Partner: Grace Thomas
SERVICE: HELPS: COMMUNITY: FAMILY SERVICES
Run after-school recreation program
at Kimura Fitness Center.
“Grace?” I said. She looked at me, so I lowered my voice. “Are you nuts?”
“You, in particular, will be in charge of the gymnasium,” Prière said. “Miss Thomas will assist you. This will be Monday to Friday after school from 4:30 to 5:30. You will begin this coming Monday, so have a plan for leading activities à la gym.”
Fabulous. “Since when are partner assignments on red cards?”
“Since International decided it was to be so last month.”
“But I thought …” Whatever. The whole thing had felt like a nasty trick, making me think I was getting a real assignment … Grumble, grumble.
“I am hoping this is not une error.” Prière held up a second red card, his eyes twinkling like a grandpa who’d just pulled a coin out from behind my ear. “You were hoping for a solo assignment like this one?”
“Yes!” I snatched the card from Prière and read it.
SOLO
FIELD: PROFILING: WORLD
Track and report all movements and conversations
of Keiko Kimura.
Yes, yes, yes! I pumped my fist over my lap. Now, this was more like it. And it fit with the prophecies I’d been having about Keiko. Or Kozue. Or both. I glanced at Prière, fighting back a smile.
The Frenchman regarded me with raised brows. “I will tell you now that Monsieur Stopplecamp is already aware of both your red card assignments. You will report to him every Monday. A weekly written report is required on all assignments along with any intercession reports. Do you comprends?”
“Yeah, sure.” Whatever you want, man. I was a real spy!
“Do you accept these assignments?”
“Yeah, yes. I do.” I had difficulty maintaining calm. I wanted to stand up and whoop.
Prière scribbled something down on his clipboard. “Destroy the cards the first chance you get. Burn or shred—only do not throw them away. God be with you, Spence. At this time you may return to your chair.”
“Okay, but did you get my intercession reports? I don’t know what I should be doing about all that.”
“I did get the reports, and they have been distributed through the correct channels. There is no reason for you to do anything.”
“Well, what about—?” I glanced at Mr. S and lowered my voice. “What about the dreams that Mary Stopplecamp had about me? And those twins, Keiko or Kozue. One of them is the girl from my prophecies, so … ?”
“Agents are here to protect you, Spence. Do not worry about your safety, and—”
“I’m not worried. I can take care of myself.”
Prière raised one eyebrow, as if unsure whether I was done interrupting. “Continue to write intercession reports and hand them in to Monsieur Stopplecamp. They will be distributed as usual but also to the agents that are protecting you. All will be well.”
Easy for him to say. I strode back to my seat, lost in thought. Last year, Nick had been assigned to watch Pasha. Isaac to watch me. Isaac’s had been a red card assignment. I hadn’t really thought about Nick’s assignment until now, but I bet his had been a red card too because both Pasha and I had been in serious trouble. So, did that mean that Keiko was in danger? She’d seemed so quiet. Like a China doll—er … a Japanese doll. Close enough.
And now that I thought about it … there’d been two girls in that restaurant booth in my dream. Could it be Keiko and Kozue? If so, one looked hurt. I had to make sure that my vision remained a warning so that nothing bad happened to either of them.
Wally was speaking with Mr. S, and Gabe with Prière, so I read my solo assignment again, then tucked them both in my back pocket with the blue card. I’d burn them later somehow.
Grace slid into Wally’s empty chair beside me, the pleasant smell of coconuts with her as always. She set a little origami bird in front of me. “It’s a crane. I made it for you. Cute, huh?”
“Adorable.” And it was, actually. She’d made it out of white paper with little cartoon leaves on it.
“You got two red cards?”
My spine stiffened, and I looked at her out of the corner of my eye without moving my head. I was Jason Bourne, baby. I had no time for pixie games. “We’re not supposed to talk about them, so don’t ask.”
“Can’t I even look at them?” She smiled at me like we were buds.
I turned to face her and leaned close, hoping my height would be intimidating. “Nope,” I said, popping the P.
