Dirk Daring, Secret Agent

by Helaine Becker

  It was Opal who hauled off and chucked the motion detector at him. Hit him square in the eye too.

  Transcript of phone call by Mrs. Helen Troy to Preston Middle School’s school secretary. 96700001111ZZZA De-encrypted.11/23 08:33.

  Hi, Val. This is Helen Troy calling. Jason Arsenico’s stepmom. He’s in Miss Robinette’s homeroom class, Room 22? Yeah, I think that’s the number. Anyway, Jason won’t be in today. He got hit in the eye yesterday. With a softball, I think. It’s swollen shut. Yeah, it’s pretty bad. No, I’m sure his vision will be fine once the swelling comes down. But we’ll keep him home today. Thanks, Valerie. Talk to you soon.

  As soon as I entered my classroom, I discovered the new phase of hostilities had already begun.

  There, on my desk, was a page from my journal. A very sharp pencil had been shoved through it, pinning it to the wood underneath.

  As kids came in, they sidled over to look. Henry. Louie.

  They tittered. Glanced at me and quickly glanced away. Tittered again.

  Travis, meanwhile, just sat at his desk like a king. Cracking his knuckles. Poppity pop. Poppity pop pop.

  I yanked the pencil out of the desktop. Folded the skewered journal page neatly. Stuck it in my back pocket. And then I sat at my desk, running my finger back and forth, back and forth, over the new hole there.

  If Miss Templeton saw it, I’d be getting a detention for sure. Even though I’d had nothing to do with it. ’Course, I’d never snitch—that would be like announcing to the world, “I am a weenie, unable to handle my own problems.” I’d be asking for punishment.

  A well-deserved punishment.

  I considered my options. Gauged the strength of my forces. Analyzed my position.

  And opted for all-out attack.

  I carefully scanned the ground. Left, right, left, right.

  Nothing.

  The bare earth was just that—bare. Of course, this field had been cleared of mines—the red No Dogs Allowed sign attested to its pure state.

  But this is the shadow world, where nothing exists in its idealized form. This is the dark side, where the forbidden is done under cover and in stealth.

  Hence I did not give up hope. Patience, after all, is the trademark quality of Dirk Daring, Secret Agent.

  He who is patient will succeed.

  He who searcheth will findeth.

  And findeth I do, pardon the pun. A perfect specimen. It was practically still steaming in the wintry air. Sending up its signature scent like a homage to venality.

  I removed the sheet of cardboard I had secreted in my inside coat pocket. Carefully, oh so carefully, I slid my treasure, my “diamonds,” onto the cardboard, pushing them ever so gently with a twig.

  Carefully, oh so carefully, I carried my treasure to the north doors. Left, right, left, right I peered—no one was watching. Quick as a jackrabbit, I hopped to. Slipped between the doors. Hugged the wall, hoping no one would pass by, no one would notice me with my “grenade.”

  I slipped onto the battlefield. All was quiet. The enemy had foolishly abandoned the field, attending to his daily needs. But I, Dirk Daring, have no needs other than victory.

  I moved quickly but silently to the enemy’s field unit hq. Slipped the cardboard, with its poodley payload, into place in the interior of his desk. Arranged it just so, for maximum hand-to-turd contact.

  Then I turned tail and ran, escaping unseen, unheard, knowing doggie doom awaited my erstwhile friend, my sworn enemy.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Who knew 60 minutes could pass so slowly?

  Torture. Ultimate torture.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  I surreptitiously studied my companions on Cell Block D.

  T-Bone, of course. Still smarting from the wounds he’d received in action. I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled the fallout from my bomb. The screams. The hooted laughter. The “Stink hand! He’s got stink hand!” yells.

  And the pats on the back I received. The whispered “good ones” and “nice works.”

  The sweet taste of victory.

  I almost laughed out loud recalling the jokes that flew around the class all day like tracer fire. “Doo me a favor, Travis?” “I keep on dropping things today—any idea why, Travis?” “Wow, I’m pooped today. How about you, Travis?”

