The Doublecross: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy

  “No,” I said. “But we aren’t at SRS, Walter.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re . . . at League headquarters.”

  Walter’s eyelids snapped open and he jumped up. Or at least, he tried to—the gym mat that he was on was squishy, so he sank, lost his footing, and toppled over to the side. Ben and Kennedy had to leap out of the way.

  “Walter, stop—stop!” I shouted as he found his footing and spun around, panicked. He looked like some sort of wild animal, ready to charge at whomever he needed to in order to escape being caught. His eyes landed on Beatrix. I could see him determining she would be the easiest to barrel through. So I dived on top of him.

  “Get off me!” he roared as I tackled him back onto the mat. Kennedy, seeing that he was about to get away, dived on top of me, flinging red hair all in my eyes and knocking the wind out of me.

  “What are you two doing?” Walter shouted, trying to twist away. He sounded terrified, and I couldn’t help but remember the first time I was in The League—before I knew that the scariest thing in this building was the back of the cafeteria’s fridge.

  “Just listen! Walter. Listen,” I said, making my voice calm. “It’s not what you think. If you just listen, we’ll get off you.”

  Walter stopped, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he was willing to listen or because he was just out of breath. Kennedy eased off me and then I slowly eased off Walter, holding my palms out like I was steadying a vase. Walter’s eyes stayed on Oleander, Clatterbuck, and the twins, darting between all of them.

  “They’re League agents? That lady—she was our driver. She’s a League agent?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m actually the director,” Oleander said. I cringed and then dived back on top of Walter before he had a chance to run again.

  It took another ten minutes to convince him not to run, and even then, he only agreed to stand still if everyone from The League took six steps backward. It seemed a reasonable compromise.

  “You’re working with The League? Hale. They took your parents,” Walter said, looking horrified.

  “They didn’t, though. That’s what I’m saying. I broke into this place to look for them, and all I found were Beatrix, Ben, and a bunch of old gym equipment.”

  “You broke into League headquarters?” Walter asked, and I shrugged. He shook his head. “No, no. You’re crazy. You and Kennedy both. Maybe Fishburn will let this go; maybe you’re just traumatized over your parents getting compromised. I’ll tell him you did well on the last mission. I’ll put in a good word with Otter, even. But . . . you doublecrossed SRS. Hale, you know what they do to doublecrossers.”

  I looked over to Ben; he nodded and handed me the printout from SRS that I’d asked him to have on hand for this. I unfolded it and gave it to Walter.

  “And this is what they do to their loyal agents, Walter. They put my parents In the Weeds.”

  Walter’s eyes widened. He rubbed the paper between his fingers and then flapped it a little, trying to tell if it was a fake. When he realized it wasn’t, his eyes went wider.

  “SRS wants my parents dead—my parents. The most loyal agents in the world. The Team. The League aren’t the bad guys—they’re barely even functioning these days. Look around. This isn’t an elite spy facility. It’s barely even a facility. Come on, Walter—you know me, or at least, you used to. Do you really think I’m the type to do something this crazy without being sure?”

  A long pause settled over the room. Then hoarsely Walter said, “No.”

  I took a deep breath. “All right. Well, then. This is Dr. Oleander. That’s Beatrix. She’s a computer genius, basically. She wrote an entire sub-program overnight a few weeks ago. And that’s her brother, Ben. Ben invented the BEN Seeing You thing that I zapped you with—”

  “Have you seen any spots, by the way?” Ben asked.

  “Uh, no,” Walter answered.

  “Oh. Well, if you see some spots, don’t worry. It’s all part of the process.”

  “Great,” Walter said, sounding defeated. His eyes rose to Clatterbuck.

  “And I’m Stan Clatterbuck, their uncle,” Clatterbuck said, grinning broadly and extending a hand to Walter. I probably should have suggested he take his race car driver costume off before making the introduction.

