If You're Reading This, It's Too Late Page 3

  “OK, but I want you guys all to be more careful. See those —” He pointed to the spiky purple balls that lined the rocks like so many little porcupines. “Those are sea urchins. Please don’t step on them. Very painful. For you and the urchin.” Mr. Needleman chuckled. “But if you do happen to squish one by mistake, let me know — they make very good sushi.”

  The kids all groaned.

  Mr. Needleman had a flame-red beard and a flaring temper to match.

  He’d arrived from New Zealand that fall, and Cass had been very excited to meet him because environmental science was her favorite subject and New Zealand was her favorite country. (She’d never been there but she’d read about it in her mother’s travel books: rain forests, glaciers, and volcanoes — all in one place!) But instead of treating her like a favorite student as she’d hoped and even sort of expected, Mr. Needleman had from the beginning singled her out for harsh treatment.

  Cass didn’t know why exactly, except that their perspectives on the world were so different. Mr. Needleman considered himself a “proud skeptic” and a “debunker.” Which as far as Cass could tell meant that he made a lot of snide comments about global warming, or as he called it, “Global hokum.”

  “Have you ever watched a weatherman on TV?” he asked whenever the subject came up. “Those kiwi-heads can’t predict the weather next week — how do you expect them to predict the weather in fifty years?”

  As you can probably guess, this infuriated Cass, who considered herself an expert on all weather-related catastrophes.

  But was that why he called on her whenever she drifted off for a second in class? Was that why he always claimed he was disappointed in her work?

  Max-Earnest said Mr. Needleman just had high expectations because he respected her, but it certainly didn’t feel that way.

  It was a cold and drizzly day, and the water was very rough.

  By now, half the class had slipped on the rocks or stumbled into puddles; most of the others had been pushed into the ocean.

  Cass and Max-Ernest had managed to stay dry — Cass because she was such a good rock hopper, Max-Ernest because he kept as far away from the water as possible. (As Cass had discovered at an especially inconvenient moment during their adventures at the Midnight Sun Spa, Max-Ernest didn’t know how to swim.) But they were irritable for another reason.

  They’d been walking around the tide pools for over half an hour and they still hadn’t found a way to get away from the group.

  Cass had intended to say she had to pee; after she left, Max-Ernest would say the same. But Mr. Needleman insisted that the teacher’s aide escort anyone who wanted to go to the bathroom; so that plan was out. Cass considered saying she was seasick and asking if she could walk back to the bus, but Max-Ernest, who was expert in all kinds of illness, pointed out that seasickness was something you got on a boat — it is a kind of motion sickness — and not something you got on the beach.

  Beginning to grow frantic, Cass interrupted Mr. Needleman in the middle of an explanation of red tides and asked if their class was going to be allowed any free time to explore. “You’re always telling us to think for ourselves — how are we going to do that if we’re following you the whole time?”

  Not many grown-ups would take that argument seriously. Mr. Needleman, however, seemed to have a sudden change of heart toward Cass. “You know, you’re absolutely right,” he said. Just like that.

  Cass was so surprised she almost continued arguing.

  Mr. Needleman told the class they could have a few minutes of freedom so long as everyone stayed within sight and no one poked the sea life.

  Cass looked at her watch. It was ten minutes until noon.

  Ten minutes until they were supposed to meet Pietro Bergamo, the long-lost magician.

  Ten minutes until their lives as members of the Terces Society would officially begin.

  They could just see a wharf — with three docks — on the opposite side of the bay, separated from the tide pools by several large rock outcroppings.

  “Walk slow and pretend you’re just looking around,” Cass whispered to Max-Ernest.

  As they approached the rocks, the tide pulled out, leaving a narrow strip of beach between the rocks and the churning water.

  “C’mon!” said Cass.

  Max-Ernest wavered. “But I —”

  “Would you rather swim?”

  By the time the tide returned, they were standing on a small patch of sand surrounded on all sides by jagged rocks — safe and dry, for the moment.

  There was only one problem: Yo-Yoji had followed them.