Her left eyebrow twitched, but she held her smile steady. Her hair was down now, curling like wild Christmas ribbon to her elbows. I noticed she’d put the elastic band on her wrist. It wasn’t fair. It hurt to look at someone so pretty and know she was a beast inside. Such a waste of hotness.
“You like living with Jun?” Grace asked me, which reminded me that I’d been staring.
I looked at my notebook. “Yeah, Jun’s cool.” Though the bedroom floor was like sleeping on the sidewalk. But it wasn’t Jun’s fault that his parents weren’t rolling in dough like Keiko’s and Kozue’s fam.
“Jun and Kozue have been dating for five months,” Grace informed me. “Do you think that’s a long time?”
I shrugged. “I guess.” Not as long as the Kip-Megan. They’d started dating when I was in Moscow last summer. Thankfully I’d be here when their nauseating one-year anniversary rolled around. Gag.
“Hmm.” Grace’s humming pulled my eyes back to her. She twirled a strand of curls around her finger and batted her eyes at me. “What’s the longest you’ve ever had a girlfriend?”
My face flooded with heat, but I fought against it like Beth had taught me. I had nothing to hide. “Six days.”
Grace’s face lit up, her lips fighting a smile. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, Sunflower, that’s it.” And thanks for rubbing it in.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get a girlfriend soon. Guys like you always do.”
Why was she even talking to me? I glanced over my shoulder to make sure she hadn’t found an accomplice to put a “kick me” sign on my back. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend, thanks.” I was such a liar. I even felt my eye twitch.
“Any girl would be lucky to go out with a guy like you,” Grace said.
I narrowed my eyes at the she-devil. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She looked down at her lap, then glanced back at me, then away again. “I’m saying you’re cute.” Another glance. “And nice.”
Whaaat-ev-er.
The thing was, I’d learned a few things about girls over this last year. They were psycho. Allow me to review.
Anya: Beautiful women could try and kill you. And steal your best Lakers cap.
Isabel: Sometimes pretty meant not too smart and fingernails that prohibited the use of hands.
Beth: If a girl was nice, she probably only wanted to be friends or use her hotness on the LCT competition mat to make your brain go all stupid so she could kick your butt.
Trella: If a girl insulted you, she might actually like you, but what guy wants to go out with someone who calls him ape arms? Not I, said the fly.
Katie: And if a girl was all over you, she was probably being paid to steal your iPhone and help you get kidnapped by maniacs.
I rest my case.
And now Grace? Well, origami crane aside, I solemnly swore that Little Miss Sunshine was up to no good. First it was all insults, but now she was coming onto me? Something was not right.
Mr. S’s voice jolted me from my confusion with Grace. He went over the school schedule. He reminded us not to approach field agents we recognized who may be working undercover, which reminded me that Arianna’s dad was around here somewhere, following me. Then Mr. S explained the passcode that was currently in use for agents to identify other agents.
“I want you to learn it in English and Japanese,” M
r. S said. “If you need to use it on a Japanese person, use Japanese. Otherwise, use English. The passcode works like this.” Mr. S turned to face Prière. “Donata desu ka?”
“Kaeru no ko wa kaeru,” Prière said.
I didn’t know what Prière’s words meant, but hearing the Frenchman speak Japanese made me snort a laugh.
“Now, in English,” Mr. S said. “Who is it?”
“Like father like son,” Prière answered.
Wacko. Passcodes never made any sense. Wouldn’t we call attention to ourselves saying something so dumb? I wanted to ask, but the door opened. A round Japanese woman pushed a cart inside that was stacked with takeout containers. I looked longingly at them, wishing they were filled with fried chicken, and not rice and miso soup.
The woman fixed one tray at a time from the takeout totes and passed them out. It was filled with fancy little circles of rice wrapped in seaweed. Sushi rolls? Aw, this wasn’t going to fill my stomach. I was going to starve in Japan. I wanted meat, and lots of it.
Grace stroked my arm with her index finger, and I twitched at the thrill it sent through me. “Are you going to eat your guacamole?” she asked.
Guacamole? I examined my lunch. Ah. A quarter-sized glob of the green paste sat on the corner of my tray. They ate guac in Japan? Who knew? “Yes. Yes I am.” At least I’d have a taste of something good to wash the raw stuff down with. Wasn’t there any rice? I looked around and saw the woman place a bowl of rice in front of Jake.
