The Name of This Book Is Secret (10 page)

As she flipped through the pages of the notebook, she accidentally discovered something about them: all the pages were
double pages,
folded over on themselves. After a little fiddling, she released the pages from their binding and they opened up like an accordion.

She stared in amazement.

Unwittingly, she had figured out what “UNDERNEATH” meant. The answer wasn’t buried underground; it had been right in front of them all along. The magician’s story was written on the reverse sides of the notebook pages—
underneath
them.

The rest of the bus ride was pure torture. All she could think about was what was written on the undersides of the notebook pages. She wanted nothing more than to start reading but she knew that wouldn’t be fair to Max-Ernest. As annoying as he was, she reminded herself, they were collaborators. She had to wait.

Hoping to catch Max-Ernest before he went to class, Cass started looking for him as soon as she got to school. Unfortunately, she couldn’t walk very fast; something was standing in the middle of the hallway, impeding traffic.

When she got closer, she saw that that something was Benjamin Blake.

Oblivious to the crowd of students around him, Benjamin stared at the paintings on the wall, as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real. The funny thing was: the paintings were his. As was the plaque next to them, declaring him the winner of the Young Leonardos Contest. As were the congratulatory letters from the mayor and the governor. As was—well, you get the idea.

As Cass tried to pass him, Benjamin mumbled unintelligibly; it sounded like he said, “I smell a hint—dip your ice cream.”

“I don’t have any ice cream—does it look like I do?” responded Cass, who hated mumbling even when she wasn’t in a hurry. “By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in everybody’s way. Besides, you probably shouldn’t stand in front of your paintings like that. It looks kind of conceited.”

Benjamin reddened—and rushed off in the direction Cass had come from. Cass continued down the hall, knowing she had been a little insensitive—it wasn’t Benjamin’s fault he was the way he was—but she didn’t have time to worry about his feelings. She had to find Max-Ernest.

She hadn’t made it much farther when her path was blocked by Mrs. Johnson, who was talking to some other grown-ups and showing them around the school. Cass was about to push past them when she stopped cold, her heart beating a mile a minute.

It was
them.
She was positive. She recognized their hair. And the gloves on their hands.

At
her
school.

Cass hung back a few feet, shielding her face with her backpack in case Dr. L or Ms. Mauvais turned around.

“Well, I guess that’s all the questions we have,” Ms. Mauvais was saying in her terrible tinkle. “We’re glad to see you have such talented students and staff.”

“Thank you so much for your time,” added Dr. L in his recognizably unrecognizable accent. “You’re very generous.”

“Not at all,” said Ms. Johnson, beaming at them. “It’s wonderful to see such involved and concerned parents. I’m sure your son will be very happy at our school.”

Their
son?
thought Cass. What son?

Dr. L turned, so Cass had to duck out of sight. When she looked again, they were gone. And Mrs. Johnson was walking toward her.

Cass waited for the principal, then started walking alongside her. Mrs. Johnson was a fast walker. It was hard to keep up.

“Those people—did they ask about me?”

“Cassandra, when you want to speak to me, you should say ‘excuse me, Mrs. Johnson.’ Then wait until you have my attention.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Johnson. Do I have your attention now?”

“Yes, you do. And, no, they did not ask about you. Why would they? They’re parents of a prospective student. They were asking about our art program.”

“Then they were lying,” said Cass fiercely. “They’re horrible. I don’t even think they’re really parents.”

“Cassandra! What an awful thing to say about people you don’t even know.”

“Did you notice how they were wearing gloves even though it’s hot out?”

“Some people consider it polite to wear gloves in company. Personally, I think it’s a very refined habit. I may just start wearing them myself.” Mrs. Johnson looked hard at Cass from underneath her large turquoise hat. “Is this all because I wouldn’t order that evacuation you wanted? You know, if I shut down the school every time you thought something was wrong nobody here would ever get an education!”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Bye.”

Cass left Mrs. Johnson shaking her head and hurried down the hall. But it was too late. They were gone.

Cass spent a good ten minutes—at least five of those minutes being past the beginning of first period—searching the school inside and out. To no avail. Not only couldn’t she find Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais, she couldn’t even find Max-Ernest.

Just as she was trying to figure out what excuse she could give her teacher for being late, she happened to look through the school’s back gate—

Across the street, Dr. L. and Ms. Mauvais were slipping into a waiting limousine. The limousine was painted a blue so dark it was almost black, and decorated with tiny, jewel-like stars. Emblazoned in gold across the door were the image of a rising sun and the words:

The whole vehicle shimmered so brilliantly it looked enchanted.

As the limousine drove out of sight, a boy’s face was briefly visible, staring out the back window.

Cass stared back, imagining for a second that she had caught the boy’s eye. Why did he look so familiar? Was Ms. Johnson right? Was that their son? Was it possible they really were parents? Cass dismissed the idea as soon as it popped into her head. She remembered the awful things they had screamed at her and Max-Ernest. No parent would ever say those things to a kid. No
real
parent.

By a lucky coincidence, Cass and Max-Ernest both had study hall that morning after first period. As soon as she saw him, Cass pulled Max-Ernest over to the desk that occupied the most private corner of the school library.

