Meg Cabot - Code Name Cassandra

"Yeah," Scott said with a snicker. "By teaching the kid to throw a punch."

Dave was feigning thoughtfulness. "Funny, I don't remember them teaching us that particular method of conflict resolution in counselor training."

They were joking, of course. But Karen Sue, as usual, was deadly serious.

"I think it's disgraceful," she said. "You teaching a little boy to settle his problems with violence. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I stared at her. "You," I said, "have obviously never been the victim of a bully."

Karen Sue stuck out her chin. "No, because I was taught to resolve my differences with others peacefully, without use of force."

"So in other words," I said, "you've never been the victim of a bully."

Ruth laughed outright, but Scott and Dave both put their hands over their mouths, trying to hide their grins. Karen Sue wasn't fooled, though. She said, "Maybe that's because I don't go around aggravating people like you do, Jess."

"Oh, that's nice," I said. "Blame the victim, why don't you?"

Now Scott and Dave had to turn toward the wall, they were laughing so hard. Ruth, of course, didn't bother.

The tips of Karen Sue's ears started turning pink. The way I noticed this is that she was wearing this blue headband—which matched her blue shorts, which matched her blue flute case—and the headband pulled her hair back over her ears, so that it fell into these perfect curls just above her shoulders. Oh, and it also showed off her pearl earrings.

Have I mentioned that Karen Sue Hanky is kind of a girlie-girl?

"Well," she said primly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my cottage now to put my flute away. I hope you enjoy your tutorial with Professor Le Blanc, Jess. He told me that I play exceptionally."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Exceptionally crappy."

Ruth elbowed me.

"Oh, please," I said. "Her flute isn't even open hole. How good can she be?" Besides, Karen Sue had already flounced out. No way she'd overheard me.

Scott, still chuckling, said, "Listen, Jess. Dave and I had an idea. About this ghost story thing of yours. What do you say to teaming up?"

I eyed them. "What are you talking about?"

"Like our cabins could get together after Pit tonight, and you could tell them all another one of those ghost stories. You know, like the one you told last night, that had your little guys so scared, they wouldn't get out of bed afterwards."

"We could bring our guys over," Dave said, "around nine-thirty."

"Yeah," Scott said, glancing shyly in Ruth's direction. "And maybe your girls would want to come, Ruth."

Ruth looked surprised—and pleased—at the suggestion. But reluctance to subject her girls to the likes of Shane overcame her desire to spend quality time with Scott.

"No way," she said. "I'm not letting any of my girls around that little nightmare."

"Maybe Shane'd behave himself," I ventured, "if we threw some estrogen into the mix." It was an experiment they'd tried during detention back at Ernest Pyle High, with somewhat mixed results.

"Nuh-uh," Ruth said. "You know what that kid did during all-camp rehearsal this morning?"

This I hadn't heard. "What?"

"He opened a trumpet's spit valve all over some Frangipanis."

I winced. Not as bad as I'd feared … but not exactly good, either.

"And it wasn't," Ruth went on, "even his instrument. He'd stolen it. If you think I'm letting my girls near him, you're nuts."

I figured it was just as well. It wasn't like I had a ghost story on hand that I could tell in the presence of a couple of guys like Scott and Dave. They'd know I was plagiarizing Stephen King right away. And how embarrassing, to be sitting there telling some story with my would-be boyfriend Rob as the hero, in front of those guys.

Dave must have noticed my reluctance, since he said, "We'll bring popcorn."

I could see there was no way of getting out of it. And free popcorn is never anything to be sneered at. So I said, "Well, all right. I guess."

"Awesome." Scott and Dave gave each other high fives.

I winced again, but this time it had nothing to do with Shane. Dave had jostled me so that a sharp corner of Keely Herzberg's photo, tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, jabbed me into remembering that I had a little something else to do tonight, too.

C H A P T E R

8

"Paul Huck was a guy who lived down the road from me."

I had figured out a way to not embarrass myself in front of Scott and Dave. I'd abandoned the rehashing of an old Stephen King story and opted for a ghost story my dad used to tell, back when my brothers and I had been little and he'd taken us on camping trips to the Indiana backwoods—trips my mother never went on, since she claimed to be allergic to nature, and most particularly to backwoods.

"He wasn't a very bright guy," I explained to the dozens of rapt little faces in front of me. "In fact, he was kind of dim. He only made it to about the fourth grade before school got too hard for him, so his parents let him stay home after that, since they didn't put much stock in education anyway, on account of none of the Hucks ever amounting to anything with or without having gone to school—"

"Hey." A small, high-pitched voice sounded from behind the closed porch door. "Can I come in now?"

"No," I shouted back. "Now, where was I?"

I went on to relate how Paul Huck had grown into a massive individual, stupid as a corncob, but good at heart.

But really, I wasn't thinking about Paul Huck. I wasn't thinking about Paul Huck at all. I was thinking about what had happened right after I'd agreed to allow Scott and Dave have their cabins stage a mini-invasion on mine. What had happened was, I had gone for my tutorial with Professor Le Blanc.

And I had ended up nearly getting fired.

Again.

And this time, it hadn't been because I'd been making personal use of camp property, or teaching the kids risqué songs.

Then why, you ask? Why would the famous classical flutist Jean-Paul Le Blanc attempt to fire a totally hip—not to mention talented—individual like myself?

Because he had discovered my deepest secret, the one I hold closest to my heart. . . .

No, not that one. Not the fact that I am still very much in possession of my psychic gift. My other secret.

What happened was this.

Right after Scott and Dave and Ruth took off, I sauntered over to the practice room where I was supposed to have my lesson with Professor Le Blanc. He was in there, all right. I could tell by the pure, sweet tones emanating from the tiny room. The practice rooms are supposed to be soundproof, and they are … but only if you're in one of the rooms. From the hallway, you can hear what's going on behind the door.

And let me tell you, what was going on behind that door was some fine, fine Bach. We're talking flute-playing so elegant, so assured, so … well, passionate, it almost brought tears to my eyes. You don't hear that kind of playing in the Ernest Pyle High School Symphonic Orchestra, you get what I'm saying? I was so entranced, I didn't even think to knock on the door to let the professor know I'd arrived. I never wanted that sweet music to end.

But it did end. And then the next thing I knew, the door to the practice room was opening, and Professor Le Blanc emerged. He was saying, "You have a gift. An extraordinary gift. Not to use it would be a crime."

"Yes, Professor," replied a bored voice that, oddly, I recognized.

I looked down, shocked that such lovely music had been coming from the flute of a student, and not the master.

And my jaw sagged.

"Hey, lesbo," Shane said. "Shut the barn door, you're lettin' the flies in."

"Ah," Professor Le Blanc said, spying me. "You two know one another? Oh, yes, of course, Jessica, you are his counselor, I'd forgotten. Then you can do me a very great favor."