Nickel Bay Nick.
I stand behind a bald guy who’s suspicious that the latest visit was pulled off by a fake. “Think about it,” he says. “Nickel Bay Nick has never waited until after Christmas before.”
Others wonder when Nick will strike again. Or whether he will strike again.
Just wait! I want to shout. Wait till Wednesday! But, like any good operative, I keep my mouth shut.
What’s causing the most buzz is the news that some microchip company has decided to build its new factory in town. “I was giving the president of Micro-Marvel a tour of Nickel Bay,” a well-dressed woman is saying, “and it happened to be the very day that Nick made his return. Well!” She throws her head back and laughs. “When Mr. Micro-Marvel saw our citizens literally dancing in the streets, he decided right then and there that Nickel Bay is the perfect community for his new facility.”
All around her, people jabber excitedly. “Isn’t that amazing, Sam?” Lisa asks when she sees me. “All those new jobs?”
“I guess,” I mumble, and fade back into the crowd, afraid that even a tiny, proud smile might betray my secret identity.
Much later I’m sitting on the pile of coats on Lisa’s bed, watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV, when I hear the countdown start out in the living room. “Three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!” shout fifty or sixty voices, followed by laughter and the sound of glasses clinking.
“There you are.”
I look up, and Dad’s in the doorway.
“Am I not supposed to be in here?” I ask.
“No, you’re fine, Sam,” he says. “Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.”
I get the feeling he wants a hug, but that hug we shared at Town Hall was way more hugging than I’m used to.
“Yeah,” I mutter, and fold my arms across my chest. “You, too.”
He starts to go, but I stop him by saying, “You know I’m never going to be a football star, right?”
He turns and looks at me for a long time before he answers. “Football stars are a dime a dozen. You, Sam . . . you’re one in a million.”
He’s never said that before.
Despite the lump in my throat, I manage to say, “Thanks.”
• • •
When my alarm goes off the next morning at seven thirty, I half sleepwalk to the bathroom and take my pill, but then I go right back to bed and wake up at about noon. By the time I shuffle into the kitchen, scratching and yawning, Dad is already deep into his bookkeeping.
It may be New Year’s Day for the rest of the world, but for Dad, it’s the day he does the Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery’s year-end accounting. I know better than to try to speak to him as he punches numbers into the calculator and works his way through the piles of receipts and stacks of bills covering the kitchen table. After eating my Cap’n Crunch standing over the sink, I take a shower.
As the afternoon drags on, I miss my routine with Mr. Wells and Dr. Sakata. I even miss Hoko. Since Dad took my video games away, restricted use of the computer to school nights and canceled the Internet because it costs too much, I don’t have anything to do. Every TV channel is showing football, but none of my teams are playing, so I am truly, totally bored.
When I announce, “I’m gonna call Jaxon, okay?” Dad grunts, “Fine.” But Jaxon’s at some fancy country club with his lawyer father and the rest of his family, so he can’t get away to hang out.
I think about calling Ivy. I’ve never had the nerve to speak to her without Jaxon around, but when I remind myself that I am Nickel Bay Nick, I somehow find the courage to dial her number. The call goes to voice mail, and I almost hang up, but at the last second I take the plunge.
“Yeah. Hi, Ivy. It’s me. And by ‘me,’ I mean Sam,” I stammer. “Just calling to say ‘Happy New Year.’ Cuz it’s New Year’s Day, right? So . . . be happy, okay?” As the words leave my lips, they sound so amazingly stupid that I wish I could reach into the phone and pull them back. I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter, “Stop talking, Sam.” But when I suddenly remember that I’m still connected, I shout, “That’s all! Bye!” and snap the phone shut. Then I use it to whack myself on the forehead.
How dumb did I just sound? I ask myself over and over.
For about five minutes I consider calling back to say, “Ivy? Please ignore my previous message,” but I’m sure I’d only get tongue-tied all over again. My brain keeps replaying my humiliating blunder until I pass the kitchen and see Dad. His back is to me, and he’s holding his head in his hands.
