by Julie Cross
“No wonder you didn’t mind tramping through the woods behind the Gilberts’ place,” I mutter.
Miles laughs but doesn’t say anything. The road gets more and more dark until finally I can make out the outline of a small house. It’s brick, cottage-like, smoke coming out of the chimney. Windows line the front of the house. The lights are on, and I can see a thin woman with Miles’s dark hair moving around the kitchen. My stomach flips with nerves. I wait for him to pull the car in front of the house, and then in a last-minute moment of desperation I shoot Harper a text.
ME: if u don’t hear from me in 2 hrs, come find me
HARPER: I said exactly the same thing first time I had to meet Aidan’s parents. You’ll be fine.
Easy for her to say. Aidan’s parents aren’t CIA operatives. At least I don’t think they are…regardless, if Harper knew that, she wouldn’t be laughing at me right now.
ME: Seriously, Harp. 2 hrs
“Ellie?” Miles says.
I stuff my phone away. “Just telling Harper about the snow.”
“Ready to go in?”
I look up at him, a grin plastered on my face. “Definitely. Can’t wait.”
Before we even make it to the front door, it flies open. A tall man with silver-speckled dark hair stands in the doorway, a big grin on his face. “Cari, come and look at this beautiful girl our son has brought home!”
I stop, unable to make myself go any closer. Normally, I’d have the perfect greeting, perfect smile, but I can’t do anything but think CIA agent, CIA agent over and over inside my head. It shouldn’t be this difficult for me, I mean I live with Aidan, but it is different. Aidan knows nearly everything about me and did long before I even met him. I’m gonna have to lie to these people and CIA agent…so yeah, it’s freaking me out.
The woman from the kitchen window appears beside Mr. Beckett, her smile just as warm as her husband’s. “Oh my, look at you…I always knew Miles could snag the prettiest ones.”
“Mom,” Miles warns. “Ellie is my neighbor or classmate or friend—feel free to use any of those words. But no other nouns, verbs, or adjectives. Remember?”
“Of course,” Miles’s dad says. “We have excellent memories.”
His parents both laugh. Miles just looks at me and rolls his eyes. But seriously? They’re Miles but with my sense of humor. Not a good combination.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ellie,” Mrs. Beckett says, and then she steps outside barefoot and hugs me. I stand there stiff for a second and then work up the nerve to hug her back.
Soon we’re ushered into the living room, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and with a blazing fire in the fireplace. The shelves are filled with novels, some very old-looking. But no photos, no personal items at all in the entire living room. Miles shows me to the guest room—a room right off the living room—sets my bag on the queen-size bed, and then opens a door across from the bed.
“Bathroom,” he says, leading me inside it. “Towels are in the closet.” He opens the closet and then points to another door beside the shower. “That’s my room.”
I swing my arms, digging for something else to say until we hear Miles’s mom shout, “Dinner’s ready!”
.
“The roast is great, Mom,” Miles says.
He’s already inhaling his dinner before I’ve even picked up my fork. I study the food on my plate, though much more politely than when I’d assessed Miles’s tuna casserole. There’s a hunk of beef, some potatoes, and carrots, all covered in a brown gravy. I cut into the meat and it practically falls apart so I’m able to take just a tiny bite.
“I second that,” I say. “This is amazing.”
Mr. Beckett (Agent Beckett?) returns from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine. He proceeds to pour himself and his wife a glass, then moves on to Miles. Mrs. Beckett stops him from pouring me a glass, and they exchange a look.
“Right,” Mr. Beckett says. “We’re not related, therefore it would be illegal to provide you with alcohol. Which is too bad because this wine complements the roast so well.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I don’t need any.”
Miles picks up the bottle his dad just set down on the table and fills my glass halfway. “Problem solved.”
Worried it’s a test, I stare at the glass for several seconds and then back at Miles. He gives a nod, like it’s fine. I could definitely use a drink, just to take the edge off my nerves. I lift the glass to my mouth and take a sip. I haven’t really had much wine in my life, and what I’ve had was choked down with great effort. But this one is actually pretty good, less bitter, no aftertaste.
