“You’re being awfully quiet tonight.”
Dad’s as happy as a clam, bopping around the apartment, rattling on and on about the steady stream of customers and reporters who keep coming into the bakery. I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath. “Dad? Remember Mom’s Rolex?”
At least I can tell him that bad news. What I can’t tell him is that, despite all my pleading, Mr. Wells still refuses to let Nickel Bay Nick complete the White Mission.
Dad blinks, confused. “Mom’s what?”
“That wristwatch you kept hidden in your closet?”
“Whoa. I haven’t thought about that thing in years.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, what about it?”
I’m ready with my story. “Mr. Wells is really strict about schedules,” I explain. “He sends me on errands all over town, and he tells me how long I have to do them and when he expects me back. So I took the watch down from the shelf and started wearing it to keep me on time.”
“And you thought I was strict.” Dad chuckles.
“Just as I was ready to finish work today,” I continue, “I realized the watch wasn’t on my wrist. I couldn’t figure out where it fell off, so I retraced my steps through the snow all over town, and never found it. Then when I got back to Mr. Wells’s, we tore the house apart. And still, nothing.”
“Aha.” He nods. “So that’s why you’re late tonight.”
“That’s why,” I lie.
Dad studies my face. “And is that why you’re so upset? Because you lost a cheap watch?”
“Dad!” I cry. “It was a Rolex!”
“It was a copy of a Rolex.” He laughs. “Back when we started dating, your mother bought that at a street fair. As a joke!”
“It was supposed to be valuable,” I mutter. “It was her last gift to me.” There’s a sudden ringing in my ears, and I lean on the kitchen counter for support. As soon as Dad sees my reaction, he stops laughing.
“Oh, Sam, you know your mom,” he says gently. “She’s always lived in a world of dreams and wishes. I’m sure she wanted to give you something valuable. I’m positive. But she didn’t have anything to give. Neither of us did. Not back then. We were kids. But I promise you this—if the moon were hers to give, you’d be the only kid on earth with a moon under his bed.”
I can’t speak.
“Your mother loves you very much.”
“Yeah, right.”
Dad takes me by the shoulders. “Hey, Sam,” he says. “You’re the one who won’t get on the phone when she calls every week.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to her.”
“You could start with hello.”
• • •
After midnight, the winter storm that had been raging all day really wallops Nickel Bay. The rat-a-tat-tapping of hail on the roof and the clatter of tree branches against my bedroom wall might have wakened me if I’d been able to sleep.
Fat chance.
Staring at my ceiling, I make a top-ten list of all the terrible things that happened in a single day, and you know what ends up at #1? It’s not seeing Dad waving the Nickel Bay Buck on TV or hearing that Hoko was missing or clinging to the back of a truck speeding down the highway. It’s not even the loss of Mom’s Rolex.
Or fake Rolex.
Whatever.
The thing that upsets me the most is that Mr. Wells doesn’t trust me anymore.
THE CODE AND THE CUPCAKES
January 5
“Oh, NO!” Dad shouts so loudly from his bedroom that I’m instantly awake.
“What’s wrong?” I yell back, but my voice is foggy with sleep.
“That stupid storm last night!” I hear his bare feet pounding as he sprints down the hallway. “We lost power! The clocks all stopped, and I overslept!” Suddenly, he’s leaning into my room. “You’d better hurry, kiddo. Don’t want to be late for work.”
I can’t tell him that I don’t have any work to be late for. Better pretend it’s a day like any other. Throwing off my covers, I holler, “Yikes! How late is it?”
By the time I reach the kitchen, Dad’s resetting the oven clock according to his wristwatch. “Seven thirty-five. I don’t even have time for breakfast.”
He’s dressed and ready to go in less time than it takes me to swallow my morning pill. “Do me a favor, Sam?” he calls from the front door. “Can you reset the rest of the clocks, please? And don’t forget the VCR. I’m taping a football game later.”
Since I have nowhere to go and lots of time to get there, I eat a leisurely breakfast before adjusting the alarm clocks in Dad’s bedroom and mine. It’s when I’m resetting the date on the VCR that something truly weird happens.
