The Mysterious Benedict Society

his suitcase from beneath the bed.

“It’s a good thing you’re so small,” Sticky whispered as Constance climbed out.

“Oh, yes, lucky me! So small you can pack me in the luggage. Why don’t you try curling up in a suitcase?” Constance said, forgetting that Sticky had spent his entire day standing in filth, darkness, and bug swarms.

The ceiling panel slid aside and Kate dropped down into the room again. “Now what’s this about a plan?” she said, as if they’d never been interrupted.

Punishments and Promotions

Both boys were awake before dawn. And they had stayed up late the night before, going over the plan. But Sticky wasn’t at all sleepy. Fear was keeping his eyes wide open. As he got dressed in the dark, he whispered up to the top bunk, “Reynie, they didn’t happen to blindfold you when you went to Mr. Curtain’s office, did they?”

“A blindfold? No.”

“Then I guess I’ll know right away if I’m going to the Waiting Room. That’s something, I suppose.”

Reynie rolled over and looked down from his bunk. “They blindfolded you? Why?”

“Didn’t say. Jillson just dragged me onto the plaza, put the blindfold on, and spun me around until I threw up. I mean I literally threw up. Then she laughed and led me inside and down some stairs to the Waiting Room. I had to wear it when I left, too.”

Reynie furrowed his brow. Why would they blindfold Sticky like that?

Just then someone banged on the door. Sticky stared at the door a long moment before opening it. S.Q. Pedalian stood in the dusky corridor, eating a cinnamon roll. His mouth stuffed full, he beckoned for Sticky to follow him. The time had come.

Sticky took a deep breath. “Wish me luck, Reynie.”

Reynie nodded. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”

Sticky followed S.Q. down the corridor. The dormitory was perfectly silent, save for the echo of their footsteps and the occasional gulping sound from S.Q., who was munching his cinnamon roll with gusto. Then they were outside in the chill morning air, where S.Q. stopped, licked his fingers, and — to Sticky’s horror — reached into his pocket.

“S.Q.?” Sticky asked in a strained voice. “Am I . . . am I to wait a little longer, or —?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Curtain can meet with you,” said S.Q. casually, pulling out a banana, not a blindfold. “Now, Sticky” — S.Q. was the only Executive who ever called Sticky by his nickname, though only by accident — “that is, George, allow me to give you some advice. I’m an Executive, you know, and I understand the way things work around here.” Glancing left and right, S.Q. lowered his voice. “I like you, George, you’re a nice kid, and very bright. And you’re an orphan, which makes you a good candidate for Executive someday if you’ll just straighten right up and fly . . . if you fly straight and right . . .”

“Straighten up and fly right?”

“Yes, all of those,” S.Q. said, relieved. “My point is, don’t blow your chances right off the bat. Whatever you do, do not admit to Mr. Curtain that you cheated. If you did cheat, I mean. I’m not saying you should lie. That’s even worse. Don’t admit to cheating, and don’t lie.”

“You’re saying my best course of action right now is not to have cheated in the past.”

“Exactly,” S.Q. said.

“That’s helpful.”

S.Q. grinned. “Thought it would be. Mr. Curtain hates a cheater more than anything. Otherwise he’s a genial fellow. So just keep that in mind during your meeting — the most important thing is not to admit you cheated.”

“Thanks,” Sticky said in a weak voice. His head had begun to ache. S.Q.’s advice was exactly the opposite of Reynie’s.

He would have liked some time to consider his new dilemma, but in less than a minute he was standing outside the metal door to Mr. Curtain’s office. Beads of sweat appeared on his smooth scalp. What should he do? If anybody should know this sort of thing, it would be an Executive. Yet S.Q. was not the brightest bulb in the Executive chandelier. Reynie, on the other hand, was very shrewd about people. . . . And now S.Q. was knocking on the door. Sticky rubbed his throbbing temples. He felt on the verge, once again, of growing paralyzed. Or worse: flub- mouthed.

The door slid open. S.Q. motioned for Sticky to enter. Whatever course he chose, he had to choose it now.

Mr. Curtain sat in the middle of the cold stone room, his fingers laced together, his chin lifted expectantly. The gigantic silver-eyed spider, waiting for the fly.

“I’m sorry I cheated, sir!” Sticky declared as he went in.

The door slid closed behind him, but not before he heard a shocked S.Q. mumbling something about the poor kid cracking under pressure.

Mr. Curtain drummed his fingers on the journal in his lap, regarding Sticky with those unseen eyes. Sticky was hard-pressed not to fidget. A bead of sweat trickled down the curve of his bald head, made its way to his earlobe, and hung there, trembling. It tickled Sticky maddeningly, but he held still. Suddenly Mr. Curtain shot forward in his chair — Sticky nearly jumped out of his shoes — and screeched to a stop with his face inches away.

“Do you care to explain yourself?” Mr. Curtain said coolly.

Sticky had memorized the speech. (If he hadn’t, he might never have gotten a word out.) He stammered, swallowed, then began: “I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t want to do anything wrong. But she put so much pressure on me —”

“You mean Constance Contraire, I assume,” interrupted Mr. Curtain with a look of satisfaction.