This Isn't What It Looks Like (13 page)

“You are a ghost, then? A spirit?” he whispered after a moment. “I have not met such a one before.”

“I don’t know; that’s hard,” said Cass. “I think it depends on how you define
ghost
.”

The Jester shuddered in the darkness. “I know what you are—you are no ghost; you are that voice in my head they warn about.”

He reached for his hat and put it back on his head, as if it might squelch her voice. The bells shook mockingly.

“You see, despite my vanity, I fear for my sanity,” he whispered. “When they call me mad, I always laugh and tell another
joke, but in secret I worry about my mental yolk…. That is a pun, by the way. The brain is like the yolk in the egg of your
head, but also your mental
yoke
is your mental tether, your sense of reality—there, see how I ramble—”

“Wait. Stop. I’m not a voice in your head, I swear. If anything, you’re in mine. I mean, I think I might be dreaming you…
in a way.”

“What? What are you saying? You confuse me more, you wily wraith! Very well, you sneaky specter—do not spare me!”

He stood, warming to his theme. “Take me, oh gods of the insane—I will be your slave. If you will have me, I will rave and
rave! For in madness lies escape from this horrid prison. If I must live in the dark, I will imagine I am a lark. These walls
will not see me die, for in my mind I will fly. My flesh may rot but I need it not…!”

“Would you just stop talking for a second!?” Cass demanded in the firm voice she reserved for when Max-Ernest went off on
his longest and most ridiculous tangents. “You’re not crazy—you’re just making
me
crazy. Now listen, this is going to sound really weird, but I come from the future, hundreds of years from now. Actually,
I’m your great-great- and a bunch of other
great
s granddaughter.”

“Ha! Are you not satisfied to turn my mind to jelly? Must you spread it on toast and eat it, too?”

“Wait—feel my ears.” Cass reached for the Jester’s hand and made him touch the points of her ears. “See, they’re just like
yours.”

“That they are,” said the Jester agreeably. “But it proves not that you are my future self, merely that you, like me, are
half elf.”

Cass froze, her heart beating in her chest. Could that be true, as incredible as it sounded? Was that her secret? Was that
the
Secret?

“Are you really… part elf?” she asked.

The Jester chuckled. “Now it is
your
mind that is lost! No, I am not, and none is that I know.”

“Oh,” said Cass, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Well, elf or not, I am your descendant. I’m ninety-nine percent
sure, anyway.”

The Jester sighed. “Perhaps you are; I myself am sure of nothing.”

Calm again, the Jester sat down next to Cass.

Now’s the time, she thought. She was about to ask about the Secret when a loud crash echoed in the corridor.

M
ax-Ernest couldn’t have been in a worse mood.

Reading the purloined book hadn’t helped him get any closer to reading Cass’s mind.
^*
As far as he was concerned,
Second Sight: Seeing With Your Third Eye in Four Easy Steps
might as well have been written by someone who really had three eyes—it was that silly.

After that particular book proved to be of little value, he’d managed to secure his parents’ permission to comb through their
bookshelves. The imminent arrival of Max-Ernest’s baby brother seemed to have made them relax their guard.

“Just keep an eye out for any baby how-to books we might have missed,” said his father.

“Let us know if you see any more books about raising babies,” said his mother.

Max-Ernest sat on the office floor for hours, reading book after book not on babies but on extrasensory perception—some logical
and scientific, but most too fantastical for his taste—and he learned a fair amount of fascinating trivia.
Bilocation
, for instance, was the condition of being in two places at once (just as he’d often had to be when his parents lived in separate
places).
Dowsing
was a form of divination that involved the use of a wire or pendulum
to locate a missing object (he wondered whether Mrs. Johnson’s using a magnet to locate the Tuning Fork would count). And
scrying
was using an object such as a crystal ball or a mirror to see faraway events (which is pretty much what you’re doing when
you’re watching television, Max-Ernest reflected; not really all that impressive).

There were many theories about the hows and whys and wherefores of mental telepathy. But it all sounded more or less like
hogwash to Max-Ernest, and in any case he found no instructions for reading the mind of a comatose girl. Most of what he read
advised him to start by looking into someone’s eyes (Cass’s were closed), studying that person’s facial expressions (Cass
made very few), or listening to his or her voice (Cass was pretty much silent).

Why do they call it mind
reading
and not mind
seeing
or mind
hearing
, Max-Ernest wondered, if all they can tell you is to look and listen?

As a master decoder and puzzle-solver, Max-Ernest was used to finding a single key, a set of rules, a rubric with which to
solve any problem that confronted him. The books advised him to rely on his intuition, which frustrated him greatly.

What’s an intuition, anyway? he grumbled to himself. An intuition is nothing. It’s a hunch. It’s
not logical. It has no basis in anything. I don’t have intuitions. I have ideas.

His reading did lead to a couple of unexpected discoveries, however. The first involved Mrs. Johnson’s magnet pendant. One
of the so-called magical objects Max-Ernest read about was a
lodestone
, a naturally occurring magnet. He had thought Mrs. Johnson’s pendant looked like a stone, and now he was sure of it. Not
that the information was useful in any way. Somehow he doubted that he could wake up Cass by waving a black rock over her
face.
^*

The other discovery involved the
KICK ME
sign; with the help of a book called
The Open Mind
, Max-Ernest was finally able to decode the message on the back.

“Negativity is your enemy,” the book advised him. “Remember, the N-word is a dirty word. Just say no to
no
. Cut it out of your vocabulary.” Max-Ernest had no intention of cutting
no
from his vocabulary; it was one of his favorite words. But he could cut N-words out of the coded message, he thought. BRING
OLIVES, NOT N-WORDS. Perhaps that meant to cut all the N-words—that is, all the words containing the letter
N
—out of the message.

