Agent Angus
Page 1
Agent Angus
K.L. Denman
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2012 K.L. Denman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Denman, K. L., 1957-
Agent Angus [electronic resource] / K.L. Denman.
(Orca currents)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0105-9 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0106-6 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS8607.E64A64 2012 JC813’.6 C2011-907791-4
First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943731
Summary: Angus and his best friend, Shahid, two smart misfits,
embark on a criminal investigation with comedic results.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by dreamstime.com
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468
Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA
V8R 6S4 98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1
For Edie and Denny,
who always enjoy a chuckle.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
I’m not a lucky guy. But today luck has chosen to place me next to the one and only Ella Eckles. It’s like a miracle. We’re standing on the school’s front lawn, at the edge of a crowd of students. The school has been evacuated. A massive stink bomb in the main hall is still smoking.
I risk a furtive glance at Ella and see that her nose is wrinkled. It’s a strong nose with a shapely profile. It always keeps her black-framed eyeglasses neatly in place. And clearly, it’s a sensitive nose. True, my nose is wrinkling from the stench wafting from the school too. But my belief that Ella’s nose is sensitive isn’t based only on this moment. I know that she’s artistic, and artists are sensitive in many ways.
Ella is carrying her sketchbook. She draws all the time. Maybe I could ask her what she’s working on. Would that be cool? I think it would. I take a deep breath to prepare myself and almost gag.
Note to self: Avoid inhaling rude aromas.
I hear Ella ask, “Are you okay?”
I look to see who she’s talking to and make direct eye contact with her. She’s asking me if I’m okay.
I rally my voice and croak, “Yeah. It’s just the…you know…”
“I know. The smell. So disgusting.” Her eyes are warm brown. She’s taller than me but not by much. Our glasses are almost dead level. “You’re Angus, right?”
“You know my name?” Like an idiot, I say that out loud. Ella’s lips curve into a small smile, and she nods.
“Oh. Wow. I know yours too. Ella Eckles. Ha ha.”
Her smile fades. “You think my name is funny?”
“What? No. It’s a beautiful name. Beautiful, like…” Do not say like a fulcrum point. Nor like Topio 3.0, the Ping-Pong-playing robot. I can’t compare her name to things I usually call beautiful. I give up and say, “So. You’re into drawing, huh?”
“Yeah.” She hugs her sketchbook to her chest. She sure loves that thing.
“Sweet. So what do you draw?”
She looks down at her foot, prodding the grass. “You’ll think it’s dumb.”
“No, I won’t,” I say. “Anything you—I mean, I think creating art is, whoa. Incredible.”
She looks at me again. “Really? You won’t laugh?”
I shake my head.
She bites her lip for a second before saying, “I want to be an animator. For film or video games. So I draw everything I see or imagine.”
“Wow! An animator. That is so cool.” It really is. I want to say more, but I’m experiencing a brain fart. Nothing comes to me. Think, Angus, think.
“Would you like to see what I’m working on?” she asks.
I respond with a huge nod.
She gives me that little smile again and opens her sketchbook. The page is filled with black-ink drawings of faces. All of them wear a different expression. Some are smiling, some frowning, some look surprised. I’m no art expert, but the faces are so realistic, I gasp. “These are fantastic.”
“No, they’re not. They’re just sketches for an exercise I’m working on.”
I blink at her. “An exercise?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to capture the details that show what people are feeling.” She flips the page over and points out a face that’s maybe—sad? “See this? It’s terrible. I was trying to get the expression of someone lying.”
“Oh.”
“It’s hard to pinpoint certain facial cues.” She sighs heavily. “If I can’t master that, I’ll never make it as an animator.”
I blurt, “Maybe I can help.”
“You can?” she asks. “How?”
How? Good question.
From out of nowhere comes this lie. “I’ve been studying this sort of thing myself. Not for drawing. I suck at drawing. But, see, I plan to be a mentalist. Like those detective guys on TV that read people’s faces. They can tell when someone is lying. And they use all those little clues to solve crimes.”
“For real?” Ella asks. “You’re into that?”
“Oh yeah.” I nod. “Totally. I practice all the time.”
Behind the glasses, her brown eyes narrow. “Are you just saying that?”
