This Book Is Not Good For You (6 page)

Other diners had already been seated and their disembodied voices came seemingly from all directions.

“Oops—I hope that was just water!”

“… I’m not sure, I think it’s fish.”

“Ouch—you hit my nose!”

“Don’t try to seat yourselves or you may wind up on top of somebody else,” the waiter warned when they reached their table.

The kids snickered.

“The theme tonight is chocolate,” he continued, leading them to their chairs one by one. “Almost every dish, whether savory or sweet, contains at least a small amount of cacao. Except for Max-Ernest, who will be served an alternate menu.”

“How did you know?” asked Max-Ernest, relieved.

“I believe your friend mentioned you would go into anaphylactic shock otherwise,” said the waiter dryly.

He said there was an amuse bouche waiting in front of each of them, and after explaining what that was (of course, you already know), he quietly departed.

Feeling around their table, our friends ascertained that it was fully set with plates, utensils, glasses—and a few other items that were harder to identify.

“Hey, Cass, can you tell what’s in this? Is it my amuse bouche?”

After a couple tries, Max-Ernest managed to hand Cass a small bowl. She reached in—

“Little… balls… Ugh, they’re mushy and slimy and cold.”

Yo-Yoji laughed. “It’s like a haunted house—you know like when they put your hand in a bowl of olives and tell you they’re eyeballs?”

Cass tentatively licked a finger. “Actually, it’s just butter.”

Exploring further, Cass discovered a warm round object on a small plate: “A roll! I think everyone’s got one.”

But when she tried to butter hers:

“Ow—you stabbed my hand!” complained Max-Ernest.

“Sorry.”

“The amuses are on our plates right in front of us,” said Cass’s mother. “Oh, it’s delicious! But don’t take little bites—eat it all at once.”

“Too late. Mine’s dribbling all over my chin,” said Yo-Yoji.

Max-Ernest gingerly prodded his amuse bouche with a spoon. It was soft and wet and round and jiggly and felt like a large egg yolk.

Trying to be brave, he put the whole thing in his mouth and bit down—

It squirted in all directions and he was hit with blast after blast of flavor. Like different colors of fireworks exploding one after another. First came a warm and mellow taste. Could it be… pancakes? Then came the cooler and juicier taste of… blueberries? Yes, blueberry pancakes. At the end, his senses were doused with maple syrup.

“Hey, did anybody else’s taste like breakfast?” asked Yo-Yoji. “I think mine was bacon and eggs. And hot chocolate.”

“Funny, mine tasted like a frittata with smoked salmon and caviar,” said Cass’s mother.

“Which just happens to be your favorite breakfast,” said Cass in a slightly accusatory tone. “Just like my favorite happens to be waffles with mint-chip ice cream. Which is what mine was. Wow, what a coincidence, Mel!”

She’d loved her amuse bouche and she knew she should think it was sweet that her mother had special-ordered the food, but Cass couldn’t help it: she hated the thought of her mother conspiring with Senor Hugo.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” said her mother.

“What—you mean Mel? Why? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

Before her mother could reply, the waiter arrived with their first course: soup.

In tiny, thimble-like glasses.

Everyone sipped at the same time, but no two soups were the same. Or was it that no two sets of taste buds were the same? Each soup tasted like a well-known food item, distilled to its very essence:

“Popcorn!” (Max-Ernest)

“Pop-Tart!” (Yo-Yoji)

“Peanut butter and jelly!” (Cass)

“Potato chips!” (her mom)

All except Max-Ernest’s had the barest hint of chocolate.

As the meal continued, the dishes became increasingly elaborate—and increasingly difficult to identify. But according to the waiter (who was only willing to name a dish after it had been tasted) they included: salad with cacao vinaigrette; scallops in a dark chocolate reduction; pinto beans spiced with chipotle-cocoa powder; a pork roast with an apricot-chocolate glaze; and, of course, chicken in mole poblano, the famous Mexican sauce made from nuts, dried chilies, and a healthy portion of Mexican chocolate.

Each new dish was harder to cut/spear/scoop than the last, and it didn’t take long for the impatient eaters to give up on their forks and knives and start using their hands.