I punch in January . . . 5 . . . and look up to see
01-05
blinking in the window. “Oh-one, oh-five,” I mutter, and then I stop. Why does that sound familiar? I wonder. Suddenly it hits me.
That’s Mr. Wells’s gate combination!
Let me explain why that’s such a big deal. Jaxon’s been trying to teach me and Ivy to hack into our classmates’ Facebook and Twitter accounts using the school computers. “Most people don’t want to be bothered remembering passwords and codes, so a lot of jerks use the name of their pet or the date of their birth,” he’s always reminding us. “If you can get people to tell you one of those things, it’s like they’re handing you the keys to their lives.”
What if that’s true? What if those numbers are more than simply Mr. Wells’s gate combination?
I throw on my clothes and tear out the door. I think the Nickel Bay Public Library opens at eight.
• • •
A little before noon, Dr. Sakata answers Mr. Wells’s back door. I hold up a purple shopping bag and explain loudly, “Delivery for Mr. Wells.” At that moment, Hoko dashes out onto the porch and nearly knocks me over with his greeting.
“Hey, Hoko!” I giggle. “I missed you, too.”
But Hoko is quickly distracted by a smell coming from my bag, and he buries his head in the sack.
“Hoko! KO-ra!” Dr. Sakata barks, and Hoko immediately sits, panting with excitement. Stepping aside, Dr. Sakata allows me to enter.
We find Mr. Wells in his super-sleek office, studying a computer screen.
“What are you doing here, Sam?” he says coolly when I enter. “I thought I made it clear that our work is done.”
“Got a delivery.” From my shopping bag I pull a purple pastry box and push it across his desk.
“The Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery,” he reads from the cover. “Sam, I’m in no mood to—”
I cut him off with, “Open it.”
With a groan, Mr. Wells raises the cover and peers in.
“Those are my dad’s three biggest-selling holiday cupcakes,” I explain. “Eggnog, Pumpkin Spice and Peppermint Pecan. One for you, one for Dr. Sakata, and one for me. You choose first.”
“I don’t understand,” he says. “There are candles in these.”
“Oh, yeah. We gotta light ’em. That way you can blow ’em out and make a wish.” I watch him carefully as I add, “Isn’t that what people do on their birthday?”
Mr. Wells’s head snaps up. “I beg your pardon?”
If I wasn’t sure before, I’m sure now. “I knew it!” I shout, clapping my hands so loudly that Hoko and Dr. Sakata jump. “It is your birthday! And I figured it out!”
He studies me as if he were trying to read my mind, and after a minute his eyes open wide. “Of course. The gate combination.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” I say. Mr. Wells smirks, but now I’m pumped. “Come on! You’re, like, this big riddle. The man with a thousand secrets. And now I know one of them.” I pause before I add, “Or maybe more than one.”
“More than one?”
“Didn’t you tell me once t
hat information is power? Well, Mr. Wells . . .” I pull up a chair and sit. “I decided I wanted a little more power.” He scowls, but that doesn’t stop me. “So I spent the morning working on one of those public computers at the library downtown. I Googled things like ‘Herbert Wells and U.S. Foreign Service,’ or ‘Herbert Wells and Southeast Asia,’ and I got a couple hits. But neither of those Herbert Wellses had your birthday—January fifth—or a life story matching yours. Just as I was about to bag it, up pops a page about a guy named Herbert George Wells.”
“Of course. The British author. Early twentieth century. He wrote science fiction, if I remember correctly.”
“So you know about him, huh?”
“Why wouldn’t I? H. G. Wells is famous.”
Exactly what I was hoping he’d say. “Well, that’s just it. He is famous. As H. G. Wells. Hardly anybody knows that the H. G. stands for Herbert George, but you do. How come?”
Mr. Wells points to his head. “Just one of those useless facts that clutters my brain.”
“I don’t think you have any useless facts cluttering your brain, Mr. Wells.” I unfold the notes I made at the library. “This H. G. guy wrote some really cool books. The War of the Worlds. The Time Machine. Did you know about those?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I bet you know that H. G. Wells also wrote a novel called The Invisible Man.”
