At last! The coded signal I’d been waiting for.
SHuRFF SHuRFF SHuRFF.
CRRRRK CRRRRK.
AHEM!
Scr-ee-k…
I leapt from my hiding spot like a trapdoor spider.
Whipped across the room like a chameleon’s tongue.
Ran like a panther on the flat through the corridors. And, just as the afternoon bell rang, slipped like a serpent into my seat.
It was all over. My mission was complete.
I felt a smirk spread across my face. For no one knew that the unassuming boy in the third row possessed the darkest secrets of Parent Council. No one but Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, who held that forbidden knowledge close.
Travis stopped dribbling the basketball.
“Lemme see it, then,” he said, giving me his full attention at last.
“You don’t really think I still have it? What do you take me for? Some kind of spy newb?”
Travis just stared at me. “Don’t tell me you ate it. That would be sick, even for you.”
I snorted.
“You don’t have to eat a digital photograph, you moron. You just delete it.” I fingers in the air. “Magic.”
“And the original doc?”
“Back in the mail slot where I found it.”
Travis shook his head. “So you’ve got nothing, then. Just your word for what you say you did. Lame. Lame lame lame.”
He dribbled the ball again, eyeing the basket for a layup.
I clutched my chest dramatically. “How little you think of me…” Then I brandished a sheet of loose-leaf paper in his face. “Voilà. The report from my mission journal. With a transcript of the letter.”
Travis reached for it.
“Nuh-uh-uh. Say pretty please.” I fluttered the sheet over my head.
“Come on. Just give it to me.”
I gave it to him.
Travis stepped on his basketball to hold it in place. Then he scanned the letter. Or tried to anyway.
“What the—!”
“I encrypted it, naturally.” I bit my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. It was always fun to get one up on Travis. For me anyway.
Travis crumpled the sheet of paper into a loose ball and flicked it at me. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a serious pain in the butt?”
“I live for it.” I carefully smoothed out the coded letter and slipped it back into its proper place in my binder. Its rings snapped shut with a delightful snick. Travis took another dozen or so shots.
“So what does your stupid transcription of the stupid PTA correspondence say?” Travis finally asked.
“The code is right here.” I tapped the cover of my mission book. “E3. You can decode the letter and find out for yourself.”2
“Or you can just tell me, before I break your face with this basketball.”
“Fine. Be that way. The short version is this: Waldo’s Vending Machine Action Team is going to present their case to the Parent Council next Tuesday evening. Fancy Boots has done a quick headcount of the usual Parent Council attendees. In the note, she told Outrage that the proposal will, without a doubt, get smoked.”
“Well, duh,” Travis said, sinking another basket. “The parents who go to those council meetings are the ones who got rid of the candy in the first place. Of course they’ll dominate the vote.”
“Right. So our mission is clear. We’ve got to get 16 other parents—parents who’ll vote for candy—to go to the meeting. So they can dominate the dominators.”
“Get out! What parents in their right minds are going to vote in favor of candy?”
“Waldo says I’ve got to get those parents in there if I want to see next Wednesday.”
Travis missed his shot by a mile.
“Right. The Waldo Factor. I was kinda hoping he’d lose interest in this whole thing. For your sake, that is,” he said as he retrieved the ball from the bushes.
“No such luck. So what do we do?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re supposed to be the brains behind this operation, remember?”
“Okay, okay. Gimme a sec.”
Travis sat down on his front steps and scratched his head. He spun the basketball between his hands, this way and that.
Finally, he said, “The way I figure it, there’s only one thing that would get parents to vote in favor of candy—money. Convince parents the no-candy thing will cost them, and you’ll have your vote.”
I sank down beside him. “So you’re saying it’s impossible then.”
Travis nudged me with his shoulder.
“Since when does Dirk Daring give up so fast? What I’m saying is, you gotta follow the money trail.”
I just sat there, my head in my hands.
