My eyelids were so heavy, it felt like they were made of steel. I fought to keep them open and took in my surroundings.
I was in a bedroom. A nice bedroom, bigger than mine back home—and several times larger than my dorm room at spy school. But then, I’d been in closets bigger than my dorm room at spy school.
The room was bare save for a twin bed, which I was currently lying on, a dresser, a desk, and my suitcases. Apparently, I’d packed my clothes. Or someone had packed them for me. Except for the suitcases, everything in the room seemed to be brand-new, including the room itself. There wasn’t a scratch on the walls—which smelled faintly of fresh paint—or a stain on the carpet. The bedsheets were crisp and still had the creases that indicated they’d recently come out of the package.
The walls were bare, too, except for a framed inspirational poster: a photo of a mountain climber standing atop a snowy peak and the mantra OPPORTUNITY IS ALWAYS KNOCKING. MOST PEOPLE JUST DON’T OPEN THE DOOR . There was a closet, a private bathroom, and a large window.
The sun was streaming through the blinds from a high angle, indicating it was well into the morning. I generally had an extremely good sense of time, knowing exactly when it was without needing to check my watch—one of the perks of my innate math skills—but it didn’t work so well after I’d been drugged. So I used my watch. It was 10:34 a.m. I’d been out for at least sixteen hours.
I struggled to my feet and started running in place. The best way to fight off a drug haze was to get your blood flowing. The moment my legs began pumping, I felt better.
I jogged over to the window.
Evil spy school didn’t look a thing like I’d expected. I’d figured it would appear, at least in some way, like a campus. Perhaps the classic, Gothic style of the Academy of Espionage—or maybe more architecturally modern—but at least something with stately buildings and gymnasiums and grassy expanses where students could hang out and play ultimate Frisbee. But of course, evil spy school wasn’t like that at all. SPYDER never did anything that anyone expected.
I was in a brand-new gated suburban community. Or at least, it looked like a brand-new gated suburban community. I was on a street lined with homes that were almost identical. There were subtle differences between them, but they were all two stories with tile roofs and wide front porches and manicured lawns. I could tell it was all new because the street was perfectly black, the sidewalks were perfectly white, and the lawns looked like they had been put down that morning. The trees hadn’t had any time to grow: They were mere saplings, sprouting every twenty feet along the road.
A few years before, my parents had considered moving to a community like this. We’d visited several. This looked like every single one of them.
My mind was now cleared from my exertion. Or at least, I thought it was. My surroundings were so odd, part of me wondered if I was hallucinating them.
I tested out the bathroom. After all, it had been more than sixteen hours since I’d last urinated.
The toilet worked perfectly. It was also nice and clean and smelled like ammonia. This was a change from spy school, where the dormitory toilets probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Clinton administration.
Having a private shower was pretty cool, too. The ones at spy school were all shared, which meant cleaning off was rarely relaxing, because someone was always clamoring for you to vacate the stall. Plus, the hot water tended to run out, usually right at the point when you were completely lathered up.
I turned on my sink to check the water. It was nice and hot.
While I was washing my hands, I noticed I was still in the same clothes I’d worn to school the day before. However, something seemed different. I felt my pockets and realized what was wrong: My phone was gone.
I returned to my room and quickly rooted through my suitcases. The phone wasn’t there.
I had no doubt it had been taken from me. Which meant that, for the moment, I had no way to contact anyone on the outside—or determine where on earth I was.
I tried the door to my room, expecting it to be locked.
It wasn’t.
The hall outside was equally new-looking, with fresh carpet and paint. One end led to three other doors, all shut, presumably more bedrooms. From the other end, I could hear someone playing a video game.
I went that way.
The hall led to a staircase, which swept down into a large common area: a kind of living room/family room/kitchen. It looked like teenagers had furnished it. There was foosball, air hockey, and a drum set. Instead of a dining room table, there was a Ping-Pong table, its surface covered with half-eaten bags of chips and unwashed cereal bowls. The only piece of actual furniture was a couch, which was oriented directly at the largest television I’d ever seen.