“Dad?” I say softly. “Everything okay?”
He lifts his head and blows his nose in a paper towel. Without turning, he says, “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know.”
And just like that, the sinking feeling I got after leaving Ivy’s message disappears, and I start to worry about what’s making my dad cry.
I lie in bed later, thinking about all the happy, hopeful faces at Lisa’s party. Was that really less than twenty-four hours ago? I remember feeling so excited because, by being Nickel Bay Nick, I had given a new sense of hope to everyone in the room.
Everyone, it turns out, except my own father.
Off and on through the night, I come half awake. Every time I do, I can see the glow from the kitchen light still bouncing off my bedroom ceiling, and I know Dad’s still working. Finally I drop off into a deep sleep and dream of me and him and Mom, laughing and running through the spray of a lawn sprinkler, just like we used to do on hot summer days when I was three.
THE CLOSE CALL BY THE BAY
January 2
The second of January starts with about six inches of snow on the ground. By the time I take my morning pill, though, the sun is starting to break through, and the icicles along our roofline are dripping steadily. Dad has cleared the kitchen table of all his bookkeeping stuff, and except for the dark circles under his eyes that tell me he didn’t get much sleep, there’s no trace of yesterday’s ordeal.
On his way out, Dad struggles with the cardboard box full of his checkbooks and receipts. I reach around and open the front door for him as I ask, “You remember I’m working late tonight, right?”
“I do,” he says as he starts down the stairs to his car. “But I’m still going to call you at seven thirty.”
I’ve got hours to kill before going to work, and after thirty minutes, I’m desperate for a distraction. Then I remember that I still haven’t gotten anywhere with my investigation of Mr. Wells. He’s hiding something. I feel it in my bones. If I could only figure out what it is, I bet I could blow his mind the way he blew mine when he showed me all my police files.
Suddenly, the sound of a garbage truck outside in the alley gives me an idea.
If I could go through Mr. Wells’s trash, who knows what I might find? A membership card from a secret club he belongs to? Maybe a letter from an old spy buddy? Or even a Christmas card from a king?
I yank my shoes on, pull a sweater over my head and grab my jacket as I dash out the door and down the stairs. But by the time I slip into the alley through the back fence and race around the corner, the garbage truck is already pulling away from the trash cans outside Mr. Wells’s backyard fence and turning onto Sherwood Avenue.
“Rats!” I grumble, kicking at a clump of snow. “That was a really good idea.”
As long as I’m dressed and out of the house, though, I figure I might as well continue my investigation. The Nickel Bay Public Library offers free Wi-Fi service, so I head over there, planning to do an Internet search for Mr. Herbert Wells.
On my way, I can’t help but notice how great Nickel Bay is looking under the perfectly blue sky. Runoff from melting snow is gurgling down the gutters as people shovel their walks and kids hurl snowballs at each other. A street crew is patching potholes on Griffin Drive, and a couple guys on a crane are repairing the WALK/DON’T WALK sign that�
�s been flickering for six months at one corner of Brownlow Square.
I’m starting up the library steps when somebody calls my name, and I turn to see Ivy waving from in front of a dry cleaner’s across the street. She’s with her mom, who continues into the store as Ivy runs over to me.
“Hey, Ivy,” I say. “Howzit goin’?”
“I got your message,” she says, and I can feel the blood rush to my face.
“That was so lame,” I start to explain. “‘Be happy’ and all that . . .”
“No! It wasn’t lame,” she insists. “I thought it was sweet.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call back,” she explains, “but I had the most amazing day. My uncle’s a science professor at the college. So yesterday, when there was nobody on campus, he took me into one of his laboratories, and we did experiments all afternoon. With chemicals and electricity and stuff.”
“That’s so cool,” I say. “You’re totally gonna be a scientist someday. I just know it.”
“I hope,” she says, and then there’s a long pause, until she asks, “Sam? Did we hurt your feelings the day Jaxon made fun of you for buying that hair dye?”
“Hurt my feelings?” I force a laugh. “Ha! What’re you talking about?”