  But I just kept my head down. I knew hostilities between Travis and me had only just begun.

  This would be a long war, a war of attrition. And I had staying power—I had proven that much already. But how much staying power did Travis have? Impossible to know—about this new Travis anyway.

  I had expected to hear the low murmur of poo jokes up here in detention too, but no. The Detention Gang didn’t mention it. In fact, they seemed strangely quiet, much like Travis had described them.

  Had he been telling the truth about that? Or was there another reason for their silence?

  Perhaps on Cell Block D, holding your tongue was the way it was done. You just put in your time, counting down the minutes of your sentence. Tick. Tick. Tick. 38. 37. 36.

  I had four more days to find out. Four more days in detention, along with my archenemy, Travis Sendak, and the goons of Cell Block D.

  The next morning dawned clear and bright. I knew it would hold…something.

  But what? I knew Travis would launch a counterattack. But I had no idea what it would be.

  I’d spent the entire night tossing and turning, considering the possibilities. They were legion. No way could I prepare for each and every one.

  I’d just have to be on guard, yet adaptable. Ready to respond, as appropriate, no matter where the action happened. I’d need all my Dirk Daring skills for sure.

  When I opened my front door, Opal was there.

  “Jeez! You gotta stop appearing out of the blue like that! You scared the crap out of me!” My voice sounded embarrassingly like a girl’s.

  “Sorry,” Opal said, her voice sounding just fine. She was grinning ear to ear behind her scarf. “I just figured you’d be better off this morning if you weren’t on your own. In case of an ambush. Amber’s good at that.”

  “So are you.”

  “Maybe, but not as good as Amber.”

  We walked toward school together, companionably, our feet hitting the pavement in unison. I counted in my head how many steps before we fell out of sync—42.

  I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Would Travis snooker me? Would Amber attack Opal? No telling. At least we had each other’s backs.

  We made it into school, and to our lockers, without incident. We didn’t even see Travis or Amber.

  The first bell rang. Opal and I gave each other a thumbs-up for support and headed into Room 5. Travis was already there. At his desk, seemingly finishing up some homework.

  Yeah right.

  I checked my seat carefully before I sat down. My desk too. Top. Bottom. Sides.

  All clear.

  The second bell rang just as Amber slipped into her seat. I shot a glance at Opal—she was looking determinedly in the opposite direction.

  I wondered, for the thousandth time, what was really going on between them. It had to suck, whatever it was. No matter how bad fighting with Travis was, he wasn’t my sister. My twin sister.

  The loudspeaker crackled into life. “Please stand for the national anthem.”

  We stood. Shifted from foot to foot as the tinny music played.

  With half an ear, I listened to the morning announcements.

  “Good morning. I’m Yasmin…and I’m Bree… with your Preston morning report. Today is Tuesday, November 24. There will be a meeting of the yearbook committee in the multipurpose room during second lunch period. All students are welcome. There will be practice for the badminton team in the north gym, also during second lunch period. Intramural indoor soccer will continue in the south gym during both lunch periods. Today’s matches are between the Puddlejumpers and the Wannabes, first lunch, and Arsenal and Sockitwrench, second lunch. Come out and suppor
t your favorite team.”

  Yasmin whoever-she-was rustled some papers.

  “And now we have a special announcement. From Dirk Daring.”

  My gut f lip-f lopped. My ears, my throat and my heart went cold.

  “The alley was narrow,” Yasmin read. “Dark and narrow. It stank like rotted vegetables and cat pee, the signature reek of demoralization and despair. I flattened myself like a tortilla against the bricks. I had just one task now—to melt into the wall. To become the wall…The forces of darkness were on the move…And they were hunting for me. Dirk Daring, Secret Agent.”

  I forced myself to raise my eyes to Travis. A nasty grin distorted his mouth.

  A Joker smile.

  I leapt from my seat. Threw myself across the room. Grabbed Travis by the throat and wrestled him out of his chair.