  Walter shook Clatterbuck’s hand weakly, like the man was maybe just a figment of his imagination. I sighed. “Can I talk to Walter alone for a minute, guys?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Nice to meet you, Walter!” Beatrix called out as they filed out of the gym. “Hale, could you check the time when he sees those spots? We need to log it!”

  I walked over and dropped down on the mat beside Walter. He kept folding and unfolding the SRS printout.

  “I know it’s hard to believe.”

  Walter finally put the printout down. “I always wondered why I couldn’t be a chef.”

  I blinked. This was not the response I’d expected.

  Walter continued, “I mean, I’m not saying I want to be a chef. But I get nervous in the field, and then it took me ages and ages to even be able to do half the physical stuff, and I’m still no good with languages, and I just . . . I always wondered if I could be something else. So one time I asked my mom.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said that I was going to be an SRS agent, and that was all there was to it. Then she said I should be more like you, actually. Even when you were terrible at something, you were always trying to get better at it. You always cared so much. You wanted to be a field agent so bad.”

  “Yeah, and look where all that got me,” I scoffed. “My parents are In the Weeds, my sister and I are traitors, and I still can’t run a mile.”

  “But you still quit SRS,” Walter said.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Anyhow,” Walter went on, “ever since then I’ve wondered what kind of place doesn’t let people quit. So I guess it’s not really surprising that the answer is: a bad place.”

  Walter looked around, taking in the crappy gym equipment, the closet full of Ben’s inventions, the outdated fitness posters on the walls. “Did you know League headquarters looked like this before you broke in?”

  “No,” I answered. “I was expecting SRS. But The League hasn’t had a mission in years.”

  Walter frowned. “They must be doing some sort of spying on us, though. That Oleander lady knew Agent Smith was in Tactical Support.”

  “Smith? That was a lucky guess on a common name. Seriously, Walter—it’s nothing like we thought. No heavy artillery, no war rooms, no undercover ops, no junior agents, even. The League is just . . . well . . . this,” I said, motioning to the dilapidated gym.

  Walter licked his lips as he looked around. “So. You thought The League was everything we’ve been told, and you came anyway. Wow, Hale. Imagine what Michael and Cameron would think if they knew—”

  I cringed at the mention of the Foreheads. “You can’t tell them. Walter, you can’t tell anyone. It’s too dangerous.”

  Walter lifted an eyebrow. “People should know, Hale. I mean, this changes everything. Besides, you told Kennedy. Can’t I tell my mom?”

  “No—she might already know, Walter. She might be in on the whole thing. She’s assistant director! There’s no way to know for sure. We can’t risk it.”

  Walter opened his mouth to argue, but then he shut it firmly. He looked crushed, but he knew I was right. He licked his lips again, and then said, “Okay, but clearly, none of the kids at SRS know. I bet some of the junior agents could help you. I mean, if some of those guys knew about you breaking in here, if they realized what all you’ve done—”

  “I’m sure they’d still find plenty of reasons to call me Hale the Whale,” I cut him off, growing frustrated. “I’m not trusting my life with a bunch of jerks who hate me, Walter.”

  Walter’s face dropped. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, he was quiet. “Look, Hale. I didn’t mean to s
top being your friend last year, exactly. I just . . . all of a sudden, I was good at things. It was, like, all that time I spent worrying about being a disappointment . . . Suddenly it didn’t matter. Do you know what that’s like? And then they wanted me to be their friend, and all of a sudden people were looking up to me and liking me and wanting to hang out with me.”

  “I wanted to hang out with you from the start.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . it’s not that easy, I guess. When everything you’ve ever tried to be falls into your lap, it’s hard to let things stay the way they’ve always been. It was nice to be . . . Well, cool. It was nice to be cool for once. And we really were just kidding most of the time, like I said earlier.”

  “It wasn’t funny,” I answered, folding my arms, and Walter turned an uneasy shade of pink.

  “Yeah . . . I just . . . well, I’m sorry. I really am. I’ve been sorry for a long time, actually, but I just didn’t know how to say it.”

