Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls Page 5

  “I don’t like you,” she says flatly.

  “Come on, Ronny,” Toby says.

  Ronny? Invisible Lower Middle Toby just called the most popular girl in school . . . Ronny? To her face?

  “Give her a break.” He turns to me. “Veronica’s the Center’s top field agent. She was on a mission when you guys thought she vanished.”

  “But she was all mangled,” I sputter. “I saw it. The vampire bites in that video or whatever it was.” The minute the words leave my lips, I know I’ve made a mistake. Veronica looks at me, eyes blazing.

  “Did you see the actual ‘vampire bites’?” She throws up her fingers in air quotes. She mimics me perfectly. She’s so mean.

  “No,” I stammer. “I just . . .”

  “Do you read all those stupid vampire books targeted at gullible kids just like you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t believe any of—”

  She interrupts. “Sure you do. You and your friends. You sit around in the Annex and talk about the cute vampire boys, right? They’re so mysterious. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Well . . .”

  “And who listens to you talk?”

  Toby jumps in. “Ronny, don’t.”

  “Who sits there with you? Who eats your French fries and listens to your girl gossip?”

  My eyes drift to Toby, and suddenly I realize the laugh I heard in Mrs. Smith’s office when I saw the Veronica creature was his.

  “But I don’t understand,” I say.

  “He did it because he could,” she says coldly. “This is the kind of thing Toby does for sport.” I feel oddly betrayed. Toby is back to studying his shoelaces.

  “But,” Veronica continues, “there’s a lesson here: Don’t jump to conclusions, because usually they’re wrong. Got it?”

  I nod. I can’t look at either of them. I’m too humiliated. How could he?

  “Say it,” she commands.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I repeat.

  “Well, aren’t you so smart?” She abruptly turns her back on me as if I’m no longer there. I attempt a fetal position on the couch. “Toby, give her the lecture, will you? I can’t take any more of this.” She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

  The room goes totally silent. Toby fidgets uncomfortably. “Listen,” he says finally. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to, you know, make you faint and stuff.”

  “Yes you did,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

  “Whatever. What are you supposed to tell me?” I want to get this over with so I can maybe go throw up in or at least throw myself into the Cavanaugh Meditative Fountain.

  Toby regroups and stands up straighter. “Okay,” he says. “Pay attention. When you go back to school, act normal. Say nothing about what you’ve heard here today to anyone. That includes all those girls you hang around with.”

  Well, that’s easy. Because I’m never talking to those girls again. None of this would be happening if they hadn’t blabbed about my escape.

  Toby glances at his watch. “It’s six thirty. You can probably go back to bed for fifteen minutes if you hurry up. We’ll meet again tonight to talk about the plan. Eleven o’clock. Here.”

  And now for the question I asked way back when I opened my eyes but nobody seemed particularly concerned with answering, which is, “And where exactly is ‘here’?”

  “The catacombs,” Toby says. “Of course.”

  Chapter 9

  The Catacombs. Which Aren’t Anything Like Ancient Rome.

  I DO GO BACK TO bed for fifteen minutes, and I must fall asleep because I wake abruptly to Charlotte poking me in the face.

  “Hey!” she yells. “Open your eyes already! What’re you doing here? What happened to running away?”

  “I changed my mind,” I mumble.

  Izumi bounces on my bed. “You what?”

  “Changed my mind! I couldn’t do it to Jennifer,” I say. “She’d be so disappointed if I got kicked out.”

  “And that actually bothered you?”

  “Yes!” I yell. Which one of them got me busted? They act surprised to see me, but someone is faking. I glare at my friends. They don’t notice.

  “Well, you’d better get up,” Charlotte says. “We’re late for breakfast.”