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Johnson isn’t here,” said Max-Ernest. “She wouldn’t think we were using good table manners.” (He was referring to their school principal, who was a stickler for manners; the “Principal With Principles,” she called herself.)

“I’d like to see her try to eat here!” said Yo-Yoji.

“Well, I hope you don’t abandon manners altogether,” said Cass’s mom. “Your principal may not be here but somebody’s mother is.”

She sighed contentedly in the darkness. “You know, I think this may be the best meal I’ve ever had. Hugo is a genius. I could eat his food every day.”

“Well, why don’t you marry him, then?” asked Cass, unable to bear another positive word about Senor Hugo.

“That’s ridiculous—I hardly know him!” Her mother sounded flustered. “But you make it sound like a death sentence. Would it really be so awful?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“You know, one day I may actually want to get married, whether to Hugo or someone else,” said Cass’s mother stiffly. “And when I do, Cassandra, I hope you open your heart a little bit and don’t hide your feelings behind cheap sarcasm.”

The s-word. Cass hated it when her mom complained about her sarcasm.

“Why should I have any feelings about it?” she shot back. “You’re not my real mom anyway… technically.”

Cass bit her lip. Why had she said that? She knew how much it would upset her mother.

There was silence for a moment.

“Cass, because your friends are here, I’m not going to respond to that right now,” her mother said finally. “We’ll talk about it later, OK?”

“OK.”

Cass could feel her ears reddening in the dark.

A few minutes later, their waiter stepped up to the table again.

“Hello, Cassandra. If you don’t mind, I’m going to reach over you so I can put this plate in front of you. It’s a quadruple fudge layer cake, compliments of the chef. He calls it Chocolate Death.”

Max-Ernest coughed up the water he was drinking. “That’s exactly how I always thought I would die!”

“Uh, thanks,” said Cass. “I think.”

“My pleasure,” murmured the waiter, and he disappeared without another word.

“So—what do you think they do when it’s somebody’s birthday?” asked Yo-Yoji. “No candles, right?”

“They probably just sing,” said Max-Ernest quite sensibly.

“Seriously, aren’t you guys curious to see what would happen if you lit a candle in here?” Yo-Yoji persisted.

Cass giggled, then felt in her backpack. “Actually, I have one. And matches…”

“Cool. Let’s light it, yo!” whispered Yo-Yoji, excited.

Max-Ernest tensed. “We can’t, it’s not right—”

“Ah, come on—don’t you just want to see for a second? The waiters will never know—they’re blind.”

Cass turned to her right. She was certain her mother would say No. At the same time, her mother loved birthday candles. On Cass’s last birthday, she made Cass blow her candles out three times, so Cass would get three wishes.

“Mel, what do you think?”

There was no response.

Was she getting the silent treatment? Cass wondered.

“Sorry about what I said before,” she said softly. “I understand if you’re mad but… can’t you at least say something?”

Silence.

“Mel, are you there?” she asked more loudly. “It’s not funny.” She felt the chair next to her. It was empty. How strange.

Had her mother been so upset that she had to leave the room?

“Hey, you guys, where’s my mom? Did she go to the bathroom?”

“Wouldn’t she have to ask the waiter? I mean, unless she tried to go by herself,” said Max-Ernest. “But then she probably would have bumped into something or—”

Before he could finish his thought, Cass lit a match, her hand trembling. Suddenly illuminated, Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji looked back at her in blinking astonishment.

“Whoa, look what a mess we made!” said Yo-Yoji.

He pointed at Cass. “There’s sauce all over your shirt.” Then he pointed at Max-Ernest. “And your face is like totally covered.”

“Where’s my mom?” Cass repeated.

Her friends looked around: not only was Cass’s mother’s chair empty, so was the rest of the room.

They were the only ones there.

The match flickered out.

But not before the commotion had drawn the attention of their waiter. They could hear him running toward their table.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, where’s my mother?” Cass demanded. “And what about everybody else—?”

The waiter said he had no more idea where Cass’s mother was than they did. He was certain she wasn’t in the bathroom; he had just finished cleaning it. As for the other customers being gone, that was no mystery; they’d finished dinner and gone home, naturally.

“I’m sure your mother is fine—she probably needed some air. Although if a customer can’t be bothered to ask for help, we really can’t be held responsible… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go get the check…”

He scurried out without waiting for a response.

