Project Gemini (Mission 2

by Jill Williamson

  “I’m going to Gabe’s,” I told my bodyguard as he headed for the black car. Sasquatch flashed me a thumbs up. The man had a sweet European accent, but I could rarely get him to talk.

  Kerri rolled down the passenger window of the minivan and waved me over. Gabe was in the driver’s seat. “Right here, Spencer!”

  Like I could miss them. Kerri Stopplecamp, Gabe’s mom and Mr. S’s wife. Picture a kindergarten teacher who was always smiling and had the kind of voice that could coax a cat out of a tree. And no, she didn’t teach kindergarten. That was just her natural charm.

  Gabe and his sisters all had their mom’s curly dark hair. Mr. S was 100 percent bald.

  I climbed into the middle row of the minivan. “Wait. Gabe is driving?” I clutched the back of the passenger’s seat with mock fear.

  “Gabriel is an excellent driver,” Kerri said, as Gabe steered the van out of the school lot. “He’s taking Defensive Driving.”

  The Mission League taught several upper division courses for agents-in-training who were in good standing. Sophomores were eligible for LCT, which I had somewhat mastered, and juniors were eligible for Defensive Driving. I was taking Driver’s Ed in school, but I was starting to doubt that Grandma would ever let me drive anywhere.

  Gabe’s mom was right, of course: The Boy Scout was an excellent driver and would soon be learning to drive backward with one eye blindfolded. The lucky dog.

  The city of Pilot Point had four classes of housing. Rich people like Kip and Nick lived up on Snob Hill. The upper middle class lived along the base of Snob Hill in what people called First Base. In the Neighborhood, the middle class owned old houses that had been there since the fifties and before. And the apartments in downtown and near the train tracks were referred to as either Downtown or Ghettoside, in mockery of the Meadowside Apartment complex.

  Gabe’s house was on Rose Street just north of Eighth, which put it in First Base. The house reflected that. It was big—not a mansion like Kip’s or Nick’s, but twice the size of Grandma’s two-bedroom in the Neighborhood. It had a big, grassy front yard, neatly mowed, with thick flowerbeds lining the house front. Stakes with pink and yellow Easter eggs had been stabbed into the grass. More colorful eggs adorned the front door and windows too, some of them exclaiming “Happy Easter” and “He is Risen.”

  Inside, the place smelled like cookies and something meaty. Most everything was decorated in brown or green. Dark wood cabinets in the kitchen, dark wood floor, green counters. Green carpet in the living room, brown leather sofa and matching recliners. Mr. S sat at the baby grand piano in the corner, tinkling away at a worship piece. He smiled as we passed by, never missing a note.

  I followed Gabe down a short hallway covered with the same thick green carpet. Family photos lined the walls with hundreds of happy Stopplecamp faces. No wall of fame in this house.

  Gabe pushed open the door on the left at the end of the hall. “The Mini Ms will be home soon so we’d better stay in here.”

  “Mini Ms?”

  “My sisters.”

  “Right.” Mary and Martha, Gabe’s identical twin sisters, had gone with us to Moscow, though I’d hardly seen them, since Kerri always segregated them from us.

  Gabe’s room was twice the size of mine and spotless. A fluffy dark blue blanket covered his bed. An acoustic guitar sat in a metal stand next to the door. The walls were covered with posters of Christian bands. Witness, Doxology, Hedge, and Rockhouse stared at me, convicting me of the not-so-spiritual playlists on My Precious iPhone.

  Gabe picked up his guitar and sat on his bed, strumming softly. “I’m starting a band. I asked Isabel to sing back-up, but she’s too busy.” He plucked out a tune on his guitar, staring across the room, eyes glassy behind his Buddy Holly frames. “We practically spent the whole summer singing together, but I hardly see her anymore. She’s constantly with Neek.”

  I laughed at Gabe’s impersonation of Isabel’s accent. Maybe I should tell him Isabel was on a mission to follow Nick. Why was that mission still going, anyway? We’d found the traitor and caught Blaine and Tito. What else was Isabel supposed to be doing? I’d have to ask her.

  Gabe set his guitar back in its stand. “Want to see my spy cam?”

  “Sure.”

