by Marcia Wells
Bovano inspects them, mouth slightly open in shock.
The pictures are good. I know they’re good. He knows they’re good. And I know that he knows they’re good. Über-good.
Placing the papers down on his desk, he studies me a moment.
“Well, Eddie,” he says in a quieter voice. “Looks like you got the job.”
I don’t even correct him about my name. I am way too happy to care.
Chapter 8
Perfect Fits
Two hours later
For the first time in my life, I really, truly despise my mother.
“Edmund, if you think for one second that I’m going to let you pal around with the police, and be near guns and Tasers and who knows what else, then you are sorely mistaken, young man.” She’s pacing the living room, hands on her hips in an “I’m listening but not really because I’ve already made up my mind” kind of posture.
“Mom, it’s totally safe! Just ask Dad. I’m not doing fieldwork or anything. It’s just surveillance. I have to draw pictures of people walking by. That’s it! Dad will be with me the whole time, hanging out. And I get to stay at Senate, pay my own way. Isn’t that amazing? Why aren’t you proud of me? This is the greatest thing to happen to me, ever.”
“It’s not just a safety issue, Edmund. First of all, I don’t know how much time this is going to require. Dad needs to find another job. What if he can’t come? And then there’s your schoolwork. What if they want you to work evenings? Weekends? You know our rules. You need to dedicate yourself to your studies.”
“Mom, it’s art. Drawing portraits. I bet I can get extra credit, even! Plus school is easy. I just pretend that the homework is too much so you won’t make me do more.”
Sometimes I say incredibly stupid things.
She smooths a strand of hair off her forehead. “I’m going to have to think about this, and talk with your father. I’ll be honest . . . It’s not looking good, sweetie.”
I am shaking with anger, ready to vomit on the living room rug. I should, just to spite her. Instead I throw what is to become known in our family history as the Fit of all Fits.
“You OWE me this, Mom. You do. This is something that I really want and I never ask you for anything. Ever. And YOUR cat killed my hamster but you don’t see me asking you to get rid of her or telling you what to do, and—”
“What does Sadie have to do with you working for the police?”
“It’s all about principles, Mom! And sacrifice. And I think I’m a pretty good son and I never ask for anything, and you’re always saying I have a gift and someday I should put it to use for the greater good and this is it! This is my chance! AND YOU OWE ME THIS BECAUSE I’M SHORT AND IT’S YOUR FAULT AND THIS WILL BE GOOD FOR MY SELF-ESTEEM BECAUSE I’M THE SMALLEST PERSON IN MY CLASS ALL BECAUSE OF YOUR LOUSY EGYPTIAN PRINCESS GENES YOU PASSED ON THAT MADE ME SO PUNY!”
“I see,” she says, tight-lipped.
I go to bed without dinner. I’m not hungry anyway.
Chapter 9
Eddie Red
January 23
We’re back at the station the next day. For the first time in my life, I have won a battle against my parents. Maybe it was guilt for letting me starve last night, or maybe it was my compelling yet whiny Thanks-a-lot-for-the-minuscule-bone-structure argument. All I know is that I won, and I’m here. I am invincible.
The chief beckons us into his office, sitting stiffly behind his desk. We follow suit. The wooden chairs are hard and uncomfortable and I wish we were back on his plush sofa talking about cool police jobs and money and happy times.
The chief clears his throat. “Edmund, I’m going to be honest with you. There are people in this department who support your involvement, and there are skeptics.”
I’m not going to ask which category Detective Bovano falls into.
Where is the chief going with this? Did he change his mind? Is the deal off? Nerves twist my stomach.
“Money,” he continues, his voice rising. “It all comes down to money and budgets and who’s paying the bill. We’ve spent too much money on this case already. We’re chasing ghosts and time is running out. You’re our last chance to crack the case, our final solution before the powers-that-be pull the plug on the whole operation. No pressure, though.” He smiles as if to reassure me. I am not reassured.