“The check? How are we going to pay if your mom doesn’t come back?” asked Max-Ernest, distressed. “Do you think they’ll make us wash dishes?”

“Forget the check—we have to find her!” Cass stood up, reaching into her backpack. “Come on—”

Quickly, she struck another match, and with this one lit a candle.

From what they could see, the restaurant looked much like any other. With the distinction that there were no windows. Nor were there any pictures on the walls. Nor any color or decoration whatsoever. It could almost have been the dining hall in a prison.

“How did they clean up so fast?”

Yo-Yoji gestured toward the tables spread out around the room. They were immaculate. Place settings gleamed. Folded napkins stood at attention. It looked as though the restaurant were just about to open. You’d never guess that minutes ago it had been full of diners.

In contrast, their own table was covered with food and spilled drinks.

Cass’s face turned angry in the candlelight. “I know where my mom is—the kitchen!”

She pointed to the double doors at the far end of the room.

“I’ll bet she went to talk to Hugo. She’s so in love, she couldn’t wait to tell him how good dinner was…”

The double doors turned out to be double-double; that is, behind them was another pair of double doors.

As soon as Cass pushed through this second pair of doors, they were blinded by light. Compared to the darkness of the dining room, the kitchen seemed as bright as a hospital.

As their eyes adjusted our three friends turned pale:

A man in a chef’s coat held a cleaver high in the air.

As they watched, he brought it down and chopped—

a carrot.

The three kids exhaled in relief.

“Who’s there?” he asked spinning around, knife in hand.

It wasn’t Hugo; it was his sous-chef. * But evidently, he too was blind.

“We’re customers,” said Cass. “Have you seen my mom? I mean—did anybody else come in here?”

The sous-chef shook his head sternly. “No. And this room is strictly off limits,” he growled.

“What about Hugo? Where is he?” Cass persisted.

“Gone for the night. As you should be.” He chopped another carrot for emphasis.

Yo-Yoji silently motioned to his friends: Let’s get out of here.

“Why do you think the kitchen is so lit up if all the chefs are blind?” whispered Max-Ernest as they headed back into the dining room.

“Beats me—the whole place is creepy,” said Yo-Yoji.

Cass didn’t say anything—just hurried forward holding the candle in front of her.

They found the entry room deserted. Even the scent bouquets were gone.

“Do you think she left with him?” asked Yo-Yoji. “Would your mom do that?”

“I dunno,” said Cass, growing increasingly distressed. “It’s so weird.”

The waiter came out of the hallway looking harried.

“Cassandra? Is that you?”

“Yeah, we’re right here. Did you find my mom?”

“I just spoke to Senor Hugo. He said not to worry about the bill—it’s on the house. And he left you this—”

The waiter held out an envelope, which Cass anxiously accepted.

“Good-bye, we have to close up now,” he said, ushering them toward the front door. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

The blind waiter bowed and walked quickly back in the direction of the main dining room.

As soon as they got outside, Cass tore open the envelope. There was a handwritten note inside.

“What does it say?” asked Max-Ernest.

“Is it from your mom?” asked Yo-Yoji.

“Not really,” said Cass after a moment, shoving the note in her pocket. “I mean, yeah, it’s from her, but she says the dark was making her too nervous and she went home.”

“Really? Without saying good-bye?” asked Max-Ernest, surprised. “How are we supposed to get back?”

“Uh, bus. She said to take the bus.…”

Max-Ernest looked at his friend. “Why are you acting so weird?”

“I just… realized I don’t have any bus money,” Cass stammered.

“Well, I do. So we’re cool,” said Yo-Yoji. “But you sure everything’s OK?”

“Totally,” said Cass, forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

But it wasn’t OK. It was the opposite of OK.

Although Cass didn’t share the note in her pocket with her friends, I will share it with you here. I believe it’s too late now for it to make any difference. The penmanship, I think you’ll agree, is remarkably neat for somebody who couldn’t see:

?

Cassandra—

If you value your mother’s life, bring me the Tuning Fork in two days’ time. Tell no one—not even those two boys with you. If I learn that you have shared this note with anyone, the deal is off and you will never see your mother again.

H.