A Spy Like Me

  Sixteen

  After running several blocks, I finally slowed down. My lungs burned. Malcolm started to talk but I cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He nodded, any hint of a smile disappearing.

  I turned down one street and then the other with no direction in my mind. Aimee and I often roamed Paris, talking until we found a spot we liked. But she wasn’t here. And by tonight I might be in jail.

  Malcolm kept his eyes trained forward as if he were obsessed with the large red rose on the lady’s hat ahead of us. I’d pissed him off, but I didn’t care. It was better he knew the real me—the sweet, the silly, and the crab. For the umpteenth time that day I had to fight the urge to pull out my phone and text Aimee.

  Malcolm quickened his stride. “We completed our mission. Hopefully, Peyton will lead us right to Aimee.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  I remembered the time Aimee and I’d wondered how many cafés we could visit in one day and still get our work done. We’d sampled about every croissant, tart, and scone in Paris. Then we’d spent the next week eating nothing but celery to lose the extra weight.

  “What’s the next plan of action if Peyton ends up a dead end?” Malcolm asked.

  He pointed to a cute café with a blue-striped canopy, signaling us to stop. I shook my head and kept walking. That day with Aimee, we’d forgotten which shops we’d visited, and when we tallied our list at the end of the day, we’d had five repeats.

  Malcolm spoke louder. “Because we still can’t be one hundred percent sure that Peyton is our man.”

  I glared at him. “Thanks for the professional analysis.”

  I kept walking, leaving him with the sting of my words. Why did I feel like such a crab, pincers and all? Pretty soon, a dirty grey shell would start growing over my back and antennae would sprout.

  “If Peyton is our man, will we go to your dad or the French authorities? It’s not like Peyton is French. The French police might just laugh in our faces.”

  “Probably,” I answered.

  Malcolm’s frustration was increasing, and right when I was listing in my head the different punishments the French could throw at me for breaking and entering, he gripped my arm and pushed me up against the glass front of a cute but super-expensive boutique just for hats.

  His flushed face was close to mine. “You’re supposed to be training me for the next Spy Games, but instead you’re walking aimlessly around Paris.”

  His lips tightened and a muscle twitched in his jaw. He was millimeters from my face. All I had to do was pucker up, and we’d be smooching like French lovers. He could grow a twirly mustache and wear a beret, and I could whisper Je t’aime and forget about all of this.

  “You’re the trainer. What’s the lesson here?” he asked.

  He needed an answer. I could’ve told him that to live the life of a spy, you had to deal with people’s idiosyncrasies, with wandering the streets and missing the people you loved like moms and best friends. I blinked away my tears and hardened my face. My words came out as a whisper as my throat closed up.

  “After especially hard or draining missions, it’s important to relax and refuel.”

  He didn’t move back, and we stood there face-to-face, lips almost touching, both of us breathing a bit abnormally. The crowds of people passed us by. The bell above the boutique door jingled. A baby cried. A slight breeze stole between us. Thoughts of Peyton and prison time faded, and I curled his hair around my finger.

  “You know, you’re awfully cute when you’re ticked off,” I said.

  Malcolm tilted his head, and his face softened as if suddenly he understood the female brain. He traced his thumb across my lips.

  “And you, Savvy Bent, are sexy when trying to act like you don’t give a damn.”

  With both hands on his chest, I pushed him away and broke the spell. I didn’t want to feel that close to someone who would just leave me later.

  “Don’t you have to go to work?” I asked.

  He smiled a warm and cocky grin. “Why yes, I do.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “someday you’ll have to admit you like me,” before he turned and walked away.

  “I’ll text you about our next training,” I yelled.

  “Whatever.” He didn’t look back.

