If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late (11 page)

A
note from a teacher can get you out of a myriad of difficulties — tardiness, say, or PE.

Sadly, when it comes to a serious crime — like running away from a field trip — a note only helps if it
absolves
you of the crime; it doesn’t do you much good if it
blames
you for the crime.

The note that Mr. Needleman (aka Owen) sent to Mrs. Johnson did not excuse their misadventure on the ocean. On the contrary, it explained that Cass and Max-Ernest had taken advantage of his good nature to escape from their class.

Mr. Needleman claimed that he’d suffered “severe emotional trauma” while pursuing his “reckless” and “renegade” students. He was checking himself into a mental health facility; therefore, unfortunately, he did not expect to return before the end of term.

He ended by saying he was considering suing the school for criminal negligence and suing Cass’s and Max-Ernest’s parents for raising criminals.

Cass was horrified. She couldn’t believe Owen would write a letter like that. They would probably be suspended. Or even expelled! She’d been right not to trust him, after all, she told Max-Ernest.

But Max-Ernest pointed out that Owen had only done what he had to do. “If he just talked about how great we were, Mrs. Johnson would think we forged it. And what would be the point of that?”

As it turned out, Mrs. Johnson did not suspend the juvenile delinquents otherwise known as the heroes of this story.

“Match the punishment to the crime, that’s my motto,” she said, staring imperiously at them from under a new royal blue hat, as they stood against the wall in her office like prisoners awaiting a firing squad. “Why should I give you time off from school for running away from school? Does that make sense to you?”

Instead, Mrs. Johnson chose a far less pleasant course: detention.

For the rest of the year.

“Does that mean the whole year or just the school year?” Max-Ernest asked. “Also, do we have to sleep here, or do we get to go home at night?”

Mrs. Johnson didn’t deign to answer.

Cass tried to hide her smile.

Detention.

It was just like being grounded. Only at school.

Cass and Max-Ernest had detention at lunch, free period, and even recess. There was no more arguing about their investigations at the Nuts Table. No more sneaking off to share secrets behind the gym.

Even environmental sciences felt like detention now — because Mrs. Johnson had decided to save money by filling in for Mr. Needleman herself. “After all, managing this school is just like running a zoo — and zoology is an important part of environmental sciences,” she said, as if that somehow qualified her to teach the class.

Despite her professed passion for zoology, Mrs. Johnson had removed all the animals from Mr. Needleman’s classroom as soon as she moved in. Hence Cass and Max-Ernest didn’t even have any gerbils or frogs to entertain them, only empty cages and terrariums.

On their first day of Johnson Jail, as they called it, Mrs. Johnson made them chisel off all the wads of gum from under the desks. (The hard wads were easy to remove; it was the sticky ones that were hard.) On the second day, she made them lick envelopes.

The envelopes contained copies of Mr. Needleman’s letter, along with a second letter from Mrs. Johnson that made doubly sure everyone understood that Cass and Max-Ernest, and not their principal, were to blame for the “tragedy at the tide pools.”

There was one envelope for every student (except in the case of siblings and divorced parents) — which, Max-Ernest calculated, amounted to 312 individual licks.

“Why don’t you send e-mails?” Cass asked Mrs. Johnson. “All that paper — it’s killing trees for no reason. I thought you were the Principal with Principles.”

“I am. And one of my principles is that students never talk back to their principal,” the principal predictably responded.

When Mrs. Johnson finally left them alone, Max-Ernest told Cass he didn’t mind licking all the envelopes. He liked the taste.

“Great!” Cass handed him her pile, and he started right away, attempting to lick as many envelopes in one minute as possible.
^*

“It’s so frustrating. I know the song means something — I just don’t know what,” Cass said, returning to a conversation they’d started on the bus that morning. “It’s like singing, but not with words. At least not in English or any other language.”

“’ould be ’ome ’ind of ’usical ’ode ’aybe,” Max-Ernest said, not stopping licking.

“What? Take that out of your mouth.”

“I’m trying to lick for both of us, so I have to go double fast,” said Max-Ernest, putting the envelope down. “I said, it could be some kind of musical code. . . . Do you have it with you?”