  I move through my day like an ant in molasses. Every student I pass could be a spy. My head swirls with fragments of information and innuendo. What is this all about? Who are these people? Where is Jennifer? Do they have a plan? Do I get to hear it tonight? The questions pile up with no answers in sight. In Beginning Concepts in Physics, Mr. Roberts tells me I look unwell and offers to get me a cup of tea. He’s a supernerd who gets totally excited when discussing gravity and Newton and stuff, but at least he’s nice. And harmless. Unlike Mr. Chin. When I fall asleep at my desk in Chinese History, Mr. Chin throws me out. Mr. Roberts finds me in the hallway, looking confused, and lets me sit in his office until the next class starts. I fall asleep in his chair and drool on myself. Mr. Roberts is kind enough not to mention it. Basically, the whole day is a train wreck.

  At eleven o’clock I’m once again shimmying down the side of my dorm on tied-together bedsheets in the dark because I have no idea how to get out of the locked and alarmed building otherwise and nobody offered up an alternative. I wear all black because it seems like the right thing to do.

  I evade the dogs of death and enter Main Building just as I did the other night when stalking Mrs. Smith. How long ago that feels! How innocent! Boy, could we have been more wrong about Veronica or what?

  When I left the catacombs with Toby this very morning, we exited via the enormous stone fireplace in Mrs. Smith’s office. First, we left the shiny, white-walled rooms of the Center and entered a narrow dark hallway that looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed since the Jurassic era. Cobwebs wrapped around my face and legs as we walked, and the weird shadows thrown off by Toby’s flashlight made me jump.

  “Don’t mind the spiders,” Toby said. “They rebuild insanely fast down here. It’s just something we have to live with.”

  I was too busy stumbling over the uneven ground and pretending he didn’t exist to process the spider comment. The whole place had a terrifying carnival-fun-house vibe. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if a psychotic clown leaped out and devoured me. We snaked along for a while, passing through a set of keypad-protected doors and finally arriving at a ladder that seemed to disappear into the darkness above. Toby put the flashlight between his teeth and started climbing. The situation was so ridiculous I giggled.

  “What?” he said, his head at an awkward angle so the beam of light shone right into my eyes.

  “Hey,” I said. “Quit that. You’re blinding me.”

  “Sorry. What’re you laughing about? Most people in your situation don’t laugh.” He started up again.

  “Most people?” I asked.

  “Usually they cry,” he said. “Mrs. Smith says it’s the shock. You didn’t cry.”

  No. But I wanted to. “Is everybody in on this?”

  “Mrs. Smith already answered that question,” Toby said. We trudged up. How long was this ladder, anyway? Where was the elevator? Plus, Toby was not very forthcoming, and I felt he owed me for taking “jerk” to a whole new level.

  Finally, we reached a submarine-style hatch. Toby bumped it with his shoulder and it creaked open. We emerged into a tiny space, barely big enough for both of us, with exposed stone walls and a sandy floor. We couldn’t stand up. And we were too close, New York City subway close. My elbow nailed him in the spine, and he stepped on my foot. We muttered apologies. I started to sweat.

  “Now, where’s that keypad?” Toby ran his hands along the stone walls, his flashlight beam painting loopy circles of light as he searched. “I can never find it. Ah, right. Here it is.” He flipped open a panel s
et in the stone to reveal a keypad. Toby punched in some numbers, one of the walls began to lift into the ceiling, and beautiful, precious light poured in on us. I blinked a bunch of times. “Come on.”

  I followed Toby out of the tomb and into Mrs. Smith’s inner sanctum. It took me a moment to realize we’d come by way of the fireplace. Quickly, Toby flipped up another panel, this one disguised as a fireplace stone, and the wall closed behind us.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Toby said. “So this is the way in and out.”

  “What’s wrong with a door?”

  “Too obvious.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do I get to know the codes?”

  From his pants pocket, Toby pulled a small piece of paper covered in pencil scribbles.

  “They change every month,” he said, handing me the paper. “These are the current ones. Memorize. Destroy.” I giggled again. Cue the Mission: Impossible theme.

  “What?” he asks, annoyed.

  “Nothing,” I said. My eyes watered. “I’ll eat it when I’m done.”