  Gabe went to his closet and pulled out a silver briefcase and a silver R/C car with black rubber wheels. The car looked like a boxy Volkswagen beetle with a web cam attached to the top. Mr. S had given us a special project. We had to pick one from a list he’d handed out. I’d picked hacking into Mr. S’s home computer, which, sadly, had revealed no secret files about me or my parents. The remote controlled spy robot camera, the project Gabe had picked, was the most complicated one on the list.

  Gabe handed me the remote control and set the car on the floor. “Try it.”

  I drove the car around the room and under Gabe’s bed. I backed it out and picked it up. “It weighs a ton!”

  “I welded it out of sheet metal. Has to be sturdy.”

  “You record anything yet?”

  “Nah. Just watching my family.” Gabe set the briefcase on his bed and opened it. “This took the longest to build.”

  Inside the case were a six-inch monitor and a set of controls. The screen flickered once, and then a black and white image of Gabe’s floor appeared.

  I squatted down and wiggled two fingers in front of the car’s camera. My fingers appeared on the screen. “That’s sweet!”

  Gabe jumped up and flashed his wide, metal grin. “I’ve got an idea. Stay here.”

  He grabbed the car and left. I watched on the monitor as the hall floor jerked past. The picture twirled about, then stopped on another rug floor. Gabe’s hands tilted the camera until it had a wide view of two twin beds at the far end of the room. A piece of fabric fell over the camera, dousing the picture, then shifted until the picture came back.

  Gabe returned and shut his door behind him. “I hid the car under a shirt from their laundry basket, but it’s peeking out just barely. Let’s wait for them to come in.”

  I looked back at the empty room on the monitor. My gaze fell on a basketball under one of the beds. “Whose ball?”

  “Mary’s. I told you she was on the team.”

  Right. Point guard.

  “Hey, my band needs a bass player,” Gabe said. “Want to learn?”

  “Uh, no.” I had enough on my plate without getting talked into joining some band. I barely had enough rhythm to dance—no way could I make music.

  Footsteps thumped in the hallway.

  “Here we go.” Gabe hit record just as Mary and Martha entered their room.

  The camera’s angle distorted their bodies. Big feet tapered into tiny heads. I crouched over the screen and grinned at how funny they looked.

  One of the girls, wearing a hoodie and jeans, sat at a desk at the end of one bed and opened a book. The other, dressed in shorts and a tank top, leapt onto the second bed. She jumped up and down a few times, bounced into a sitting position, then bounced to her back. She propped her feet against the wall, her head hanging off the side of the bed, black sproingy Stopplecamp curls sweeping the floor.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” she asked, barely audible.

  Gabe turned up the volume.

  “I try not to think about what Gabe does in his room,” the studying one said.

  “I’d bet Gabe’s showing off on his guitar, but I don’t hear any music.”

  Gabe grinned at me and played the air guitar.

  “Which one’s which?” I whispered.

  Gabe tapped the upside down girl. “Mary.” Then he tapped the studying girl. “Martha.”

  “How old are they again?”

  “Thirteen. Seventh grade.”

  Mary let her arms fall over her head until they touched the floor. She kicked off the wall, doing a backbend of sorts, and landed sitting on the other bed.

  I raised my eyebrows. “She’d pick up LCT in no time.”

  Gabe stuck out hi
s tongue and gagged. “Don’t encourage her. She already thinks she’s an agent-in-training, and she’s not even supposed to know the Mission League exists.”

  Mary stretched out on her stomach on Martha’s bed and propped her chin on her hands. “Think I should tell him?”

  Martha continued to stare at her book. “Think I should tell Mom you’re wearing makeup?”

  “It’s just lip gloss. She won’t care so long as I’m home.”

  “It’s red.”

  “Dad says I’m gifted.”

  Martha looked up from her book. “Everyone is gifted in some way, Mary.”

  “Shouldn’t he know I dreamed about him, though? You’d want to know if it was about you.”

  Martha turned in her chair. “Did you dream about me?”

  Mary picked up her basketball and spun it in her hands. “No.”

  Martha spun back to face her homework. “I’d do what Dad says if I were you.”

  “I’ve dreamed about him lots, you know.”

  “Probably because you’re obsessed.”

