Spy in the Alley

by Melanie Jackson

  After that, though, musical-arts camp started to improve. Following a floor plan of the building, Mother led me past studios from which singing or musical-instrument playing — pianos, flutes, drums, oboes, saxes — spilled out in a river of lively notes that made me want to dance. These, I grudgingly realized, were my people. Like me, they liked rhythm. Like me, they wanted to make music, preferably loudly. I developed a wide, foolish grin.

  “I knew you’d like it,” Mother whispered.

  Of course, I instantly tried to squelch my grin, but I didn’t succeed. This place was too cool.

  We reached the singing-class studio designated for my age group. A pianist played jazz notes while a boy crooned along, and the other kids snapped their fingers in time. Feeling right at home, I walked in.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said the long-necked young man from the front desk. He was playing the piano. Now he crashed through a bunch of discordant notes to express, I suppose, his horror at seeing me.

  “I cannot have this child in my class,” he told Mother stiffly. “It would be far too dispiriting.”

  I wasn’t sure what “dispiriting” meant, but my heart — er, heart and soul, as he would have said — sank.

  “You could put her in drum class,” the young man added witheringly. “She might respond to the jungle atmosphere.”

  “Sing,” Mother muttered to me.

  “Huh?” I muttered back. “But he doesn’t want—”

  “Sing,” hissed Mother, and pinched me.

  “AAAA,” I winced, then, wanting to avoid another pinch, transformed this into, “a-a-a-a-after you’ve gone, and left me cryin’…”

  What the heck. If I was going to be booted out I might as well exit loudly. I looked up at the ceiling to avoid facing Drippy Long-Neck, thought of Dad and just kept on belting out. A few refrains later the instructor used his long neck to project his face over mine, blocking my view of the ceiling. I paused, mouth open. We stared at each other for a few seconds. No way I was going to blink first.

  Then something funny happened. His face lost that pale, pained look and grew quite fond and misty, just the way my music teacher’s had in school.

  “Don’t you dare think of switching to drums,” he told me.

  By the time Mother brought me home, Madge had drawn a rose, mixed several of her watercolors close to the creamy beige shade of Jack’s roses and painted in the petals. The picture had just finished drying in the sun.

  She put it in an envelope and we walked down the alley to Jack’s house. The painting was for him.

  “You can see that my guilty conscience got the better of me,” Madge explained.

  I hummed as we went down the alley, enjoying the sun, and the birds singing, and the thought of the songs my class had done all day at camp. Even the warm-up exercises had been fun. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” I sang happily, remembering them.

  “Please,” said Madge, wrinkling up her nose. “That’s not exactly Top Ten material.”

  Then she went on dreamily, “You know, this alleyway would be as lovely a scene to paint as any of the Victorian pastoral settings I’ve seen at the art gallery. Even the garbage cans we’re passing are picturesque, if you think about it, with those wild pink roses tumbling about them.”

  “Right,” I said, reflecting that this sort of pronouncement by Madge was just as irritating to me as my singing had been to her.

  Madge daydreamed aloud, imagining just how she would capture this perfectly ordinary alleyway and transform it, until finally I got interested, and the alleyway looked magical to me, too. “It could be like a Brent Heighton painting,” Madge said. “Brent Heighton is one of my favor — ”

  “HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?”

  Buzz Bewford, red-hot as a grilled wiener, had lurched out to sweat and leer in front of us. We returned to earth with a rather rude suddenness, and the alley became ordinary again.

  “It’s hot enough, thank you,” Madge said, making no effort to smile at him. I knew she had disliked the security guard ever since he’d shoved his large, box-like face in the window the other day.

  Buzz just kept standing there, leering. I guess quick repartee wasn’t one of his strengths. But I felt that the leer was as nasty as any of his remarks.

  “Good afternoon,” Madge said, and, taking my hand, stepped around him.

  “You models have a great life, huh?” he called after her. “Just lazin’ around all day. Well, if I was as good-lookin’ as you, I’d take it easy, too. Not think about nothin’!”

  “Just ignore him,” Madge whispered.

  I nodded. Sticking one hand behind my back, I gave him the finger. Unfortunately, the security guard was just getting warmed up. “Plenty of nothin’!” He let loose a gale of yelping laughter.