  Two days later, I woke up a total grump. I wasn’t even close to finding a creative pastry recipe for the Extravaganza. Peyton’s trackers showed nothing unusual, and I had no clue what to do next. I stayed in my flannel nightgown, which I’d dug out of the bottom of my dresser after walking in on Malcolm in my kitchen. Flannel nightgowns are highly underrated, soft and comforting. I didn’t shower or brush my hair, and I raided almost every single carb we had stored in the cupboard. Dad left early for Spy Games business, so looking like a granny, I pondered how uncooked rice would taste. I checked the remote showing the position of Peyton’s trackers. Again. Each hour gnawed away at the faith that I’d find Aimee.

  I finally showered and threw on my dad’s oversized white T-shirt that said “pastry chef” and a pair of jeans. I spent a few hours whipping egg whites into a meringue, dicing strawberries, and attempting to turn confectioner’s sugar into frosting. All combinations of ingredients failed epically. This was crazy. How in the world of French pastries would I beat out top chefs? Insanity. I wished a best selling recipe had been included in the package.

  Underneath the superficial worries about what frosting to use were thoughts of Mom’s package I’d opened. Why did I have to take that guy’s picture? What was it really all about? My gut said it was more than it seemed, and I needed to demand she tell me everything.

  Finally, after my second failed attempt at making the perfect tart, I kicked the wall. It was so useless. Following stupid instructions didn’t bring me any closer to Mom. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be close to her.

  “Savvy?”

  “Dad? I didn’t hear you come in.” I didn’t want to talk to him about any of this.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Um, yeah.” I waved at my face. “It’s just hot in here.”

  Dad shifted from foot to foot and glanced toward his office, his escape, and then back at me like he knew he should say something. He stepped closer.

  “You know, sometimes the more time that passes, the more we feel the effects of a different culture.”

  I nodded like the dutiful daughter. Yeah, I guess that could be part of the problem, but ever since I’d seen my mom, the feelings about her that I’d pushed down had gurgled up like air bubbles in a cheesecake. And I didn’t even know if cheesecake could get air bubbles.

  “Why did Mom leave?”

  “Your mom would have to explain that.”

  “Mom’s not here. Try.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes people need a break to figure things out. She’ll be back.”

  I didn’t dare glance up because I didn’t want to see the truth. “So the split isn’t permanent?”

  Dad’s silence told me everything. Finally, he said, “Only time will tell.” He wiped a smudge of frosting off my nose. “Why the sudden interest in cooking?”

  I didn’t want to tell him I knew Spy Games was struggling or that if I won the contest I could go on to try for the prize money.

  “A hobby to keep me busy between Spy Games.”

  “Good idea.” He put his finger under my chin and lifted my head up. “You can do anything you set your mind to, whether you ever make the perfect croissant or not.”

  I blinked back the tears blurring my vision. Wow, the second time in a week Dad had talked to me about something other than Spy Games. I bit my lip, then spoke.

  “Bet I can beat you in chess?”

  A light that I hadn’t seen in weeks flickered in his eyes. He glanced at the table and I could sense the flooding memories. Happy ones. When Mom, Dad and I were a family.

  The light faded, and he cleared his throat. “Not tonight. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on.
”

  He turned his back to me, his shoulders hunched. I struggled to hold back the words churning in my mind. Dad expected me to take his brush-off in stride and go read a book or something, and the daughter he knew and had lived with for eighteen years would’ve done that. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. That girl wouldn’t be searching for her best friend. That girl wouldn’t dare stick up for herself. And that girl wouldn’t challenge her dad.

  “You can’t ignore me forever!” I shouted.

  Dad stopped. Slowly, he turned and faced me, his face worn and weary. “Savvy, I’m not ignoring you. I’m trying to get this business off the ground and provide for you.”

  “Sure, right.”

  Why did I feel guilty for wanting to spend time with my dad? The next few hours sucked. I pulled out our travel pack of games—checkers, Backgammon, and chess—and played against myself. I imagined the conversation I could’ve had with my dad where I’d learn all of Mom’s past secrets, especially the one about her penchant for dressing in costume and her problem with paranoia.

  That could be why I never noticed the knock on the door or the fact that someone had entered without me even knowing it.