“Here are my terms.” He places a piece of paper on the desk, a document that I assume is my contract. “Help us solve the case, and we’ll make an anonymous contribution to Senate Academy next year, with instructions that it’s to go toward your tuition. The operation must be kept very hush-hush. If word got out to the press . . .” His voice trails off, and then he clears his throat again. “It’s not illegal,” he reassures my dad, whose mustache is twitching like crazy, “although it is highly unusual.”
Stunned silence. Solve the case? This is not what I expected. I thought they were paying for Senate no matter what. My father shifts in his seat, itching to speak. But he stays quiet and lets me take the lead.
“And if . . . if I can’t help?” I say, dreading the answer.
Chief Williams shrugs. “We’ll pay you for your time. Minimum wage.” The unsaid words And no more Senate flash in neon letters.
I straighten my spine and shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I can do this. I can solve the crime, whatever it is. “All right,” I say. “I’m in.”
A shadow passes behind us. I turn to see Bovano lurking outside the door like a shark who enjoys feasting on the flesh of human boys. The chief nods to him. “Edmund, you go and get debriefed with Detective Bovano while I have your father sign some papers.”
Dad smiles at me as I stand on wobbly legs. Here we go.
Bovano barrels ahead to his office and I’m forced to jog. He eyes me with the same acidic expression from yesterday and plops himself down behind his desk, pointing for me to sit once again in the hot seat.
Our first official meeting about the case. I’m doing it, I’m really doing police work! I smother a smile and focus on what he’s saying.
“You will report to me only. You will listen to all of my instructions and follow them without hesitation. You will not ask questions. You will arrive on time . . .”
My excitement fades a bit as he drones on and on. This is not so much a “debriefing” as a massive lecture on rules. I can boil down everything he says into three basic commands:
1. Don’t speak.
2. Don’t think.
3. Churn out as many pictures as humanly possible. You are a camera. Nothing more.
“I want to know how it works,” he announces.
“How what works?” I say, surprised he has asked me a question after ten solid minutes of sermon. Not really a question. More like an order with an answer expected.
“Your photographic mind. I need to know what I’m dealing with. Doesn’t seem very normal to me.”
“My mind takes pictures. Snapshots of a moment. It’s not like I’m a freak or anything,” I mutter.
“But how does it work?” he presses. “Do you remember everything you see? Can you recall it at any time? Seems like your mind would be crammed with too much information.”
Does he think my brain will explode on the job?
“I remember things in a different way,” I explain. “I remember details that other people don’t notice . . . people’s shoes, their nametags. It’s just there in my mind. But I don’t store it away forever. I do forget things eventually. I remember better when I know that I need to, when I’m especially focused. Or in stressful situations . . . like that guy from the alley.”
Bovano grunts, unimpressed. “I remember details too. Part of being a detective. Doesn’t sound much different from my memory.”
I stifle a frustrated sigh and try again. “My memories are like a photograph in my mind. I can study the scene, analyze the details as if I’m holding the actual picture in my hand. I can tell you what kind of watch someone is wearing even if I didn’t specifical
ly focus on the watch when I saw it. As long as it passes before my visual field, it’s in.”
“What if you aren’t focused and you miss the suspect walking by? How do I know you can remember everyone you see? You aren’t a machine, you aren’t perfect. What if you miss a key clue?”
I shrug. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
I don’t think he’s very happy with my answer.
After another excruciating seven minutes and fifty-two seconds, we meet up with my dad in the hallway. Bovano walks us out to the elevator, still instructing along the way:
“You’ll receive your official assignment next week after a practice run. You will not tell anyone about this. No friends, no teachers, no relatives besides your parents. Absolute secrecy.”
I suspect he’s telling me this in front of my dad so that my parents will be extra watchful. And so my father doesn’t open his big mouth too.
