“Seriously?” I turned on the barstool so I could see Kip. “Meagan got new shoes. What do I say to that?”
“I don’t know. Make something up. But keep the conversation going. She gets mad if I don’t answer.”
Right. I spun back and texted, What kind?
“What was it you wanted to ask, Spencer?”
I looked up. Mr. Johnson was standing at the mouth of the hallway at the end of the kitchen, loosening his necktie. “Oh, sorry. Uh, I’ve been looking into my mom’s death.”
Mr. Johnson frowned and walked back to the counter. “Why?”
Kip’s cell phone buzzed, but I ignored it. “A while back I found out that she was killed in a, uh, suspicious way. But no one really knows how.” At least they wouldn’t tell me.
“What did the investigation turn up?”
I shrugged. “All I know is she died ten or eleven years ago in a building that blew up in downtown L.A. I found some articles on Google, but I can’t get any more information since I’m not a lawyer or a cop or whatever.” Kip’s cell buzzed again.
“And you thought I could find something?”
I offered my cheesiest smile, as if his turning me down wouldn’t matter. I was such a liar. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Please, say yes; please, say yes.
Mr. Johnson reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a card. “Email me what you’ve got, and I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”
“Stupid spellcaster!” Kip yelled from the living room.
I took the card and smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Johnson.”
“Doug,” Mr. Johnson said as he disappeared down the hallway.
“Right.” The cell phone buzzed again. Come on! What did the girl want? I scrolled through the texts: sper cute cheeta sk8 shoes; pink and blue; i’ll wear 2moro
I texted: Can’t wait.
And I wanted a girlfriend? Seemed like a whole lot of nothing. But I doubted Beth would ever text me about shoes. I returned to the couch and my bag of chips. “Your girlfriend got new shoes, and your dad has a date with a Victoria Secret model.” Though I didn’t know what a model would see in a half-bald dude with a moustache. Must be the uniform. Or the gun.
“You have to work too hard for your kills in this game,” Kip said.
“That’s what makes it fun.” Which was great in a video game, but in real life… I hoped Mr. Johnson would help me figure out what happened to my mom. Because if he couldn’t, I’d probably never find out. The Mission League liked keeping secrets.
• • •
Thursday morning in The Barn—which was the basement classroom where us agents-in-training learned our secret skills—I sat scrunching my face in concentration.
A loud click drew my gaze away from the puzzle in my hands. Gabe waved his open padlock and flashed his metal grin.
“Goody for you,” I said. My stupid paperclip got stuck every time I tried to turn it inside my padlock. As usual, it was far too early for this kind of brain activity.
Besides, all I could think about was how basketball tryouts started after school today.
“Let me see it.” Jensina held out her hand, her long fingernails painted electric blue to match her pixie hair. I wondered if she dyed it herself or if she’d gone to Lukas at Peluqueria Rodriguez.
“No way.” I forced the twisted metal back into the lock and wiggled it around. I wasn’t taking help from a girl. Beth’s LCT training was an exception, and enough torture for my fragile ego.
“You can’t force it.” Gabe pushed his glasses up his nose. “Straighten the paperclip and press it to one side against the pins. Better yet, do what I did and shimmy in through the top.”
If he didn’t pipe down, I’d shimmy him. I gritted my teeth and wrestled with the lock. Overall I had picked up spy trainings with incredible ease and often won first points for Alpha team. But two things gave me trouble: locks and languages.
The first week back to school, Mr. S had announced that this year’s summer training mission would be in Japan. He didn’t say where—and wouldn’t until the new recruits joined us in the spring. But we’d already started learning Japanese in the afternoons.
Japanese was nothing like Russian.
This morning’s lesson was on lock picking. The center of Alpha table was heaped with all kinds of metal: deadbolts, file cabinet locks, doorknobs, and padlocks in three sizes. Gabe and Jensina’s locks all lay open. They were simply waiting on the weakest link.
That would be me.