Mr. Wells grips the armrests of his wheelchair. Now I’ve got his attention.
“I got to thinking, Mr. Wells. All those years you worked overseas, you had to be a lot of different people, didn’t you? It must have been hard—every few years, another country. Another assignment. Another identity. And since you like codes and puzzles, I bet you chose every new alias carefully. You weren’t going to call yourself anything as boring as ‘John Smith’ or ‘Bill Brown.’ You’d want a name with a little mystery built into it. And I figured that, when it came time to retire in sleepy little Nickel Bay, you chose a name that contains a clue to the man you’ve always been . . . the Invisible Man.”
Instead of denying my story, Mr. Wells simply gazes at me, unblinking.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I still don’t know your real name. And maybe I never will.”
After a tense silence, Mr. Wells nods and says, “No. You won’t.” Then, with a small smile, he adds, “But now you’re thinking like a spy.”
So I’m right! I realize, and my pulse races. Everything I figured out is right! I try to steady my voice when I say, “It’s okay that you’re the Invisible Man. I mean, kids at school call me Frankenstein.” I point to my chest. “On account of the scar, y’know?”
“That must hurt,” Mr. Wells says.
“It used to,” I admit. “But not lately.”
“Oh, no?”
“Not since I’ve been Nick.” I sit forward and try to put my thoughts in order. “I’d be on a mission, Mr. Wells, and I’d get so scared and excited that my heart would be pounding like . . . like a giant’s footsteps. Boom! Boom! BOOM!” I bang on the desktop. “And I’d feel so alive. Can you understand? After a lifetime of feeling like I was made of separate parts, finally . . . finally, me and my heart, we were on this adventure together. Like one whole, complete boy. I’d give anything to have that feeling again.” My breath catches in my throat, and I can barely whisper, “Mr. Wells, don’t you believe in second chances?”
“Second chances?” he gasps, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. But he quickly tries to cover his surprise by asking, “You’re still thinking about the White Mission, aren’t you?”
I fold my hands in a pleading gesture. “One more time? You and me. Frankenstein and the Invisible Man.”
“Oh, Sam.” Mr. Wells groans and gazes off into a corner of the room, thinking for a long moment before turning back to me. “Sam. Even if I wanted to go through with it . . . ,” he begins, but when I start to react excitedly, he raises a STOP hand. “Hold on! Even if I wanted to go through with the White Mission—which would have to happen tomorrow, let’s remember—I’m afraid that, with all the recent distractions, we’re simply not ready.”
I bounce in my seat. “Mr. Wells, I was born ready. And you admitted yourself that nobody knows the Four Corners Mall like I do.”
“Even so,” he says with a sigh, “your put-pocketing skills are sadly . . .”
“My put-pocketing skills are awesome!” I exclaim. “Didn’t you tell me that if I can learn to be a pickpocket, I can be a put-pocket?”
“I did.”
“Well, how do you think I got the key that opened Hoko’s truck?”
“I don’t know,” he responds. “How?”
As Mr. Wells translates for Dr. Sakata, I act out the scene at the 7-Eleven with the grape Slurpee and the hysterical counter girl. And when I get to the part about snatching Mr. Eye Patch’s key ring and barricading him in the men’s room before running to Hoko’s rescue, they break into big smiles.
“You wanted confidence?” I shout, raising my arms like a winning prizefighter. “I got confidence!”
And then they both applaud.
THE MIX-UP AT THE MALL
January 6
It’s the twelfth and final day of Christmas, the Sunday before holiday decorations come down and school starts again. On the morning news shows, the announcers predict that everybody in town will be out in public, hoping for their own visit from Nick. “If he’s sticking to his usual schedule,” says one reporter, “Nickel Bay Nick will make his third and final appearance today. But where he’ll show up, nobody knows. So merchants all over Nickel Bay are gearing up for what is expected to be the largest shopping day of the season.”