Speaking so fast that all her words blurred together, she filled him in on how “theSymphonyofSmellswasstolenfromthefirehouseonSaturdayandIknow ithadtobeMs.MauvaisandDr.LbecauseSebastianwent totallycrazyandthentheyshowedupatourschoolthismorning,canyoubelieveit?,withMrs.Johnsontakingatour!ShesaidtheywereparentsandthenIsawthemleave withaboyinthebackofthislimousinethathadthe-

nameMidnightSunonit!”

Most people wouldn’t have been able to understand her. Max-Ernest was such a fast talker himself he had no trouble.

“They have a kid? I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Exactly! That’s what I’m saying,” said Cass, slowing down only because she had exhausted herself. “I think the parent thing was just a lie, you know, a cover story, so they could look for us. But then who was the kid in the limousine?...Hey, I almost forgot. I figured out what ‘UNDERNEATH’ means—it means underneath the pages. All the writing is in the notebook, it’s just hidden!”

“Wow. Did you read it?”

“No, I waited for you.”

Cass didn’t say “I waited because we’re collaborators.” And Max-Ernest didn’t say “Thanks, that means a lot to me.” But each could tell what the other was thinking.

“You know,” Cass said after a moment. “You don’t always talk so much. Every once in a while, you’re quiet. Like now.”

“You’re right,” said Max-Ernest, amazed. “And I wasn’t even trying. How ’bout that?”

“So what did that new doctor say your condition was, anyway?”

“He said he wouldn’t know for sure as long as my parents were living together, because my family situation was too stressful.”

“Really? So are your parents going to stop living together?”

“No, they just got into a big fight about it. But at least they were talking to each other!”

Cass and Max-Ernest had to be quiet for a minute because they got a warning look from the librarian, but when the librarian left—study hall always operated on the honor system—they wasted no time in opening the notebook.

They could now see that, far from being blank, the entire notebook was full of the magician’s handwriting; it was just that the notebook was inside out, or rather outside in. Judging by the slant of the letters, he had written very fast. Whatever he was writing about must have been very important.

While Max-Ernest leaned in close, Cass read to him in a whisper, her face growing increasingly grave with every sentence.

Dear Reader,

If you are reading these words, I know about you two things.

You are brave enough to hold in your hands this notebook, a notebook for which all over the world the villains are searching. And you are clever enough to decipher a riddle, the riddle on the other side of these pages.

Both these qualities you will need in the days ahead.

My life is in danger. For this reason, I write.

No, I do not fear the death—I am an old man and I have survived worse things—but I do not want to die without I first make right an ancient wrong.

Do you know the expression, The ignorance is the bliss? Think on it well. Some secrets are not meant to be known—but once known you can never forget them.

If certain people discover you have learned the things I am about to tell you—Let me just say this, that it is the safest for you to stop reading now and to leave this notebook far away from the place you call home. If instead you keep reading, please, I beg you, repeat to no one my story.

Here Cass put the notebook down and looked at Max-Ernest. He was still being unusually quiet.

“Well?” Cass prompted him.

“Well, what?” Max-Ernest asked.

“Well, should I keep reading?”

“He has a weird way of writing,” Max-Ernest said, as if in answer to her question. “I think maybe he’s foreign.”

“That means, no, you don’t want me to keep reading?”

“No, it doesn’t mean ‘no.’”

“So then it means ‘yes’?”

“Yes. I guess.”

“Oh. Well, I think I should keep reading, too,” said Cass. “I just thought, you know, if you thought it was too dangerous—”

“I’m not scared!” said Max-Ernest. “I just think he sounds foreign.”

“I’m not scared, either.”

“So keep reading then.”

“OK, then, I will.”

Cass picked up the notebook again and coughed just the way Grandpa Larry did before he started a story—for some reason, her throat felt dry—and then she began to read—

Although I am reluctant for obvious reasons, I think I must also continue recording the magician’s story. You see, the magician’s story goes straight to the heart of mine. It is not too much to say my story would not exist without his.

You and I, then, will read over the shoulders of Max-Ernest and Cass. Before we do, I suggest you take a break. If you need to go to the bathroom, this is a good time. If you’re sleepy, go to bed and save the next chapter for tomorrow. For the magician’s story, you must have all your wits about you. No wandering minds allowed.

Are you ready? Rested? Alert?

Or did you just skip ahead because you couldn’t wait?

If so, I’d like to point out that reading by flashlight under a blanket is always a good way to tackle the most difficult and dangerous parts of a book. I’d also suggest you have a snack handy. Or some gum to chew. Otherwise you might find yourself biting your fingernails until they bleed.

OK. Have all your reading supplies at hand?

Here it is, then, the magician’s story in his own words:

L
A
S
TORIA DELLA
M
IA
V
ITA

“T
HE
S
TORY OF
M
Y
L
IFE
”

by

Pietro Bergamo

Never trust a magician. We use words only to divert your attention. Look at my pretty scarf, we say, so you do not see our sleight of hand when the rabbit disappears.

But I write now as a man, not a magician, and I promise my story is true. How I wish it were not! For it is the story of the tragedy of my childhood, and of a terrible secret that has brought nothing but the misery and the death.