This Isn't What It Looks Like (9 page)

“It’s a monocle,” said Max-Ernest. “It’s like glasses for one eye. Rich guys used to wear them in the old days.” And some
magicians, he thought. Which was how he knew about monocles.

“He is—he’s totally coming to our table,” said Daniel-not-Danielle.

Indeed, he was waving in their direction.

“Hullo, Max-Ernest, my dear fellow!”

Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob turned in unison toward Max-Ernest. Judging by their expressions, the only thing they thought
more unlikely than the new boy visiting the Nuts Table was that he should know Max-Ernest by name.

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NGINEERS—MORE POPULARLY KNOWN BY OUR ACRONYM,
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YOU ARE ON THE SCHOOL BUS.
YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOME SICK AND YOU HAVE THE SEAT TO YOURSELF. YOU ARE QUIETLY READING A BOOK—
THIS
BOOK, THE BOOK IN YOUR HANDS NOW, ALTHOUGH NO ONE ON YOUR BUS WOULD KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU HAVE, OF COURSE, DISGUISED THE BOOK
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IF YOU MUST READ A SECRET SERIES BOOK IN PUBLIC, EVEN SOMEPLACE SAFE AND FAMILIAR-SEEMING, LIKE A SCHOOL BUS, IT IS BEST TO
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NOW IMAGINE THIS:
SUDDENLY REALIZING YOUR ERROR, YOU LIFT YOUR HEAD AND GLANCE OUT THE WINDOW. RUBBING YOUR EYES AND SHIELDING THEM FROM THE
SUN, YOU DON’T AT FIRST SEE ANYTHING AMISS.

GRADUALLY, YOU REALIZE THE BUS IS STOPPED AT A CROWDED INTERSECTION. THE POWER IS OUT AND THE TRAFFIC SIGNALS ARE REPEATEDLY
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HELP EXPERIENCING A SMALL SHIVER.

SURVEYING THE STREETSCAPE FURTHER, YOU ARE SURPRISED TO SEE A MANHOLE COVER OPEN AND FLIP OVER ONTO THE ASPHALT. A CONSTRUCTION
WORKER IN A YELLOW HARDHAT AND AN ORANGE JUMPSUIT CLIMBS OUT FROM UNDER THE
STREET. HE IS ALSO WEARING WHITE GLOVES. PROBABLY THEY ARE WORK GLOVES, YOU THINK. BUT STRANGE THAT THEY ARE WHITE. NOT VERY
PRACTICAL FOR CONSTRUCTION. WELL, THAT’S HIS PROBLEM. NO REASON TO PANIC.

AT FIRST YOU THINK IT’S A TRICK OF THE LIGHT, BUT THE MAN SITTING AT THE BUS STOP ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE STREET ALSO APPEARS
TO BE WEARING WHITE GLOVES. ON SECOND INSPECTION, YOU CONFIRM THAT, YES, HE IS, IN FACT, WEARING WHITE GLOVES. BUT WHY? GIVEN
THE BLACK SUIT AND THE MUSIC STAND LEANING AGAINST THE BENCH NEXT TO HIM, MAYBE HE IS AN ORCHESTRA CONDUCTOR? CONDUCTORS WEAR
GLOVES. THERE IS NO REAL EVIDENCE HE IS A MEMBER OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, AFTER ALL.

AND YET. COMMON SENSE TELLS YOU: TWO PEOPLE WEARING GLOVES MIGHT BE A COINCIDENCE, THREE PEOPLE IS CAUSE FOR CONCERN.

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IN RED UNIFORMS DECORATED WITH GOLD BRAID.

AND ALL WEARING WHITE GLOVES.

YOU LOOK AT THEIR FACES, HOPING FOR A SIGN THAT THEY ARE A REAL MARCHING BAND—MAYBE A HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND—AND NOT AN
ARMY OF EVIL ALCHEMISTS. BUT THEIR EYES ARE COLD. AND THEIR SKIN, WHILE YOUTHFUL, IS PALE AND ALMOST TOO TAUT. IN YOUR IMAGINATION,
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M
ax-Ernest squinted, trying to make out the features of the boy waving at him. In truth, he was just as surprised as the others.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember your old comrade-at-arms!” the boy protested when he reached the Nuts Table. He smiled dazzlingly
and removed his monocle. “It’s only been a year since our last teatime tête-à-tête.”
^*

“A year and a half,” corrected Max-Ernest, finally recognizing him—but only barely. “Actually, a year and eight months.”

“Ah, there’s the Max-Ernest we all know and love! Always exact, isn’t he? Don’t make a mistake around him—he’ll catch it every
time,” said the boy, chuckling.

