by Lauren Sabel
“They’re something seriously wrong with putting those two words together.”
We leave the office and take the elevator down, arguing about the benefits and drawbacks of tofu bacon. “It’s more humane,” I tell him.
“Not for the tofu,” Jasper says. He follows me off the elevator across the lobby. “It has to suffer the indignity of pretending to be what it’s not.”
Jasper nods to Anthony, who is sitting at the front desk, his feet kicked up against the back of the metal detector as usual.
“Yo,” Anthony says. “Bike keys?”
Jasper growls and throws the keys to Anthony, who catches them midair. “North side of the parking lot,” Jasper says. “And fill it up.”
Anthony nods, and zips his lips closed. “Still sealed.”
Jasper just rolls his eyes and pulls the front door open. “What were we saying?”
“Cruelty to animals.”
“Oh yeah. I want my bacon to oink before I eat it.”
I shake my head, feigning anger. I don’t get to choose what other people eat, and I’m fine with that. But if you could hear the thoughts of animals, would you eat them?
“This is my treat,” Jasper says, but then he stops in the open doorway and pats his back pocket. “Forgot my wallet. Be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” I say, and step out into the quad. Directly across the lawn, Monty is coming out of the science building. I barely recognize him. He’s wearing dark pants with no holes or safety pins and a khaki suit jacket. He’s even carrying a briefcase in one hand, and a clipboard with a neat stack of papers in the other.
“So you do clean up well,” I murmur. But despite his cleaned-up appearance, Monty looks uncomfortable in his skin. He keeps tugging at the bottom of his jacket, and then he has to push up his sleeves, which are so long they hang down to his knuckles. He stops briefly in a crowd of students to straighten the papers in his clipboard, and then rebutton his khaki jacket, and then to readjust his briefcase on his shoulder.
Then, just as Monty walks straight into a boisterous game of Frisbee, one of the papers slips out of his clipboard and flies across the quad. He chases it down and stomps it into the grass with his boots. I burst out laughing.
“I think it’s dead,” I call out to him.
Monty glances up and spots me across the quad. Snatching the paper off the ground with a scowl, he heads toward me. “Twice in two days,” Monty says when he’s a few feet away. “How’d I get so lucky?”
“You did have a morning lecture,” I reply. “How’d it go?”
“I think they’re gonna take my name off the building.”
“You didn’t call the A’s a-holes again, did you?”
“Not yet.” He looks at the ground. “But I think they were expecting someone like Dad,” he says softly. “And instead, they got me.”
“Hey, you’re not so bad.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence. “I hate these clothes,” Monty finally says, and starts to unbutton his khaki suit jacket.
“Is this part of your lecture?” I joke, and he scowls. “Hey, at least you got to wear the boots.” Monty pulls the coat off and shoves it into his briefcase.
“That’s gonna get—” I start to say wrinkled, but the words freeze in my mouth when I see his T-shirt. It’s ripped across one faded black shoulder, above a picture of two interlocking earths. On the upper right corner is a sewn-in symbol of the infinity logo.
Monty sees me staring, and glances down at the rip on his shoulder. “Cheap material,” he says. “They all ripped during the cleanup.”
“Cleanup?”
“The toxic spill,” he says. “EarthScape gave these out to the volunteers.”
“Then EarthScape should have spent more on them,” I say slowly.
“We can’t waste money on clothes, not when the Red Cross depends on us. We didn’t make many anyway; we try to remain anonymous. Just give some assistance to the people doing the real work.”
I stare at him. “Do you mean like behind every successful man is a hard-working woman?”
Monty smiles. “You ask a lot of questions.”
Jasper taps me on the shoulder, and I jump an inch in the air. “Geez! Can’t you walk like a normal human?”
Jasper shrugs, and I glance back at Monty, expecting him to say hi to Jasper, but he ignores him completely. I can’t blame him: it’s not like Jasper’s anger about Indigo selling our gifts out to the highest bidder isn’t obvious.
“Hi, Junior,” Jasper says.