“You looked kind of upset. And the next night you wouldn’t go downtown with us . . . ?”
“I didn’t have any money,” I remind her.
“Oh.” She digs the toe of one shoe into a library step, and after a moment says, “Look, I know how Jaxon can be sometimes. Lately, y’know? Just because I have to give myself injections for my diabetes, he’s started calling me Pincushion.”
“That sucks,” I say. “You can’t let him do that, if it bothers you.”
“I know, right? Can I tell you something?” she asks, and I nod. “Most of the stuff Jaxon suggests, I only do it because I get the feeling you want to.”
“Me?” I sputter. “I only go along because you do.”
“Well, is that dumb or what?” Ivy says with a laugh.
“I guess it is, huh?” And then I crack up, too.
After our laughter dies down, Ivy speaks. “We’ve got to stand up for ourselves, Sam. We can’t let Jaxon boss us around anymore.” She extends a hand. “Deal?”
I take her hand, but the feel of Ivy’s skin knocks every word out of my head. It’s only when she says, “Promise me, Sam,” that I’m able to mutter, “Okay, okay,” before letting go.
Ivy smiles and pulls a strand of hair over one ear. “You know, he and I are going on to the high school next year.”
My mind’s still reeling when I answer, “So?”
“I’m just sayin’, maybe it’s time you ought to think about making some new friends.”
“That’s not so easy.”
“C’mon, Sam,” she prods. “You’re smart. You’re funny.”
“I’m not funny.” I scrunch up my nose. “Am I?”
She giggles. “When you make faces like that, you totally are!”
I blush and look away just as Ivy’s mom calls from across the street. “Gotta go,” she says, but before running off—and I’m not making this up!—she kisses me on the cheek. “And, Sam?” she says as she runs off. “Happy New Year!”
For a long time I stand in that one spot, replaying our conversation in my head. We’ve never had a private talk, so until that moment, I never knew how Ivy felt about Jaxon’s stunts. And if I hadn’t left her that dorky phone message, I’d never have known. I touch the spot where her lips met my cheek, and a warm glow spreads through me.
When I finally shake off my daze, I check my watch and discover that I’ve got to get to work. Because Ivy distracted me, my investigation into Mr. Wells’s secrets will have to wait.
But the distraction was worth it.
• • •
After another disastrous put-pocket training session that lasts through the early afternoon, Mr. Wells suggests we take a break. Dr. Sakata makes a pot of peppermint tea, which he serves in steaming mugs at the kitchen table, along with a plate of amazing gingerbread squares. He may be an intimidating hulk, but Dr. Sakata sure knows his way around a cookie sheet.
When we’re nearly finished, Mr. Wells calls out, “Hoko!” followed by something in that foreign language, and Hoko immediately runs out of the room.
“Is that Japanese, what you said to him?” I ask.
“It is. Hoko is a chow chow. It’s an Asian breed.”
“So he doesn’t understand English?”
“Hoko?” Mr. Wells gives a little laugh and says something to Dr. Sakata, who chuckles, too. “With Dr. Sakata in the house, we both address Hoko in Japanese. But Hoko is also familiar with English, Korean, some Spanish and a little German,” he explains. “He’s a well-traveled dog.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “All I can say is ‘bite me’ in Polish.”
Hoko trots back into the kitchen, gripping the handle of a large shopping bag in his teeth. Instead of delivering it to Mr. Wells, though, he crosses and sits next to my chair.
“He thinks it’s for me,” I say.
“He is correct.”
“Seriously?” I look back and forth between him and Hoko. “He’s not going to take a chunk out of me?” Mr. Wells shakes his head. Very slowly, I take hold of the bag’s handle, and Hoko eases his jaws apart. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
All the clothes in the bag are black. Black jeans. Black long johns. Black sweatshirt. Black coat, black socks and black sneakers. All in my size.
“Your wardrobe for tonight’s job,” Mr. Wells explains. “You can put those on before you leave here, and when Dr. Sakata returns you afterward, you’ll change back into your own clothes before going home.”
