And we can’t go back.
Chapter 23
Pressure.
I ROUSE MY TEAM, something they are not thrilled about, and point out the window. “We’re here,” I say. “Wake up.”
As we exit to a perfume of old cabbage, fuel, and pee, I keep one eye on Team OP and the other on the men in black jackets. How can Poppy not notice them? And how can a girl who doesn’t notice them be in line for early admittance to spy school?
We stream out of Grand Central right into the middle of bustling midtown Manhattan. The sidewalks teem with glassy-eyed, sunburned tourists speaking dozens of languages. For an anxious moment, we lose Team OP in a gaggle of rowdy uniformed school kids who spread to the sidewalk edge like spilled milk.
And the men in black jackets vanish. I scan the crowd, but there is no sign of them. It’s possible they are just two guys with good posture and matching clothes. Finally, we get eyes on Poppy and Owen Elliott. Deep depression sets in when we realize they plan on walking the 2.2 miles to the American Museum of Natural History.
“Take the subway!” Charlotte screams. “Or a cab. Or Lyft. Or fly on a freaking unicorn! I don’t care. Just no walking. It’s too hot!”
But they walk, so we walk.
And we complain. Actually, mostly Charlotte complains. “The first true automobile was invented in 1886,” she huffs. “And since that time, humans have ridden in them to avoid the discomfort of walking in four-hundred-degree heat.”
As I recall, the last time we were in New York City together, it was freezing, and she didn’t like that, either. Poppy moves fast, seemingly unfazed by the crowds or the melting sidewalks. Owen Elliott struggles to keep up.
We blaze down Fifth Avenue. Frosty air escapes the doors of trendy boutiques, embracing us. I almost swoon. Poppy doesn’t notice. She breaks left into Central Park, skirting the Central Park Zoo, charging hard toward the museum. She never once glances over her shoulder to see if Owen is keeping up. It’s almost as if she doesn’t care. I wonder if disregard for one’s teammates is something Mrs. Smith finds attractive in a potential spy?
When we finally roll up at the museum entrance off Central Park West, we are hot and perilously close to grumpy.
“Saving the world is not worth this,” Charlotte groans as she wipes sweat from her brow.
“I won’t argue that,” Izumi agrees.
“They just went in,” I say quickly. “We need tickets.”
Toby holds up his phone. “Got them.” We enter the museum, but Team OP is nowhere in sight.
“To the whale,” I say.
“You and that whale,” Charlotte replies.
“It’s cool,” I say. “You’ll see.” We head for the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, where the model blue whale is suspended from the ceiling. But to get there, we have to fight a tide of tourists, packed in shoulder to shoulder. This place sure is popular.
“We should be making salmon noises,” Charlotte says as we battle through the bodies.
“I don’t think salmon speak,” responds Izumi.
In the Hall of Ocean Life, we find Team OP standing under the enormous whale, looking perplexed. I scan the crowd for men in black jackets or other suspicious types, but all I see are people enjoying themselves. Except for Poppy and Owen Elliott. They argue. Poppy cannot see how something in this room will help improve her already-perfect water filtration device, and she’s taking it out on Owen Elliott. After a moment of heated discussion, they storm off in opposite directions.
This, of course, is a complication.
“I’ll take Poppy,” I bark. “Toby, you’re on Owen Elliott. Charlotte and Izumi, cover the main exits. Don’t let them leave!”
Poppy finds the nearest elevator and descends into the bowels of the building. I race for the stairs, taking them two at a time and almost breaking both my legs, arriving moments after she exits the elevator car. She follows signs for the research library. The lower level is not crowded, so I hang back.
The museum’s research library is intended for scholars, researchers, and other brainy people attempting to solve the many problems of our world. Through double glass doors, I spy a woman with buzz-cut purple hair and a pierced nose, sitting at a large desk. She chews gum and examines her phone. I stay hidden.