  “Yo, dudes, where you going?” he asked, wading through the surf.

  Max-Ernest looked at Cass: now what?

  Cass glanced at her watch: they had six minutes.

  “Hey, Yo-Yoji. I know you don’t really know us very well, but . . . can you do us a huge favor?”

  Yo-Yoji agreed to act as lookout, on one condition: that they tell him where they were going.

  “OK,” said Cass quickly. “But can we tell you afterward?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Cass nudged Max-Ernest forward.

  Yo-Yoji watched, at once irritated and intrigued.

  “Don’t forget the three-point rule!” he called after them.

  “What’s that?” asked Max-Ernest.

  “Always make sure that two hands and one foot, or two feet and one hand, are touching the rock beneath you,” said Cass, flashing a smile at Yo Yoji. She thought she was the only person who knew that!

  And then she started up the rocks.

  Max-Ernest waited only until the tide came in and splashed his ankles.

  As they ran along the beach on the other side of the rocks, they found their way blocked by a crumbling shack — an old tackle shop — decorated with a life preserver that looked like a shark had taken a bite out of it. A hand-painted sign advertised “Live Bait.”

  Cass and Max-Ernest both wrinkled their noses: the scent of rotten fish filled the air.

  They walked around the shack as quietly as possible. But when they got to the other side, it was boarded up; nobody in sight.

  Until they heard a familiar New Zealand accent:

  “Cassandra? Max-Ernest? I know you kiwi-heads are out here!”

  The two kiwi-heads just had time to slip under a mound of fishnets before Mr. Needleman’s ankles came into view.

  Flies buzzed around their noses and unidentified crawling things started investigating their legs. It was excruciating.

  “Come out now and nobody will know,” shouted Mr. Needleman. “Otherwise, I’m warning you — I’ll have you suspended!”

  How had Mr. Needleman known where to look for them? Cass wondered. If it was Yo-Yoji, she was going to make him pay!

  Mr. Needleman picked up a fishing spear that had been leaning against the shack and held it aloft. With his bushy red beard, he looked almost like a Viking. Or some threatening sea god.

  Did he plan to have them suspended or did he plan to impale them right then and there?

  Cass felt a tapping on her shoulder. She looked over at Max-Ernest in annoyance; why would he risk movement at a time like this?

  He tapped her again: Two long taps. Three short.

  Morse code.

  Cass knew three short taps represented an S. (Everyone knows SOS is three short, three long, three short.) But what did two long taps represent?

  Then she remembered that she and Max-Ernest had once taught themselves the Morse code for Morse code. It started with two long.

  Two long was M.

  MS.

  Midnight Sun! Of course! thought Cass, feeling a wave of nausea come over her. Max-Ernest was saying that Mr. Needleman was part of the Midnight Sun.

  Now that Cass was looking at her teacher (or at least at his legs) in this light it seemed so obvious. His sudden appearance at their school. The way he singled her out.

  Was that why he’d arranged the field trip? Was that why he’d so easily l
et them have free time to explore?

  And now he planned to murder them without any witnesses.

  Well, if so, he wasn’t going to succeed — yet.

  Mr. Needleman took one more look around and started walking away.

  A low, rusting metal gate blocked the way to Dock 3. A chain lock hung loose, swinging in the wind and clanging repeatedly.

  “Maybe we should wait here,” said Max-Ernest nervously.

  “Where Mr. Needleman can see us?”

  Cass pulled open the gate, revealing a rotting wooden stairway that looked like it might collapse if anyone stepped foot on it.

  Which Cass proceeded to do without pause.

  Gingerly, Max-Ernest followed.

  The long, narrow dock was deserted — save for a few small, barnacle-encrusted boats. Other than the cries of seagulls and an occasional splash when the tide pushed a boat into the deck, there was total silence.