When I come out of a small bathroom, dressed from head to toe in black, I spread my arms and say, “I look like a ninja.”
“You have a lot in common with ninjas.” Mr. Wells circles me in his wheelchair. “Did you know that as far back as fourteenth-century Japan, ninjas were spies and undercover soldiers who deliberately disguised themselves to perform feats of espionage and sabotage?”
“Really?” I scratch my head. “I’ve only seen them in video games. And movies.”
Mr. Wells puts on his white cotton gloves before handing me the stack of bills and showing me a pocket inside my new black coat that’s the perfect place to store them.
“Sunset will be at four fifty-three this afternoon.” he says, and we both check our watches.
“Four minutes from now,” I confirm.
“By the time you walk to Bay Front,” he says, “it should be totally dark. On your way, then.”
I feel like I should get a salute or at least a handshake. Instead, Mr. Wells rolls away, calling back over one shoulder, “Stay low to the ground.”
The light is already fading when I let myself out the backyard gate by punching in oh-one-oh-five. Just before I exit the alley onto Sherwood Avenue, I see Crummer Sikes’s Animal Control van coming, and I duck behind a telephone pole. He’s already seen me in the alley once before, and I don’t want to make it a habit. He rolls past, looking this way and that, but he doesn’t spot me. Once he’s gone, I pull my black knit cap low over my ears and point my black sneakers in the direction of Bay Front Drive.
On my way, I mentally review the tips Mr. Wells gave me for spotting unlocked cars. Sloppy people, I remember him saying, don’t lock their cars as often as neat people, so I should be on the lookout for cluttered front seats and messy dashboards.
The longer someone owns a vehicle, he taught me, the more unlikely they are to lock it, so I’m supposed to look for old cars.
“And keep an eye out for funny bumper stickers,” he advised. “People who glue announcements like HONK IF YOU LOVE BEER to their fenders don’t tend to worry about security.
”
My route winds through side streets and back alleys, and eventually I find myself behind the building where the Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery is located. For the heck of it, I walk to the front and sneak a peek into Dad’s store.
He’s in there with a single customer. A stooped old lady in a cloth coat is pointing to the cupcakes in the display case, and I bet she’s asking about every flavor in there. Like he always does, Dad will patiently explain all eight varieties on display, and then, I’m sure, the lady will end up buying only one or two.
But I don’t have the time to hang around and see if I’m right. I’ve got a job to do.
• • •
By the time I get to Bay Front, it’s dark. About half the neon signs on the boulevard are unlit where restaurants are no longer in business, but the rest of the signs sizzle and glow against the black sky. Lucky for me, there’s hardly any moonlight tonight.
I huddle behind the base of a burnt-out streetlamp and watch people arriving for happy hour or dinner. I note where they park and which restaurants they enter. Despite the earlier snowfall, the day warmed up and now, even with puffs of wind coming off the bay, the evening is pretty mild. Because of that, I notice, people are a lot more casual about not rolling up their windows or locking their doors. After studying the street for over an hour, I pick out four or five cars that I know I’ll have no trouble getting into, hum a few bars of “I’m So Ready,” and begin the Green Mission.
By wriggling my skinny arm through a half-opened window of a rusty, old Mustang, I’m able to fold a Nickel Bay Ben over the steering wheel where only the driver will see it. Across the street, there’s a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that reads BUCKLE UP. IT MAKES IT HARDER FOR THE ALIENS TO SUCK YOU OUT OF YOUR CAR. Just like Mr. Wells predicted, its doors are unlocked, so I slip a Ben in between the radio buttons.
Dressed completely in black, I feel practically invisible. When I see someone coming, I squeeze into a doorway or crouch into a tight ball between parked cars, holding my breath until they pass by. Then I spring back into action. Slinking in the shadows, I weave back and forth across Bay Front Drive and up a few side streets, hitting one vehicle after another. I work my way down the waterfront until, about forty-five minutes later, I arrive at Pirro’s Pasta Palace, where I get an unpleasant surprise.
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