A Spy Like Me




  Thirty-six

  I had one day to train and be ready for Spy Games.

  I grit my teeth to pull out another ten sit-ups. When that was done and my stomach muscles allowed me to move again, I hopped to my feet. I stood outside in the tiny front yard, hoping our neighbors in the apartment building wouldn’t peek out their windows.

  I jumped back and forth and shook out my arms like a boxer would before a match. I might not have done my job before, but I would do it now.

  Do fifty more push ups and twenty lunges, my internal trainer shouted.

  I did them.

  Harder. Don’t quit. Don’t slow down.

  I didn’t.

  The chill in the air encouraged me to move. After completing a series of karate kicks and floor drops and ninja turns—that I totally made up—I did them again. And again.

  Thirty minutes later, after rolling in the grass, kicking like the Karate Kid, and leaping like a ballerina, I dropped into the grass and groaned. Sweat soaked my shirt and dripped off the sides of my face.

  Holy cow! I couldn’t keep training like this or I wouldn’t be able to walk to the Extravaganza finals the next day. I hobbled back to my room and dragged the box out of my closet. The guilt that hung over this box could finally leave because for the first time, it would get put to good use. Dad gave me this when we arrived in Paris as a welcoming gift. It was one of the many things he’d done to get me excited about his spy venture, but I don’t think I’d ever looked through the whole thing. I dug down for the book on breaking codes. At the bottom of the box, I found a silver case. I’d never seen this. I opened it and my mouth dropped open. A switchblade? With shaky fingers, I flicked it and a sharp knife popped out.

  Holy freaking hell. Um, yeah. I closed it back in the case and shoved it to the bottom of the box. Then I found the book. After racing back to the kitchen the best I could on my sore legs, I slapped down a page of basic code breaking.

  Code breaking 101. You have five minutes.

  I attacked each one like I was going for Olympic gold, scribbling furiously, a smile spreading across my face. If only Dad could see me. When the time was up, I sat back with satisfaction. The days of starting off a training day at Les Pouffant’s were over. What would Aimee think? She’d laugh and say, “About time.” I closed my eyes and pictured Aimee’s infectious smile, the one that used to greet me every morning. We’d chat and joke about Spy Games. Truth was I missed her.

  An hour later, with a black scarf wrapped around my neck and wearing dark, inconspicuous clothing, I studied Peyton’s apartment building. It felt like years ago that Malcolm and I crouched in the bushes waiting for the right moment to break in, using my oh-so-sly methods. I kinda missed those days when Malcolm and I would flirt and do spy stuff together instead of against each other. And that was only a couple of weeks ago.

  When I’d called Peyton, his phone number had been disconnected. I contemplated how he might react to my surprise visit. He could call the police. He could tie me up and stuff me into a closet. Or he might just take my offer and help out during Spy Games. My way of an apology on the path to becoming a better Spy Games staffer and daughter. Only one way to find out.

  Each step across the street and into his apartment building caused a crack in my confidence. This guy hated me. In front of his door, instead of slicing the pie or nonsense like that, I knocked. And waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  I knocked again. The idea of breaking in tempted me. I mean I hadn’t turned my back on spying, just on my laziness when it came to working for Dad. I knocked once more. And the door opened a crack. Hmm. This wouldn’t be breaking in, just popping in for a friendly Spy Games hello. Especially if I tripped and my toes nudged the door open all the way and I just kinda fell into the apartment.

  Oops! I fell forward. How clumsy of me.

  But it didn’t matter. The apartment was empty of everything but the furniture. Empty. As in no signs of people living there. No trash. No half-empty coffee cups. No loaf of bread on the counter. I scoured the apartment. The nose strips were gone. The books, the maps, everything. It was like Peyton never lived here. Bummer. But I’d tried. I shrugged it off and went home to gear up for the next day.

  After a restless night’s sleep, the morning of the Extravaganza and Operation Save Prisoner dawned. In the back of my closet I found a pair of black leather pants I’d packed for the Paris nightlife. I pinned the flower/audio-recorder to my shirt. Then I pulled out the switchblade and tucked it into my sock. Just in case.

  I was a spy. But not the cold-hearted, sneaky kind who worked for profit. I’d be different. The kind of spy who saved people. The kind who solved problems and rooted out the bad guys because they were bad, not because of how much I got paid. I’d be a daughter and rescue my mom. And I’d make my dad proud. I’d run my first tenner in five months even if it killed me. And then, I’d be...a spy like me.

  At nine a.m. on the dot, I creaked open the door to the warehouse. On time. Gray Chalston wasn’t even here yet. Dad studied his notes. I stared at him in awe. His hair was perfectly styled, not for vanity, but so it wouldn’t fall in his eyes while in the field. Maybe it was the only way to control his hair or maybe no one ever told him he used a bit too much gel. Nancy and Malcolm entered from the side, with Frankie on their heels. Dad nodded at them as they took their spots around the table. For some reason, I couldn’t make myself walk forward. I couldn’t move from watching them through the crack in the door.

  I mean how hard was this? I’d been doing it for months. But that was when I didn’t care. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, and sudden panic hit me. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these pants. They did make my butt look a little big. And the hat was totally dorky. What was I thinking? Call me delusional. They’d probably take one look at me and laugh. I should’ve got here before anyone else arrived. Too late.

  I watched as Nancy chatted gaily with Malcolm. They laughed like old friends. God, he was cute. And a flirt. He’d once turned that killer smile on me, and where had that gotten me? Nowhere good. He’d tangled up my heartstrings, made me care.

  They all cast nervous glances at each other. Waiting for me. Dad pulled a clump of gel from the side of his hair, stalling, probably waiting for me to disappoint him. It was time. I clutched my throat. Was it closing up? I stepped back from the door and took several shallow breaths. Cool air breezed across my face and hair sending goosebumps down my arms. I thought about Aimee. Mom. And Dad. All his hopes and dreams in me. Deep breaths. They needed me. I could do this. I could find and rescue my mom. After one more giant breath, I grabbed the door and opened it again.

  Malcolm ran right into me.