  Max-Ernest shivered. “It’s like a ghost town. Only with boats. I really think we should go —”

  “Would you just be quiet for a second?” whispered Cass. “Look out there —”

  A large ship was pulling into the harbor. She (you always refer to a boat in the feminine) had four tall masts and a dozen billowing square sails — like an old Spanish galleon in a pirate movie.* Yet the ship sparkled like new, its black hull so glossy it reflected the water. While they watched, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the sails and turning the ship a brilliant gold.

  As the ship came closer, sails were lowered to slow its speed, and a man was suddenly visible standing near the prow. (For anyone who has as much trouble with directions as I do, the prow is the front of a ship — as opposed to the stern, which is the back.) They couldn’t see his face, but he looked like a picture-perfect yachtsman. He wore a white hat, a navy jacket, and . . . was he was looking at them?

  Yes — better yet, he was waving at them.

  Cass looked at her watch. Noon exactly.

  She broke into a smile. Could this be it? Had this fantastic ship come just for them? Was this how they were to going to go meet the Terces Society? How grand!

  “Where do you guys think you’re going?!”

  They turned to see Mr. Needleman striding toward them, diving spear in hand.

  Cass grabbed Max-Ernest by the hand and they started running down the dock.

  Behind them, Mr. Needleman picked up his pace.

  A gangplank had been lowered for them (the wide kind with arm rails, not the narrow kind you see in movies, although I agree that would have been more dramatic) and Cass and Max-Ernest ran up it without stopping.

  Until they saw the man standing at the top.

  Then they froze no less instantaneously than if he had some terrible superpower that turned his victims into ice sculptures on a giant seafood buffet.

  It was the last face on earth they’d expected to see.

  The last face on earth they’d wanted to see.

  Cass and Max-Ernest looked over their shoulders; running back toward Mr. Needleman suddenly seemed like an attractive option. But he was gone.

  Worse, the gangplank was starting to rise and crewmen were already casting off. They would never make the jump.

  They turned back to confront this new seafaring version of their old enemy — Dr. L.

  The man laughed, seeing their expressions.

  “Why so shocked? Did you not remember that Luciano — that Dr. L — and I are twins? I am Pietro. Welcome aboard!”

  Half laughing, half crying with relief, Cass and Max-Ernest each shook the man’s hand and then scrambled onto the boat.

  They were safe!

  Hard alee!”

  The ship tacked to the left and leaned precipitously.

  Cass and Max-Ernest grabbed each other, laughing, as a spray of water hit them in the face.

  Around them, the crew hoisted and foisted. Sails whipped in the wind — until they caught and went taut. And everywhere the ship’s brass fittings flared in the sun.

  “Don’t worry, this ship is sound!” shouted their host, leading them onto a wooden deck so swabbed and polished that it shined like glass. “She may be two hundred years old, but she’s armed with all the latest technology!”

  “We’re not worried!” Cass shouted back. How could they be? The ship was glorious to behold.

  And yet, she couldn’t help noticing, she couldn’t help feeling, this man so closely resembled Dr. L it was unnerving. He had the same perfect silver hair that seemed frozen in some kind of eternal wind. The same perfect tan skin and perfect white teeth that made him look more like a photograph than a person. The same distinctively indistinctive accent.

  How was it that in Cass’s imagination Pietro hadn’t resembled his brother in the least? Usually, she’d pictured a long, snowy beard, twinkling eyes, and a wizard’s cloak — or, sometimes, a tuxedo and a top hat. Occasionally, she’d imagined an old adventurer in a pith helmet. But never him. Never this.

  She shook off the thought. Here at last was her adventure. The one she’d been waiting for for so long. Enjoy it, she told herself.

  “Cassandra, Max-Ernest — can you tighten this line for me?” their host asked. “That’s a winch. You crank it this way —”

  He started the job for them. Then said, “I’ve got to get something below. Back in a minute,” and he headed away.

  Thrilled to be given a task, Cass tossed her backpack aside and joined hands with Max-Ernest. Together they began to tighten a line to the ship’s rearmost sail.

  And then, suddenly, the line went slack.

  Before they knew what was happening, the rope was looped around them and they were pulled off their feet. They fell together onto the hardwood deck and slid across the polished surface.

