The Mysterious Benedict Society

education, crime, the environment, war, taxes, insurance, health and medicine, the justice system . . . and fruit.

“You see,” Jillson said near the end of the lesson, “all these terrible problems are the result of one thing: bad government! Don’t get me wrong, government is a good thing. Without government you can solve none of the world’s horrible problems — unless you have a bad government, in which case the problems only get more horrible. Sadly, all the world’s governments are bad ones. Like a poison apple” — here Reynie’s ears perked up — “our governments look beautiful, shiny, and wholesome from a distance, but once you’ve partaken of them, they prove quite deadly. What’s more, they shelter more than one wicked official — like poison worms in that poison apple.”

Poison apples, poison worms, Reynie thought. That was another hidden-message phrase they’d heard through Mr. Benedict’s Receiver. He wasn’t surprised — he knew the classes were connected to the hidden messages — but he did wonder exactly how it all fit together. He felt sure he could figure it out if only —

Without warning, Reynie’s mood shifted. His optimism drained away, and he was suddenly angry with Jillson — stupid, lecturesome Jillson! — and not just Jillson, either, but . . . really, he was angry with just about everybody he could think of. It was an unusual feeling for Reynie, and very distressing. He felt as though the walls were pressing in on him, as though he wanted to get up and run from the room. He felt like yelling and kicking things — preferably Jillson.

What was going on? Was the pressure finally getting to him? Completely frazzled, Reynie laid down his pencil and glanced over at Sticky — who was glaring at his quiz as if he wanted to tear it up and toss it into a fire. Oh, no, Reynie thought, he’s bungled it somehow. For a moment he felt mad at Sticky, too. But then Sticky, catching his eye, nodded as usual and gave a feeble thumbs-up. It wasn’t the quiz, then. And now Sticky was staring at Reynie with a concerned expression — which was how Reynie realized he was scowling himself. He looked over at Kate and Constance. Both had their heads in their hands and looked ready to scream. And yet none of the other students seemed affected in the least. So why would only the four of them . . . ?

Martina’s poisoned us! Reynie thought. He was immediately convinced of it. Martina had slipped something into their lunches — perhaps she’d ordered the Helpers to do it. All his anger now flowed in Martina’s direction.

When class was finally over, it took Reynie several seconds to realize why the other students were getting up and leaving. Jillson was staring at him and his friends as if they were a bunch of lunatics. “I said go!” she barked. “Or do you want to stay here all day?”

The four of them bolted from their desks. They needed an emergency meeting.

Most students were headed to the gym to play games before supper, and Mr. Curtain was not in his favorite spot. The plaza was deserted. The children crossed to the farthest corner, made sure no one was in earshot, and all began talking at once.

“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” Reynie asked.

“What’s this all about?” Kate said.

“So you feel it, too? I think my head’s going to split open!” Sticky said.

“My first thought was that Martina poisoned us,” Reynie said, “but —”

“Poison?” Kate said. “No, I don’t think so. This is all in my head.”

Reynie and Sticky agreed. It wasn’t a physical problem, exactly; it was something else. But then what was it? The three of them began comparing their symptoms.

Only Constance said nothing. She listened as the others talked about how irritable and angry they felt, as if they were engaged in a furious argument, and as they spoke, she seemed to be shrinking. It was Reynie who noticed this — that Constance, with a look of anxious bafflement, had begun to crouch down as if to protect herself from an attack.

“Constance, what is it?” Reynie asked, his brow wrinkling with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s . . . that’s all?” Constance asked in a weak voice. “You just feel kind of annoyed?”

“Extremely annoyed,” Kate said. “Really, I’ve never felt so cranky in my life.”

“So you don’t . . . you don’t hear . . . ?” Constance trailed off.

She didn’t have to finish. Reynie couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it right away. The experience must have rattled every bit of sense out of all their heads. Hadn’t Mr. Benedict specifically predicted this? Most of us will simply feel irritable and confused, Mr. Benedict had said, essentially the way we feel now whenever the television is on and the messages are being broadcast.

“Mr. Curtain’s boosting the power,” Reynie said gravely, and when Kate and Sticky looked at him, still not comprehending, he said, “It’s the hidden messages. Our minds are reacting to them.”

Sticky gasped. Kate slapped her forehead. Of course! The hidden messages had begun to transmit directly into their minds — no more need for television, radios, or anything else. All the other students were undisturbed because, just as Mr. Benedict had said, only minds with an unusually powerful love of truth noticed anything was happening.

“So we can’t avoid them anymore?” Kate said. “Well, that’s depressing.”

“I think there’s more,” Reynie said. He knelt beside Constance and put his hand on her shoulder — and Constance, for once, didn’t complain. “There is more, isn’t there, Constance?”

Kate and Sticky looked from Reynie to Constance, who was nodding and hiding her face behind her hands. She actually seemed to be fighting back tears. All of their minds were resisting the hidden messages, but Constance — and only Constance — could hear the Messenger’s voice.

In rare cases, with exceptionally sensitive minds, Mr. Benedict had said. And here was such a case, such a mind: Constance Contraire. The development shocked them all, especially Constance, who was so disturbed by it she spent the evening with her head under her pillow. She was no better by the time Kate smuggled her into the boys’ room for their meeting.

“It might be useful, you know,” Sticky whispered, trying to cheer her up. “A way to gauge Mr. Curtain’s