  Gritting my teeth, I hurried with Madge through the Rinaldis’ tomato stalks. Security or not, this guy had to go.

  “Young Jack isn’t there,” boomed Buzz from behind us.

  Was there no getting rid of Buzz? Reluctantly we turned. He was removing two large squares of bubblegum from a bright pink package. Unwrapping the squares, he stuffed them in his mouth. For a moment his cheeks were bulging so much that he couldn’t speak.

  “Jack’s out,” Buzz elaborated finally. He scrunched up the two wrapping papers and lobbed them into the midst of the tomato garden. “On Roderick’s orders, I’ve been checking this house every now and then. Good neighbor policy.”

  I tried not to notice the pink foam escaping from between Buzz’s teeth. I could see that Madge was trying to regard him more kindly. After all, the security guard was being pretty decent to watch out for Jack’s house, especially since Jack’s one interaction with Buzz had been to knock him to the ground.

  “I’ll just leave this for Jack in the mailbox then,” Madge said.

  I scrunched up my eyes until I could barely see Buzz. I wished he would gather the bubblegum back into his mouth, or blow bubbles with it, or something. Right now it looked like he was using the gum to do an imitation of a volcanic eruption. Utterly gross.

  “Great.” Buzz waved in quite a friendly way and made as if to lumber off down the alley again.

  “Wait a moment,” Madge said.

  Was she nuts? I unscrunched my eyes and glared at her. Lose the guy while we had the chance!

  Madge tapped the corner of the watercolor sketch against her palm. “About Buckteeth … ”

  “Huh?” Buzz was puzzled. “Who’s that?”

  “The man who was spying on us. The one you told us you’d spoken to, and thoroughly frightened so that he’d never come snooping round here again.”

  “Spying on — oh, right. Yeah.” Buzz beamed. “Don’t worry about him, Miss.”

  “I’m not,” Madge said firmly. “But did you know he’s a gardener at a seniors’ development?”

  “Uh.” Buzz scratched his head. “Should I?”

  “Well, no,” Madge admitted. “But when you questioned him, did you even get his name?”

  “No, ma’am,” Buzz replied promptly. With a forefinger he reached up, shoved the drooping blob of gum into his mouth and then mashed on the whole thing with enthusiasm. “Don’t you bother you pretty head ’bout spies ’n such. After all, the Buzzer is here. It’s my job to protect ya.”

  Madge glanced from Buzz into the Rinaldis’ tomato-filled garden. I followed her gaze: several tomatoes lay squished on the path and red juice covered the soles of Buzz’s shoes. Barging along the path, he’d obviously knocked against the stalks; he wasn’t the most graceful guy around.

  “Maybe Jack would rather you didn’t protect his sister’s property,” she told Buzz.

  “Like, this vandal dude is working for him, right?” Buzz leered at her. “I gotta watch out that nothing else gets spray-painted.”

  I blurted, “But that’s the work of Buckteeth, the mutant GASPer. Jack doesn’t even know who that is!”

  Buzz removed his glob of bubblegum and stuck it on his forefinger, which he then twirled around. I gues
s this was some kind of trick he did to impress girls. Ignoring me, he told Madge confidingly, “See, I’m keepin’ watch on Jack even while I’m watchin’ out for him. Clever of the Buzzer, huh?”

  Smirking, the Buzzer lumbered out of the yard, knocking two more tomatoes off their stalks as he went. Curious, I followed him to the edge of the Rinaldis’ garden. I watched him head down to the end of the alley, where he’d parked his car.

  Squeezing himself in, he turned the key while reaching into the glove compartment. He withdrew a bag of cookies and, as he was pulling away from the curb, spat the pink bubblegum out the window and stuffed a couple of cookies into his mouth. Chomping, he roared off.

  “Interesting guy,” Madge commented, when I’d returned to her side.

  “Buzz? Yeah, interesting … like a doctor’s needle is interesting.”

  “No, I mean it’s interesting that Buzz, who likes to make a pest of himself, retreated the minute I started asking him questions,” Madge mused.