Dad agrees and shakes his hand. Then we step into the elevator and turn back to face the detective. He puts his hand in the door, blocking it so it can’t close.
“We needed a code name for you, because you’re a minor and we need to protect your identity. I’ve decided to call you Eddie Red.”
He smiles like it’s a personal joke, and then lets the door go.
I open my mouth, proving once and for all why I am in a school for gifted kids:
“Huh?”
The door closes with a soft swoosh.
Chapter 10
Foreign Code
January 24
On Monday at school, I withhold the information for exactly three hours and thirty-eight minutes before telling Jonah what happened. What can I say? He’s very persuasive.
Jonah may lack self-control, but he is über-trustworthy, and if I ask him not to tell anyone, then he’ll take the secret to his grave. It’s a military thing. He prides himself on it.
“What?” he yells, choking on his peanut butter sandwich. We’re at lunch in the cafeteria at a corner table, tucked away from the crowds so we can talk in private. Even with Jonah’s outburst, no one glances in our direction. They’re all used to Jonah and his noise levels.
“That is totally, ÜBER-AWESOME!” he says. “That’s Alamo and Waterloo and Red Baron wrapped into one! Wow!”
I can tell that he’s a little bit jealous because this police stuff is right up his alley, but he’s cool about it and immediately starts to plan out how he’s going to help me with assignments.
I don’t tell him about the name Eddie Red. I want to figure out for myself why Bovano chose it, and I know Jonah will crack the code in about a millisecond.
Detective Bovano is clearly messing with my head. He doesn’t like me, he thinks the entire thing is a waste of time, so he’s chosen an undercover name that makes fun of me, I’m sure of it. If only I knew what it meant.
Eddie I get. I told him to call me Edmund, so clearly he’s flexing his cop muscles and letting me know that he’ll call me whatever he wants.
But Red? What is that all about? Why not call me something awesome, like Eddie X because my middle name is Xavier?
“Let’s go,” Jonah says, crumpling up his brown paper bag and tossing it into the trash. “I have to get my Spanish book.”
We return to our lockers in the hall by the science rooms only to find Jonah’s in a complete mess, the orderly stacks of books and papers now in a scattered heap on the floor. His picture of the Red Baron is ripped, and his jacket is missing. We find it later in the art classroom with some paint on it.
Robin Christopher strikes again.
The school doesn’t let us put actual locks on our lockers. We operate on an honor code to respect one another’s belongings. Someone forgot to mention that to Captain Meathead.
Jonah refuses to tell the teachers about the bullying. I guess he’s planning some sort of tactical revenge, but if you ask me, he’s just scared. I am too, but we need to do something about it. It’s getting worse.
Spanish class. Time to zone out. I wonder if the police could help me with the Robin situation. Maybe Bovano could arrest him for bullying, throw him in jail for the night and scare him into good behavior. Who am I kidding? They’d probably join evil forces and take over the school.
Back to Red . . . Is it because I was wearing a red hat when I first went into the station, that day of the ill-fated ice cream cone? That would be totally lame.
Is it because Jonah’s hair is red and they know who my friends are? Too creepy.
Sadie’s cat collar is red. That would be an ironic twist.
Is it mocking the superheroes somehow? Does Detective Bovano think that since I’m a kid, I enjoy wearing red capes and pretending to fly? I don’t.
The name has to be making fun of me somehow. The man does not like me. Maybe I’m overthinking it.
“Edmund! Question seven,” Jonah hisses. He kicks my chair from the seat behind me.
“Uh,” I say, searching my Spanish workbook while my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “The answer is ocho?”
“Muy bien, Edmundo,” the teacher replies, writing my answer on the board and moving on to torture someone else. Two aisles over, Jenny Miller catches my eye and smiles. I almost pass out.
I have always thought Jenny Miller is nice, but lately when I look at her there’s a weird tightening in my chest. What is that? Love? When you can’t breathe and may throw up everywhere? Doesn’t sound very romantic to me. Just really messy and life-threatening.