“What’s your name again?” Monty responds, and then he turns back to me. Now that Jasper’s here, Monty’s tone changes abruptly from informative to bragging. “We just sent up a cutting-edge satellite that picks up seismic activity before it happens,” Monty says proudly. “In twenty-four hours, we can get our supplies to anywhere in the world from our warehouse.”
The words echo in my brain like someone yelling into a cave: Satellite. Warehouse. EarthScape. The pieces start falling into place. The satellite I’ve been seeing in my sessions picks up on natural disasters before they happen, which means it would pick up on the tidal wave that kills the little boy, and send supplies on emergency vehicles from the EarthScape warehouse. It all makes sense.
“The news said the military sent that up,” Jasper says from beside me.
Monty nods. “That’s the point of being anonymous.”
The bell in the Berkeley clock tower starts to chime. Monty shoves his clipboard into his briefcase beside his coat, and the leather briefcase bulges at the seams. “That’s my cue,” he says, and then glances at me. “Let’s go for three days in a row next time.”
As Monty walks away, something funny starts tickling at the edge of my mind. The satellite that picks up on seismic activity and sends a signal to the warehouse makes sense, but it doesn’t answer what EarthScape has to do with rare earth metals, like the internet said, or why the truck was carrying radioactive materials. Or stranger still, why the EarthScape warehouse looks closed down if it’s an active emergency supply warehouse.
“C’mon,” I say to Jasper, starting to follow Monty across the quad. “Let’s find out where he’s going.”
“Why?” Jasper asks as he hurries to catch up to me. “He’s probably just late for lunch.”
“Maybe,” I respond. “But something’s off.”
“But what about our lunch?”
“I can meet you at the restaurant,” I say, and he huffs.
“Fine. I’m coming.”
We trail Monty across the Berkeley campus, staying at least a hundred feet behind him the whole time. Monty keeps his eyes on his feet, only looking up a few times to glance anxiously at his phone.
“Can we turn around now?” Jasper asks, and I shake my head. “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just have a weird feeling. But feel free to turn around anytime.”
Jasper doesn’t turn around, even though we practically have to run to keep up with Monty, and we’re out of breath by the time we get to the other side of campus. But when Monty turns onto a little street lined with Painted Ladies—Victorian-style houses painted with cheerful pastel colors that are famous in the Bay Area—we continue to follow him, staying as far back as possible.
“I’m hungry,” Jasper complains.
“Just a few more minutes,” I say quietly.
When we get to the main drag through campus, Monty goes into a coffee shop. Through the tall glass windows, I see him approach the counter and talk to a pretty barista. Her big fluttering eyelashes tell me that she knows exactly who he is—and how much he’s worth.
“Look.” I nudge Jasper and point to Monty.
“She’s definitely not into him for his personality,” Jasper says.
Monty buys a coffee at the counter, and then walks over to the condiment table and grabs a napkin. He puts his briefcase on a booth beside the condiment table, right beside a piece of paper someone must have left
behind.
“Can we go get that burger now?” Jasper asks.
“Veggie burger,” I reply. “And no, not yet.”
At the booth, Monty opens his briefcase, but instead of reaching into it, he looks around the room, and then he glances at the piece of paper that was left on the table. He takes a pen out of his briefcase and copies down whatever is on the paper onto a napkin. He folds the napkin and puts it in his pocket, and then he scribbles something on the piece of paper. Then he shuts the briefcase, picks it up, and goes back up to the counter to talk to the sexy barista.
“What’s he doing?” Jasper asks.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering.”
“I know! She’s way out of his league.”
I roll my eyes. “Focus, Jasper, focus.”
At the counter, the barista calls out an order, and a woman, her frizzy brown hair sticking out under a wide-brimmed black hat, picks up her to-go cup. With her back to the window, the woman stops at the condiment table to put something in her coffee, and then she walks past the booth. Without stopping, she picks up the piece of paper Monty just wrote on and returns to the condiment table. From behind, I see her fold it in half and place it in the pocket of her ridiculously large black overcoat.