Miles is too busy scarfing down food to talk. His parents take turns sneaking glances at me.
“How long are you home for?” I ask the Becketts.
Mrs. Beckett answers first. “Just until Wednesday, unfortunately. I’m so glad it worked out for you to come this weekend. We may have had to wait months to meet you.”
I glance at Miles, but he’s staring at his plate. I wish he would have told me this weekend was the only available slot. I figured if I made an excuse, they’d just come after me—I mean invite me—again and again until I went through with it.
“We don’t get to do this very often,” Mr. Beckett says. “Dinner with friends. As ourselves. Of course, we’d rather keep our circle as small as possible, but if the damage is already done, might as well take advantage of it, right?”
“Usually these dinners are spent discussing our cover jobs,” Mrs. Beckett explains. “And of course we don’t really do those jobs, so it can feel like we’re still on the clock.”
I relax a little, take another bite of my dinner. Now I’m jealous that I can’t be here as me like they get to do.
“So Miles brings a lot of friends home for you to wine and dine?” I ask.
“Miles hasn’t brought anyone here in a very long time,” Mr. Beckett says.
A sad look fills his mom’s face. “Not since Simon.”
I roll a carrot around my plate with the tip of my fork. “We had a class together last semester. Me and Simon. He was really nice.”
Mrs. Beckett nods. “That he was.”
Silence fills the dining room. Finally, Mr. Beckett raises his glass of wine and says, “To Simon.”
Miles raises his glass, so I follow suit. After the toast, I take an extra large gulp of wine—I need it.
“Miles is so shy,” his mom says. “He never invited any friends over until middle school. If it weren’t for Simon, I don’t think he would have made friends at school.”
I stifle a laugh. Miles shy? Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when…well, pretty much never.
“Mom,” Miles warns, shooting her a look from across the table. Then he says something in Chinese that gets her to stop talking.
“Do they teach Mandarin at your school?” I ask Miles.
He nods and swallows the bite he’s just taken before talking. “Yeah, but I didn’t learn at school.”
“He was born in China,” his dad explains. “We lived there for six years.”
“Did you go to school in China?”
“I didn’t go to school until Marshall Academy,” Miles says.
Mrs. Beckett adds, “We moved too much—even within the countries we lived in. It was easier to do homeschooling.”
“After China, we were in Brazil for two years,” his dad recites. “Then down in Texas for a year. Then the Middle East for two years. Miles learned Portuguese, Arabic, Farsi, Urdu, and a little right-wing Texan speak.” Mr. Beckett shakes his head. “But we try to forget the Texas part.”
“So he was at home with you until nearly twelve years old?” I ask.
“Always,” his dad says.
“We never took overnight assignments at the same time,” Mrs. Beckett says. “I took leave until Miles was five and then we had—”
“Mr. Lee,” Miles says with a grin. “He taught me Chinese, martial arts, and origami.”
“We brought him with us e
verywhere until Miles started at Marshall Academy. He was a fantastic nanny.”
Miles looks at me and mouths the word “bodyguard,” and now I’m afraid to ask where Mr. Lee is now.
“Enough about us,” Mr. Beckett says. “What about you, Ellie? Miles says you live with your sister in Clyde’s apartment complex?”
“And Aidan.” I swallow another gulp of wine. “Harper’s boyfriend.”
“The Secret Service agent, right?” Mrs. Beckett asks.
I nod.
“An SS agent saved my life once.” Mr. Beckett’s forehead wrinkles like he’s thinking hard. “Twice actually. Good guys. Department is a little too restrictive for my taste, though.”
I look at Miles. “Sounds like the perfect job for you. You like saving people’s lives and you love rules.”
“That’s just the military academy in him,” Mr. Beckett assures me. “He’ll get more flexible when he leaves.”