I huffed and glanced at Gabe. “What do you mean, shimmy in the top?”
“Thirty seconds left!” Mr. S called from his desk in the corner. “ ‘You may delay, but time will not.’ ”
I dropped my padlock. It clattered to the table as I snatched up a doorknob. Maybe I’d have better luck with this one.
Jensina buried her face in her arms on the tabletop and groaned. Her negativity wasn’t helping. I thrust my mangled paperclip into the keyhole.
“Done!” Beth yelled.
A cheer rose from the Diakonos table, sending a jolt of surprise through me. I looked up. All five Diakonos students had their arms in the air, waving madly at Mr. S.
He approached and surveyed their locks. “Good work. Fifty points.”
Diakonos team whooped and screamed. I dropped the doorknob onto the table—paperclip sticking out—and pushed it away. “It’s not fair.”
“What’s that, Agent Garmond?” Mr. S asked.
“We’ve only got three people in Alpha, and Diakonos has five.”
“ ‘Genius not only diagnoses the situation but supplies the answers,’ so said Robert Graves. Diakonos may have more people, but they opened more locks in less time. That doesn’t seem unfair.” Mr. S walked to his desk and wrote something down. Probably the points. Like it mattered. Alpha was so far behind on points it felt like we’d been lapped twice.
“The problem’s not your team, Garmond, it’s you,” Nick hissed from the next table. “Even if you had twenty lock-picking experts on Alpha team, you’d still lose.”
As much as Nick bugged me, he had a point. And picking a fight with pretty boy Nick Muren wouldn’t earn any points for my team or myself. I was at six, and I couldn’t take regular LCT until I was at one hundred. Don’t laugh. I’d been at negative fifty when school started. My first two lessons with Beth hadn’t gone that well, and I couldn’t help but notice that the rest of the class was not bruised or limping around from the regular LCT class.
Mr. S walked to the chalkboard. “If you’re without a lock picking kit, there are many common household items you can use besides a paperclip. Safety pins are great. Some other good tools, depending on the size of the lock, might be an Allen-wrench, a screwdriver…”
I slouched in my seat and glanced at Beth at the Diakonos table. She was leaning forward taking notes. Her brown ponytail draped over her ear. I sighed and grabbed my pen.
She had better start teaching me something concrete soon.
• • •
Tryouts for basketball were after school on Thursday and Friday and almost all Saturday. Varsity coach, Martin Van Buren, thrived on making us feel like we were on the edge of being cut. He never played favorites. I’d played varsity last year as the only freshman on the team, so I felt confident, but I wanted to be the starting point guard. I’d take shooting guard, if I had to, but I was a floor general, a leader. I had the handles and the vision.
Saturday, Coach began the morning with killers. Typical. It was his way of weeding out sloths and finding players who could perform when they were dead tired. Killers consisted of running from the base line to the free throw line and back to the base line, then to half court and back to the base line, then to the far free throw line and back to the base line, then to the opposite baseline and back.
That was one.
After the third set of killers, my ankle grew tender. I was glad I’d wrapped it. I pushed harder, finished my killer, and strolled to the drinking fountain. Out of the corner of
my eye, I watched those still running. All freshmen—and one junior. Desh Corneilussen, of course. He was a heavyweight varsity wrestler with more flab than muscle, but he’d likely be our center since Garcia had graduated.
I walked away from the drinking fountain and leaned against the mat-covered wall beside Kip. Now Desh was the only one still running. “The dude needs to cut out the Hot Pockets,” I said.
Kip’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Ain’t going to happen. Desh eats pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
Next, Coach had us shoot free throws. Cake. I never missed free throws. Another must for a good point guard since we drew so many fouls.
After free throws, Coach picked ten random players to scrimmage. I tried not to smile when Coach threw me the ball. There were all kinds on the court—freshman to seniors—with all kinds of ability. Now wasn’t the time to get cocky.
I dribbled and passed, analyzing those on my team and quickly weeding out the skilled from the unskilled.