He sighed. “Look. Money goes into the vending machines, right?”
“Yeah…”
“So who gets that money?”
“I dunno…the vending-machine company?”
Travis nodded. “Yeah—some of it. But who else?”
It took me a minute, but then it came to me. “The school?”
“Ding ding ding!” Travis said, slapping me on the back. “So the key question is, is the school getting less cash from those machines now than it did in the candy days? And if so, how’s the school going to make up the difference?”
I thought. Hard.
Not a clue.
But then—
—the clouds shifted, the sun shone, the angels sang. And in a f lash I grasped the convoluted but oh-sological workings of Travis’s mind.
“Wow! You really are an evil genius!” I said, in total awe.
“Haven’t I always told you so?”
“So what next?”
“Get us some proof.”
“Excellent.” I tappety-tapped my fingertips together. “Another thrilling mission for Dirk Daring…”
* * *
2 The code is simple—E3 code = read every third word only.
Surveillance post: Janitorial cupboard 1A, code-named Trapdoor
Method: Covert listening device, aka Agent’s Ears, embedded in Trapdoor
Date/Time: 11/05 03:16:12. After-school budget discussion between Fancy Boots, Bonaparte and Exasperation (aka Valerie Wycoff, school secretary)
Transcript (partial):
Fancy Boots: You’re looking trim, Nathaniel. You still on that all-asparagus diet?
Bonaparte (proudly): Been working out 4 days a week. Can press 100 now.
Fancy Boots: My my my…So I bet you aren’t sad to see the candy in the vending machines gone! I know how you love those Kitty Kat Crunchies…[giggles]
Bonaparte: Well, er [indecipherable]
Exasperation: Actually, Tracey, the revised vending-machine contents list is something of a problem for us.
Bonaparte: It is?
Exasperation: We are taking in approximately $100 less a month from that [expletive deleted] vending machine than we used to—$47 less on Kitty Kat Crunchies alone.
(throat clearing, coughing)
Fancy Boots: Well, I’m sure the revenues will pick up once people get used to the new offerings. The quinoa
Exasperation: Well, if sales don’t pick up fast, we won’t have the funding for field-trip buses. Or to supply the punch and cookies like we always do for the grade 8 grad party.
Bonaparte: I’m sure we can find the money somewhere. Can’t we, Valerie?
Exasperation: We’ve already talked about this, Nat. Remember? We put the vending machines in the school dog in the first place because there was not enough money to fund our “desirables.” And the funding from the board has gone down 12 percent since then.
Fancy Boots: We can’t sacrifice the health of our children for a measly $100 a month, can we?
Exasperation: Fine. You tell the moms of those [expletive deleted] grade 8s that they won’t be going to the [expletive deleted] annual end-of-year Major League Baseball game because there’s no [expletive deleted] money for [expletive de
leted] buses. And they should bring their own [expletive deleted] punch to the grade 8 dance while they’re at it.
Fancy Boots: Tsk-tsk! Such negativity! Don’t you know an optimistic attitude is half the battle? Parent Council can make up the shortfall. We’ll just do another fundraiser!
Bonaparte: You mean another bake sale?
Fancy Boots: Why not? Who doesn’t love a bake sale???
Travis gave me a knuckle-crunching fist bump. “I’ll tell you who doesn’t love another bake sale. Parents. You scored with this one, Darren. Big.”
“You sure did,” Lucinda said. It was lunchtime, and she was sitting as close to Travis as she could get without actually climbing into his lap. “My mother hates shelling out $10 for a cake it costs $1.99 to make. In actual fact, my mom hates all school fundraisers. The wrapping paper. The frozen cookie dough. The spring pansy sale. She says there’s too much extra work involved. ‘The G.D. second shift,’ she calls it.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “The paperwork alone!”
Lucinda giggled. “Exactly.”
