Thirty-five
Shoes tapped on the kitchen floor. I held my breath. Heat pricked my skin, needles running up and down my arms. Dad normally slams the door and talks to himself. Who was in our apartment?
I slid out of bed, grabbed the heaviest book on my shelf, and stood to the side of my door. My legs shook so hard I could barely stand. Drawers opened in the kitchen. Papers shuffled. What did Jolie or Malcolm think we were hiding? Could they really think we were spies? What a joke.
The floor creaked right outside my door. He wasn’t wasting any time. The door opened. Slowly. I raised the book above my head. As soon as the door opened all the way, I screamed and whammed the book at the intruder.
“Savvy!” he said with a grunt and wrapped his arms around me. Except it didn’t feel like Malcolm. Or sound like him.
“Dad?”
He let go of me. I scrambled away and flicked on the light.
“Savvy, what are you doing?”
“I was trying to sleep.”
And then I got mad. Like really mad. I threw the book on the floor, threw my hip out and crossed my arms. If someone usually slams the door and grumbles on entering, then he should always slam the door and grumble.
His eyebrows went up. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are you creeping around the apartment like you’re a burglar or something?”
“I didn’t want to wake you in case you were sleeping.”
“Oh.” I uncrossed my arms and let them hang at my sides. “Sorry. I’m a little tired. Only because I’ve been training people for Spy Games.” And trying to stay alive.
“Come on into the living room. We need to talk.”
I stumbled over to the couch, desperately trying to squash the desire to tell Dad that these could be his last moments with his one and only daughter. But he always found a way to make my confessions seem foolish. I sat on the edge of the couch and pulled a frayed pillow into my lap. I wanted to rewind time, before my parents started arguing almost every night. That summer we’d made fires out in the fire pit and roasted marshmallows. We’d talked, laughed, done family-like things.
Dad rubbed his temples. Finally, he looked at me but still couldn’t find my eyes. “It’s about Spy Games.”
The lines around his eyes were deeper and he seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders as he hunched over. He sighed and waited almost a minute before speaking. I pulled about fifty threads out of the pillow.
“After tomorrow, I give you my official blessing to leave Spy Games. I promise I’ll stop trying to live my dreams through you. I’ll stop talking about West Point, and I’ll stop forcing you to pretend you’re a spy.”
“Dad....” I didn’t know what to say.
Was I that much of a failure that he didn’t want me on Spy Games anymore? I’d screwed up at the Louvre, but I’d make up for that. He’d see.
“And one more thing.” He squirmed like a child who’s stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. “I’ve been lying to you.”
What? I stared at him. Dads don’t lie. They always tell the truth and set the example. Right?
“I know how to communicate with your mother. I haven’t, but I know how.” He pulled at the threads of a frayed pillow too. Tears stung my eyes. He knew?
“But, but. . .” I couldn’t finish.
“I’ve been selfish and didn’t want to share you, especially after she left without offering you a choice. Of course, I love having you here, but if you’d rather be with your mom, I can work it out. I haven’t been much of a dad lately. You could be back in the States next month or earlier.”
“Oh, okay.” My chest deflated.
How could I possibly tell him that mom probably wouldn’t answer the phone? That she might never see daylight again? I couldn’t. Not without telling him about my recent spy missions. And then just like that, he turned and left.
There it was. Proof. I’d messed up big time with Dad. I trudged back to my room and curled up into a ball in my closet near the box of special mementos. Standing in open view in front of windows didn’t seem very wise given the circumstances. I flipped through the box of gadgets, thinking back on how my life had changed in two weeks. My emotions veered back and forth between rage at Malcolm for tricking me and extreme fear for my mom.
The door creaked open. “Savvy?”
“What?” I crawled out of the closet and sat on my bed.
Dad studied me. I mean really looked at me. He opened his mouth several times before spitting out what was on his mind. “Do you want to stay here? With me?”
Tears burned. Dad had been the one to stay, to provide, to burn the mac and cheese for me. He wasn’t perfect, but he cared.
“Yes,” I said, my heart blooming and filling some of the hollow spaces in my chest.
His whole body seemed to lighten and the wrinkles smoothed out. The smile on his face radiated and was like salve on my heart. He wanted me!
“Terrific. But I’ll still try and communicate with your mom.”
“Why did she leave?” I blurted out, testing him.
“Those are questions only your mother can answer.” He stepped closer. “I know it’s hard, without her around.” He sat on the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. “But you’re strong. If you can survive my cooking, you can survive anything. You’re a fighter. Don’t forget that.”
He kissed my forehead, then he left with a fresh spring in his step. Wow. I was on dad-daughter-bonding overload. He believed in me. Even though I’d screwed up, numerous times, more times than he even knew, he believed in me. The anger and fear faded and morphed into something new and different. Determination.
Then I saw the hat. The spy hat. The wonderful, glorious black hat Dad gave me as a gift. Laughter bubbled up from some creepy twisted place inside of me because I shouldn’t be finding a spy hat the least bit humorous. I crouched down on the floor and ran my fingers across the folded edge. It wasn’t so bad. At least it wasn’t zebra striped. Right?
And then there was the box of spy gadgets from bugs to audio-recording devices to code-breaking books. But many more lay in the box, screaming out the same message. They almost vibrated. I ran my fingers over them, and the pulse shocked my fingertips and spread like wildfire up through my arms. A switch in my brain flicked on. I’d been doing it.
All along, ever since the fateful night that I’d made the decision to tie up Malcolm, I’d been doing what I swore I’d never do. I thrived on danger. I took risks. I wore disguises and listened in on conversations. Oh. My. Holy. Spy. Pants. What did I ever have against spying anyway?
I moved to the edge of the bed, my body tense, racking my brain on how to rescue my mom and make things right. The Extravaganza was this Saturday, the same exact time as Spy Games. I couldn’t be in two places at once. I needed to be at the Extravaganza. I’d probably never know what Mom was supposed to do there, not if she’d been taken hostage. But I had to go. The answer came quickly in the form of the person I’d offended the worst. Peyton. I’d ask him to help me in Spy Games to make up for my mistakes.
I’d been playing the game wrong, boldly stepping into this chaotic mess like I had a right, like I was immune to getting hurt. I needed to play a different game, one that didn’t include clumsily spying on people and breaking and entering houses. I needed to stop thinking of being a spy as James Bond and 007 and all that. Spies could be normal people. Like me. Innocent people who drew on their strengths of normalness. I needed to embrace my allies instead of leaning on my enemies.
For the first time in a long time, the cobwebs in my mind cleared, and I felt purpose. I could find some answers and free my mom. At the same time, I could make up for my mistakes by taking action and making Dad proud. Step one in Operation Save Prisoner?
Training.