Praise You, Lord in heaven. And I meant it.
Now if I could just get the stuff in my mouth … I’d have to find me a fork somewhere and keep it in a holster. I waited for Mr. S to bless the food, then I ripped my sticks apart and tried to balance the thin wisps of balsa wood between my fingers. How did people eat with these Pick-Up Sticks?
“Do you want mine?” Grace asked pointing to the guacamole. “I don’t like avocados.”
“Yes.” I scooted my tray beside hers like we were little girls playing house. Grace used her chopsticks to scrape her guac onto my tray with ease, like she ate with chopsticks every day.
“Don’t pass food with your chopsticks!” Wally said.
“Calm down,” I said to Wally. “There is no one here to be offended.”
Grace used her chopsticks to pick up a sushi roll, dip it in the soy sauce, and put the whole thing in her mouth. She glanced at me, eyes wide and blue, chewing, cheeks ballooned like a chipmunk.
I shuddered, conflicted by how cute and confident Grace looked eating something so nasty.
I went back to “eating” little bites of rice, two to three grains at a time on the wretched Pick-Up Sticks.
“Use them more like a shovel.” Grace scooped up a heaping pile of rice on her chopsticks and put the whole bite, successfully, in her mouth without losing a granule or messing up her pink lipstick.
I hated her more than ever.
The food woman came over and poured me, Grace, and Wally some tea.
“Do you have any water?” I asked her. “Iie, tea only.”
What was so great about tea, anyway? I mean, let’s face it. I was never going to become a tea drinker. And if I did, I’d get me a big ol’ 7-11 refill mug instead of drinking out of dainty doll bowls.
I jabbed at my rice like I was stirring water. Shoveling it in worked if I kept my mouth touching the bowl, sort of like drinking it. After getting down a good-sized bite, I scooped up the guacamole on my chopsticks. I grinned and nudged Grace with my elbow. “Check it,” I said. “Got the whole glob at once.”
“I’m so proud,” she said in a flat voice.
Whatever. Afraid I’d lose the guac, I brought my mouth to the chopsticks, stuck out my tongue, and sucked off the glob.
Fire incinerated my senses. I spit the green goop onto my tray, but it didn’t help. “Arrrrggggppppthhhh!” I couldn’t talk. My tongue singed. Acid. Someone had put acid in the guac. I picked up my tea and dunked my tongue into the tiny bowl. The hot liquid brought no satisfaction or relief.
Grace giggled hysterically, clutching her sides, her curls vibrating around her face. Wally just stared at me.
“What wrong with him?” Jake asked Grace.
“He ate the wasabi,” Wally said. “Wasabi is helpful in preventing cancer, ulcers, and fighting tooth decay. It also prevents food poisoning, which is why it’s often served with raw fish, like sushi.”
I wanted to say, “Thank you, Encyclopedia Britannica,” but I couldn’t speak.
Jake snorted a delighted laugh, his eyes filled with joy at my expense. “You’re not supposed to eat it all at once, fool. You’re supposed to mix it in your soy sauce.”
“Fankth,” I managed, my eyes blurry with tears, my nose stinging.
“Haven’t you seen Cars 2?” Jake asked. “That ain’t no pistachio ice cream, Mater.”
Nor was it guacamole. I refused to look at Grace—the evil little wench—and went back to eating my rice, one granule at a time.
By the end of lunch, my mouth was back to normal, but my temper was still smoking.
REPORT NUMBER: 9
REPORT TITLE: I Get into Karate Trouble
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: Kimura Fitness Center, 3-18-57 Jinan, Naha, Okinawa, Japan
DATE AND TIME: Wednesday, June 3, 4:12 p.m.
WHEN JUN LED ME, GABE, AND Wally to Kimura Fitness after school, I was thrilled to see that the address was the same as the one on my blue card assignment. Nothing like a little help on my homework to lighten my step. My excitement was short-lived, however, because the building was massive. How was I supposed to sketch this puppy in two months? I mean, come on.