  “Hey!” said Cass.

  “Ow!” said Max-Ernest.

  Roughly, a deckhand began to tie Cass and Max-Ernest to each other back-to-back.

  “What are you doing?!” Cass cried. “Pietro! Where are you?”

  “Stop that! That hurts!” protested Max-Ernest.

  “You won’t struggle if you know what’s good for you!” threatened the deckhand. He tied their hands together for good measure, then left them lying in shock on the deck.

  “You think this is like a test — to see how we would act if we were captured?” asked Cass, fighting back tears.

  “Maybe, unless — oh no! Look —” Max-Ernest nodded upward with his nose.

  From their new vantage point, they could see for the first time the flag flapping in the wind on top of the boat’s tallest mast.

  I wish I could tell you it was the flag of the Terces Society. Or, for that matter, the flag of the Royal Navy or the merchant marine. Or even that it was a skull and crossbones — surely a pirate ship would have been preferable to the reality.

  Alas, the flag was none of those things.

  Rather, it showed a white sun emblazoned on a black background.

  The flag of the Midnight Sun.

  Although tied back-to-back and unable to see each other, Cass and Max-Ernest shared the same expression of despair.

  They were prisoners. Again.

  And nobody — not even the Terces Society — knew.

  “What are those?”

  A minute later, two skeletally skinny girls — twins — hovered over Cass and Max-Ernest, eyeing the ship’s new captives with lazy curiosity.

  Aside from their differently colored hair (one was blonde with pink streaks, the other brown with purple streaks) and differently colored bikinis (one was pink with purple polka dots, the other purple with pink polka dots), they looked nearly identical.

  Judging by their faces, they might have been about sixteen or seventeen, but I wouldn’t try to guess their real ages. They were, after all, part of the Midnight Sun. As Cass and Max-Ernest could tell immediately by the gloves on their hands.

  “Those what?” asked the purple-er one.

  “Them,” said the pinker one, pointing with a curl
of her toe. She moved with an odd jerkiness — as if she were a marionette on a string.

  “Oh, those,” said the purple-er one.

  “Yeah, Elf Ears and Electro Hair,” said the pinker one.

  Only now did Cass and Max-Ernest realize that it was they who were being spoken about. In the third person.

  “I’m Cass. This is Max-Ernest,” said Cass, forcing herself to speak boldly. “There was a terrible mistake. Please, could you —”

  “Elf is a Cass. Electro is a Max-Ernest,” said the purple-er one, ignoring Cass.

  “Oh. Well, what’s that, then?”

  “I just told you — it’s a Cass.”

  “No, that — that thing!” said the pinker one. She pointed her toe at Cass’s sock-monster, hanging from Cass’s backpack — a few feet out of Cass’s reach.

  “Oh, that. That is so cute. I so want it!”

  “Well, I so want it more!”

  “But you said you don’t know what it is. . . .”

  “Neither do you!”

  “So?”

  “So there.”

  “Hey, that’s my sock-monster, and you can both have him — if you untie us,” said Cass, desperate. “I’ll even make you another one.”

  The girls stared at Cass as if she had just levitated or turned into a frog.

  “No way! I think it just told us to do something!” said the purple-er one.

  “No way! I’m taking that thing. Just to show it a lesson.”

  “No way! I’m taking it —”

  They both lunged for Cass’s sock-monster — and slammed into each other. Their bony bodies toppled to the ground, right on top of Cass and Max-Ernest. Their suntanned skin was unexpectedly clammy and cold — and made Cass and Max-Ernest’s skin grow cold in turn.

  “It’s mine!”

  “No, it’s mine!”

  The ghoulish girls each pulled on one of the sock-monster’s tennis shoe tongue ears trying to tear the sock-monster away from the other.

  “Hey, leave us — I mean them, I mean it — alone!” said Max-Ernest, sounding unusually brave and force-ful, if a little confused.

  “Having fun, children?” asked an icy voice that will be unmistakable to readers of my first book, but that would, I think, send chills down the spines of anyone unlucky enough to hear it.