A kid who appeared to be around fifteen years old was slumped on the couch, playing the video game I’d heard. I didn’t recognize the game, but it was some sort of air combat simulator and the kid was extremely good at it, racing fighter jets across digital landscapes and carpet bombing the enemy. He was stick thin with a mop of wiry dark hair, wearing unfashionable glasses and a T-shirt smeared with Day-Glo orange Cheetos dust. His face was a minefield of pimples. His eyes flicked in my direction, but he made no attempt to introduce himself. Or smile. Or be friendly in any way whatsoever.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Ben.”
The kid didn’t respond. He had returned his full attention to the game, where two enemy planes were now attacking him. He dodged them with ease, then launched two missiles into a bridge, which exploded so violently that the entire room was momentarily bathed in red.
I noticed that his lips were moving, but he wasn’t talking to me. He was mumbling softly to himself. It was hard to hear over all the virtual explosions, but it appeared to be a run-on commentary on what he was doing: “Adjustaltitudeemployboostersfindtargetsreadymunitions.”
I tried to engage him again. “I just got here. I’m not sure when, exactly, because I was drugged. It’s nice to meet you.”
This was a lie. It wasn’t really nice to meet the kid at all. It was sort of like meeting a brick.
“Evadeflak,” the kid mumbled. “Lockontargetsbombsaway.”
On the TV, two more missiles detonated, reducing another bridge to dust.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“Nefarious,” the kid said, so quietly I didn’t think I’d heard it right.
“Nefarious?” I repeated.
“That’s his name,” said someone behind me.
I spun around to find a girl there. She looked to be my age and she was exceptionally perky, with a big smile and wide, bright eyes. She was short, but very physically fit. I could tell this right away, because she was wearing a sparkly pink leotard. She also had glitter in her hair.
“His name’s Nefarious?” I asked.
“Right. It’s not his nickname or anything. It’s his real name. Nefarious Jones. And I’m Ashley Sparks. Nice to meet you.” The girl held out a hand. She had rainbows painted on her fingernails.
We shook hands. Ashley’s hand seemed to be only about half the size of mine, but her grip was startlingly strong.
“I’m Ben,” I said. “Ben Ripley.”
“No need to introduce yourself. You’re pretty famous around here, given how much trouble you’ve caused SPYDER over the last year.”
“Oh.” I lowered my eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”
Ashley waved this off. “Hey, they weren’t my missions. Anyhow, it’s swawesome to have you on our side now.”
“Swawesome?” I asked.
“Yeah. Sweet plus awesome. ‘Swawesome.’ Are you hungry? I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
I realized this was true. My stomach was grumbling.
Ashley waved to the kitchen. “Help yourself to anything you want.”
“Not the Cheetos,” Nefarious said quickly.
“Except the Cheetos,” Ashley corrected. “Nefarious is a big old scrooge with his snacks, even th
ough he doesn’t even pay for them. SPYDER covers the bills—and they have a staff that does all the shopping for us, so if there’s anything you want and we don’t have it, just fill out a requisition form and they’ll get it.”
I opened the kitchen cabinets. One was fully stocked with sugared cereal, instant pudding, and a staggering amount of Cheetos. The other was filled with large canisters of powder. I took one out and examined the label. The ingredient list was filled with words I had never seen before, even though I was relatively sure they were English. Ergocalciferol. Phytonadione. Pyrophosphate.
“What is this stuff?” I asked.
“Power Powder!” Ashley exclaimed. “One scoop provides me with all the probiotics, antioxidants, and digestive enzymes I need each day—though I like to throw in a little chia seed to boost my omega-3s. I use it to make energy shakes. Want one? They’re telicious.”
I took a moment to figure that one out. “Tasty plus delicious?”
“Exactly! And they give you a ton of energy! They’re all I eat, every day.”