When he did so:

WARNING.

L TRAIN–ORD. FARE CHANGING.

BRING OLIVES, NOT N-WORDS.

became

WARNING.

L
TRAIN
–ORD. FARE
CHANGING.

BRING
OLIVES,
NOT N-WORDS.

or

L–ORD. FARE OLIVES.

At first glance, the shortened message made even less sense than the original. Then it hit him. The message was phonetic.
Properly spelled, it was:

LORD PHARAOH LIVES.

Max-Ernest experienced only the briefest satisfaction at having solved the puzzle before growing angry. What kind of message
was this? It was like something you’d see written on a bathroom wall.
ELVIS LIVES
. Or
MY FAVORITE SPORTS TEAM/ROCK BAND/WHATEVER RULES
. It was a slogan, not a real message.

One thing was certain: it wasn’t from Pietro. Come to think of it, as much as Pietro loved a practical joke, he would never
put
KICK ME
on Max-Ernest’s back; Pietro was far too soft-hearted. It was the Midnight Sun taunting him with the name of their alchemist
hero and founder, Lord Pharaoh. That was the only possible explanation. The message had no meaning other than to show Max-Ernest
how close they could get to him without his knowing.

And that, clearly, was very close.

So who put the message on his back? That was the question he was asking himself the next morning as he walked through school,
instead of thinking about his oral report on jesters in Shakespeare’s plays for language arts. (They were doing a Shakespeare
unit in preparation for the Renaissance Faire; Max-Ernest had volunteered to cover jesters, not realizing that it meant he
was actually supposed to read the plays the jesters appeared in.)

Glob and Daniel-not-Danielle, marginally friendlier now, nodded to him as he passed the Nuts Table. The
KICK ME
part he could easily imagine them writing.
But agents of the Midnight Sun? Not witting ones, anyway.

The most obvious candidate—really the only candidate—was Amber. Officially, she was the nicest girl in school. Unofficially,
she was an agent (although hardly a full-fledged member) of the Midnight Sun.

By the time he reached Amber sitting at her usual table in the very center of the schoolyard, he had already:

a) convinced himself that she was the culprit,

b) imagined all the brave and scornful things he would say to her when he saw her, and then

c) decided not to confront her after all. It would give her too much satisfaction.

Unfortunately, Amber, who usually didn’t relish talking to Max-Ernest any more than he relished talking to
her
, chose this of all mornings to flag him down for a conversation. “Max-Ernest! Hel-lo! Come over here!”

He did his best to act as though he didn’t hear her.

Alas, Amber would not be put off. “Max-Ernest! Yoo-hoo! I know you can hear me!”

Ignoring Amber was fast becoming more
confrontational than answering her would be, so Max-Ernest stopped and turned in her direction. But he didn’t say anything,
just waited, his expression very plainly saying,
Yes, what do you want?

Across the table from Amber, her friend Veronica watched, eager to see what would happen.

Amber smiled widely. “Aren’t you even gonna say hi?”

“Um, I wasn’t really planning on it,” replied Max-Ernest.

Undaunted, Amber smiled even wider. “Well, I am! Hi, Max-Ernest! How was your summer?”

“Why are you saying hi to me? You don’t talk to me. You hate me,” said Max-Ernest neutrally. Or is it just because you want
to see if I know it was you who left the message? he wondered silently.

“Come on, all that stuff that happened between us is so three months ago. Can’t we be friends? Ask anybody, I’m really nice.”

Veronica nodded vigorously. “She totally is.”

“Some people think I’m the nicest person in school, did you know that?”

“Yeah, I did. But that doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“Gosh, what did I ever do to you? I mean, seriously.”

“Well, let’s see…” Max-Ernest was about to start
answering the question, beginning with the time Amber accused him and Cass of liking each other (
like
liking, that is, which Max-Ernest felt should be called
more-than-like
liking, and which in any case should never be applied to him and Cass!), continuing with the time Amber helped the Midnight
Sun capture their friend the homunculus, and ending with the
KICK ME
sign, but then he thought better of it.

“I think you know,” he said.

“So now I’m psychic or something?” Amber laughed. “Actually, I am. Me and Veronica are doing fortune-telling today. We didn’t
want to have to wait all the way till Ren-Faire to find out everybody’s futures. So, can I tell your fortune?”

“No.”

“Pretty please.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Are you scared?”

Max-Ernest didn’t have the energy to argue. Besides, maybe Amber knew something about what the Midnight Sun was up to. She
might inadvertently reveal something useful if he allowed her to read his cards.

“OK, but just so you know, I don’t believe in this stuff.”

“Sit—”

Max-Ernest expected to see tarot cards again, but the deck Amber shuffled in front of him was the normal playing-card variety—albeit
with sparkle-pink back sides.

“OK, the first card is the romance card. Let’s see if it tells us you like somebody or not….”

She peeled the top card off the deck, looked at it, and smiled.

“Oh, it’s the Ten of Hearts. That’s a big yes. Ten out of ten. Totally in love! Who is it, Max-Ernest? Don’t be shy. You can
tell us.”

“It’s nobody,” said Max-Ernest, red-faced.

Why did I consent to do this? I must have had a temporary lapse of sanity, he thought. I’d better have my cerebral cortex
examined. There could be damage. Would laparoscopic surgery be in order?

“Oh, come on, the cards don’t lie. Besides, we all know who it is….” Amber smiled mischievously. “Cass, are you listening?”

A small crowd had gathered around, including, among others, Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob. Ordinarily, Amber wouldn’t have
allowed anybody from the Nuts Table to linger so close, but evidently this was a special occasion.

“Cass, I think you have a not-so-secret admirer!” she called out. “I think he’s ready to propose!”