  “You’ll pay for this!” I shouted in his face. And then—

  Well, I don’t know exactly what happened next. I was pummeling him, hitting him as hard as I could, while inside my head, red, purple and black spangles of rage exploded. I was crying and screaming, hitting and kicking at him as he hit me back. Then other people’s hands were on us, clutching, pulling us away from each other, but without success. I just kept hitting and kicking him, each punch feeling like it had been building up in me for years. Now it was rocketing out like puke when you’ve got the flu. You feel awful, but relieved at the same time.

  And then we were both being force-marched down to Principal Bonaparte’s office.

  The End.

  Only it wasn’t the end.

  There was the long awful hour in the office, sitting side by side with Travis. Not speaking. Not looking at each other. Every fiber of us vibrating with rage.

  And then there was the lecture. And the news.

  Suspension.

  Three days.

  For fighting.

  Now it was The. End.

  I have been grounded in addition to being suspended.

  No telephone. No computer. No tv.

  I am forced to remain in my room except for meals. Solitary confinement.

  I have nothing to do but read over the few entries I had wisely held back from my journal binder and hidden in Confidential Location #34 *For My Eyes Only.* Thank God not all is revealed.

  Besides that, I have nothing else to do but write my thoughts out. Here. In slow, neat longhand.

  So I write. For posterity. For distraction.

  Curly-tailed y’s. Neatly crossed t’s.

  But nothing can distract me truly. Not from the terrible thoughts that circle like vultures in my head.

  For this suspension is not my true punishment. Not my true torture. The true torture is knowing that while I sit here, immobilized, Preston Middle School is reading my journal. Every last (binderized) word of it. They have heard the earliest entry, my soul’s secrets blaring out through the school loudspeakers. No doubt additional entries are now being passed hand to hand, courtesy of Amber. Double Trouble.

  How I had underestimated my foes. They were more evil, even, than Waldo. More mercenary. More ruthless.

  Because Waldo, as it turned out, had some ruth. He had declined to make my journal public, admitting that doing so would be lower than ant belly.

  At dinner tonight, Waldo shot me sympathetic glances. I ignored them. They were too painful to me. Sympathy from Waldo! I’d just as soon stick pins in my eyes than accept that ignoble offering.

  I knew I could ask Waldo what was happening at school and he would tell me the truth. The truth—ha! A concept I never would have associated with Brother Waldo before.

  But the real truth was this: I couldn’t bear to learn the truth. Imagining the worst was not as bad as knowing the worst. I would not be able to stand having my fears confirmed.

  Yes, it’s true. Even master spies can be broken.

  Better, much better, to hover somewhere in the shadow world of denial. A place I had grown to love.

  This state of suspended animation will not last, of course.

  When my suspension period is over, I’ll have to walk the long, last walk into Preston, accompanied by the jeers and taunts of my detractors.

  They’ll enjoy seeing Dirk Daring swing. They’ll yank down on my legs even.

  If only the end will be merciful.

  If only it will be quick.

  Yeah. Right.

  Black Monday. My first day back to school, and Opal was not waiting for me at my front door.

  That told me everything I needed to know. My humiliation at school was so complete, Opal could no longer risk being associated with me. Her own cool factor would be too compromised. For the taint of social outcastry, there is no cure. Once acquired, it cannot be lost.

  I understood that.

  I respected that.

  I knew how the game was played at Preston Middle School. Had I not been playing it myself for two whole years? But now it was time to own up. To man up.

  To admit the Truth. With a bold, capital, flat-topped, longhand T.

  Yes, it is true—I, Darren Dirkowitz, am also Dirk Daring.

  Go ahead—laugh if you want.

  I am who I am. Take it or leave it.

  I walked alone toward my doom, knowing the kids at school were all going to choose “leave.”

  The sad Truth was, I wasn’t too popular before.

  I probably wouldn’t notice much difference now.