  Toby frowned. “This isn’t a joke, Abby. This is about saving the world. Maybe you want to start taking it seriously.”

  I stared at him. Had he really just said saving the world?

  “From what?” I demanded. “Aliens? Robots? Zombies?”

  “No,” he said, suddenly looking weary. “Bad people, really bad people.”

  If I had been less tired and hungry and angry, I maybe would have asked for an explanation, but instead I stalked off without another word.

  Which I kind of regret right now. For example, I should have asked him which pencil scribble corresponds to what keypad, because if I remember correctly, there are at least five between the Center and me. Not to mention all the hidden panels.

  I make my way down Main Hall, once again staying to the shadows. I have no idea how I’ll explain myself if I get caught.

  Oh, I’m just going down the rabbit hole to get the spy plan from the girl we all thought was dead, who just happens to hate my guts, and our terrifying headmaster so I can help find my mother and save the world, although I’m not clear exactly from what. Sure. That will work.

  I arrive at Mrs. Smith’s massive office door and silently push inside. The office is dark except for the glow of a desk lamp. For all the rules at Smith about cleanliness and tidiness, Mrs. Smith’s desk is a mess.

  Is this room monitored? Are they watching me right now? I do some jazz hands just for my own amusement. I walk around behind the massive desk. The world looks different from back here. It’s like standing on the bridge of a ship. I sit in her chair. It’s uncomfortable, with no cushion and a hard back. No wonder she paces.

  Papers are piled high. I spot a folder with my name on it. Abigail Hunter. I have to open it. Anyone would, right? Inside I find last year’s school picture and a biography of all the exciting things that have happened in my twelve years of life, like being born. I flip to the next sheet. It’s my application for admission, filled out and sent off, without my permission or knowledge, by my mother. Most of it is blank, and there’s no personal essay, which, according to the application, is mandatory. As folders go, this one is pretty thin. Again I wonder, What am I doing here? They never interviewed me and asked the all-important question that is always asked in school interviews: What dead person in history would you like to have dinner with? I’m a little disappointed to have missed out on that one because I would have said Sherlock Holmes, although I’m not sure fictional characters count.

  Next to the folder is a pencil sketch on a creased piece of paper. I recognize the rough edges of this paper. It’s what the man was waving around at Mrs. Smith the other night. It’s a finely detailed pencil drawing of a statue of a woman. More important, it’s one of the sketches Jennifer makes when she’s on the phone or daydreaming. Our refrigerator is covered with half-drawn faces and flowers and rainbows and cats with long, weird whiskers. But how did a piece of my mother’s refrigerator art end up here and what did it have to do with the conversation between the man and Mrs. Smith? Before I can dig further, the fireplace rumbles and Toby emerges.

  “Oh,” he says, surprised. “I thought maybe you got lost or couldn’t read my writing or messed up the codes or something.”

  I leap out from behind the desk as if I just got electrocuted. “Nope. Just, um, getting ready to go down there and get all over whatever it is we’re doing down there.”

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You look funny.”

  “I’m totally fine,” I insist, charging ahead of him into the fireplace. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to get started!”

  “Well, now I know something’s wrong with you,” he says. But he follows me as I begin to descend the ladder into the darkness.

  At least this time when we reach our destination, I’m on my feet rather than flat on my back. This is a plus. Not that it puts me at ease exactly. “The first time I came down here, I kind of freaked,” Toby says. Yes. “Freaked” is a nice word for it.

  We walk the length of the room, around the couch where I sat just this morning, and through another door I didn’t even realize was there. On the other side is a smaller room with a table. Siting at the table are Mrs. Smith and Veronica.

  “You made it,” Mrs. Smith says, as if this were in question.

  “You have cobwebs in your hair,” Veronica says. She’s so nice. I just bet we’re going to be great friends someday. Like never.

  I tell myself to shake it off. I’m here to find out what’s going on with Jennifer. That’s it. Nothing else matters.

  Chapter 10

  Where I’m Made an Offer I Can’t Refuse.