Travis edged away from Lucinda, but he was already halfway off the cafeteria bench. One more inch and he’d be on the floor. “So we’ve got our angle, then. Let parents know that if they don’t put candy back in the vending machines, they’ll be stuck doing more bake sales. And pansy sales. And…”
Lucinda bounced in her seat. “I can make a poster! For the meeting!” Her face got a goofy, glowing look. “If you want me to, Travis, that is.”
Just a little creepy.
“Do you mind if I join you guys?” a silvery voice said in my ear.
It was Opal Vega. Only one of the prettiest girls at Barf Preston Middle School. And co-founder of the Green Team, along with her twin sister, Amber.
The Loyal Opposition. So to speak.
“Er, sure,” I croaked, sliding over to make room for her.
“I thought I heard you talking about Jason’s candy initiative.”
“Nooooo,” Travis said. “We were talking about the Band E initiative. To get more kids taking up the electric tuba.”
Opal gave Travis a cool smile. And an even cooler blue-eyed stare. “I was talking to Darren, Travis. Not you.”
Travis’s mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish. Lucinda bristled. I felt my ears go red.
“I know, I know. You all think I’m the enemy. The Green Team founder, right? Well, I’ve got news for you. The Green Team, especially some of the members by the name of Amber, can take their granola bars and stick ’em you know where.”
“You fighting with your sister again?” Lucinda said.
“You really must be the smartest girl in grade 5,” Opal said.
“Okay then,” Lucinda said with a sniff.
“So I’m now on Team Waldo, as of this minute. If you’ll have me, Darren.”
I gulped and managed to squeak, “Sure.”
Travis jumped to his feet. “First of all, there IS no Team Waldo. And second of all, no way! You can’t let her in! It’s like giving a saboteur the keys to the artillery magazine! She’ll take whatever we say right back to the Green Team!”
“No I won’t. I hate those double-crossing, backstabbing mean girls. I am finished with them. I mean it.”
“So you say today. But tomorrow you’ll all be, like, kissy-kissy and ‘Omigod, luv your nail polish!’ and ‘BFFs 4ever!’” Travis said in his best girly-girl imitation.
Also a little creepy.
“You can’t stay mad at Amber forever,” Lucinda said.
“You two live together. Not to mention the fact that your mother—who just happens to be the Parent Council V.P.—is 100 percent behind this no-candy thing.”
“I’m moving in with my dad. I’ve had enough of both Amber and my mom.”
“Really? You’d move out of your own house over this?” I said.
“Don’t be an idiot, Darren. She’s playing you!” Travis said.
“Well, not over this. But there’s other…stuff,” Opal said to me. Her beautiful opaline eyes began to shimmer.
Travis did a face palm. “Oh great. Now the crocodile tears. Fine. I’m out. Do what you want, Darren, but I am finito.” And then he stalked off, muttering to himself.
“Wait, Travis!” Lucinda shouted, rising out of her seat.
“Let him go,” I said.
Lucinda sighed heavily and sank back onto the bench.
“Don’t feel bad, Lu,” Opal said. “You don’t need Travis’s permission to make your cute little poster. I’ll give you mine.” Then she turned her big baby blues on me. “And while you’re busy with that, Darren and I will make the flyers.” Her delicate hand grazed my forearm. “You’ll help me pass them out, too, won’t you, D?”
A chilly breeze made the ivy rattle like dry bones. It whispered in my ear, “It’s time.”
My confederate was already in place. I could see his lanky form silhouetted in the upper-story window.
He flashed me three hand signals, confirming we had visual contact.
Three fingers, in the shape of a W. Waldo.
A slashing motion across his throat. Mission abort.
A circular motion by the side of his head.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
I, Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, am nothing if not efficient. I sent back a message using just one of my fingers.
As would be expected, I was expertly prepared for my night mission. Black pants, black shirt, black hat. I’d even smeared some black across my face.
I was as dark as the night around me, a racing cloud, a shadowed brow.
