James Dashner - The Journal of Curious Letters

Recite the magic words at exactly seventeen minutes past the quarter hour following the six-hour mark before midnight plus one hundred and sixty-six minutes minus seven quarter-hours plus a minute times seven, rounded to the nearest half-hour plus three. Neither a second before nor three seconds after.

(Yes, I’m fully aware it will take you a second or two to say the magic words, but I’m talking about the precise time you begin to say it. Quit being so snooty.)

Once again, M.G.’s sense of humor leaked through the message, and Tick found himself eager to meet the man Norbert had already met. At least now they knew his real name.

Master George. Sounds like something from Star Wars.

“How long did it take you to figure out the first clue?” Tick asked.

“How long it take you?” Sofia responded. Every once in a while, she messed up her English, but for the most part, she knew it perfectly.

“Once I sat down to do it, maybe an hour.”

“Then it took me half an hour.”

“Yeah, right.”

Sofia gave him an evil grin and raised her eyebrows. “Should we race on this one? Like a… Master George Olympics.”

Tick had assumed they’d work together to solve it, but her idea suddenly sounded very fun. If I was a nerd before, I’ve hit rock-bottom geek stature by now, he thought.

“You’re on,” he said, ready for the challenge.

“I’m on what?” she asked. “Speak English, please.”

Tick rolled his eyes. “Here, we’ll put the clue on this little coffee table, where we can both see it, okay? Neither one of us are allowed to touch it. I’ll run and get some paper and a pencil from Norbert so you can have something to write on.” He stood up.

“What about you?” she asked.

Tick held his journal out. “I’ll write in this-why didn’t you bring yours?”

Sofia shrugged. “I got tired of carrying it around. Who needs it?” She tapped her head with a finger. “It’s all stored up here anyway. So, what about a prize? What does the winner get?”

“Hmm, good question.” Tick scratched his neck, faltering when he realized he wasn’t wearing his scarf-he must’ve lost it in the wind after they busted the windshield.

“What’s wrong?” Sofia asked.

“Huh? Oh, nothing.” He paused. His scarf was gone, and Sofia hadn’t said a thing about his birthmark-maybe he could actually survive without… no. He had an extra one at home, and deep down, Tick knew it would be around his neck when he returned to school.

“Tick,” Sofia said, staring up at him, “did your brain freeze?”

“No, no… it’s just… never mind.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it-the winner gets to visit the house of the loser next summer. But, uh, you have to pay for it either way because you’re rich.”

“Wow, what a deal.”

“I’ll be back in a sec with the stuff.”

A couple of minutes later, pencils in hand, the race began.

Just as he’d done with the first clue, Tick jotted down the phrases from the sixth clue that seemed to go together logically. Once he’d done that, he assigned letters to them to indicate the order they should be calculated. It seemed easy now that he’d gone through the process before.

The biggest problem was determining which midnight the clue referred to-the one that began the day of May sixth or the one at the end of it? Then he realized whatever time he ended up with probably wouldn’t be midnight, so it really didn’t matter.

He nervously glanced over at Sofia, who was doing a lot more thinking than writing, tapping her pencil against her forehead, staring at the clue.

I’m way ahead of her, he thought, then continued his scribbles.

A couple of minutes later, the page in his journal looked like this:

Beginning Time: Midnight.

A. six-hour mark before midnight = 6:00 p.m.

B. quarter hour following A = 6:15 p.m.

C. seventeen minutes past B = 6:32 p.m.

D. C plus 166 minutes = 9:18 p.m.

E. D minus 7 quarter hours = 7:33 p.m.

F. E plus a minute times 7 = 7:40 p.m.

G. F rounded to nearest half-hour = 7:30 p.m.

H. -G plus three half-hours = 9:00 p.m. on May 6

“Bingo!” he yelled, turning to say his time out loud. His words died somewhere in his throat when he saw Sofia looking at him with a smirk, holding up her paper with the answer scrawled across it:

9:00 p.m.

“Dang,” Tick muttered. “But you didn’t even take notes or anything!”

“I’ve got brains-I don’t need notes.”

Tick folded his arms. “I take it back-you’re not a woman. You’re a girl. And I hate spaghetti.”

“I believe Americans call this a… sore loser, right?”

“Something like that.”

Sofia put her hands behind her head and looked up at the ceiling, letting out a big sigh, relishing her win. “I can’t wait to visit your little house in Washington. Will your mother make me a hot dog?”

Tick snapped up the sixth clue from the table and stood up. “If you’re lucky. And what makes you think our house is little, rich girl?”

Sofia lowered her arms to her lap and eyed Tick up and down. “I looked at your clothes and I said to myself, he must live in a little house.” She winked, then punched Tick in the leg, hard.

“Ow!” he yelled, rubbing the spot. “What’s that for?”

“To let you know I’m kidding.”

Tick shook his head. “You are one weird kid.”

“Ah, yes. That’s the kettle calling the papa black.”

Tick burst out laughing, falling back on the couch holding his stomach.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, for one thing, you said it backwards. And it’s pot, not papa. ”

“Whatever. When I come to visit you, I will teach you Italian so we can talk like intelligent people.”

“I think spaghetti is just about the only Italian word I need to know, thank you very much. That, and pizza.”

Sofia tried to punch him again, but this time Tick was too fast; he jumped up and ran out of the room, the sounds of pursuit close behind. Luckily, dinner was ready in the kitchen-ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches.

~

The next day, Tick’s heart hurt when he had to say good-bye to Norbert, then Frupey and Sofia after they dropped him and his dad off at a car rental agency-the rich girl and her butler had a flight to catch. In just one day, they’d become like close family, and he hated to think he may never see them again. At least he knew he could expect an e-mail from Sofia, and he hoped she really would come visit him next summer.

Of course, by then, the magic day would have come and gone, and who knew what might change after that.

After another couple of fun-filled days being pampered by Aunt Mabel and having his life mapped out for him in detail, Tick and his dad headed back to Washington.

Once there, Tick began the longest three months of his life.

Tick stared at his own reflection in the dark puddle of grimy water only inches away from his face, dismayed at how pitiful he looked. Like a scaredy-cat kid, eyes full of fear. Both ends of his scarf hung down, the flattened tips floating on the nasty sludge like dead fish. He winced when Billy “The Goat” Cooper yanked his arm behind him again, ratcheting it another notch higher along his back until the pain was almost unbearable.

Tick refused to say a word.

“Come on, Barf Scarf Man,” the Goat growled, digging his knee into Tick’s spine, wedging it below his twisted arm. “All you have to say is, ‘Happy April Fool’s Day. Please get me wet.’ You can do it, you’re a big boy.”

Tick remained silent, despite the pain, despite the mounting humiliation as more school kids gathered around the scene. A few months ago, he would’ve given in and said the words, done as the Goat commanded. He would’ve let it end quickly and moved on. But not now. Never again.