Purple, whose name tag I can’t see, looks up as Poppy enters. She grins and blows a bubble so big her face disappears. Poppy introduces herself as a student participating in the Invitational Interschool Global Problems and Solutions Challenge and in need of assistance.
“The who?” asks Purple, smacking her gum loudly.
“It’s a contest,” Poppy says, impatiently, “for kids trying to make the world a better place. It’s the wits task, and I need to be resourceful or I will lose. And I can’t lose. That’s unacceptable.”
Purple stares at her. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.
Poppy taps her foot, impatient. One thing I’ve learned is that when it comes to spying, things rarely go as planned. You have to think on your feet. Evidence suggests Poppy is not good at this. Purple grins, amused by the foot tapping.
“It’s a contest,” Poppy says, slowly and loudly, as if this will help Purple get it. I can’t wait to see where this goes, but before that happens, my recently acquired gold spy phone erupts in a chorus of pings and beeps. Poppy glances over her shoulder just as I throw myself around the corner, out of sight. The small screen floods with a string of texts from my teammates.
Toby: In Hall of Mammals. Two dudes talking to Owen. Might be guys from train?
Charlotte: Nothing at the exit. Oh, wait a minute. . . .
Izumi: Abby, where are you?
Toby: Don’t . . .
Charlotte: Abby! They’re . . .
I don’t even consider Poppy. I just run for the elevator, pulling up GPS tracking on my friends as I go. They’re still in the museum, Toby under the blue whale, the girls by the exits. I elbow my way through the visitors, squaring my shoulders like I’ve seen commuters do when leaving the subway. A few people bounce off me and throw me dirty looks. There’s no sign of Toby or Owen Elliott in Ocean Life. I skirt around an unruly school group and bolt for the nearest exit. A security guard yells at me for running, but I ignore him. No Izumi. An adrenaline spike sends my heart racing. Charlotte is gone too.
With shaking fingers, I pull up the tracker.
But the dots on the screen indicating where they are just spin and spin. My friends have disappeared.
Chapter 24
Smart Fabric to the Rescue.
I FIRE OFF A FEW frantic texts. Nothing comes back. Did the men in black jackets go for Owen Elliott? Did my friends end up as bycatch when they tried to protect him?
Think, Abby, think. I tuck the phone in my pocket and begin a systematic search of the enormous museum. After twenty minutes, I give up, my hands shaking with frustration. I call my mother, but she doesn’t pick up.
“Come on, Mom!” I bark at the phone. “Where are you?” Having a mother for whom floating around the ocean with a bunch of pirates is not out of the ordinary can sometimes be a total pain.
What do I do? I’ve lost my friends before, and I’ve found them before. Think, Abby! True, I have no way of finding my team, or Owen Elliott, but maybe Poppy does. I have no choice but to ask.
I find her back under the blue whale, looking annoyed. She keeps checking her phone and indulging in exasperated sighs. She has no idea her teammate has been snatched from right under her nose. I don’t care how good she looks on paper, she’d make a lousy spy. Finally, she wiggles into a small space on one of the benches and stares into space, her phone dangling from her hand. She seems a little lost, like the wind has gone out of her sails.
When I appear in front of her, she jumps from her seat as if ready to take me out with a swift uppercut. “What are you doing here?” she demands. “Are you stalking us? Trying to interfere so we don’t win? I could so see you doing that. Don’t you have your own wits t
ask to manage?”
I take a step back. All she thinks about is herself, no matter the circumstances. If Poppy does end up in spy school, I already feel sorry for her partner. “Where is Owen Elliott?” I demand.
Bravado suddenly gone, her eyes flick nervously around. She glances at her phone. “He was supposed to meet me here, but he’s not answering his texts. What did you do to him?”
“Me? Nothing!” The other people sitting on the bench clear out. I sit down and gesture for Poppy to do the same. She chooses to loom over me instead. My mother said not to tell Poppy what was going on because she might flip out, but I have to take my chances. “This is going to sound crazy,” I say, “but I think Owen Elliott has been kidnapped by the men in black jackets who are trying to steal the plans for Blackout.”