Only a year separated me from the freshmen, but that made a huge difference. I smiled at how flustered they were around Coach, taking every comment personally. I knew better. Let the criticism bounce.
Overall, I played well, but I kept tripping over my feet under the key. It had been too long since I’d scrimmaged with real players. Plus, I’d grown over the summer—at least my feet had. I’d measured my height twice last week and got six foot, three both times.
But I was only fifteen. I couldn’t be done growing yet.
Whenever someone missed a shot or didn’t catch the ball, Coach made the whole team run. A gangly, butterfingered freshman was incapable of catching a pass. I even tried throwing softer. Eventually I stopped passing him the ball. My game couldn’t take any more of his blunders.
Finally, Coach lined us up along the baseline and paced in front like a drill sergeant. “No practice Sunday, so enjoy your last day of freedom. Monday, practice starts after school at 2:45. Junior varsity meet with Coach Scott, varsity with me. Don’t be late or you’ll be running stairs. The following week we’ll practice at 5:00. We’ve got to share the gym with the girls, so practice times alternate every other week. Comprende?”
A few guys murmured an affirmative response.
“Houston, Swift, Kelley, Estes, Garmond, Higgens, Frasier, Lamb, Johnson, and Corneliussen. Varsity. Everyone else, JV. If I find any talent over the next few weeks, I may pick a few swing players. Now, get lost!”
I smiled and headed for the locker room, one step closer to the starting five. I had to talk to Mr. S about the practice schedule. Hopefully he’d understand when I missed afternoon League quite a bit over the next few months.
In the locker room, I sat on the concrete bench next to Desh and untied my sneakers. Kip unlatched the locker next to me and flung it open with a loud clang. I compared my upper arm strength with Kip’s. My biceps were bigger, plus Kip had yet to learn how to work his triceps.
Thank you Mr. Daggett for selling me your old weight bench.
“Got a date yet?” Kip asked, throwing a towel over his shoulder.
“You asking me out?”
Kip slammed his locker and turned to me. “For the dance, moron. You have to go.”
I groaned. “Come on. It’s stupid.”
“Everyone goes to homecoming,” Desh said. He rolled his hugeness off the bench and slouched toward the showers.
I stood and twisted the combination on my locker. How long would it take me to pick it with a paperclip? Ten, twelve hours?
Kip hovered beside me like a shadow. “Dude. It’s homecoming.”
“So? Homecoming is about football, and our team sucks. I see no reason to celebrate that.” Plus, getting all dressed up to stand in the dark cafeteria, waiting all night for eight slow songs and trying to decide which girl to ask? Sounded like torture.
“Forget football. We go to the dance, then we par-tay.” Kip leaned in and lowered his voice. “Get a date and you won’t have to worry about who to dance with.”
I glanced around, hoping no one had heard that. Kip was the only person who knew about my dance phobias.
“You and your date can ride with me and Meagan in the Bimmer.”
Kip and his Bimmer. I couldn’t wait ’til I got my license. But I’d need a car. I couldn’t drive Grandma’s Lincoln around. The thing stank like her lilac powder.
Seriously. Who’d go with me to Homecoming? Obviously not Trella-the-troll Myers.
I knew who I wanted to ask. But Beth was a senior and I was a sophomore, though that might not matter so much since she was homeschooled. Still, it was too early to make a play for Beth. I’d only had two LCT lessons. And I didn’t want to spoil my chances because of a stupid dance.
But Kip was still hovering, so I said, “I’ll think about it.”
REPORT NUMBER: 4
REPORT TITLE: Some Random Prophecy Gets Me a Cell Phone… and a Diary
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: Harris Hall, The Barn, Pilot Point Christian School, Pilot Point, California, USA
DATE AND TIME: Monday, October 20, 7:36 a.m.
The sounds of the Japanese alphabet were so repetitive, it was nearly impossible to pronounce wrong. Plus Hirigana and Katakana were much easier to learn than Cryllic had been last year. Kanji wasn’t going to happen though. Mr. S said many Japanese kids couldn’t even read kanji.