Jenny has pretty blue eyes and strawberry blond hair, and she never speaks, but sometimes she smiles at me, which wigs me out completely. She floats instead of walks, and seems to be completely unaware of her beauty. She’s not like the rest of the girls in my class, who were all abducted by aliens last year and came back wearing weird eye makeup and speaking only in giggles.
Jenny Miller is almost perfect, but there’s one big problem: she has Happy Kat Cat everything. Backpack, shoes, pencils, and a lunch box with matching thermos, to name a few. And I just don’t fully trust someone who celebrates cats to that extreme level.
Eddie Red . . . Eddie Red.
I think of the initials: ER. Emergency room? Is that where I’ll be going if I mess this up? A subtle threat from the thug cop?
Nothing fits. I can’t figure it out.
So much for gifted.
After dinner I can’t take it anymore. Time to call in some parental assistance. My dad is, after all, a walking encyclopedia.
“Dad, where does our last name come from?” I figure I’ll start with the basics and move on from there.
“It’s German. You know that. Back from the slave days. A German family owned our ancestors in Virginia.” He’s distracted, snuggling with my mom on the couch. This is usually when I exit, but I need answers.
“But what does it mean?”
“I have no idea. You should Google it. And when you do, check out pictures of Nefertiti. The most beautiful Egyptian queen to ever rule. Mom looks just like her. Just look at that brow! That regal nose!”
My mom giggles and leans over to kiss him, whispering something about her strong Nigerian king.
Yuck.
I will admit that my mom is quite pretty. Beautiful, even. She has big brown eyes and sculpted high cheekbones, lips that are heart-shaped and full, and skin as smooth as caramel. Our art teacher is so smitten that he is forever trying to convince her to model for his adult studio classes. I think he has some sketchy posing in mind even though he hasn’t come out and said it. Over my dead, scrawny body. Creeper.
I’m hoping that some of those beauty genes kick in during puberty for me, because so far my dad has given me nothing to work with.
Only recently did I figure out how a bookworm like my dad landed a babe like Mom: girls dig muscles. If you’re an über-nerd but you’re big, somehow it cancels out. I don’t care what my pediatrician says. Size matters.
I wander out of the living room and down the hall, obsessing over the name Lonnrot, picking it apart in
my brain. Lonn . . . rot. Lonn . . . rot. I stop next to the three steps that lead to my room. I live “upstairs” in our two-bedroom apartment.
My foot hangs suspended midstep. German lessons from two years ago crash over me, along with the pleasant memory of Emmentaler cheese.
“Eureka!” I yell, running up the three steps and jumping back down. “Rot means ‘red’ in German! Rot means ‘red’ in German!”
I fly up and down the steps a few more times. Sadie hisses from somewhere in the apartment.
Eddie Red. Now one of the coolest names they could have given me. A foreign spy name. A German, über-sophisticated undercover agent name that would make even James Bond jealous.
I prepare to crawl into bed and sleep soundly, relieved at finally cracking the code. A good night’s sleep is coming my way.
But a thought plagues me.
Maybe Detective Bovano isn’t such a dumb guy after all. Obviously he’s taken German classes. What else has he studied?
Maybe he knows ten languages and could work at the CIA if he wanted to. Maybe he does work at the CIA. Maybe he’s a foreign spy himself, posing as a cop in the city, waiting to take over the world. Maybe (and the thought makes me shiver under my heavy blankets)—maybe he is über-smart. Brilliant, even.
For some reason, it’s unsettling.
Chapter 11
The IPODICU
January 26
My first day on the job! Earpiece in, sleeve microphone on. I am connected, synchronized, ready.
Armed with . . . an iPod.
“Son, there is no way on God’s green earth that we are going to give you a weapon!” Detective Bovano bellowed at me in his office this morning when I asked him about the possibilities. I thought a nice jackknife or dagger on my hip could be pretty useful.