The other two boys at the table laughed in appreciative agreement. The new kid had a peculiarly old-fashioned way of speaking,
but he was so relaxed and self-confident that it didn’t seem weird so much as adult and sophisticated.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your chums?”

It took a moment for Max-Ernest to understand the question, because first of all, he’d never heard the word
chum
spoken aloud (only read it in old books
about a pair of brother detectives),
^*
and second of all (as we established earlier), Daniel-not-Danielle and Glob weren’t his chums in the first place.

“Um, OK. Daniel-not-Danielle, Glob, this is, uh, Benjamin Blake,” said Max-Ernest. “He used to go here.”

At least it
appeared
to be Benjamin Blake.

When Max-Ernest had last seen Benjamin, he’d been several inches shorter and had looked years younger. But it was the way
he spoke now more than the way he looked that represented the biggest change. The old Benjamin had mumbled his words to such
an extent that almost nobody could decipher them. What’s more, whenever somebody bothered to figure out what he was saying,
it turned out that his ideas were even less intelligible than his words. As an extreme synesthete, his senses were all entangled
with each other, and his thoughts were a confused jumble of colors and sounds, tastes and smells.
^**

Today his speech was a study in perfect elocution. He sounded, not to mention looked, like the star of an old black-and-white
movie. Most surprising
of all was his manner; once shy and awkward to the point where he nearly couldn’t function in normal life, he was now all
cheerful insouciance and casual savoir faire.
^*

“I thought you were at a spec—I mean, a different school now,” said Max-Ernest when he’d recovered from his initial shock.

He and Cass had been told that Benjamin was going to a “special” school for kids with disabilities.Because of Benjamin’s value
to the Midnight Sun, they were supposed to be keeping an eye on him for the Terces Society. (At one time, the Midnight Sun
had believed Benjamin’s unique brain chemistry might be the key to unlocking the formula of the Secret.) But they’d figured
a school like that would keep him safe, so they had pretty much allowed themselves to forget about him. With a flush of guilt,
Max-Ernest realized they’d never even checked to make sure Benjamin had enrolled. He could have been anywhere for all Cass
and Max-Ernest knew. The Midnight Sun had kidnapped Benjamin once before; it was a stroke of luck they hadn’t kidnapped him
again.

“Oh, but I was at a special school—very special,” said Benjamin. “The New Promethean Academy. It
was sort of a
finishing
school. You know, to teach proper social decorum and so on and so forth. But in my case you could say it was a
starting
school as well. I feel they really brought me to life.”

Max-Ernest couldn’t disagree. Although he wasn’t sure that he didn’t prefer the old, nonliving Benjamin.

“May I sit down?”

Max-Ernest nodded and Benjamin took Cass’s seat. (It was very likely the first time in the history of the Nuts Table that
somebody had asked permission before sitting.)

Max-Ernest tried to think of something to say to the old-friend-now-stranger in front of him. “So… are you going to enter
a painting in Renaissance Masters this year?”

Renaissance Masters was the name of a student art competition held in conjunction with the Renaissance Faire. Benjamin Blake
had won the year he’d entered it.

“No, I don’t paint anymore.”

“Really?”

Max-Ernest was surprised. In the past, apart from being a prizewinning artist, Benjamin had loved painting. Painting was almost
the only way he could communicate with the outside world.

“Oh, art is a childish pursuit, don’t you think? Unless you’re a truly great artist, I mean. If you’re not going to be Michelangelo
or Raphael, what’s the point? I detest mediocrity.”

“Yeah, me, too,” said Max-Ernest reflexively. Then he thought about it for a moment. “Except how do you know if you’re going
to be great at something if you don’t try? Michelangelo didn’t know he was going to be Michelangelo until he was… Michelangelo.
How ’bout that?”

Benjamin smiled witheringly. “So encouraging! So wise! You sound like one of my poor little parents.”

Max-Ernest blushed. He had to admit, it did sound like something a parent would say. “Anyway, some people thought you were
great.”

“Sure, compared to most kids. But my destiny lies elsewhere.” Benjamin held his monocle to the light and peered into it for
a moment, as if his destiny might lie inside it.

Max-Ernest noticed that there were two lenses, one on top of the other. That was why the monocle had bulged slightly out of
Benjamin’s eye socket. “Wow, I’ve never seen a monocle like that. It’s like a visual oxymoron. You know, because
mono
means
one
but it’s got
two
lenses. Actually, you could say it’s
a
visual
visual oxymoron. You
see
the contradiction in terms, so it’s visual in that sense. But it’s also visual in the sense that you look through it. How
’bout that?”