“The Sound Prism? I buried it in my backyard. Why? Could you use the Decoder to see?”

Max-Ernest shook his head. “No music recognition software. But maybe if we could figure out the notes —”

Before he could finish his thought, they were interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs. Johnson and the words: “Yo, what’s up, dudes?”

For a second, it seemed like it was their principal who had greeted them in this fashion. Then Yo-Yoji emerged from behind Mrs. Johnson.

“I regret to say you two will be having company,” said the principal. “Your colleague here has been downloading music in the library, despite the fact that rules about Internet usage are written in black-and-white above the computers. Perhaps I need to have them translated into Japanese —”

“I don’t read kanji,” muttered Yo-Yoji, taking a seat across from Cass and Max-Ernest.

Mrs. Johnson slapped a fresh stack of envelopes on the table. “I noticed a typo. We’ll have to start over,” she said, and walked out without another word.

Max-Ernest stared glumly at the stack, not quite as eager to lick as he was before.

“So what happened at the tide pools?” asked Yo Yoji. “You guys better tell me — you owe me that much.”

“What do you mean — we owe you? We got into big trouble ’cause of you,” said Cass.

“I didn’t say anything — I swear.”

“Then how did Mr. Needleman know where we went?”

Max-Ernest looked at Cass in confusion. “What are you talking about? Mr. Needleman was following us.”

Cass gave Max-Ernest a warning look. “Why would he follow us? He’s just a teacher.”

“Oh, I guess you’re right,” said Max-Ernest, backpedaling fast. “It’s not like he’s a spy!”

“Why are you dudes acting so weird?” asked Yo-Yoji. “I knew you were hiding something!”

“What’s to hide? We went to practice rock climbing,” said Cass.

“Yeah. Then we got lost,” said Max-Ernest. “That’s all. I mean, it’s not like we were looking for something, or looking for someone, or, like, trying to meet someone — I mean, who would that be? Members of some secret society? That would be ridiculous!”

“You guys suck as liars,” said Yo-Yoji. “C’mon — what was behind the rocks?”

“Nothing.”/“We can’t tell.”

“Well, which is it — is it a secret or was nothing there?”

“Both.”/“Neither.”

Yo-Yoji laughed. “It’s a good thing you guys aren’t really part of some secret society — you wouldn’t last a minute, yo.”

“Hi, Yo-Yoji!”

While they’d been talking, Veronica had entered the classroom. She smiled at Yo-Yoji, ignoring the others. “I have a message from Amber. She’s waiting outside and she wants to know if you want to be in a band with her. You know, for the talent show — because you’re so good at music?”

“Um . . . I kind of already have a band with these guys in Japan.” Yo-Yoji turned to Cass and Max-Ernest. “We’re trying to keep it going online. That’s why I was downloading stuff before —”

“You mean you don’t want to have a band with Amber?” Veronica was so appalled she couldn’t bother to hide it.

Yo-Yoji shrugged apologetically. “Yeah. I mean, not really.”

Veronica ran out to tell Amber the shocking news — and returned in less than a minute with another message for Yo-Yoji: “Amber says she was watching and she knows you got in detention on purpose,” she said breathlessly. “Because you have a crush on Cass!”

Cass’s ears instantly turned red.

Max-Ernest looked like he’d been hit by a truck.

“That’s not true! And, I mean, that’s not why I wanted detention,” said Yo-Yoji, blushing. “I just wanted to ask about the tide pools,” he whispered to the others.

Mrs. Johnson stuck her head, or at least her hat, through the doorway; she didn’t look happy. “Veronica — out, now! And the rest of you — is this detention or social hour?”

Veronica scurried out, looking extremely pleased with herself.

Cass, Max-Ernest, and Yo-Yoji all sat, stunned, as silent as the empty animal cages around them.

“You know, you don’t really sound like you’re from Japan,” said Max-Ernest finally. The way he said it, he might have been accusing Yo-Yoji of murder. Or at the very least of stealing his allowance.