Mr. S met us in the lobby, and once the rest of the Americans showed, he introduced a tall Japanese man I recognized from the get-together at Kozue and Keiko’s house. For a Japanese dude, he was tall. Close to six foot. He wore a white karate gi top, flowing black hakama pants, and a red belt. He was barefoot.
“This is Kimura-san,” Mr. S said, “who is Kozue and Keiko’s father. He is the owner of Kimura Fitness and Kimura Bank of Naha. He is also Judan, the highest rank available in Okinawan Karate.” Which Mr. S pronounced kah-rah-tay. “Kimura-san?”
Kimura-san bowed to us. “Arigato. For fifteen years I run Ten Ai Ko Dojo, where I teach the Budo—Japanese martial arts. Over years, dojo grow to include weight training and gym. Today we also have dance room. We are now called Kimura Fitness.”
Kimura-san gave a tour of the facility. I sketched out what I could on the back of my school schedule, but I’d have to snoop around later if I was going to do this right.
I had yet to decide whether or not I was going to do this right, by the way. It wasn’t like I was being graded. And I was way more interested on starting my track-and-report mission on Keiko.
When we got back to the dojo, a dozen students—dressed in white kah-rah-tay gis—were sparring, their reflections gleaming off the polished wood floor. No mats. Yowzers.
“Some of you are trained in karate, is correct?” Kimura-san asked.
“Hai,” Mr. S said.
Hai, my foot. League Combat Training had elements of many different martial arts, jujitsu more than any other, but we’d been training to subdue without harm, not to break boards.
Kimura-san yelled, “Hai! Seiretsu!” and the students scrambled toward him, forming a line like soldiers. “These Amerikan students are from Kariforunia. Many train in karate also.”
I saw Jun at the end of the row of students and wondered when he’d left us to get changed. I smiled at my host bro, but he didn’t smile back. He stared straight ahead, glassy eyed like some kind of zombified soldier. Maybe it wasn’t Jun, after all. These guys all kind of looked the same with their crew cut hairstyles and their white karate gis. Maybe it was a dress code.
One of the students stepped forward and bowed to the American group. “Onegai shimasu.”
Kimura-san gave the guy a small smile then surveyed us Americans.
“Which Amerikan will fight? One round jiu kumite.”
“Garmond will,” Jake said pushing me forward.
I stumbled to a stop and lunged back into the crowd. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you go out there and get pummeled?”
“You made District, not me,” Jake said. “So get out there and show some American spirit, man.”
I smirked at Jake. “Make Beth do it. She got closer to wining than I did.” By using her feminine wiles to cheat, I might add. But I wasn’t bitter. Much.
“But I cheated, remember?” Beth said from behind me, surprising me with her honesty. “You probably would’ve won otherwise.”
“Nice.” I wished Beth would fight this guy. It would be nice to see her lose for once.
Movement at the end of the room caught my eye. Keiko and Kozue had arrived, looking doubly gorgeous. I wondered which one was Keiko. They were too far away to see any moles. A stupid idea surfaced in my boy brain. Maybe I could impress her by taking down one of her daddy’s students.
But karate? I never could remember the rules. To win I had to score more points—eight, I thought—and try not to get hit. Simple enough, right?
“Okay.” I stepped forward and slipped off my sneakers, then crouched and peeled off my socks.
“Atta boy, Tiger,” Beth said, giving me a shrill wolf-whistle.
Yeah, yeah. I just hoped I wouldn’t die a humiliating death. I handed Gabe my Lakers cap and walked out to the center of the mat and bowed to my opponent. The guy wasn’t so big. Looked to weigh about 150. He was wearing a sleeveless kimono that showed off his huge arms, though. Dude could probably do 200 chin-ups without breaking a sweat.
“We will use pads for this because Americans are used to it,” Kimura-san said.
What? I looked at Beth and whispered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pads are an American thing to keep insurance costs down for karate schools,” Beth said. “It’s like I said before: Pads allow you to fight lazy. These guys do ‘hard style’ martial arts. I’ve trained you well, Tiger, but you don’t know this guy. I say, put on the pads.”
Project Gemini (Mission 2 Page 10