The Octopus Effect Read Online Free Page A

“Doesn’t sound good to me. I mean that Book knows things, Simon. If it says we’re in danger then we should at least be ready—” He paused and leaned forward. “Wait what’s that?” He was pointing to a blinking green light beneath the Viewing Screen.
    I tried to act casual. “Oh that, that’s nothing. Just an indicator light. To remind me that the Screen’s been paused.” I moved quickly but calmly until I was standing in front of the Recording Monitor atop my desk.
    The device, closely resembling an ordinary computer monitor, could ruin everything if the kids saw it. They’d notice it was filled up with words and might realize that a new Chronicle had started. Fortunately, they had no clue—
    â€œWhy are you standing in front of the Recording Monitor?” Owen asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
    Drat. Before I could think of something to say, the phone on my desk rang. The kids and I stared at it as it rang once, twice, three times.
    â€œAren’t you going to answer that?” Alysha asked.
    It was an excellent question; the truth was, it had never rung before. Not in decades of narrating from this apartment. “Of course,” I said. “But please hush—it’ll be important Narrator business, no doubt.”
    I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking.
    â€œMr. Geryson,” a woman said in a clipped English accent. “This is unacceptable!”
    I cringed. It was Miss Fanstrom, the Keeper of the Historical Society. My boss!
    â€œDo not give them any sign that you’re speaking to me,” Miss Fanstrom said.
    â€œEr,” I said. “Why yes, I would like to hear about your apartment cleaning service.” I managed a glare at the kids. “It happens I have quite a mess to take care of.”
    â€œClever,” Miss Fanstrom said. “Now be cleverer and send those three on their way. I’d rather not have them discover a new Chronicle’s started . . . not yet, at least. They’ll know soon enough.”
    â€œOf course. Except . . . how?” I coughed. “How do you get it so clean, I mean?”
    â€œTut tut, Mr. Geryson,” Miss Fanstrom said. I could picture her hair—a two-foot-high black tower—remaining perfectly still as she shook her head. “You are the one who chose to let Mr. Bloom and his friends come over again and again despite our Society’s rules on the subject. You must be the one to deal with the problems it causes.”
    I decided not to remind her that it was she who first sent them to visit me in the previous Chronicle. Telling your boss such things wasn’t good for job security.
    â€œA wise decision, Mr. Geryson. Now get to it.”
    The line went dead, leaving me to wonder for a moment whether she’d known what I was thinking. There was no time to worry about that; I had to get rid of these kids. But how do you get three seventh graders to do anything they don’t want to do?
    I turned to the kids. “My, such interesting cleaning tips.” I cleared my throat to buy some time to think. A-ha! “Now that you three are leaving, I can give them a try.”
    Alysha folded her arms. “Leaving? We’ve only been here for a little while!”
    I smoothed out my comfy brown bathrobe (standard issue for all Historical Society Narrators) and struggled to keep my voice calm. “Oh, you can stay if you want. But I figured you might want to play with your formulas at Dunkerhook Woods before you meet with the Council of Sciences.”
    Simon, Alysha, and Owen looked at one another. Their glances said it all. Even hyperanxious Owen was tempted by the idea.
    â€œOkay,” Simon said. “Maybe we’ll come back later, though?”
    â€œWhatever you like, Simon,” I said, keeping myself between them and the Recording Monitor as I ushered them to the