  “Only some dreams express hidden desires. Mine are prerogative”

  “Precognitive. You’ve been reading that book again. Dad told you not to.”

  “I haven’t, I just remembered what it said.” Mary sighed loud and dreamy-like. “I just couldn’t stand it if anything happened to Spencer and I could’ve prevented it. He’s so cute.”

  I bolted upright, frowning.

  Gabe switched off the camera.

  “Hey.” I switched it back on.

  “Spencer …” Gabe reached for the switch again, but I put my hand over it.

  “Just a minute,” I said.

  “Watch me make this shot.” Mary lifted the basketball over her head and shot it at the laundry basket. Straight at the camera.

  The screams came first. Then faces staring into the camera. Then the pounding footsteps.

  Gabe sucked in a sharp breath. “Uh, oh.”

  I raced out the door and collided with Mary in the hallway, causing her to drop the spy car.

  “Mary!” Gabe crouched down to rescue the car and carried it back into his room.

  Mary stared up at me, wild springy curls framing her face. I swear the girl had grown a head taller since last summer. She had to be five feet tall now. “I like your hat,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I recalled the entry I’d seen in Prière’s intercession journal about one of Mr. S’s daughters being gifted in prophecy. “You had a dream about me?” I bent down and tried to look into her eyes, but she twisted away to avoid eye contact.

  Martha pushed between us and into Gabe’s room. “Gabriel Stopplecamp, I can’t believe you spied on us with that stupid car. I’m telling Mom!” She ran back into the hall toward the living room. “Mom!”

  “Martha, wait!” Gabe ducked between me and Mary to chase after Martha.

  “Hey.” I grabbed Mary’s shoulder and pushed her against the wall so she’d look at me.

  She stared at my hand. Her wide-eyed gaze traveled from my hand and up my arm until her eyes met mine.

  “Sorry.” I let go. “Did you really dream about me?”

  She pursed her lips, slowly rubbing them together. They were indeed dark red. “Dad said not to tell you.”

  Her voice was soft, and I leaned closer to hear better. “Tell me what?”

  Her eyes stared into mine, big and brown and never blinking. Her face was no longer flushed, and she leaned toward me until her lips were by my ear. She smelled like strawberry candy and her curls tickled my face.

  “It’s just … don’t go to Japan,” she whispered. “Please?” Then she planted a hard kiss on my cheek, fled into her room, and slammed the door.

  What on earth?

  I stood alone in the hallway. My gaze flicked to a family portrait on the wall. Mr. S smiled at me, sending a flash of guilt over my body. I shook my head at the man in the frame, as if to plead my innocence. I hadn’t done anything wrong. She kissed me.

  Gabe and Martha’s raised voices drifted from the living room. I couldn’t make anything out, but they were yelling. I suddenly wanted to leave. Too much drama here.

  I snagged my backpack from Gabe’s room and made my way into the living room. A rich marinara and garlic smell floated from the kitchen. My stomach growled.

  Gabe stood in front of the couch, spy car tucked under one arm, his other arm perched on his hip. Martha sat between Kerri and Mr. S on the couch, arms folded, tears streaking down her face.

  “He’s apologized, Martha. Can you forgive—” Mr. S looked at me and stopped talking.

  I breathed in through my nose, savoring the spaghetti-lasagna smell. “I’m going to walk down to C Camp. Sorry about the spy car thing.”

  “No.” Gabe set the car on the coffee table. “It wasn’t your fault. It was my idea.”

  “Spencer, you’re welcome to stay,” Kerri said. “We’re having manicotti for dinner.”

  Drool. “Thanks, but I’ve got LCT practice at six, so …” I readjusted my Lakers cap and started toward the front door.

  Gabe called after me. “What’d she do?”

  I paused but wasn’t about to tell him his little sister had kissed me, not with his parents sitting there.

  “She said something, I know she did.” Gabe’s footsteps pounded through the house. Distant banging and Gabe’s voice. “Open up, Mary!”

  I seized the moment of chaos and slipped away. Outside, I pulled on my backpack and sprinted down the street, past Kimbal’s sedan. It didn’t start right away, but I heard it peel out when I rounded the end of the block.

