The Mysterious Benedict Society

“Meeting adjourned,” the others said.

Lessons Learned

The Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened was unlike other schools. For one thing, the cafeteria food smelled good and tasted even better. Beyond that, there were no textbooks, no field trips, no report cards, no roll call (if you were missing, an Executive came to find you), no rickety film projectors, no lockers, no team sports, no library, and, weirdly enough, no mirrors to be found anywhere. Nor was there any separation between beginning and advanced students: Class groups were assigned at random, regardless of age or accomplishment, and everyone in that group sat in the same classrooms together, learning the same lessons. The lessons had been designed by Mr. Curtain himself, and when all of them had been gotten through, they were repeated from the beginning. Thus all the lessons were eventually reviewed many times — and the students who learned them best became Messengers.

None of this was familiar to the members of the Mysterious Benedict Society. And yet, in certain ways, the Institute did remind them of other schools: Rote memorization of lessons was discouraged but required; class participation was encouraged but rarely permitted; and although quizzes were given every day, in every class, there was always at least one student who groaned, another who acted surprised, and another who begged the teacher, in vain, not to give it.

“Time’s up!” S.Q. Pedalian called out during the morning class one day. “Pass me your quizzes, everyone — and no dallying, please. A stitch in time saves time, you know.”

“Nine,” corrected a Messenger in the middle row. Reynie recognized her from his other classes. A tall, athletic teenager with piercing eyes and raven-black hair, she was much older — and bolder — than most of the students, and had a reputation as the leader among Messengers. Her name was Martina Crowe.

“Nine stitches?” S.Q. said. “No, Martina, I’m certain it’s just one stitch.”

“No, a stitch in time saves nine,” Martina scoffed.

“Exactly,” S.Q. replied.

With the quizzes all collected, the room fell silent as S.Q. went through the pages, marking grades in his book. It was the hourly ritual. In every class, an Executive first presented the day’s material, then the material was reviewed — and sometimes the review was reviewed — and then the students were given a quiz over the previous day’s lesson. If the material weren’t so strange, no doubt it would have been easily mastered.

Today, the Mysterious Benedict Society’s third full day of classes, S.Q.’s lesson had been called “Personal Hygiene: Unavoidable Dangers and What Must Be Done to Avoid Them.” Like all the lessons at the Institute, this one was a barrage of details — pages and pages worth — but the gist was that sickness, like a hungry predator, lurked in every nook and cranny. Every touchable surface was a disease waiting to happen, every speck of dust an allergen poised to swell your nose and clog your ducts, every toothbrush bristle a bacterial playground. On and on it went, and all of it was greatly exaggerated, Reynie thought, though not entirely untrue. What made the lesson so confusing was the “logical conclusion” S.Q. said must be drawn: Because it was impossible, in the end, to protect yourself from anything — no matter how hard you tried — it was important to try as hard as you could to protect yourself from everything.

There was some kind of truth hidden in there, Reynie thought, but it was camouflaged with nonsense. No wonder it gave students trouble. Luckily, he and Sticky had been making perfect scores. To confirm this, Reynie glanced over at his friend, who gave a small nod and a thumbs-up. Probably wasn’t even difficult for him — Sticky remembered everything he laid eyes on. So far, so good. Reynie twisted in his seat to look at Kate. She puffed her cheeks, crossed her eyes, and put her hands to her head as if she thought it might pop. Not good. Reynie decided not to look at Constance; his optimism had been spoiled enough.

The other students sat mostly in stupors, worn out from the class, or else were scouring their notes in hopes of discovering they’d done better than they thought. The Messengers, though — there were four in the class, wearing their snappy white tunics and blue sashes — were indulging in a peculiar habit Reynie had noticed. Every few moments one of them would glance at the door, eyes focused with keen expectation. Martina Crowe was especially fixated.

They were waiting to be called out by an Executive — called away for their “secret privileges.” And whenever an Executive did appear in the doorway — as Jackson did now — every Messenger in the room stiffened with anticipation.

“S.Q.,” Jackson announced. “I need Corliss Danton and Sylvie Biggs.”

The Messengers in question leaped from their desks, hastily gathering their things. With beaming faces and nary a backward glance, they followed Jackson out. Martina Crowe stared hungrily after them.

“For the newcomers among us,” S.Q. said, “let me remind you that you, too, could be privy to the special privileges enjoyed by our Messengers. Study hard! Especially you brand-new recruits — who are doing very well, by the way. Rosie Gardener, Eustace Crust . . . very well done. You each got several answers correct. Keep up the good work.” He smiled encouragingly toward the back of the room and returned to his grading.

Reynie turned in his seat to see whom S.Q. was speaking to — and then he could hardly stop staring. New recruits, S.Q. had called them, and indeed, these were the two whose dazed expressions had caught Reynie’s attention the first day — the bell-shaped girl and the wiry boy he’d suspected of being kidnapped. They scarcely seemed the same children now. Their looks of sleepy confusion had disappeared, replaced by a look of purpose, even of pleasure, in their eyes. These were not the expressions of children who had been kidnapped and secreted away against their will. But then why had they been escorted by Recruiters? And why else would they be called “recruits”?

Reynie suspected himself of leaping to conclusions. He used to think he was good at understanding people — Miss Perumal had told him so more than once — but these kids were a mystery to him. Somehow he was getting it all wrong; he had to be. And speaking of getting it wrong, Reynie’s eyes now fell on Constance, sound asleep with her face on her desk. Reynie felt suddenly depressed. He needed to stop turning around.

S.Q. finished grading the quizzes and stacked the papers on the edge of his desk. “Okay, everyone, class dismissed. You may check your quizzes as you leave. And someone had better wake Miss Contraire. I’m fairly certain she’s alive — I saw her twitch. Reynard Muldoon and George Washington, please stay after class. I need to speak with you.”

Reynie’s throat tightened, and he glanced at Sticky, who looked as if he’d been stung by a hornet. Were they