  I shrugged. “Maybe questions are a challenge to his intellect. His brain probably starts aching and he has to escape. You know, the way insects feel when you spray Raid at them.”

  But I had started wondering, too. Why had Buzz fled at the mention of Buckteeth?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sleuthing among the rosebushes

  Mother would be home at 6:00. It was only 4:30. Plenty of time for some investigations — if only Madge would conveniently get out of the way.

  “What, no date with Roderick?” I asked. Usually Roderick showed up after work to play tennis with Madge at the nearby public court. Or else, in an attempt to avoid the commoners, he would whisk her off to his club.

  “Roderick did phone,” Madge said vaguely. She was flipping through Vogue. “I told him I was busy.” She caught my raised eyebrow. “I had to finish that painting,” she said defensively. “By the way, you’re going to acquire premature forehead wrinkles if you keep doing that.”

  She kept flipping the pages, but fast and agitatedly, the way you flip cards when you’re shuffling. Not the way you read a magazine.

  I began doodling circles around the freckles on my legs with a felt pen. I weighed my options. I’d been planning to tell Madge I was going for a bike ride, and then indeed take one — over to Clark Rose Gardens for some investigations. Normally I wouldn’t have told her this last bit, because she would have disapproved. Busy streets and all that.

  But Madge was in a different mood today. Her confrontation with Buzz just now had been quite impressive. Very detective-ish. A rare sisterly impulse came over me. Maybe I should invite Madge along.

  “Um, if you’re not doing anything,” I began.

  She slapped Vogue down on the coffee table. “Want to bike over to Clark Rose Gardens?” she demanded. “I’m determined to get to the bottom of this Buckteeth thing.”

  I put one felt-pen-stained finger under my dropped jaw and pretended to struggle to lift it up again. This was Madge talking? Madge?

  She regarded me with the faintest hint of a smile. “Let’s go.”

  We stopped outside the tall fence that surrounded Clark Rose Gardens.

  “Of course, this could be very foolish of us,” Madge said uncertainly, as cars whipped down busy Clark Drive. She stood, clasping and unclasping her hands on the handlebars of her bicycle. “If we think Buckteeth the spy works within these walls, maybe we should contact the police. Or tell Mother. Or Jack. I mean, Roderick.”

  “Madge, you’re just being a girl,” I said scornfully.

  However, even I was feeling somewhat stymied. The tall, wrought-iron gate, complete with intercom, wasn’t exactly welcoming.

  “We can’t get inside this fortress,” Madge fretted.

  “Sure we can,” I said. “I’ll … I’ll pretend to be ill, and then someone will have to come out and carry me inside. It’s like that story about the prince who decorates himself with red polka dots and pretends he has measles. I’ve already got the polka dots.” I pointed to my leg.

  Madge stared at me as if I were insane.

  “Okay, it’s not the best plan I’ve ever come up with,” I acknowledged.

  Madge was just opening her mouth, no doubt to utter something extremely insulting, when a group of elderly people strolled up. They were pushing a wide bundle buggy filled with bags of fresh, colorful produce.

  “Love that Commercial Drive,” a woman exclaimed. “But I wish I hadn’t eaten so many fries!” She patted her tummy. “I’d better go in and face the treadmill,” she sighed. Noticing Madge and me, she added, as one of her friends punched in the entry code, “Now, Jeffrey, hold the gate open for these nice young women.”

  “You don’t even know us,” I reproved her, all my Block Watch admonitions rising to the top. “It’s not good safety procedure just to admit anyone.”

  “Oh, you two look quite harmless,” scoffed the woman. Still ruefully patting her tummy, she proceeded through, followed by her friends. Only Jeffrey remained, nervously holding the gate and squinting at us.

  “Why are you two here?” he demanded.

  “Because of your gardener,” Madge said, her obvious embarrassment proof that she had more doubts than ever about our mission.

  Though he looked about to keel over from the heat, Jeffrey wore a skeptical expression. I couldn’t blame him. After all, I had told him not to trust strangers — which we definitely were. I decided that this was no time for hesitation.

  “We can’t very well continue standing here like garden ornaments,” I said. I wheeled my bike past Jeffrey, and Madge had no choice but to come along with me.

