This Book Is Not Good For You (9 page)

On the television screen, a dapper man in a three-piece suit was talking to a wide-eyed—and rather wide-bodied—young woman. A shiny wooden table stood beside them.

“A piece like this recently sold for $300,000…,” said Dapper Man.

“$300,000?!” repeated Wide Woman.

“Hey, it’s Antiques Caravan!” said Yo-Yoji. “Your grandfathers must have set it to record.”

Cass and Max-Ernest gathered close to watch:

On-screen, Dapper Man nodded. “If you’d left the table as it was, you would be a rich woman. Unfortunately, by restoring the finish you’ve made it totally worthless. No better than a fake.”

“Oh no! I thought I was doing the right thing…” Tears streamed down Wide Woman’s face.

“Look—your grandfathers are in the back.”

Max-Ernest pointed to the corner of the television screen where the two older men—identifiable by their exceptionally long beards—were having what looked like a heated argument with another antiques appraiser. Larry kept shaking his red lips telephone in the air.

“I guess the antiques guy didn’t think the phone was worth very much money,” said Cass.

After a short break for what the show called “a word from our sponsors” Dapper Man was back, now speaking to a woman in a violet pantsuit and matching hat.

Yo-Yoji stared. “Is that who I think it is…? I thought she crawled into a cave or something during the summer…”

Max-Ernest’s jaw dropped. “What’s Mrs. Johnson doing on Antiques Caravan?”

Indeed, Pantsuit Woman was their very own school principal—on television.

“It was my Great-Great-Great-Aunt Clara’s,” Mrs. Johnson was saying proudly. “One of the original New En-gland colonists, and a leading citizen in her time. Best cook in the county. Famous for her candies. She carried the piece with her on the Mayflower. The workmanship is English…”

“That’s weird,” said Max-Ernest. “Didn’t Mr. Wallace say something about the Mayflower and a woman named Clara?”

“Yeah, a witch,” said Yo-Yoji. “How funny would that be if Mrs. Johnson’s aunt was a witch!”

Dapper Man gestured toward a small object that was sitting under a bright light. “I can’t tell what it is exactly—perhaps a ritual object of some kind? What I’m certain about is that it is not English…”

Mrs. Johnson looked at the antiques appraiser with outrage. “Are you doubting that my Aunt Clara came over on the Mayflower?”

“You know what’s really weird—” said Cass, “how much that thing on the table looks like a tuning fork.”

“Most of the design has worn away but it is undoubtedly pre-Columbian—probably Mayan or Aztec,” Dapper Man continued smoothly. “Do you have proof this object is yours? It is illegal to own a pre-Columbian artifact without proper documentation.”

“Proper documentation? What are you accusing me of!? I’ve never been so insulted in all my life!”

Mrs. Johnson grabbed the item in question off the table and stormed out of the television picture frame, leaving the appraiser aghast.

Back at the fire station, Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji were still staring at the television screen, unable to believe the object they’d been looking for was in their principal’s possession.

Cass was already standing up and heading for the round opening in the kitchen floor.

“C’mon, follow me!”

Trying to get the Tuning Fork out of the hands of Mrs. Johnson was only slightly more appealing than cuddling up to a T. rex, but they had no choice.

And there was no time to lose.

Grabbing hold of the brass fire pole, she slid down to the floor below.

If you’ve ever run into a teacher outside of school then you know what an alarming experience that can be.

Say your teacher is at the supermarket buying groceries. Awful, right? You don’t want to know what your teacher eats for dinner. Or how about seeing your teacher at the movies on a date? What could be worse than that?

Yes, in theory, we know our teachers are human. But we don’t want to see the evidence up close.

Now imagine that instead of a teacher it is your principal you’re going to be seeing outside of school. In fact, you’re going to visit her house.

That, dear reader, is the terrible task Cass and her friends now undertook.