  MRS. SMITH STANDS UP. “Thank you for joining us,” she says, as if this meeting were optional. “I thought we’d bring you up to speed on the plan, although it’s still rather amorphous.”

  Toby messes with a laptop on the big steel table and all nine screens on the wall slide together to make one giant image of what looks like a flight itinerary. Jennifer Hunter. February 18, four days ago, which is when her daily texts to me stopped. John F. Kennedy International Airport to Charles de Gaulle in Paris. Business-class seat. Free Wi-Fi. Meal service.

  “France?” I ask.

  “It was about the Ghost,” Veronica says.

  “The Ghost?” I sound like a demented parrot.

  “The Ghost is a dangerous man,” Mrs. Smith says. “Wanted all over the world by everybody.”

  “What did he do?” I ask.

  “Do?” Mrs. Smith stares at me. “‘Doing’ is more accurate. He ruins people.” I fidget at the edge of the table. “Sit down, Abigail. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I take a seat.

  “Jennifer’s obsessed with the Ghost,” Veronica says. “Always has been.”

  “You might call him her nemesis,” Mrs. Smith adds.

  “Seriously?” I clearly didn’t even know my mother well enough to know she had a nemesis.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Smith says.

  I have a hard time imagining Jennifer hating anyone, or even being that angry. Sure, she doesn’t like it when I get in trouble at school or leave wet towels on the bathroom floor or put an almost-empty milk container back in the refrigerator, but it’s more annoyance than anger. What has this Ghost guy done to earn her wrath? I can imagine some very bad things.

  “So why don’t you guys stop him from doing whatever it is he does?” I ask.

  Toby snorts. “You think it’s that easy? Believe me, we’ve tried everything.”

  “But the Ghost is unique,” Mrs. Smith continues. She fingers the office key around her neck. It glows in the harsh lighting.

  “We don’t even know what he looks like,” Veronica adds. “Jennifer searched for him for, like, years until you screwed things up.�
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  Mrs. Smith waves her off. “Veronica’s sensitive,” she says, as if that explains anything. “Jennifer was the Center’s primary on the Ghost, but after you were born, she was asked to help with less urgent matters. A parent is inherently . . . compromised.” There’s an edge to her voice I’ve never heard before, as if she’d like to give Jennifer Hunter, once spy girl rather than spy mom, a smack in the face. “But unbeknownst to us, Jennifer continued her search. She never stopped looking for the Ghost’s weakness. His soft spot. A way to bring him to his knees.”

  You know how when you place the last few pieces of a puzzle, suddenly the whole picture comes into focus? The little bits of blue and white are now obviously clouds and sky and the long tan streaks against a brown background are kitten whiskers. It all makes sense. I have that experience now, except it’s not a puzzle, it’s my life.

  I have been everywhere. I have extra pages stapled into the back of my passport. I’ve been to places I can’t pronounce. My little red wheelie suitcase is dented and cracked. I thought nothing of Jennifer rousting me in the middle of the night to catch a totally unexpected flight to, say, London. She made her living as a courier for “important things,” as she described it, and being dragged halfway around the world was my ordinary. She pulled me out of bed for Marrakesh and Calgary and Tokyo and Cape Town. We went to Los Angeles and Athens and Ljubljana (that’s the capital of Slovenia). And why not Stockholm, Kansas City, and Prague while we’re at it?

  When we arrived, there would be an appointment, some sort of meeting, always out in the open, and Jennifer would plant me on a bench or by a tree, and there I’d sit until she was done doing whatever it was she was doing. She always kept the line of sight open so I could see her, but I was never close enough to hear what was said. Typically, there were two or three minutes of conversation and sometimes an exchange of an envelope or a small package, and we’d be right back to playing tourist.

  But if what Mrs. Smith says is true, this wasn’t just Jennifer moving important things around the world. No, it was my mother looking for the Ghost, world-class bad guy, with me as her unwitting accomplice. What sort of mother does that?