The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) (28 page)

Tick followed her gaze, then practically leaped over to grab the book. He flipped it open, his eyes showing he already knew what had happened. His face reddened, his hands began to shake. He almost dropped the book. Then a
tear
fell out of his right eye. Kayla didn’t understand; why would such a dumb old—

Tick’s shout, full of rage, cut off her thoughts. “Bad girl, Kayla! You’re a very bad, bad, naughty, stupid, naughty girl!” Then he ran out of the room and out the front door, slamming it closed behind him.

Kayla bawled.

~

Tick ran.

Clutching the journal in both arms, he didn’t know where he was going, or how long it would last, but all he could do was run, his loosened scarf flapping in the wind. His heart wanted to explode out of his chest, panic and anger and disappointment crushing his feelings like someone had injected a full-sized elephant into his bloodstream. It hurt, and tears flowed down his face as he pounded the pavement with his clumsy feet. He fell twice, only to get up and keep running.

How could Kayla have done something so
stupid!
Everything had just fallen into place, everything was perfect. But now the message had been sent. Tick didn’t know how, but he
knew
it had been sent.

Burn the letter, stop the madness.

Tick had been cut off. Even though he’d figured out all the clues, and was ready to perform the silly ritual in three days—he’d been cut off. Somehow Master George would know the first letter had been burned, which meant he’d think Tick had given up and was out of the game.

After everything, after all that work and sweat and danger, it was all over.

Tick was in the forest now, still running, dodging trees and brush, tripping and getting back up again, ignoring the scratches. He sucked at the air around him, forcing it into his lungs so his heart wouldn’t give up and die.

But then it finally became too much. He stopped, doubling over to take in huge, gulping breaths. Sunset had arrived and the woods had grown very dark, the trees standing as monuments of shadow all around him. When he finally caught his breath, he straightened and folded his arms around the
Journal of Curious Letters.

There had to be a way to fix this. There had to be.

Tick knew that Master George somehow tracked what all of his subjects were doing. Tick didn’t know what kind of magic or futuristic device accomplished the task, but he knew his actions had been monitored. How else did Mothball and Rutger always know where and how to find him? Even in Alaska! Based on what Paul had said, they went
there
to give him a clue, not the other way around.

Surely Master George cared more about Tick’s intent than the mistake of Kayla burning the letter. And Tick’s intent was stronger than anything he had felt in his entire life. He wanted to see this through. He wanted to reach the end of the mystery.

He wanted it very, very badly.

Not sure if he’d finally flipped his lid once and for all, Tick screamed at the top of his lungs, belting out several words as loudly as his body could handle.

“MASTER GEORGE, I DIDN’T BURN THE LETTER!”

It hurt his throat and made him cough, but he shouted it a second time anyway.

Drawing in a deep breath through his torn throat, Tick concentrated. He had to do something. He had made his choice long ago to
not
burn the letter. That choice still had to mean something, didn’t it? If only he had chosen to take his journal with him to the library instead of leaving it where Kayla could find it.

He felt a funny tickle growing in the pit of his stomach, a reserve of energy he hadn’t known was there. A wave of warmth spread up from his stomach into his chest. The air in the woods stilled around him, as if the whole world hushed, waiting for him to make his move.

Tick gritted his teeth. He tapped into that quiet pool of energy, channeling the heat that filled his body and forcing it through his shredded voice box, yelling out for the third time:

“MASTER GEORGE! I . . . DID . . . NOT . . . BURN . . . THE . . . LETTER!”

The woods swallowed up his words, returning only silence. The fire in his belly flickered and then went out, leaving Tick feeling weak and shaky.

He waited, hoping he would see some kind of sign that Master George had heard him. Nothing.

Dejected, throat burning, and not knowing what else he could possibly do, not knowing if what he had done had changed anything at all, he headed for home.

~

Kayla sat in the middle of the living room, hosting a tea party for her three favorite dolls. Humming to herself, she passed out cups of steaming hot tea.

The front door swung open, followed by her very sad-looking brother. His clothes looked dirty, his hair was all messed up, and he was sweating.

What happened to
him
?
she wondered.
He was supposed to be at the library.

He came into the living room and knelt down beside her, pulling her into a fiercely tight hug. Kayla thought Tick was acting really weird but she finally squeezed back, wondering if he was okay.

“I’m sorry, Kayla,” he said. “I’m really, really sorry I yelled at you like that.” He leaned back from her; his eyes were all wet. “You’re a good girl, you know that? Come here.” He hugged her again, then stood up and headed for the stairs, his head hung low, that strange-looking book with his name on the cover gripped in his right hand.

Halfway up the stairs, he leaned over the railing and repeated himself. “You’re a good girl, Kayla. I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? I know you didn’t mean to mess up my book.”

Kayla was confused. When had Tick yelled at her? Earlier, he’d been talking to his friends on the computer while she played with her dolls but he hadn’t said anything to her. And she hadn’t touched his book at all. How could she? He had taken it with him when he left for the library.

She and her dollies laughed at the silliness of boys and she poured herself another cup of invisible tea.

~

Tick flopped down on his bed with a groan. How could he know if screaming in the woods had done any good? Was he really going to have to agonize all weekend, waiting, then head to the cemetery on Monday night and hope for the best? Was it really all over?