I wait for Miles to comment, but he doesn’t. In fact, he looks like he agrees with them or it’s a subject they’ve discussed in great length.
The topic shifts to school, Holden Prep, and all the college prep they’re force-feeding us. Soon I’ve finished my wine, poured another half glass, and we’re feasting on chocolate brownies with ice cream. I even get brave and tell them how I enjoy playing “memory” with Aidan.
“Maybe I can add that to my college applications?” I joke. “Think they’ll count it as an EC?”
Mr. Beckett wipes his face with a napkin. “If you ever need a recommendation for any government department or internship, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I don’t know.” My face heats at the mention of me being allowed on the side with the good guys. “Not sure those types of jobs are for me. Plus, I think the guidance counselor has made it her quest to send me to an Ivy League school.”
Mrs. Beckett points a finger at Miles. “Let her be a good influence on you.”
This time I can’t conceal the laughter. I’ve been nothing but a bad influence on Miles since the moment we met.
“I want Miles to go to Harvard, but he refuses,” Mrs. Beckett says. “He’s already been admitted, full scholarship.”
“Wow.” I turn to my friendly neighbor. “Harvard?”
He just shrugs. The way he brushes it off without an explanation, I realize something and look at both his parents. “You don’t want him to go into your line of work?”
“We want him to do what he wants to do,” Mr. Beckett says. “But no, the CIA wasn’t what we hoped for him.”
The fact that someone has actually spoken CIA out loud seems to shock only me, but I play it cool.
“You would make a great doctor,” Mrs. Beckett says to Miles. “Remember how you performed surgery on your stuffed dinosaur? And you rescued those birds that kept hitting our window in Brazil. Or what about teaching? Professor Beckett. Nice ring to it.”
Miles stands and begins collecting plates. When he takes his mom’s dessert plate, he plants a kiss on the top of her head and I swear I hear him say, I love you. Really quiet.
My impression of Miles has just been shattered. He’s not some machine born and bred to become a government agent. His parents don’t even want that for him. He wants it all on his own.
After dinner, Mr. Beckett sends his wife to their bedroom to “take a well-deserved hot bath for all her efforts preparing dinner,” and then he pokes at the living room fire and shortly after, asks Miles to get some more wood outside.
I’m already squirming in my armchair, knowing that Mr. Beckett (Agent Beckett?) just orchestrated a private conversation with me. Dinner had been too nice, too relaxed. I should have known things would turn.
He’s sitting on the ledge in front of the fireplace staring at the dying flames. But the second the door closes behind Miles, Mr. Beckett turns to me and lowers his voice. “My son tells me you’re a smart young lady?”
I think this is the part where the controlling father orders me to stay away from his son, if I know what’s good for me. I clear my throat. “Why do you ask?”
He pulls a tiny scrap of paper from his shirt pocket along with a pen and jots something down. He gives a quick glance out the window at Miles, tramping through the snow, then turns back to me. “I need you to memorize this number. You can’t ever write it down or program it into your phone, understood?”
The urgency in his voice has me shoving away any questions and instead, I watch while he flips the scrap of paper around for me to read. I stare at the number, recite it five times in my head before nodding.
“There’s a pass code, too. Miles says your German is good?” he asks, and I nod again. “Die Zukunft gehört denen, die an die Schönheit ihrer Träume glauben.”
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.
“Eleanor Roosevelt said that.”
Mr. Beckett nods slowly, assessing me. “Figured it might be easier for you to remember the words of a fellow Eleanor.”
This all seems so dark and desperate. I’m not sure what’s going on. “Are you anticipating my need for help from the CIA in the near future?”
“I hope not,” he says. “Miles didn’t want me to do this. Thought it might scare you. But truthfully, we’re putting your life at risk by bringing you into our world. The least I can do is offer you some insurance plan. Just in case.”
Okay, so he’s cautious. That makes sense.
“And let Miles teach you some basic self-defense, okay? It would put some of my and my wife’s worries to rest. And it’s something everyone should know, in my opinion.”