I was starting to think I might actually get the hang of this one.
“Watashi wa Spencer san desu,” I said to Arianna. My name is Spencer.
She answered, “Konnichiwa Spencer chan.” Hi, Spencer…
Wait. Chan? I frowned and looked at my textbook. “Why did you say chan?”
“San means mister or mistress, but chan is for close friends.”
Handy that Mission-Ari Sloan was already fluent in Japanese. Maybe she’d come in useful this summer instead of driving me nuts with her mission to get me saved.
After Mr. S dismissed us Monday morning, I approached his desk. “Uh, Mr. S? Basketball practice start today after school—only every other week because we rotate with the girls’ team, but…”
“You’ll be missing afternoon class every other week?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“You can’t be two places at once, Spencer. The fact that you’re asking me, tells me you’ve already decided.”
I felt like gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
“It’s all right,” Mr. S said. “ ‘If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead anywhere.’ We’ll work it out. Gabe can give you your assignments. When does the season end?”
I gulped. “First week of February.”
“You’ll be very busy. No time for goofing off.”
“Right.”
“So we won’t see you this afternoon, then?”
“I guess not.”
“Well, have a nice practice.”
“Thanks, Mr. S.”
“Sure.”
I dragged my sneakers across the dewy field. Which was more important? The Mission League or basketball? Last year I would’ve laughed at myself for even asking the question.
Now, I didn’t know.
• • •
At practice that afternoon, Coach used me as point guard to teach the team the plays. A very good sign. I passed the ball to Alex Houston under the hoop, but Alex missed.
Coach threw his hands in the air. “Oh, come on, Houston!”
The team waited while Alex chased down the ball. I glanced at the clock—3:34. It felt strange to be in the gym when the rest of the agents-in-training were learning Japanese. I wondered if Beth had noticed I wasn’t there.
“Hey, Garmond!” Kip hissed.
Kip and Desh waltzed through the key. It looked like they were both trying to lead.
I propped my hand on my hip. “Glad to see someone found a date for homecoming.”
Their antics had worked, though, and I dwelled on my lack of prospects the rest
of practice. I thought about it again that evening sitting on the mat floor of C Camp with Beth.
She started each session with ten minutes of quiet stretching and prayer. I always tried to pray, but my mind usually trailed off into strange places. Today I was thinking about my lack of a date for the homecoming dance. I opened my eyes, moved into a hamstring stretch, and watched Beth. I just had to man up and ask her.
Next time.
• • •
When I got home from LCT, Kimbal and Prière were sitting in the living room with Grandma Alice. Prière was the Intercessor for the Agent Development Program of the Mission League in Pilot Point. Gabe said the guy spent more time on his face in prayer than on his back asleep.
“I hope you’re here because you have some answers for me,” I said to Prière, dropping my backpack and basketball on the floor under the wall of fame, which was Grandma’s collection of framed pictures of old rock stars.
“Spencer.”
Grandma didn’t like my tone, I know, but come on. It had been two and a half months since Moscow and a week since the salon incident. These people hadn’t told me squat.
Prière got up from the couch and reached out to shake hands. “Bonjour, Spence. How is your training coming along?” he asked in his phlegmy French accent.
I shook his hand. “I made the team.”
I think Prière frowned, but it was hard to tell with his thick moustache. “Team?”
“Basketball, right,” Kimbal said. “Forgot tryouts ended on Saturday. Van Buren going to start you?”
“Too early to tell,” I said. “But I’m on varsity.”
“That’s great, Spencer,” Kimbal said. “Way to go.”
“Oui, félicitations, Spence.” Prière eased back onto the sofa and clasped his hands.
I pulled out the chair at Grandma’s sewing machine and sat down, never breaking eye contact with Prière. Come on, French man, give me something I can use.
“I know that you have been waiting a very long time for answers,” Prière said. “I can be providing you some of those today.”
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