Their principal’s house was the last of five identical townhouses squashed together on a short block. I say identical but in fact there was no mistaking Mrs. Johnson’s for anybody else’s. While the other four houses had more or less unexceptional grass and shrubbery in their tiny front yards, Mrs. Johnson’s had, well—

Gnomes. Lots of gnomes.

I’ve never understood what possesses normally sane people to decorate their gardens with plaster-cast versions of two-foot-tall fantasy humanoids, but whatever it is it had possessed Mrs. Johnson one hundred times over.

There were short gnomes. Fat gnomes. Skinny gnomes. They had bushy beards and long beards. Pointy hats and floppy hats. Blue jackets and red jackets. Red cheeks and… more red cheeks.

“It looks like a theme park,” said Max-Ernest. “Like we’re on the gnome ride or something.”

“I think they look freakin’ scary,” said Yo-Yoji.

Cass studied the gnomes. They did seem menacing. Like a Lilliputian army.

“Are we going to knock on the door?” asked Max-Ernest.

“No!” Cass answered immediately. “She might answer and what would we do then…? Besides, I’m not sure she’s home anyway. Follow me—”

Cass trudged through the ivy, past the watchful eyes of one hundred gnomes, and made her way to the side of the house.

The path was blocked by an overflowing trash can. She was about to walk around it when—

“Look—!” she whispered. “Can you believe it?”

They all made faces as they inspected their principal’s garbage: it was topped by an unappetizing mix of half-eaten lasagna, used teabags, and soiled newspapers.

“Wait—it’s definitely gross, but what are we looking at?” asked Yo-Yoji.

“Mrs. Johnson doesn’t recycle!” said Cass, as if it were the most obvious—and most heinous—crime in the world. “Everything’s mixed together.”

Max-Ernest shook his head: “What happened to ‘green living is clean living’? Isn’t that the motto written above the trash at school?”

“And look at that—” Cass pointed to the last bit of incriminating evidence: the ugly gray contents of an ashtray dumped into a frozen-dinner tin.

Max-Ernest gaped, unable to hide his shock: “Mrs. Johnson smokes?!”

Yo-Yoji motioned his friends forward. “C’mon, the garbage is making me ill.”

A moment later, they were standing outside their principal’s bedroom window.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Max-Ernest muttered. But he peered in all the same.

“How can she sleep in there? It’s so… crowded,” said Cass.

Indeed, every available surface in Mrs. Johnson’s bedroom was covered with figurines and knickknacks. Mostly gnomes. But also a few fairies and witches—including a small fabric witch of the kind you often see in a kitchen, this one hanging from a lamp shade.

And at the foot of Mrs. Johnson’s bed there was a wicker basket containing a St. Bernard puppy curled up in a ball.

“Poor puppy—he has to live with Mrs. Johnson,” said Yo-Yoji.

Cass studied the puppy more closely. “What’s wrong with it? It’s like it’s sleeping with its eyes open. Are you sure it’s… alive?”

“It’s stuffed,” said Max-Ernest. “Like a plushy puppy. Just super realistic. You know, like those fake babies people get when their kids grow up and they want to keep being parents…”

“Hey, I think she’s in the next room,” whispered Yo-Yoji.

As quietly as they could, they all crouched down and made their way to the next window—Mrs. Johnson’s study.

His friends pressed their noses against the glass: they could see Mrs. Johnson in profile, her face lit green by the computer screen in front of her. On the screen was a card game.

“Poker!” said Yo-Yoji. “Our principal is playing poker. Look at her—she’s a full-on gambler.”

Next to Mrs. Johnson, a cigarette rested in an ashtray. She picked it up and took a drag. Smoke curled like dragon’s breath out of her mouth.

While Yo-Yoji and Max-Ernest stared in horrified fascination, Cass crept along to the other end of the window.

Here, right on the other side of the glass, sitting on top of a file cabinet, was a small metal object. Cass couldn’t see it in detail—it was half hidden by a stack of paper—but the two prongs were unmistakable.

She turned to her friends: “OK, this is the plan: you two go knock on the door and talk to Mrs. Johnson while I slip in through the window and get the Tuning Fork.”