“It can’t be,” I mumble.
“What?” Jasper asks.
The woman lingers at the condiment table just a second longer than most people would, not long enough for someone to notice who wasn’t paying close attention, and then she grabs a lid and seals her coffee closed. She yanks her black hat down lower on her head, and, staring at her feet, turns around. My heart stops in my chest.
It’s my mom.
“Good score, Monty,” Jasper says.
I turn on him. “What?”
“What?” Jasper looks confused. “She’s hot.”
“That’s my mom,” I say.
He stares at me open-mouthed. “Sorry about the hot statement. And the good score comment.”
In the café, Mom doesn’t glance at Monty as she walks past him, or as she opens the door and steps onto Telegraph Avenue. She doesn’t look back as she throws her coffee in the nearest trash can and raises her hand to hail a taxi. Within seconds, one stops in front of her. She climbs in and slams the door behind her, and the taxi takes off.
I stare at the cab’s taillights as it flies through a yellow light and disappears over the hill, my mind spinning with questions.
Could Mom know about my job? Is that why she’s meeting with Monty? But I’m almost positive Mom doesn’t know about my job. If she did, she would have confronted me about it. Plus, why would Monty tell her about my true identity? He has nothing to gain from breaking my secret, especially after I helped him. So, putting that aside, there’s only one reason she could have met Monty today: for work. Monty said that he lectures at Stanford occasionally, in the science department, and she runs the science department. He even knows about her “famous” math equation incident. . . . But if they’re working together, she would have met with him there—and she wouldn’t have been in disguise in her black hat and overcoat.
“Do you think they’re dating?” Jasper asks.
I shake my head so hard it almost spins off my neck. “She’s almost married.”
“That’s never stopped anyone before.” Jasper laughs. “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Because, first of all, she’s not having an affair with Monty. But this means she might know the truth about me.” I take a deep breath. “What am I supposed to ask her? Mom, do you know that I’m a psychic spy and have been lying to you for years?”
“I’d go with the affair,” he says.
“I’m going home to talk to her,” I say, “before I lose my nerve.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It’s only been an hour since I left Berkeley, but Mom’s already on her way out. She’s wearing sweats and sneakers, and her hair is back in a ponytail. She looks totally different than she did when she was meeting Monty at the café.
“Hey Cal,” Mom says. “I’m heading to the store.” She grabs the empty honey jar out of the pantry. “Want anything?” she says, as she drops the empty jar into her recyclable grocery bag.
I stare at her. What do I even say? Do you know about my work with a secret psychic spy agency? “Um . . . milk?”
Mom looks at me strangely. “We have milk.” She opens the fridge and nods to the two pints of milk lined up on the shelf.
“I meant creamer. Coffee creamer.”
Mom shuts the fridge. “Right.” She hitches her grocery bag onto one shoulder. “Hey, how was work?”
“Okay,” I say. I can’t accuse her of anything, or she’ll know I was there. And what excuse would I have for being in Berkeley when I was supposed to be nannying for the Bernsteins?
“Your day was just okay?” she asks.
“Well, good.” Behind me, the radio sputters National Public Radio, as usual. It gives me an idea of how to bring up what happened today. Thank you, talk radio.
“My day was very good, actually,” I continue. “Mr. Bernstein was home from work today, so he took me and Emma to the Berkeley Art Museum. It was really cool. Have you been there yet?”
“I never go to Berkeley, you know that,” Mom says. “I haven’t been in . . . well, years.”
Why is she lying to me? I take a deep breath and try again, going for a more direct approach this time. “I thought I saw you at a café in Berkeley this morning, when we stopped to buy a hot cocoa for Emma.”
“Not possible,” Mom says. “I was at Stanford all morning. It must have been someone else.”
I’m dumbfounded. Somehow I thought we were close enough for her to tell me what’s on her mind, but I guess not.
I turn it over in my head. If Mom was meeting Monty to talk about something to do with teaching at Stanford, she wouldn’t lie to me about being in Berkeley today, so that seems to leave only one option I can think of, and Mom finding out that I’m lying to her makes my heart sink to my toes.