“Really?” I asked. “You don’t eat food?”
Ashley shook her head. “Oh no. These are better than food.”
I was pretty sure that, as far as meals were concerned, there wasn’t anything better than food, but I kept this to myself. I didn’t want to offend Ashley right after meeting her. “Sounds great, but I’m kind of in the mood for cereal right now. I always want carbs after I’ve been sedated.” I grabbed a box of Lucky Charms, which was the only cereal I could find that didn’t have chocolate flavoring in it. “Is there any fruit?”
“Uh . . . no,” Ashley admitted. “And I think we’re out of milk, too.”
I opened the fridge and confirmed she was right. There was, however, an entire convenience store’s worth of soda.
“Milk wouldn’t have done you any good anyhow,” Ashley said. “I just realized all the bowls are dirty. The maids don’t come until noon.”
“Maids?” I asked.
“Yeah. To clean up after us. You didn’t have maids in spy school?”
“Er . . . no.”
“Ooh. That stinks. Guess you’re even happier that you’re not at that lousy place anymore.”
“I sure am,” I lied.
Nefarious was acting as though we weren’t even there, his full attention riveted on his video game. He was strafing an enemy base, mumbling to himself the whole time. “Avoidenemyfirestaycalmdepresstriggers.” More explosions rocked the room.
“So,” Ashley said. “Have you had a chance to poke around yet, or would you like the tour?”
“A tour would be great.” Seeing as there were no bowls or spoons, I dug a handful of Lucky Charms out of the box. “This is as far as I’ve gotten. I only regained consciousness a few minutes ago.”
“Cool!” Ashley led me across the room. “Obviously, this is the living area. Our bedrooms are all upstairs . . . .”
“There were four rooms up there,” I said. “Does someone else live here?”
Ashley hesitated the tiniest fraction before answering. “Nope. That one’s empty. It’s only the three of us here for now.”
“Where do all the other students live?”
Ashley looked at me curiously. “There are no other students.”
“You mean . . . we’re the entire school?”
“Joshua didn’t tell you?” Ashley laughed. “I guess he thought you knew or something. Yeah, it’s only us here. This is a much more elite organization than the CIA. That place will let practically anyone in. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But SPYDER’s different. They’re not recruiting future desk jockeys here. Our projects are complex and devious, requiring exceptionally intelligent employees with highly specialized skill sets. It’s harder to get into SPYDER than it is to become an astronaut. You can’t just be the cream of the crop. You have to be the cream of the cream of the cream. So you should be darn proud of yourself for making the cut. Plus, SPYDER doesn’t want to be some giant, bureaucratic organization anyhow. They want to stay lean and mean and under the radar. There’s not many people in it, period.”
“How many?”
Ashley shrugged. “No idea. That’s confidential. But most of the people you see working around here: security guards, maids, groundskeepers, and such . . . They’re not official SPYDER employees. In fact, they don’t even know SPYDER exists. They’re just subcontractors who think they’ve been hired by a legitimate homeowner’s association. Okay, here’s the gym.” She led me into a surprisingly large room. There were treadmills, stationary bikes, and a weight bench—although most of the space was given to gymnastic equipment: uneven bars, a balance beam, a pommel horse, a trampoline, and a lot of tumbling mats.
Suddenly, the leotard made sense. “You’re a gymnast?” I asked.
“I was.” For the first time, the smile faded from Ashley’s face. Her eyes narrowed.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
“Something didn’t,” Ashley said. “I tried out for the U.S. Olympic team—and didn’t make it. I came in sixth. You’ve never heard of me?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Exactly. No one ever hears about the sixth best gymnast in the United States. They only hear about the five best. The ones who get to go on and represent the country. Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your whole life working toward a goal, ten hours a day, seven days a week, giving up any semblance of a normal life, putting everything you have into it . . . and then not getting it?”
“Sort of. I just got booted from the CIA.”