The front door opens and Mr. Beckett smoothly tosses the scrap of paper with the secret emergency number into the fire. It’s dissolved into the flames before Miles even reaches the living room. I repeat the number again, testing myself. I glance at Miles, checking to see if he suspects anything, but if he does, he hides it well.
Later, when we bump into each other on the way to the bathroom before bed, I stop Miles from heading back to his room. “I can’t believe you have your parents fooled.”
His eyes widen. “About what?”
“You being shy.” I lean against the doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re the opposite of shy.”
He seems to deliberate for a minute, then says, “Now I am.”
“And before?”
“I guess it’s easier to shed that part of me, starting in a new place where no one knows me, especially with the job I’m doing,” he says. “We’re all a little more bold in costume.”
I look up at him, trying not to seem disappointed. If he’s really shy, then that’s the Miles I want to know. “So it’s all part of being undercover?”
He shuffles closer until only six inches separate us. “That’s the thing…I’m not sure it’s an act anymore. Maybe I was covered up before and this is the real me, or close to it. Maybe the labels we give ourselves early on hold us back from seeing what’s really there.”
I’m still standing there, mulling that over, when Miles brushes past me, whispering, “Good night, Ellie.”
Just the sound of my name rolling off his tongue gets my heart racing. And he knows it. And he knows that I know he knows. I laugh all the way to the guest room.
Shy my ass.
CHAPTER 38
I wake up to voices outside the door. Light barely peeks in the guest room window. I try to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but the conversation grows louder, more clear.
“If the assignment was for you to help the FBI track the drug dealer, then why do they need you purchasing from this Davey guy?”
Mrs. Beckett.
“The drug sample,” Miles says.
The sound of dishes clanking makes it impossible for me to hear his mom’s response.
“I’m not sure how many people have bought the drug off him, but probably enough to keep him from pointing a finger at me. Besides, no one is making a move on Davey or his supplier until I’m back at Marshall Academy. I’ve still got mo
re intel to gather.”
“Intel to gather, huh?” Mrs. Beckett says. “I thought this was supposed to be a learning experience for you. Seems like the FBI is getting greedy for progress. Greedy enough to take advantage of children.”
Yeah, that’s definitely possible.
“Remember, everything goes through my handler,” Miles says. “No one in the FBI knows which of Davey’s seven or eight preferred schools I’m operating from. Or anything about me, for that matter.”
“Do they know you’re a highly trained student with security clearance? Seems like they’re treating you like some disposable informant.”
Disposable informant. Like me.
“Relax, Mom. I’m withholding most of my data until the end of the semester. And they’re too greedy to settle for simply arresting Davey. They’ll want to nail his boss, too, and the entire operation. You know the Feds love their big media shows.”
Mrs. Beckett gives a hmph of agreement.
“They might want to nail the Holden kids, too. Take down a school drug ring. And I’m the one with names. Without me, they have nothing, and they know it.”
The kids from school? Does that mean he’s turning in Bret and Dominic to the FBI? For buying weed and ecstasy from Davey? Justice and Jacob both told me they’ve bought weed and E from Davey before. Will they get turned in to the FBI, too?
God, I can’t think about this right now.
I don’t want to think about it.
I shove the covers back and leave the room. The second I step into the hall, the conversation in the kitchen ends. I glance at the microwave clock. It’s six thirty. Mrs. Beckett is wearing a robe, but Miles is dressed already, with sweat stains on his shirt. He must have gone for a run.
Miles’s mom turns to me, a big smile on her face. “Morning, Ellie. How did you sleep?”
“Good, thanks.”
Miles grabs an apple from the fruit basket and bites into it. “You mind if I shower first? Or do you need the bathroom?”
“Go ahead,” I offer. It all feels so polite and formal. I’m not used to that with Miles.
But when he brushes past me, a wicked grin on his face, he leans close to whisper, “I’ll leave the inside door unlocked. In case you need something.”