“I’m not. We were just there for a year —”

“What were you doing there?” asked Cass, still recovering from the unexpected, unwanted, and apparently untrue news.

“My dad was studying pollution on Mount Fuji.”

Cass’s eyes lit up. “What kind of pollution?” Even as rattled as she was, the topic couldn’t fail to interest her.

Max-Ernest, on the other hand, seemed about as interested in hearing about pollution as he was in breathing it. At least, if it meant hearing from Yo-Yoji.

“All kinds. He does all these tests on snow. We go backpacking all the time so he can take samples.”

“Wow, your father sounds really cool,” said Cass.

“He’s OK, I guess. Sometimes it blows having to go to the mountains all the time because my parents have this rule about no electronic devices. So you can be all at one with nature or something. Do you ever go backpacking?”

“Are you kidding? My mom hates nature.”

“What about you, Max-Ernest?”

“My parents aren’t a couple,” he answered, not looking at Yo-Yoji.

“So?”

“They’re divorced. We don’t do stuff like that.”

“Oh, OK. Right. I get it,” said Yo-Yoji, clearly not getting it at all.

Rather than offering any clarification, Max-Ernest started relicking envelopes, soothing himself with the satisfying taste.

Unwillingly, Cass found her mind going back to what Veronica had said. Obviously, Amber was just mad because Yo-Yoji wouldn’t be in a band with her . . . right?

Cass dismissed the thought. There was a more important question to answer:

“Hey, Yo-Yoji, do you know how to read music and stuff?”

“Um, pretty much.”

“Do you think if I hummed some notes you could tell what they were?”

Max-Ernest looked at Cass in alarm. “Cass, you can’t —”

“So what — it’s just a song. . . . So, can you?” she asked Yo-Yoji.

“Well, I can try. . . . Actually, the chorus teacher at my old school said I had perfect pitch —”

“You know, there aren’t many people who really have perfect pitch,” said Max-Ernest. “It’s very rare.”

“Let him try at least!”

Max-Ernest shrugged. He didn’t approve but he could tell Cass couldn’t be stopped.

“So, what is this song, anyway?” Yo-Yoji asked. “Wait, don’t tell me, it’s a secret!”

Cass nodded.

Yo-Yoji laughed. “Yeah, whatever. Go ahead —”

“OK. My voice isn’t very good, but hopefully you’ll get it —”

Cass began to hum the song of the Sound Prism — at least her best approximation.

Yo-Yoji made her repeat the song. Then he concentrated, humming the tune to himself. “It’s kind of hard because there are a few sharps and flats . . . but I think it goes C – A – B – B – A – G – E – F – A – C – E.”

“CABBAGE FACE?”
Max-Ernest pronounced. “You’re saying the tune spells
cabbage face
?”

“If you’re trying to insult me, I’ve heard worse things — better insults, I mean,” said Cass, her ears reddening again.

Well, one thing was clear: he didn’t have a crush on her. That made life simpler, anyway. But she still needed to know what the notes meant.

“Why would I want to insult you? I didn’t even notice what the notes spelled.”

Cass searched his face to see if he was telling the truth. “Well, then, thanks, I guess. It’s just kind of weird. . . .”

“What’s wrong with Cabbage Face? I think it would be a sick band name! Good band names are really hard to think of. My band’s called Alien Earache. I came up with it — well, the earache part.”

Could that really be what the song was saying? Cass wondered. All those nights. All those dreams. And all the while the song so beautifully calling . . .
Cabbage Face?

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the expression on the face next to her: Max-Ernest’s glare would have been enough to make any cabbage wilt.

I
still can’t believe they don’t have seat belts on school buses,” said Cass that afternoon, sliding into her usual seat next to Max-Ernest (eleventh row, left-hand side). “I think we should boycott until they start following safety codes. What use is an education if you’re brain-dead because you went flying through the windshield?”

“We’re all the way in the back of the bus. I doubt we would make it that far,” Max-Ernest replied. He was sitting with his legs folded against the green vinyl seat-back in front of them and he didn’t look like he was flying anywhere. “I bet we wouldn’t even break an arm —”