made her furious that Reynie and I were doing so well. She couldn’t believe we already knew more than she did. She humiliated me in class, and later she told me she’d keep doing it — or even worse — unless I agreed to help her. The quizzes were so much easier if I just gave her the answers, she said. And if I did, she would make it easier for me — by not tormenting me.”

  “You are speaking of Martina Crowe,” Mr. Curtain said.

  Sticky nodded.

  “Hmm. I shall have to look into this. Your cheating doesn’t trouble me much, I must say, so long as I understand the situation. The secret is control, do you see? I simply wish to know the circumstances so that I can manipulate — that is, so that I can manage them. No matter what the circumstances, George, so long as they are controlled, we may have harmony. Do you understand?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Very well. I’m sorry you had to wait to speak with me on this matter. I understand it is an unpleasant thing to wait. Unfortunately there’s no help for it sometimes — I’m quite busy. The good news is that you will not be punished.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sticky said humbly.

  “And George?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are doing rather well, aren’t you?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  Mr. Curtain was looking Sticky up and down and nodding to himself, as if appraising a fine new piece of machinery that would come in handy.

  “Nice work,” said Constance. “You’re a natural liar.”

  It was less diplomatic congratulations than he’d received from Reynie and Kate — who had cheered and clapped him on the back — but Sticky was too relieved to quibble.

  They were on their way to lunch, trailing well behind the rest of the students so that they could speak privately in the corridors. They were all pretty pleased with themselves — not least because Martina Crowe was in hot water. And now, as they approached the end of the corridor, they overheard Jackson and Jillson talking in an empty classroom. Looking at one another in silent agreement, they stopped walking to listen.

  “— finally caught who was spying in the gym,” Jackson was saying. “A waste, though. He was a good Messenger. And a special recruit, you know. Mr. Curtain would probably have kept him on, trained him into an Executive one day. I guess now he’ll be retrained as a Helper.”

  “Too bad,” Jillson said. “Shouldn’t have been so average-looking.”

  “What he shouldn’t have been was so curious,” said Jackson. “The nerve of that kid! Always asking questions — it’s what got him sent to the Waiting Room last time, you know. I thought he’d learned his lesson.”

  “Apparently not,” said Jillson. “Any word on the accomplice?”

  “His partner in crime? Not yet. Personally I can’t see what there is to worry about, but you know Mr. Curtain. Can’t be too careful, he says. We’re supposed to be extra vigilant, keep an eye out.” Jackson grunted. “And I guess you heard he’s changing the door codes.”

  “No! Again? I hate learning new codes!”

  “Tell me about it,” Jackson said. “Would have saved us some trouble if the kid had ratted on his partner, but he denied everything to the end. Like I said, it’s a shame. Probably would have made a good Executive.”

  “Quiet,” Jillson said. “Did you just hear something?”

  In the corridor, the children’s eyes widened. They held their breath.

  “Only my stomach growling,” Jackson said. “Get your stuff together, won’t you? Let’s go eat.”

  That was the children’s cue to move. With relieved expressions, Sticky, Kate, and Constance hurried quietly on down the corridor. Reynie followed behind, trying to calm himself. Jackson’s news had quite upset him.

  After they’d safely rounded the corner, Kate said, “Can you believe it? That’s two narrow escapes now! First Sticky got off the hook for cheating, and now you’re off the hook for spying, Reynie!”

  “Yeah,” said Reynie, his face flushed with guilt. “It’s . . . it’s great news.”
r />   “And now Martina’s on the hook,” Constance said. “This might actually be a good day.”

  By supper the rumors were flying. Martina Crowe had not been in any of her classes. Some said she was enjoying a long session of her special privileges — whatever those were. Others argued that the secret privileges never lasted this long. More likely, someone said, she’d been sent to the Waiting Room — a student had seen Jackson and Jillson escorting her across the plaza. Martina Crowe? Going to the Waiting Room? Who had seen that? For this no one had an answer, so maybe it was just a rumor.

  Reynie had begun to feel rather ill. It was starting to seem everything he did got someone hurt. First he’d suggested they cheat, which landed Sticky in the Waiting Room. Then he’d spied through the gym window, for which some poor, average-looking kid was paying the price. Now there was this plan he’d put into effect — the plan to get Martina bumped from the Messenger list. It had seemed clever at the time, but was he sure about that? For all his caution and wits, he was turning out to be a dangerous person to be close to. He looked at his untouched meal with distaste. He shoved it away and put his face in his hands.

  “Reynie?” Kate said. “What’s the matter?”

  “It was my plan,” Reynie mumbled.

  “Hey, if anybody deserves the Waiting Room, it’s Martina.”

  “If anyone deserves it . . . ,” mumbled Sticky, who felt every bit as bad as Reynie. He knew how terrible the Waiting Room was — at the very mention of it he had broken into a cold sweat — and he had been the one to condemn Martina with a lie. It didn’t matter how cruel she was. No one deserved the Waiting Room, not even Martina.

  To make matters worse, at that very moment a hidden message broadcast began.

  “It’s that boy Harold Rockwell,” Constance grumbled to herself. “Shut up, Harold.”

  Reynie gave Constance a bleak look. It had occurred to him to wonder what would happen to her when Mr. Curtain boosted the signal power all the way. If Constance could hear voices now, what would it be like for her then? What would it do to her? Had she thought to wonder about this herself? For her sake, Reynie hoped not. If he were in her shoes he’d be terrified.