“That’s stealing!” said Max-Ernest in alarm.

“She doesn’t have proof she owns it, remember? For all anybody knows, it could be ours.”

“It’s still stealing.”

Cass knew Max-Ernest was right; breaking and entering was hardly model behavior. But her mother’s life was on the line.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell him that.

Before the kids could debate further, a high-pitched wail sounded and the side of the house was flooded with light.

One of the gnomes was spinning in a circle, his eyes glowing red. Evidently, the fantasy creature hid a very real alarm system.

“Who’s there?! I’m warning you, I have a very vicious dog!”

*????*????*

Two minutes later, the three kids were standing in the doorway facing a furious, sputtering principal.

“Not only do you barge in on my house uninvited—you have the gall to ask me to give up a precious family heirloom? Why on earth should I?”

“Well, that guy said you couldn’t sell it without documentation—so what are you going to do with it? Throw it away?” asked Cass. “And not recycle it just like you don’t recycle anything else,” she couldn’t help adding.

Mrs. Johnson stared at the kids in disbelief. “Have you been… rifling through my… my trash?!”

They shrugged.

“How very, very… dare you!” Mrs. Johnson exclaimed.

“Yeah, and we saw everything in it—everything,” said Yo-Yoji, drawing out the word.

“And we’re going to tell the whole school if you don’t give us the Tuning Fork,” said Cass, immediately catching on.

Max-Ernest nodded. “How ’bout that?”

Mrs. Johnson, still wearing her violet pantsuit, was rapidly turning a matching shade. “I see—and how do you know this trash is mine?”

“Does anybody else live here?” asked Cass. “Are they the ones smoking the cigarettes and getting cancer?”

“It will be your word against mine,” Mrs. Johnson snapped. “Nobody will believe you. You’ll all be expelled!”

Yo-Yoji held up his cell phone. “What if we have pictures?”

Mrs. Johnson recoiled from the image of her un-recycled trash. “You children are horrors.”

“Maybe we’re horrors, but you’re a hypocrite,” said Cass.

“This is blackmail!”

“Hey, Cass…,” Max- Ernest whispered in her ear.

She nodded and he reached into his pocket.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Max-Ernest said, “I think your dog had an accident.”

“What do you mean? What dog?”

“We saw a puppy sleeping by your bed…”

Mrs. Johnson nodded cautiously.

Max-Ernest pointed down to the ground where he had discreetly dropped the piece of molded brown plastic that he’d tricked Cass with earlier. It looked awfully lifelike lying in the dirt.

“But how in the world—?”

Max-Ernest shrugged. “It’s only natural right? That’s what dogs do.”

As the distressed Mrs. Johnson puzzled over how her fake puppy could possibly have defecated on her doorstep, Cass pushed past her and ran inside—

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?!”

—and then returned with the Tuning Fork tight in her hand.

Mrs. Johnson trembled with rage. “You know what—take the fork. My mother always said it was cursed—and for your sake I hope it is.”

“Great. Thanks,” said Cass, already starting to run down the steps.

“I never want to see it or any of you again!” shouted Mrs. Johnson as the three kids disappeared from her view. “Don’t bother coming back to school as long as I’m principal!”

Blackmail is an ugly word. And I leave it to you to judge whether it applies in this case.

Cass was trying to save her mother’s life. Perhaps that excuses her. Perhaps it doesn’t. I wouldn’t venture to say.

All I know is that against all odds she got hold of the Tuning Fork just as instructed by Senor Hugo. And she would have brought it to his restaurant with time to spare.

Had he not come for her first.

When Cass entered her house, it was quiet inside. So quiet she heard the ticking of the clock in the entry hall. And the whistle of a train half a mile away.

She’d intended to stay only five minutes—long enough for Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji to get safely out of sight. Then she would leave for Senor Hugo’s restaurant.

She knew immediately that that wouldn’t be necessary.

The vase she’d left by the front door was still intact. None of her alarm systems had been triggered. There was no sign of a break-in whatsoever. But he was here—she could feel it.