  Jeffrey shut the gate with a clang that made Madge jump. She hissed at me, “You and your bizarre imaginings about spies lurking in alleyways. I should be trying to help you, my poor, demented little sister, not act like you.”

  “You’re ranting, Madge,” I informed her with dignity. Remind me, I thought, never again to take a teenager along on my investigations.

  From down the winding path, between sculpted hedges and rosebushes, came the drone of a lawn mower. “The gardener! That’s our man,” Madge exclaimed, forgetting her doubts.

  “A young woman like you going for a loser like Theo,” marveled Jeffrey, pointing his cane in the direction of the droning lawn mower. “In my day a feller had to be charming and good-looking to attract a pretty gal.”

  “You don’t understand,” Madge protested, mortified. “I’m not — ”

  “Such a funny-looking feller,” mused Jeffrey. “That overbite! And his eyes are almost colorless. Is that what you really fancy, my dear?”

  “Oh no, I fancy gray eyes,” she replied without thinking. Then, evidently remembering that Jack had gray eyes and Roderick, who was supposed to be her boyfriend, had blue, she stammered, “I don’t want to talk about eye color with you, sir. We have to sneak up on Bu — I mean, Theo.”

  Jeffrey scrunched up his face until it resembled a walnut. He cackled with enjoyment. “My, my! Courting ways have certainly changed since I was a young ’un.”

  Propping our bikes against a large rosebush, we peeked around toward the sound of the lawn mower.

  It was Buckteeth, all right. Since he was biting his lower lip in concentration, his two front teeth protruded even more than usual, appearing large and sharp enough to be able to cut the grass he was now using the mower on.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from giggling nervously at this thought. Not that Theo could’ve heard me: as well as the noise of the mower, he was wearing a set of headphones. Through the wispy white-blond hair on which these sat, a sunburned scalp glowed, growing pinker by the minute.

  He was still wearing the stick-figure-covered GASP T-shirt. Either he owned more than one of these shirts, or he rarely did a laundry.

  Beyond Theo a door slammed. An old woman stomped into view from between two fat rosebushes. My old foe, Rosalie Nickablock! Beneath her powder- blue sun hat, Mrs. Nickablock was scowling. Wait — that scowl was a permanent expre
ssion.

  She tried yelling Theo’s name over the noise of the lawn mower. When that didn’t work, Mrs. Nickablock hiked up her dress and, in a most unladylike manner, straddled a bed of pansies. Heaving her weight from one fat leg to another, she brought herself forward onto the lawn Theo was mowing. Then she rammed her cane deep into the grass and leaned on it, puffing from her exertions.

  After a moment, she swung the cane up to jab Theo in the back. He jumped, switched the lawn mower off and spun round.

  “I hear you’ve been skipping off work,” Mrs. Nickablock scolded, in a loud, whiny voice that rivaled the rumble of traffic from Clark. “That you been just walking off and leaving your duties whenever the fancy strikes you. I got you this job, boy. Your mother wants you to earn money to go back to school, instead of loafing. Then there’s the orthodontics you been asking for.”

  Mrs. Nickablock squinted up at Theo. More specifically, at his buckteeth. “Land’s sake. That’ll cost thousands. You better get to work, boy! Never thought a nephew of mine would be a slacker. A slacker, a slacker,” the old woman cawed, like a crow.

  I was beginning to feel sorry for Theo, even if he was a spy.

  “I get my work done,” Theo defended himself. “Yeah, I take a few time outs, sure. It so happens I got a second job.” He drew his lips back in a smirk. His teeth hovered over his aunt, pointing down at her like a pair of scissors.

  Yup, I thought, wincing. He’s right about needing orthodontics.

  Theo added impressively, “I got myself an important job. Surveillance work.”

  “Huh?” I muttered to Madge.

  “Surveillance is another word for spying,” Madge whispered back, bewildered.

  “Well, he’s been spying into our backyard,” I returned doubtfully. “But who would pay him to do that?”

  Mrs. Nickablock was equally skeptical. “All I can say, Theo Nickablock, is that if you botch this perfectly decent job I arranged for you out of the kindness of my heart, I — well, I wash my hands of you!”