This is not what she expects me to say. It takes her an extra second to process my words. “My Blackout?” she asks. Yes. Unless Owen Elliott has his own Blackout? “Is nothing beneath you, Abby Hunter? What kind of trick are you trying to play to mess us up?”
This is taking too long. I need to know if she has any means to track Owen Elliott, and I need to know now.
“Listen up, Poppy,” I say sternly, in my best Teflon voice. “There’s a secret spy training facility under the Smith School. They are part of the Center. The Center helps protect our country from bad guys, and they’ve been chasing one called the Ghost for years. Are you keeping up? Confused? The Ghost wants Blackout because it can help him take over the world, which is his ultimate goal. He took your friend. He probably thinks Owen Elliott can give him the goods on Blackout. But he took my friends too. Now can you please stop being so difficult and just tell me if you can help?”
I expect a flicker of recognition. If Mrs. Smith is fast-tracking Poppy into the spy universe, surely Poppy has an inkling about the school. The slow realization that she does not hurts my insides. She’s not even trying to get in.
“Spy school?” she says indignantly. “Ghosts? Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”
“Think about it,” I say. “Haven’t you always known there is something strange about Smith?”
At this, she sits down, hard. Her shoulders sag. “What is going on? Blackout is just to make the girls next door shut up. They play music, they talk, they laugh all the time. I ask them to be quiet, but they ignore me, like they just can’t be bothered. Blackout’s just an experiment, you know, to see if I could. I swear, Abby, I will ruin your life if this is some ploy to beat us at the Challenge.”
“I don’t care about the Challenge,” I say flatly.
“You don’t?” She doesn’t even try to hide her surprise.
“No. We can come in last place, and it doesn’t matter.”
“No way.”
“Yup.”
“Really truly?” she asks.
Every second I waste with Poppy puts me another second behind the men in black jackets. I’m about to practice my Crow on Poppy just to get things moving.
“Yes,” I hiss. “What matters is our friends are gone.”
Poppy thinks some more, eyes fixed upward on the giant blue whale, the gears turning in her head. “Tell me about the spy school,” she says finally.
I’ve never had to explain the spy school to an outsider. Where do I start? I love Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. She has a knack for trouble that I respect, and she started at the beginning, placing her red slipper on that first yellow brick. Seems a good idea.
“It began in the 1980s,” I say. “They picked a bunch of girls to see how it would work. My mom, Jennifer Hunter, was one of them. And Mrs. Smith. You know, the headmaster.” Poppy’s expression changes from dubious to shocked. “Anyway, it’s been going on ever since. The spy school trains the girls, and the Center sends them out on world-saving missions.”
“And you’re one of them?” she asks. Oh, how I regret this already!
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what are you, then?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “Did Owen Elliott have a phone on him? Something we can track? We need to find them, like, yesterday.”
“Wait. Not so fast. I have questions.”
I’m trying to be reasonable; after all, I need her. But her inability to see the urgency of this situation might make my head explode. Working with people not of your choosing is hard. “And I’ll answer them,” I say. “But first, can you locate the rest of Team OP or what?”
“Do you really call us that?” she asks.
“Yes. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
She grimaces. “If this Ghosty person is going to end the world, why don’t you just tell Mrs. Smith or your mother?”
“Long story.” Mrs. Smith cannot not be trusted to make a mess of things, and Jennifer is late.
Poppy sits back and studies me. I am not telling her about the pirates, no matter how hard she stares. “Owen Elliott didn’t show up on the GPS when I tried to find him before,” she says after a pause. “His phone must be off.”
My shoulders sag with disappointment. Spies make their own luck, but just once I’d like for something to break my way.
“However,” says Poppy with a sly smile. “I sewed a piece of smart fabric into Owen’s T-shirt to test it out. And I believe he is wearing that same T-shirt. I might be able to find him if I mess with the app code.”