With a heavy heart he opened up his
Journal of Curious Letters
to torture himself by studying the spot where Master George’s first letter had once been glued, safe and sound. When the front cover flipped over and fell in his lap, Tick looked at something he couldn’t understand. He stared for a very long time at the page before him, his mind shifting into overdrive trying to comprehend the message his eyes were frantically sending down the nerve wires to his brain. A message that was impossible.

The first letter was
there,
glued to the page like it had always been, not a burn mark or blemish to be found. It was there! How . . . ?

Master George—or
someone
—had just pulled off the coolest magic trick Tick had ever seen.

~

Kayla had just poured the last cup when she heard loud thumps from upstairs—was somebody
jumping
up there?—followed by happy screams of joy. It was Tick, and he sounded like he’d just received a personal letter from Santa Claus.

What a weirdo,
she thought, taking a sip of her tea.

~

Far away, Master George sat upright in his ergonomic chair, staring at the flashing lights of his Command Center. He shook his head, feeling a bit dazed. He’d just been readying himself to . . . do something.

He couldn’t remember what exactly.

He’d been thinking about . . . Atticus Higginbottom.

But why? It was as if a bubble in his brain had popped, taking the last few minutes of his life with it. It was downright maddening—he couldn’t remember anything. Why was he even sitting in the chair? He only sat here when someone had made a Pick—or if someone had burned their letter. He shook his head.
Had
someone burned their letter? Had
Atticus
burned his letter?

He looked up at the computer screen, counting the purple check marks. No. Everyone was accounted for, the mark by Atticus’s name glowing bright and steady. That was good. The special day was coming up quickly and Master George couldn’t afford to lose a single member of the group. Especially not Atticus.

I really must be getting
old
.

Bewildered, he stood up, calling for Muffintops, and thinking how much he’d like a nice pot of peppermint tea.

~

By Sunday night, Tick had heard back from Paul and Sofia about the strange incident with the burned letter and its miraculous reappearance. They were as shocked and clueless as he was about how or why it happened. Paul wasn’t shy about expressing his doubt that it had occurred at all. His theory was Tick had been so stressed out about the magic words that he’d experienced one whopper of a bizarre dream.

But Tick knew it was real. He’d even asked Kayla about it and she didn’t remember anything about burning the letter. No, Tick knew something magical had happened. Something supernatural. Something miraculous. And he couldn’t wait to ask Master George what it might mean.

He sat at the desk in his room, waiting for his dad. The lamp on the desk provided the only light, failing miserably to push back the gloom. They’d planned all weekend to meet at eight o’clock Sunday evening to discuss the Big Day, and to run through the clues one final time. Though they didn’t really know what they were planning for, it seemed they’d have only one shot at this. Or rather,
Tick
would have only one shot. The clues had been very clear—he must go alone, unless his dad wanted to drop dead of a heart attack right before the special time.

Tick had just pulled out the
Journal of Curious Letters
when he heard a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” he called out.

His dad opened the door and shut it behind him. “Twenty-five hours to go, kiddo.”

Tick groaned. “I know. I’ve been dying for this day to come and now that it’s here, I wish we had a week or two more. I’m scared to death.”

“Well, at least you’re honest.” Dad came in and sat on the bed, ignoring the loud creak of the bedsprings, which sounded as if they were about to break. “Most kids would act all tough and say they weren’t scared at all.”

“Then most kids would be faking it.”

His dad clapped his hands together. “Well, we won’t have much time to talk tomorrow night before you go, so let’s run through everything.”

Tick wasn’t ready for that yet. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What if . . . whatever I do
takes
me somewhere? Something tells me it will. What if I’m gone a long time?”

His dad’s face melted into a look of deep sadness, all droopy eyes and frowns. “Professor, trust me, I’ve been so worried about all this I can’t sleep at night. How could any good father let his son go off to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what and for who-knows how long?
Especially
after the dangerous things we’ve been through.” He paused, rubbing his hands together. “But what can I say—I’m nuts? It’s hard to believe in all this—but I believe in
you.
I’m taking a huge leap of faith, but I’m gonna let you walk out of this house and down that road”—he pointed out the window—“and off to wherever or whatever it is you’ve been called to do. It’s going to
kill
me, but I’m gonna do it. I’m either the best or the worst dad in history.”

A long silence followed. Tick felt something stir within him, a new appreciation for his parents and what they went through worrying about their kids. It couldn’t be easy. And now Tick was going to do the worst thing possible to his dad—make him let him go without having a clue what might happen to his only son.

“What about Mom?” Tick finally asked.

His dad looked up from the spot he’d been staring at on the floor. “Now
that
could be a battle.”

“What are you going to do? She’d never let me go.”

His dad laughed. “That’s exactly why you’re going to go tomorrow night, and leave the explaining-to-Mom bit to me. Once you’re gone, I’ll sit her down and spill the beans, every little morsel, from beginning to end. Your mom and I have loved each other for many years, son, and eventually she’ll understand why you’re doing this, and why you and I feel so strongly about it.”

Tick snorted. “Yeah, sometime after she tries to kill you for letting me go.”

His dad nodded. “You’re probably right, there. Just try to not be gone
too
long and maybe I’ll survive.”

Tick suddenly had a horrible thought. “What if . . . what if I never—”

His dad held up a hand and shushed Tick loudly. “Stop. Stop, Atticus.”

“But—”

“No!” He shook his head vigorously. “You’re coming back to me, you hear? These people know what they’re doing, and you
will
come back to me. And there won’t be another word said about it, is that understood?”