“Well, imagine you’d been training for that since you were four. It totally blinks.”
“Blows plus stinks?”
“Yes. And it blinks big-time. I came in sixth by one hundredth of a point. One judge thought I didn’t stick the landing on the dismount from my balance beam routine, even though I did. I totally stuck it. But that’s gymnastics for you. One lousy hundredth of a point makes all the difference between living your dreams—and having them dashed to pieces. Sure, they say you can come back and try out again in another four years, but you know they’re only snowing you. By then you’ll be four years older and there’ll be a whole new crop of younger gymnasts who can’t wait to crush your dreams again. I didn’t want to spend another four years setting up for another heartbreak. But I didn’t know what else to do either.”
“So you turned to crime?” I asked.
“Sure did!” The anger seemed to evaporate from Ashley, and she was suddenly chipper as a chipmunk again. “I took all that rage and hatred and bad energy and refocused it into this. Joshua came to recruit me right after the trials. Apparently, it’s a pretty common route from Olympic sports to crime. I hear one of the higher-ups at SPYDER is a decathlete who barely missed the cut a few decades ago.” Ashley led me back into the main room and shut the gym door.
Nefarious had paused his air raid mission to get another bag of Cheetos. Now that he was standing, I could see he was far less physically impressive than Ashley. His legs were as skinny as chopsticks. He looked like a strong breeze could knock him over.
“Ashley just told me her story,” I said. “What’s yours? Why are you studying to be a criminal?”
Nefarious didn’t make eye contact. He stared at the floor instead. For a moment, I thought he was going to return to his game and start mumbling again, but instead he said, “My parents named me Nefarious. What else was I supposed to do?”
“That’s it?” I asked.
Nefarious shrugged, then headed for the couch again. As he did, though, he shot a sidelong glance at me, allowing me to catch the look in his eye. He seemed livid. Maybe it was the thought of his parents, or the idea of his own ridiculous name—or maybe he was angry at me for bringing it all up. But whatever the reason, it was extremely unsettling.
“Let’s go see the rec center!” Ashley suggested.
“There’s a rec center?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh yeah!
It’s swawesome! Want to come, Nefarious?”
Nefarious made a noncommittal noise. It sounded like “Mneh.” Then he plopped back in front of the TV and resumed his game.
“Okay. See you later, then.” Ashley found a pair of sweatpants in a wad by the front door and yanked them on before leading me outside. “You’re gonna love the Rec,” she said as we crossed the lawn. “It’s so much fun. There’s a spa and bowling alleys and a rock-climbing wall and a pool with two water slides.”
“Wow.” My excitement was genuine. “Our pool at spy school didn’t have water slides.”
“Really? What did it have?”
“Bacterial contamination. They had to shut it down last spring. A couple kids who’d gone swimming ended up covered with hives. They looked like raspberries in Speedos.”
Ashley giggled, which was kind of weird. I hadn’t expected someone training to be a criminal mastermind to giggle. “Guess you’re happy you transferred here, huh?” she asked.
“I sure am.” This time, I didn’t have to try quite as hard to lie.
Now that we were outside our house, I saw that it looked pretty much like all the others. The homes across the street had yards that backed up against the wall surrounding the property. Meanwhile, the houses on our side backed up to a large common space. We took a landscaped path that ran past our neighbors to get to it.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“A little over a year,” Ashley replied. “And Nefarious came a few months before me.”
“And it’s been only the two of you training for that whole time?”
“Yeah. So it’s pretty exciting to have someone new here. Someone fun.” Ashley grinned widely and batted her eyes.
She was cute, which made me uneasy. “How do you know I’m fun?”
“Anyone’s fun compared to Nefarious. I mean, he’s nice enough, but frankly, the guy has the personality of an eggplant.”
We emerged into the common area. It looked like the best public park I could have ever imagined. In addition to several wide lawns, there were brand-new tennis courts, basketball courts, batting cages, and a soccer field.