  Here was the thing: Walter was a jerk. I mean, I knew it, and I was sure he knew it. There wasn’t really anything he could say to me to undo all the times he’d called me Fail Hale alongside the Foreheads the past year. It would take a long time for me to get over that. But even though I wasn’t ready to be Walter’s friend again, we at least had to watch each other’s back—because we were on the same team now, like it or not. I exhaled. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Oleander probably had the receptionist order pizza. I don’t think she knows what else kids eat.”

  “You get pizza here?” Walter asked incredulously as he rose and followed me out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kennedy snuck back into SRS through one of the service elevators. Since Walter and I had supposedly been on a mission that went very, very south, we had to come back in through the front door and pretend like we’d only just made it back from Nelson Academy. Fishburn and Otter jumped on us immediately, demanding explanations. It was an astoundingly easy story—we just told the truth, save for the very last part about how we got away. I watched Walter carefully, worried he would crack and tell them about The League, but no. He held it together, spinning a story about how we got a ride back to SRS via a friendly cabdriver and three train stowaways.

  “You mean to tell me that Hale Jordan is fast enough and strong enough to jump on a moving train?” Otter asked witheringly.

  “I helped him,” Walter snorted. “Obviously.”

  I grimaced. We’d agreed that it would look suspect for Walter to suddenly stop mocking me, which meant back at SRS, he was still the same old Walter who everyone had come to expect in the past year.

  “We got these, though,” I said, pulling the stolen files from my uniform and handing them to Fishburn.

  “Oh!” Fishburn said, surprised. “Is this all of them?” I nodded. “Well. This is a huge step for Operation Evergreen then, though I can’t say I’m very pleased to hear you two wrecked what was supposed to be a clean mission. Nelson Sports Academy is on every news station in the country.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Walter and I said in unison.

  “Still, I’m impressed that you managed to get out, and even more impressed that you kept your identities and the information private. Well done, both of you. Now . . . we’ll continue to work on Operation Evergreen, but at this point, I’d like for you both to help us out with an upcoming mission.”

  “Sir,” Otter said stiffly. “Hale Jordan still hasn’t passed his junior agent exam—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But he’s done quite well in the field thus far. I’d like to continue this experiment. Perhaps our physical requirements need to be reevaluated,” Fishburn said.

  Otter looked like he very much wanted to bury himself in some sort of hole. Fishburn ignored him.

  “We’ll be giving out briefings on the new project over the next few days. It’s exciting work, though—and your particular role involves parts only people your age can play, so we’re very fortunate to have so many trained and qualified junior agents. I’m looking forward to it,” Fishburn said.

  “What’s the new project called, sir? If you don’t mind my asking,” Walter asked.

  Fishburn had already returned to reading the thick stack of papers on his desk. “The upcoming one? It’s called Project Groundcover.”

  Walter and I walked back toward the apartments in near silence. I could tell he was still processing everything, and even though I wanted to ask—just to make sure—if he planned on telling anyone about The League, I decided I had to just trust that he wouldn’t. It wasn’t easy, and my stomach was swirling when we split off and I finished the trek to our apartment alone.

  Inside, I heard the screech of tape being pulled off a roll. I frowned and pushed the door open.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, a deadened mixture of horror and anger ripping through me. It was Ms. Elma. She was in the middle of our living room, taping shut a box that, if the label on the side was accurate, was full of JUNK FROM THE LIVING ROOM DRAWERS.

  “Calm down, Hale. You knew my staying here was only temporary.”

  “So you’re packing up our apartment?” I shouted. I rushed over and stepped between her and the box of my parents’ things.

  “We’re just putting things in storage for now. As soon as your parents are found, we’ll help them move everything back—”

  I hollowed with realization. Packing up our apartment, moving on . . . Did this mean SRS had finally found and killed my parents? My voice shook violently. “Wait—has anything happened? Did we hear anything about them?”

  “No!” Ms. Elma said. “There’s been no news. But I need to get back to my own responsibilities, so I can’t babysit you any longer. You and Kennedy will need to move into the dorms.”

  Kennedy suddenly emerged from her bedroom, face puffy and tear-stained.

  “She says I have to put all my posters in a box,” she said, spitting the words at Ms. Elma.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s just temporary, okay? They won’t be there long.”

  This did little to console Kennedy, who had a meltdown at the idea of putting any of her posters in boxes. I helped her take down her posters and carefully roll them, and together we selected which of her many pom-poms could be packed and which had to stay with her. Ms. Elma continued to pack up the living room and kitchen, treating things so casually that I almost—and I mean almost—went and used the BEN Seeing You on her. When she started toward my parents’ bedroom with a giant box in hand, I stopped her.

  “Don’t touch their things. I’ll do it,” I said, and to my surprise, Ms. Elma looked startled—maybe even a little afraid.

  “I’ll help,” Kennedy said. Ms. Elma glanced in Kennedy’s room and saw it was still mostly a mess of neon and doll hair, but she shrugged and went back to packing up our silverware. I shut the door to our parents’ room so that we couldn’t hear the sound of the clanging, and Kennedy and I stared, unsure where to start.

  “Maybe just the boring stuff first,” she finally said. “Like the socks.”

  That seemed liked a good enough place, so we put the box between us, opened our parents’ sock drawer, and then began slowly dropping the socks in one at a time.

  “Hale. I’m going to pass my junior agent test tomorrow.”

  “Of course you will. You’re great,” I said, trying to smile.

  “And when I do, you have to let me help you at . . . The . . .” She didn’t say the word “League” out loud, which I appreciated. “You have to. Otherwise there’s no point to me being a junior agent at all, because I’m not going to help SRS. I don’t want to be a bad guy.”

  I stopped, fiddling with the sock in my hands. “It’s just that it’s so dangerous, Kennedy. You’re only nine.”

  “You’re only twelve.”

  “You still sleep with a stuffed hedgehog.”

  “Don’t bring Tinsel into this,” she said.

  “Okay, you’re really, um . . . small?” br />
  “And you don’t look much like a spy yourself,” Kennedy said, but she said so in a way that was totally unlike the way Otter would have said it. She tilted her chin up proudly. “But it’s okay, Hale. Real heroes don’t always look like heroes, remember?”

  For my little sister, she was awfully smart sometimes.

  The SRS dormitories were above the cafeteria and, truth be told, they weren’t horrible. Everyone had their own very tiny bedroom, with a shared shower for boys and another for girls at the end of the hall.

  “It’ll be all right, Kennedy. You’re down the hall in room twenty-three thirty-four. Want me to carry your bag?” Agent Farley asked—he was this week’s dorm parent. Kennedy shook her head, and I gave Agent Farley a sort of meek smile before he turned around and walked away. Kennedy and I made our way toward her room, past dozens of open doors. Inside each, watching us knowingly, were familiar faces—people from various grades who I knew by virtue of how small a community SRS was, but also Emily, one of Kennedy’s friends, and Stewart and Merilee, who were twins in my class. Emily dashed from her room to hug Kennedy tightly as we made our way down the hall.

  “It’s not so bad here,” Emily whispered before releasing her. Kennedy didn’t seem to really hear her, whereas I felt like I was hearing Emily’s voice over and over in my head. Not her words, exactly, but how sad she sounded. Here was a whole floor of kids whose parents were gone, some forever, and for what? They might have been just like our parents—they might have not realized SRS was evil. Or maybe they had realized, and that was why they’d been eliminated.

  I never thought I had anything at all in common with the dorm kids, but now they were more like Kennedy and me than anyone else in this horrible place. I swallowed, because if I didn’t, I might have shouted everything I knew. Just run through the halls, yelling it, telling everyone, warning them that the organization they worked for was nothing like it seemed . . .

  “Do you want help setting your room up?” I asked Kennedy as I dropped her off at her door. I tried to sound somewhat upbeat, but I failed pretty miserably.