  I had hoped that hanging with Gabe would keep me out of trouble, but this Mary drama was a whole new kind of trouble for me. I felt like I was on an episode of Tween Diaries.

  I sprinted all the way to C Camp, the nondescript office building on 95 Juniper where Boss Schwarz taught League Combat Training to juvenile agents. Russ, the guy who guarded the front, saw me coming and opened the door.

  “Thanks, Russ,” I said, not stopping as I ran inside the air conditioned building.

  I went straight into the locker room and shut my backpack in a locker. Then I walked through the locker room doors, past the room with the hot tubs—where Mario, C Camp’s physical therapist, helped people who got hurt—and into the main room. The place was pretty much an athletic club, but instead of stair climbers and exercise bikes, there was an open floor covered in mats. Punching bags and weight benches were all on the left wall.

  I was early, so I headed for the weights to get my mind off things. My one-rep max was 235—my personal best was 190 for eight reps—but I was tired and didn’t have a spotter, so I put on 180 pounds. I did twelve reps and set the bar in the catchers to rest.

  My mind wouldn’t shut up. Don’t go to Japan? The trip was just over a couple of months away. What could Mary have possibly dreamed that would make her say such a thing?

  I grabbed the bar again, planted my feet, and started lifting.

  “Hey, Tiger. Been wanting to talk to you.”

  I jumped and almost dropped 180 pounds on my neck. Beth peeked over the bar from above me, her head upside down, her dimples digging in with her smirk. Her ponytail hung to one side of her face, the ends curling around her neck and chin.

  Why’d she have to be so cute?

  I focused on the ceiling and finished my twelve, just to show off, then set the bar in the catchers. Good thing I hadn’t started at 190. If I’d gotten stuck and had to do the roll of shame in front of Beth … Or worse, had to ask her for last-minute spotting help? Oh, that would’ve stunk.

  I sat up and swung one leg over the bench. “What’s up?”

  She walked around the bench and leaned close. Beth had a thing for tough-girl T-shirts. Today hers read: Self-Saving Princess. She rubbed her finger down my cheek. “Who you been kissing?”

  My hand shot to the place where Mary had kissed me. I wiped my cheek and looked at my palm. A smear of red was streaked across it. Oh
… figs and jam-o-rama. Had Mr. S seen that? Had Gabe?

  Beth rolled her eyes. “Looks like I made the right choice with you, player.”

  Yeah, that was me, all right. Scoring with the middle school girls. “I’m not a player.”

  “Sure.”

  I didn’t have to take this. I stood so I could look down on her, hoping my height was just a little bit intimidating. “What do you want?”

  She backed up a step. “To apologize. I’ve been thinking about it and … Truth is, I got scared. At District. I was worried you’d beat me, so …” She shrugged. “I’ve never done that in a match before. I’d do it again, you know, to save my life, but in competition …” She shook her head. “You were right. It was a low blow.”

  “Thank you.” It did nothing to repair my loss of dignity, but at least she’d admitted it. That was pretty cool.

  “You want to partner up today?” she asked me.

  Fight her again? “I don’t know.”

  “Come on.” She kicked the toe of my shoe. “You scared?”

  “No.” A little.

  “Well then?”

  “Fine.” I was such a sucker.

  “Why wait for class?” Beth said. “Let’s spar now.”

  “Okay.” I followed her to the mats, ignoring the nagging sensation that I’d regret this later. I put in a mouthpiece and took off my Lakers cap, but Beth didn’t like to spar with pads or gloves outside of class. She said it made people lazy.

  Beth bounced and circled me. I turned with her. She got in a few good strikes. So did I. But when she just missed my face and her arm grazed my cheek, the skin-to-skin contact sucked me away. A sudden dizziness spun the room. My arms dropped to my sides.

  I scramble over a broken chair in a weird-looking house. The floors are made of straw mats. Beth and an Asian guy are going at it with arms, fists, and feet. The sound of every hit makes me flinch.

  A fist cracked against my jaw. I sank to my knees, back at C Camp with Beth, apparently getting my butt kicked.

  “Spencer!”

  My face throbbed. I tasted blood. Beth gripped my wrists and pulled. I jerked away and scrambled backward on my hands and feet in a crab walk. I didn’t want her touching me if it meant another glimpse.