Behind me, Richard walks into the kitchen, and I jump at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey kiddo,” he says.
“Hi Richard,” I say weakly.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’m going to the store, honey.” Mom says. “Want anything?”
Richard walks over and wraps his arms around her. “Jell-O,” he says. “My weakness. And you.” He shifts around her so he’s giving her a hug from behind. “How was work, Callie?”
“Good! Mr. Bernstein took me and Emma to the Berkeley Art Museum today.”
“That sounds great, Cal,” he responds.
“He’s a scientist,” I continue. “And the whole way there, he kept talking about that guy that just shot a satellite into space. It’s pretty cool. Monty something. Have you heard of him?” I ask, staring straight at Mom.
“I’m not sure,” Richard says.
“No,” Mom says.
Mom just traded notes with Monty and she’s never heard of him? What’s going on?
“I’m heading upstairs,” I say. “Enjoy your Jell-O.”
“Will do,” Richard says.
I walk upstairs and pause in front of my bedroom door, listening to Mom leave the house. Richard starts the coffee pot, which means he’ll be down there awhile, so I continue walking down the hallway until I get to Mom’s room. Her door is open. In front of her dressing table, her work jacket is hanging off the back of her chair, and her heels are lined up below it.
I glance down the stairwell to make sure Richard’s not coming up, and then out the window to be sure Mom didn’t forget something and is coming back up to the house to get it. Once I’m sure, I quickly search the pockets of her jacket, but there’s nothing in there except a hair band with a single strand of black hair dangling from it. I slip my hand inside the jacket and run it across the silk lining. When my fingers stumble across the inside pocket, I unzip it and take out the folded piece of paper.
I unfold it,
and on the paper is a long series of numbers in Mom’s handwriting.
At the bottom of the page, under the numbers, is a phrase in a different handwriting: Operation Firepoker.
I instantly know that I can’t ask Mom about the paper. She’ll know that I snuck into her room and looked through her private things. Besides, I already poked around once today, and she denied even knowing Monty or going to Berkeley, so she’s obviously hiding something from me. I know it’s none of my business, but there’s something weird going on here, something that Mom feels strongly enough to lie to me about.
I hear Richard wash off his coffee cup in the kitchen sink; he’ll probably head upstairs soon. I pull a Sharpie out of my backpack and then push up my sleeve and copy the numbers onto my arm.
“Want a cup of coffee while the pot’s still warm?” Richard calls up to me.
“No thanks,” I yell, and then I fold the piece of paper and quickly shove it back into her jacket’s inner pocket.
I hurry to my bedroom and lock the door, and then I sit down at my computer and click on my browser. When the search bar appears, I type in the numbers written across my arm. The first several search results are random groups of numbers, including the number of insects in the Amazon, the highest amount of jellybeans ever put in a jar, and the number of hair follicles on a human head.
I scroll through all of these listings, and countless more pages of links, until I find a link with the list of numbers in the same order as on my arm. I click on it, and it redirects me to another site, which redirects me to another, until it looks like I’m inside someone’s database. It’s like I hacked into someplace without even meaning to.
“Access Denied,” it says across the screen.
I click on a hyperlink, and it says, in tiny letters:
Classified. Property of the US Government.
What the hell is going on? What kind of information could Mom have that is property of the government, and that Monty needs to know? I pry my phone out of my pocket and text Jasper.
Got your bike back from Anthony? I press Send, and then I go back to the browser, and type in Operation Firepoker.
A bunch of listings come up, mostly to do with operations on people who have been stabbed through the leg with a poker. To my surprise, I already know what to do if someone gets stabbed, thanks to Indigo’s after work training sessions. I scan the information anyway, reminding myself that to stop the bleeding, I have to wrap a tourniquet tightly around the wound to cinch off the blood flow, using anything but parachute cord—until I come across an interesting article on a government conspiracy website. The first couple of lines say: