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He leaned back in his chair, sparkling a little. The spare participation prizes had all been donated to Ray Gordon's own personal jewelry collection, apparently, and he was beginning to resemble some kind of Vegas version of a Masai tribesman. He raised his hand, lifting one finger in a gesture of correction. "Today," he said, "is Mardi Gras. Tomorrow is not Mardi Gras. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday." His face was, very briefly, somber, which was as good a tell as any that he wasn't taking this remotely seriously. "No beaded necklaces for Christ's ordeal in the desert. No, no, it's ashes or nothing. I assure you I will draw a very precise cross of ash on your forehead, and the oil will be as beatified as any oil can be. Hallelujah. Does that make you feel better?"

It didn't.

"Aw, don't make that face." Ray swiveled again, this time to replace the checkers box onto the shelf. "I'm joshing you. I couldn't do that, I have no idea where I'd find non-nicotine ashes, and then the po-po would find me." Swivel again, and this time he kicked his feet up on his own desk -- his loafers were very clean, admittedly, and without much wear and tear. "So, down the rabbit hole we go, Janbug. What's this about an internship?"

If he'd picked up on the lie he didn't let on, though he did raise his eyebrows, as he was wont to do -- "You know how Destiny City is," he said, agreeable. "Brimming with them nondescript internships. Bustin' out all over." There was a code here. This code was not hard to decode. The code read: I know and you know you're hiding something, Janice Fitzpatrick, but it's none of my business. Let's dispense with the bullshit. Mr. Gordon had always been a teacher with a surprisingly low bullshit tolerance, for someone seemingly hired straight from the big top, moonlighting as a ringmaster somewhere. That was the other half of his popularity -- some strange hybrid of razzle-dazzle and straightforwardness. He wasn't stupid.

But apparently he wasn't interested in making Janice squirm over her imaginary internship, either, as he said, "Say, junior. You play any instruments?"

"You should know why I'm asking, Janbug." He gave her one of those conspiratorial smiles he had -- a smile that said that she and he were in on the same joke. With his off hand he picked up a red folder and flicked it open; upside down from where Janice was sitting, it looked like a list of names. Meadowview names, by the looks of it. He'd scribbled in some notes in the margins and drawn in red-pen five-pointed stars next to some of them, so it didn't look like his attendance list. His attendance list was much starker and covered in little checks and X's. "Casting this year's musical, of course; if you don't want to audition, how do you feel about the orchestra pit?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets." Ray held his hand up solemnly with his eyes closed to indicate that this was a deep and abiding rule by which he abode, deeply. "At least not until the official announcement's posted. You know that would be favoritism. Even if I could trust you to keep it to yourself, and I can -- or can I?" he winked at her, "-- there's always the offchance someone else would come crying over wanting to know, and then after that it's nothing but work, work, work. And no self-respecting dread pirate takes on a morsel more work than he absolutely must." This he also made the deep, abiding rule gesture at. "Which might lead one to believe why he leads drama club, but shh. Wait for the announcement like the rest of the lumpenproletariat, Janjan."

While she talked her English teacher wheeled his chair closer to his desk and typed something on his computer. No one could accuse Mr. Gordon of being unwilling to multitask; he seemed to have adapted to the internet age with alacrity, and checked his email about every five seconds like any self-respecting person. At a pep rally he'd been seen from afar to type out a text message on his phone while the principal Mr. Johanssen was talking to him. Of course, that could also say more about Mr. Gordon's relationship with Mr. Johanssen than anything, but that was the stuff of legend and something else entirely.

He smiled at the joke rather than grinned, and took a moment sending an email and thinking of what to say. "Maybe," he said, leaning back with his fingers steepled. "Here's the deal. You take the blue pill, the story ends. You leave my office and do whatever else you want with your afterschool time. You take the red pill," he motioned with one of his fingers, "you stay in Wonderland. And," he looked at Janice over his glasses, "we see how far, exactly, we can push Bill Johanssen and the school board."

It was common knowledge that this was Janiceish, perhaps Janicean, for okay, you got me. Ray grinned like a cat over a fresh kill, apparently content with his victory. "Oh, good," he said, though which bit this was in response to was anyone's guess. He clapped his hands together. "That's just what I want to hear."

He leaned back in his chair. "So, Blues Brothers, tomorrow?"

Her face answered that question, too.

"Upon my honor. Cross my heart and hope to die."

It was as good as a blood oath as you got from Raymond Carter Gordon, anyhow.