Every security guard at the Four Corners Mall is on duty. Every entrance is being watched by at least eight pairs of eyes. I know all of them, and they all know me, either by sight or from my photo in their computer system. But when I stroll in just after noon, a single ripple in a massive ocean of shoppers, not one of them raises an eyebrow. That’s because they’re not looking for a short teenage girl in pigtails wearing a Hello Kitty wool cap, lime-green sunglasses, and a pink ski parka with a sky-blue backpack slung over one shoulder.
Don’t think “Sam.” Think “Samantha.”
• • •
It was my idea to go disguised as a girl. “To hide in plain sight,” Mr. Wells called it. He and I spent yesterday stamping the Nickel Bay Bens and laying out my route. In anticipation of glitches, we created an alternative to the primary mission. “Plan B,” Mr. Wells called it. And then, just to be safe, we devised a Plan C. “Although I hope it never comes to that,” he said.
Once we decided on my wardrobe, Dr. Sakata shopped, being careful not to buy more than a single item at any one store. He even drove an hour north of Nickel Bay to purchase the brown wig we braided into pigtails. After he returned late yesterday afternoon, I sang a quick “Happy Birthday” to Mr. Wells, and once he made a wish and blew out the candles, we each ate one of Dad’s cupcakes.
“Delicious!” Mr. Wells declared, and Dr. Sakata nodded in agreement. Between bites, Mr. Wells warned me that, of all the operations he’s devised over the years, the White Mission is by far the most dangerous.
I gulped. “You never said it was dangerous.”
“Think about it,” he said. “If your cover is blown, you will be chased. If you’re caught, a frenzied mob will no doubt tear you apart for the money you’re carrying. And what’s even worse is that, once your identity is revealed, the entire history of Nickel Bay Nick will be exposed.”
My mouth went a little dry when I heard that.
• • •
Now, all around me, thousands of shoppers jostle one another while, in the pocket of my parka, fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills crinkle at my fingertips. As anxious as I am to get started so I can finish and get out, I’ve been warned to take my time at first. “Stroll around,” M
r. Wells advised. “Visit every floor of the mall. Watch how the crowds are moving. Make note of places where people seem to be distracted.”
Four Corners Mall is built around a soaring central court, which is dominated every December by a twinkling fifty-foot Christmas tree. Riding the escalators and wandering in and out of stores, I observe the crush of bodies at the sales tables in Macy’s on the ground level. I study the long lines at the cash registers in Sporting World up on three. And in the food court, I marvel at the two brave souls ordering ice cream sundaes at Baskin-Robbins despite the freezing weather outside. I reconfirm the location of every surveillance camera. And on my journey, from behind my dark sunglasses, I look out at the citizens of Nickel Bay.
Neither of the first two missions, I realize, brought me face-to-face with the recipients of Nick’s generosity. While pretending to be interested in the window display at JC Penney’s, I watch the reflections of the crowds passing behind me. People are smiling and laughing. They’re hugging and greeting one another with a holiday spirit that was impossible to find in this town just twelve days ago.
Suddenly Mr. Wells’s final words ring in my ears. “Remember,” he warned when he and Dr. Sakata dropped me off four blocks from the mall, “once you actually do start, you’ve got to move like lightning. The instant someone slips a hand into a pocket or a package and discovers a Ben, the shouting will begin and the mission will end.”
Five levels of stores. Fifteen Nickel Bay Bens. That works out to three drops per floor. My mission is clear.
I fight to control the trembling in my left knee and sing a little snatch of Mom’s song inside my head.
Now I’m ready
Whoa-oh
I’m so ready!
• • •
At Baby Gap on the top floor, in a swarm of bargain hunters, I spy a weary mother pushing a newborn in a stroller as two more toddlers hang on to her. From the back of the stroller dangles a diaper bag, into which I easily slide a Ben.
In Sun & Sand, an older Asian woman on an aluminum walker pauses to squint up at a mannequin wearing a yellow polka-dotted bikini. “Oh, you’d look good in that,” I say in a high-pitched voice, and when she turns away, blushing and giggling, I slip a bill into a side pocket of her handbag.
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