I was the Cat.
In my pockets—the tools of my trade. A coil of wire. Snippers. Lock picks. For not only was I Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, but I was also John “the Cat” Robie, the greatest cat burglar the world has ever known.
Why this double identity?
Because Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, knows that it takes a spy to catch a spy, but a thief to catch a thief.
And a Cat to catch a Rat.
The ivy whispered again. It was time.
I tested the tangled vines with my black-gloved hands. They were sturdy. Sturdy enough anyway.
I placed one black-shod foot carefully into the viny thicket. I put my full weight into it.
It held.
Step by step, inch by inch, I ascended the living ladder, as silent as the furtive feline who gave me his name.
Halfway there. Still no signal from my lookout. No one was approaching. Yet. But speed was of the essence. Speed and silence and cunning. Luckily, I, Dirk Daring, aka the Cat, had all those qualities. In spades.
I stretched upward, ever upward. Left foot, right foot. Left hand, right hand.
R-i-i-ippp!
The clump of vines I had seized tore away from the wall!
For one brief moment I dangled precariously in space. My heart began to pou- Yet my heart never altered its slow, steady rhythm. Tha-dump. Tha-dump. Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, did not fear heights. Nor did he fear spiders. Even when they crawled up his arm and into the collar of his shirt.
No, he did not.
Calmly, coolly, I plucked the errant arachnid from my neck and sent it spinning into the night. Calmly, coolly, I stretched my supple fingers toward another clump of ivy. When they made purchase, I tugged with all my considerable might. Yes—this clump would hold.
I resumed my steady climb.
Left foot, right foot. Left hand, right hand.
Five feet. Eight feet. Almost there.
Just one more catlike creep, and my fingers caressed the windowsill. Another quick-footed half step, and my nose felt the kiss of smooth, dark glass.
I had arrived at my destination.
Now, to slip inside.
The Cat needs no glass cutter, no hammer, to effect entry. For the Cat has cleverness. The cat has craftiness. And the Cat has modern technology.
I carefully drew the wireless microphone from my pocket. Kissed it. Because a better, more furtive surveillance device there co
uld not be. I had tested and retested it for range and effectiveness through glass. Naturally, it had met every hurdle with (Wi)Fi-ing colors. It would pick up a flea’s fart through 6 inches of solid steel if my mission required it. Luckily, it did not.
I switched the mic on. The LED on its side flashed red.
I whispered into it, “The Cat is on the Rat.”
The light in my bedroom window flicked on and off.
T-Bone had heard my message. All systems go.
Now all I had to do was stick the mic onto Waldo’s window, and I’d be privy to his every conversation, his deepest, darkest secrets. Ugh.
I peered through the glass. There it was—Waldo’s T-ball trophy collection. Nestled up against the window, lower left-hand corner. Festooned with a crown of dust even thicker than his head.
I lined up the spongy, double-sided tape on the back of the mic with the left edge of the window frame, right behind the Most Improved Player trophy. There the mic would be undetectable. Just like me, Dirk Daring, Secret Agent. Hiding in plain sight.
I peeled off the tape’s paper strip. I squished the mic to the window. It stuck.
“The Cat is in the Hat,” I whispered into the mic. The lights in the window of my room flicked off and on.
Message received.
The lights flicked off again. Then on. Then off.
Approaching enemy!
My Cat senses sprang into high alert.
There was no time to lose.
Before I could leap into action, even more lights flicked on. This time, the lights in Waldo’s room!
I froze, my face still pressed to the cold glass.
But the Cat does not panic. The Cat waits patiently for the Rat to enter his trap.
I ducked my head so only my eyes showed over the windowsill. With bated breath, I observed my target.
Through the glass, I saw Waldo toss his backpack onto his bed. Then he sprawled out next to it on his back, like a dying lobster.
He yawned.
A tonsil-exposing yawn.
Dirk Daring, Secret Agent Page 2