The Name of This Book Is Secret (16 page)

“I don’t want anything,” said Cass, trying her best to sound like a bossy heiress. “Go away now.”

Immediately, she’d felt like she’d overdone it. If she was too rude, she might make an enemy of Owen. “I mean, if that’s OK,” she added in a friendlier tone. “My shoes are still wet, and I just want to get out of them.”

Owen didn’t seem to notice her tone, one way or the other. “You kn-know, in the old d-days, they m-made the g-guests here sleep in w-wet socks.”

“Wet socks? Why?” asked Cass, making a face.

“W-when you have c-cold f-feet, your b-blood circulates to w-warm them up. B-but they have other w-ways n-now,” he said darkly.

Before Cass could ask what he meant, he was out the door.

Moorish tiles, potted palms, a bed made to look like a Bedouin tent, and an arched window facing a pyramid—her room could have been a palace bedroom in Giza. At another time, in other circumstances, Cass might have loved staying in a room like this. Now she could only regard the room with dread. It was the first hotel room she’d ever stayed in; she couldn’t help fearing it would be the last.

She assured herself that her disguise was intact; if Dr. L had recognized her, he wouldn’t have welcomed her so courteously. But it was no use. She lay on the bed, tensing every time she heard a sound: in her imagination, the hum of a pool filter was the churning of molten gold, and the rustle of leaves signaled the presence of angry monkeys come back for their young.

Her idea was to wait in her room until everyone at the spa had gone to sleep; then she would sneak out and look for Benjamin. As the hours passed, she kept putting off the moment. Even after the pyramid’s lantern had finally begun to dim, she told herself to wait a little longer—just to be safe.

If you’ve ever slept anywhere other than your own home, then you know it’s often difficult to fall asleep in a strange bed; however, it’s equally difficult to stay awake after you’ve experienced one of the longest, scariest, and most exhausting days of your life.

Cass fell asleep.

She dreamed she was traveling in Egypt, searching for a fabled trove of buried gold.

A turbaned guide, who looked strangely like her butler Owen, led her into a massive, hulking pyramid. Inside, a dark tunnel coiled around and around, getting narrower and narrower, and going deeper and deeper underground. Cass had to stoop, then crawl, then slither on her stomach. She had trouble breathing. She wanted to turn around but she couldn’t. She felt claustrophobic. She was afraid she would suffocate.

Then, finally, she saw it glittering in front of her. Two spans of gold creating a giant M.

The Golden Arches.

The pyramid’s innermost chamber was...an underground McDonald’s?

She tried telling her guide, no, this wasn’t right. She didn’t want to go to McDonald’s. In order to make their hamburgers, McDonald’s raised and slaughtered so many cows that they became diseased and land was destroyed. Land that should have been used to grow grain and feed hungry people. It was an environmental emergency. There was so much cow dung that the methane gases from the dung made the air smoggy. She knew all about it from a documentary she saw with her mom.

If he’d just give her back her cell phone—

If she could just call her mom—

If only—

Please, let me out—

Please—

But Owen, I mean her butler, I mean her guide, wouldn’t listen.

The magic word had lost its power.

The last doctor Max-Ernest consulted, the one who analyzed Cass’s survivalist tendencies, had a theory about Max-Ernest as well: the theory was that Max-Ernest talked about things in order to avoid having feelings about them.

The doctor told Max-Ernest he should practice having feelings. (This may sound silly, but for some people it’s very difficult; I myself haven’t had a good, solid feeling in years.) As a beginning, the doctor suggested, Max-Ernest might try naming his feelings as soon as he noticed them. Then, instead of shooing them away, Max-Ernest might try sitting with his feelings for a while.

At first, Max-Ernest had been confused about the doctor’s suggestions; all the naming and shooing made him think the doctor was talking about household pets rather than human emotions. After speaking to Cass and learning about her trip to the spa, however, he decided to take the doctor’s advice.

Eyes closed, he sat on the floor trying to identify his feelings. He counted at least five (not to mention the fact that he was already
mad
at Cass to begin with, which made six):

He was
impressed
by the boldness of her plan.

He was
hurt
that she hadn’t included him.

He was
annoyed
that he had to lie for her anyway.

He was
jealous
that she would get to have all the excitement.

And he was
worried
that Ms. Mauvais would discover who Cass really was.

“I know we’re not collaborators anymore, but I wanted someone to know I was going to the Midnight Sun—in case they figure out who I am and I never come back,” Cass had said, by way of explaining her call. “If they kill me or something, tell my mom not to get mad at my grandfathers. They don’t know I’m going. So it’s not their fault if I die.”

Only after mulling over the conversation for several hours did it occur to Max-Ernest that
he
now knew she was going to the Midnight Sun, and therefore if something happened to her it would be
his
fault.

He couldn’t tell whether that made him feel
guilty
for not doing anything to stop her or
angry
at Cass for putting him in a difficult position.

He thought about calling her back to tell her about all of his different feelings. Her phone number was right there on his phone. He could call her by hitting one button. But he didn’t.

He stared at the number, suddenly realizing what it meant: Cass’s number must have popped up on the spa’s phone, too.

Which meant Ms. Mauvais must have known it was Cassandra and not a Skelton Sister who had called.

And she had let Cass make the reservation under the Skelton name anyway.

It was a trap—it had to be.

Quickly, he called Cass’s number, but nobody answered.

He tried again.

And again.

When she still hadn’t answered after ten attempts at reaching her, Max-Ernest was overtaken by another emotion altogether:
fear.

When Cass awoke, it was dawn.

She sat bolt upright in bed, furious with herself. A whole night had passed and she hadn’t even begun to search for Benjamin Blake!