“Does he know?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” she shoots back. “I want to help him be his best self, and the fabric can make that happen. To be my friend, he has to make some changes.”
I cannot believe I’m hearing this. Poppy is trying to mold Owen Elliott like a piece of clay. But now is not the time to explain why this is gross.
“You can change the app?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, indignant. Poppy pulls out her smartphone. “The fabric is not a tracker exactly, but with a few tweaks here and a couple of adjustments, it might work.” As her fingers fly, she launches into a simultaneous lecture on how the smart fabric provides enhanced data to the user, enabling a person to be smarter about his or her own body. I nod enthusiastically while tuning her out. I just want to know if we can find Owen Elliott.
The crowds swell and churn around us. Our bench gets crowded. When Toby is concentrating on coding, he doesn’t talk. Poppy is the opposite. She tells me about how she once had tea with the Queen of England.
“She has a lot of dogs,” Poppy says. “They are everywhere. I think she prefers them to people, which I totally get. I mean, people are unpredictable, right? They just do stupid stuff. Take Tucker Harrington III, for instance.”
Finally! Something we can agree on. She transitions smoothly into a rant about Tucker and his penchant for disposable water bottles, fingers never leaving the small smartphone screen. I watch the people. There are no more men in black jackets, which means they believe they got what they need.
I want that to feel like a mistake.
Chapter 25
An Icy Wind Blows In.
WE SIT ON THE SQUISHED bench and wait for the updated app to acquire Owen Elliott’s high-tech T-shirt. When I suggest we go outside for a better signal, Poppy scoffs. “I’m not deterred by stone walls,” she says.
I know Charlotte and Izumi well enough that I can predict how they will likely react to things. But Poppy is confusing. She doesn’t seem to experience the least bit of anxiety about Owen Elliott’s safety. She peppers me with questions about the Center and spy school. I’m careful not to mention she’s on the short list for entry, as she will then become insufferable and I will have to leave, despite her being my best and only hope for finding my friends.
“Got him,” Poppy says finally, triumphantly. I grab for the phone, but she holds it beyond my reach. “Weird. They’re moving . . . really fast. Look.”
The screen contains a rudimentary map, nothing as fancy as the maps we’ve grown accustomed to. I expect to see them headed somewhere in the city, a secret Ghost lair, but the purple dot re
presenting Owen Elliott zips along with no heed of roads or landscape. As if Owen Elliott is flying. Oh, no. This is not a good development.
“They’re on a plane,” I say.
Poppy’s eyes go wide. “Flying? Where?”
I take the phone, this time without protest, and study the map. “West,” I say.
“Do we chase after them? What do we do now? I do not understand the parameters of this problem. I need data so I can plan.” Poppy is panicking. Her eyes pinwheel in her head, and her shoulders slide up toward her ears.
“I think I know how to figure this out,” I say. It’s a long shot, but I’m willing to give it a try. “You’re good with computers, right?”
Poppy snorts. “Good? I’m great.”
“I hope so,” I say. “Come on.”
We head back to the research library. “What do we need a computer for?” asks Poppy, trailing behind me. “You have your phone. It’s nice, by the way.”
If only she knew. “We’re going to contact a friend of mine,” I say. Kind-of friend? Sort-of friend? “Iceman requires we make initial contact anonymously, through a public computer.”
Poppy pulls up short. “Iceman? The Iceman? As in the hacker?” I nod. Poppy bursts out laughing. “No way you know Iceman. No. Way.”
I shrug. “Sure I do.”
“Prove it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” But sweat blooms on my forehead, and it’s not from the heat. There’s a good chance Iceman ignores my pleas, and that kind of humiliation will be catnip to Poppy.
Purple sits behind her research library desk, smacking her gum, staring at her phone.
“Ahem,” I say. “Excuse me?”
She glances from me to Poppy. “You’re back,” she says. She does not sound happy about that. Before Poppy can open her big mouth and wreck this chance, I shove her behind me.
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