  I lurked on the street corner near the school until the last possible second. If I was lucky, I could just make it to my locker and into class as the second bell sounded. I’d be able to put off the inevitable mockery till morning recess at least.

  BBBBRRRRRIIIINNNNNGGGG38!

  I ran. Judging my moment perfectly (thank those Dirk Daring reflexes, ha ha), I reached the north doors just as the hallways began to empty.

  Locker.

  Lock.

  Door.

  Seat.

  BBBBRRRRRIIIINNNNNGGGG!!!!

  Whew. Safe.

  Naturally, everyone stared at me.

  I dared them with my eyes: Go ahead—flush me.

  So why were they smiling? Why were they giving me ups?

  I’d barely had time to consider the possibilities when the loudspeaker crackled into life. “Please stand for the national anthem.”

  We stood, as usual. Shifted from foot to foot, as usual, while the tinny music played. I felt my cheeks redden in shame as I remembered the last time I’d done this…and knew everyone else was remembering it too.

  Then the anthem ended and we sat for the announcements.

  “Good morning. I’m Erik…and I’m Mo…with your Preston morning report. Today is Monday, November 30. We hope everyone enjoyed a wonderful weekend and has come back to school energized for a week of learning. There will be a meeting of the yearbook committee in the multipurpose room during second lunch period. All students are welcome. There will be practice for the badminton team in the north gym, also during second lunch period. Intramural indoor soccer will continue in the south gym during both lunch periods. Today’s matches are between the Puddlejumpers and Sockitwrench, first lunch, and Timbits and Gogogo, second lunch. Come out and support your favorite team. There will be a meeting of the Dirk Daring Fan Club during afternoon recess…”

  My head snapped around on my neck. My temple pulsed crazily. My mouth went dry.

  Left, right, I scanned the room—yes, they were all still staring at me. Nodding. Some even clapped.

  What was going on?

  An origami crane fluttered onto my desk. Pink.

  I unfolded it.

  Opal’s handwriting, teeny tiny, on the white side.3

  * * *

  3 Code LW1: Read last word first (and keep going). The note was signed “Love, Agent Jewel, aka Opal.” With two fat x’s and two fat o’s.

  Opal came rushing up to me.

  “Did you see this? Hot off the press!”

  She thrust the Monday edition of the Preston Prestige at me. There, on the front p
age, was an excerpt from The Mind-Blowing Missions of Dirk Daring, Secret Agent.

  I tried to concentrate on the words. But how could I? Those bleepity bleep bleeps had reprinted my journal, my private words, in the school paper! Without my permission! The nerve! The gall! The—

  “Incredible reversal, isn’t it?” Opal said, jumping up and down with excitement. “This is your big op, Darren! Your chance to shine!”

  “I’ll make them pay for this…” I said through clenched teeth.

  Opal flicked my bicep with one porcelain finger. “Hey—smarten up. Revenge is for losers. And you are the winner here. They printed this as a way to salvage their own reps. Don’t you see? You’ve got your revenge!

  “Now, here’s what we’re gonna do—we’re gonna maximize. Follow this up with you giving me an exclusive interview with you—the author!”

  As Opal spoke, I felt a warm glow suffuse my body. She was right, of course. We could snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat. And be magnanimous about it. No reason to grind faces in the dirt. Dirt was their natural element, after all.

  Vero Spadifora, dribbling a soccer ball, came running up to me. He smiled and clapped me on the back. “Your story’s awesome, dude. Can’t wait to read the next installment!”

  He was gone before I could even answer.

  “Wow! A drive-by—make that dribble-by—review! Five stars!” Opal hooted, giving me a fist bump.

  After that, I was in a bit of a daze. Everywhere I looked, kids were reading the P.P.

  Opal patted the swing next to her. “I haven’t read the whole thing yet.”

  “Yeah. Me neither,” I said, sitting in it. “I guess I should. This installment that they printed is old—at least a month. I don’t really even remember what it said.”

  “You should probably read it over again, then. Before I interview you anyway. You want to sound as brill as you can. As you are.”