Hurriedly, she slipped into her damp boots—she had slept in her clothes—and headed for the door. She only hoped she could get a good look around before the whole spa was awake.

Then she became aware of the polite but persistent tapping at the window. For a second, she had the wildly hopeful thought that it might be Benjamin himself, trying to contact her in secret.

But it was only her butler.

Owen entered, bowing slightly and carrying a tray that held a tall glass of bright green, bubbling liquid.

He wished Cass—or rather M-Miss Skelton, as he continued to call her—a g-good m-morning, and put the tray down on a table in front of her.

“What’s that?” asked Cass. “A smoothie?”

“It’s an e-l-lixir. M-ms. M-mauvais has one b-brewed specially for each g-guest. I d-don’t know why you g-got em-m-merald. Your sisters always g-get p-pink.”

This time, Cass didn’t flinch at the mention of her supposed sisters. Instead, she busied herself studying her drink. Shiny specks swirled in the bubbles. “Is that gold?” she asked.

Owen nodded. “M-ms. M-mauvais says g-gold promotes l-long l-life. It n-never t-tarnishes.”

The last thing Cass wanted to do was drink something brewed specially by Ms. Mauvais, but Owen was watching. So she took a tentative sip. The elixir had a zesty, zingy, zippy sort of flavor, and it gave her a bit of a head rush. She thought she detected a faint metallic taste, but she wasn’t sure it was the gold.

At any rate, the elixir didn’t seem to be poison.

“W-would you l-like anything else f-for b-breakfast?”

Cass shook her head. She didn’t want him returning and interrupting her again.

“W-well, if you’re n-not hungry, it’s t-time for your f-first t-treatment,” he said. “There’s a b-bathrobe and b-bathing suit for you in the c-closet. I’ll w-wait r-right outside.”

Cass groaned inwardly. This wasn’t good at all. How could she investigate if he was waiting outside her door? Besides, she’d been hoping to avoid the treatments. Even if they didn’t really involve molten gold or monkey blood.

She had to think fast. “You know what, I changed my mind—do you have waffles?”

Owen nodded. “Whole-grain, g-gluten-free, d-dairy-free, or tra-d-ditional?”

“Traditional, I guess.”

“With l-lavender honey, n-natural tr-tree r-root sugar substitute, or V-vermont special r-reserve extra-v-virgin m-maple syrup?”

“Syrup. And lots of butter—already melted,” Cass said to cut him off before he offered any more toppings. “And no powdered sugar—not even a little,” she added automatically, because that was how she always ordered her waffles.

“No p-powdered sugar. C-coming r-ight up, M-miss Skelton.”

Owen bowed and left to go get her breakfast.

Cass leaned back on her pillow wondering whether she should call him back and add some eggs to her order. Or maybe a cup of hot chocolate.

Then she remembered she wasn’t really eating.

Funny how easy it is to get used to having a servant. Even for a survivalist.

After waiting two minutes, Cass let herself out of the room as quietly as she could. There was nobody in sight; it was an ideal time to search for Benjamin. Where should she start—the other guest rooms?

Before she had time to consider, Owen was rounding the corner.

“Ch-change your m-mind again, M-miss Skelton? I was j-just c-coming to see if you w-wanted w-wild straw-b-berries or or-g-ganic Ore-g-gon b-blue-b-berries. But if you w-want t-to skip the w-waffle and g-go straight t-to your treatments, your G-gold B-bath is r-ready.”

Her Gold Bath.

Owen said it with such nonchalance it couldn’t possibly be a lethal cauldron of molten gold. Or could it? Perhaps workers at the Midnight Sun were so used to seeing children boiled alive that they were completely blasé about it. (Are you familiar with the words
nonchalant
and
blasé
? They’re two of my favorite words in a crisis. If you don’t know them, I’d advise you to look them up now—but make sure you don’t appear too anxious when you do.)

Cass decided the wisest course was to pretend to go along with her butler, then to escape at the first opportunity.

“Yeah, I guess I’m not really hungry after all,” she said, trying to sound equally nonchalant (I told you to look it up!).

On the way, Owen warned her to respect the p-privacy of any p-people she encountered. “At the M-midnight Sun, g-guests only speak t-to each other at m-meals. M-ms. M-mauvais’s r-rules.”

He need not have warned her because she saw only a few guests, and then only at a distance. Still, she was close enough to get a general impression. Like Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais, like all the staff at the Midnight Sun, all the guests at the spa were tan and smooth and perfect-looking. Cass hated them on sight.

Oh, one other thing: they all wore gloves. Even the man swimming in the lap pool.

“Hey, Owen,” said Cass, still doing her best to act blasé (!). “What are those gloves for? Why’s everyone wearing them?”

But Owen didn’t hear. At least he appeared not to. And she didn’t have the courage to ask a second time.

One mystery was cleared up right away: the Gold Bath was not a bath of molten gold, it was just a mud bath—with flecks of gold like Cass had found in her emerald elixir. Have you ever seen fool’s gold? The kind you find shifting around the sand in a riverbed? The gold in the Gold Bath looked like that.

While we’re on the subject: have you ever had a mud bath? You might find it disappointing. Cass did.

Cass had always imagined a mud bath to be smooth and creamy and chocolaty—like a bath by Willy Wonka. Instead, the mud in her mud bath was more like sludge. It was bumpy and scratchy and gloppy and full of tiny things you couldn’t identify that got inside places you didn’t want them to. Worse, every once in a while, a big burping bubble would float up from the bottom and fill the air with a gaseous stink. By the time she got out, she was so relieved to be done with the mud bath that she almost didn’t care that Owen had showed up again, once more preventing her from hunting for Benjamin.