She turned the corner and looked into the kitchen—

“Hello, Cassandra.”

Senor Hugo was sitting at the kitchen table, just as comfortably as if he’d been invited. He was turned to face her and Cass could see herself reflected in his dark glasses.

Unaccountably, she was not afraid.

“Hello, Senor Hugo. I have it—what you wanted.”

“I know.”

She did not ask how he knew. She did not even ask how he got into her house.

With surprising calm, she took the Tuning Fork out of her backpack and set it on the table in front of him. The ancient object looked sorely out of place on the yellow Formica.

The blind chef showed no reaction.

“I just put it in front of you. Now, where’s my mom?”

“First, let us make sure it’s real. Fetch me a glass of water.”

Trying not to let her impatience get the better of her, Cass went to the sink and rinsed the milk out of a glass.

“You know, the Tuning Fork is very dangerous,” she said, returning with the glass. “You really shouldn’t use it.”

“Thank you for the warning,” said Hugo with more than a hint of what even Max-Ernest would have recognized as sarcasm. “Now sit down.”

Frowning with concentration, he picked up the Tuning Fork and experimentally dipped it into the water. Then he rolled the handle of the Tuning Fork between his palms, so that the prongs twice rotated back and forth.

As Cass watched in astonishment from across the table, the water clouded, fizzed, foamed, and turned ruby red.

A ghostly smile flitted across Senor Hugo’s lips.

“Is it… wine? Or… blood?” Cass asked nervously.

“Cranberry juice. Beautiful color, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Cass stared at him, realizing the implications of what he’d just said. “I knew you could see!”

Senor Hugo nodded, removing his sunglasses. “You know what they say, among the blind…” He paused.

One eye, his left, was dull and lifeless. The other stared directly and cruelly at Cass.

“The one-eyed is king,” he finished the sentence.

Cass froze. Now she was scared.

“I trust my secret is safe with you?”

“As long as you give me back my mother,” she managed to say.

“I think you mean, as long as I don’t give you back your mother. She’s my collateral, after all.”

“But you… promised!”

“I also said you would never see her again if you told your friends.”

“I didn’t! I mean, I didn’t tell them about you. They thought we were finding the Tuning Fork for… for…,” she stammered.

“For the Terces Society? You’re splitting hairs.”

Cass turned a shade paler. “How do you know about that?”

“How do you think?” He clenched and unclenched his gloved fist in demonstration.

“You’re… in… the… Midnight… Sun?” asked Cass, the full horror sinking in.

Senor Hugo laughed. “Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais told me to watch out for you. They said you were smart. I think they overestimated you.”

The chef stood up, slipping the Tuning Fork into his satchel.

“Relax, Cassandra. Your mother is safe. For the moment, she’s worth more to us alive. As insurance. In fact, I seem to remember her saying she worked in the insurance industry. How ironic.”

As he walked out, he turned over his shoulder. “Oh, I wouldn’t drink that cranberry juice if I were you. Like you said, it’s very dangerous.”

The front door closed behind him.

Cass slouched in her chair, drowning in despair.

She had betrayed the Terces Society.

Blackmailed her school principal.

Lied to her friends.

Put a cursed object with unlimited power in the hands of the Midnight Sun.

And she hadn’t even succeeded in getting back her mother.

For the first time in her life, Cass, the survivalist, felt very little will to survive.

She stared at the glass of cranberry juice in front of her—if cranberry juice it was. Why not? she thought. What could happen that would be worse than what had already happened? She had no doubt the juice would taste extraordinary.

If it killed her, at least her last sip would be memorable.

Slowly and deliberately, she stood up, picked up the glass, and—

—marched back to the sink and poured.

The red liquid splashed angrily against the white porcelain. It circled the drain several times as if giving Cass a last chance to stick her finger in and get a taste. But when it finally went down, the liquid left no trace. As if it had been only water all along.

With a heavy sigh, Cass turned and walked over to the kitchen phone. She had a friend to visit. And a mother to save.