“No. I swear.” I can’t look at her. I turn and scan the front of the school. Shouldn’t the principal be out here to lecture us by now? I need something to save me.
And then the second miracle of the day appears. Standing beside the front steps is the guy who let off the stink bomb. I know it’s him because I saw him do it. I was on an errand for my teacher. I’m the sort of guy who gets asked to do those things—trustworthy, reliable me.
Anyway, classes were in session, and the halls were empty. Except for that kid. I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around, a scrawny kid with a nasty sneer. He ran by me with a plastic bag, dropped it at the end of the hall and kept going. Seconds later, the bag started spewing. I did what any thinking man would do. I yelled, “Bomb!” and ran. I only paused long enough to pull the fire alarm.
Minutes later, here I was. Beside Ella. Claiming that I plan to be a mentalist. She’s still watching me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to say more about reading faces.
I point out the scrawny kid. “Look. I’ll prove it to you. See that guy? See how he’s twitching?” This is true. “And now he’s whispering in his buddy’s ear?” The scrawny kid and his friend a
re laughing. “Now he’s looking around to see if anyone’s watching him.” I shift my gaze to Ella. My voice has a ring of authority as I say, “He’s got guilt written all over him. He let off the stink bomb.”
Sunlight glints off Ella’s glasses as she turns from me to the kid and back again. “That’s amazing,” she whispers. “I think you could be right.”
“Perps can’t resist watching the mayhem they cause.” I may actually sound like I know what I’m talking about.
She stares at the kid. “Sneaky-looking little creep, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think you should say something?” She looks around and suddenly raises her arm to point. “There’s Principal Garnet.” Her gaze tracks back and forth between the principal and scrawny kid.
Principal Garnet studies the crowd from his vantage point on the steps. His glare passes over us and keeps traveling. A moment later, he charges down the steps and takes scrawny kid by the arm. As he’s hustled away, scrawny kid sneers and flips us the finger.
Chapter Two
A strange feeling rises up in me when scrawny kid flips us off. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt it before. It’s hot and fierce, like jalapeño juice on chapped lips. (I hate that.) But it’s mixed with something that makes my chest swell. I’m reminded of those birds on nature shows fluffing up their feathers for battle. I have a weird urge to run after the finger flipper and demand that he apologize. To Ella.
Nobody should be rude around a sensitive girl like Ella. I glance at her to see how she’s handling the insult. She’s got her sketchbook open in the crook of one arm. And she’s drawing. Fast. I’ve never seen anyone handle a pen so skillfully. Our math teacher, Mr. Jones, has astonishing speed when he writes equations on the blackboard. But Ella makes Mr. Jones look like a slacker.
“Poop,” Ella says. Her pen stops.
I can’t guess what poop has to do with anything. But I agree with her. “Yeah.”
“I really wanted to capture that expression. I’m close, but…” She sighs deeply. “I’d say it was defiance. What do you think, Angus?”
“Um.” I think I don’t know what she’s talking about. I squint at the drawing and am startled to recognize scrawny kid. And his middle finger. “Holy moly,” I say. “That’s unbelievable.”
Ella shakes her head. “Something is off. I’ve managed to show his anger, but his defiance isn’t there.” She studies the sketch. “What did I miss? Something here in the brow line?” She points. “Or in the way his mouth is twisted?”
Uh-oh. Angus the Mentalist should have an opinion about this. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. It slicks over the palms of my hands and the bridge of my nose. My glasses start sliding. If she looks at me now, it will be over between us. Someone with half her talent could tell I’m a big fat fraud. Actually, I’m a skinny fraud, but whatever.
“It’s the twisted line,” I choke as I run away. I disguise the run as a dignified jog. I call another lie over my shoulder. “I think I left a Bunsen burner turned on.” Shahid and I have been friends since we were eight. We met six years ago at science camp. We bonded over a toilet-tissue experiment. We were the only kids who wanted to learn which tissue was the most biodegradable. It wasn’t hard, but it required patience to soak the different brands until they fell apart. The next step, putting the samples through a strainer to see which left the most paper undissolved, was more hands-on.
The other kids thought our project was weird. They were more interested in fizzing Alka-Seltzer or watching the gas in yeast blow up balloons. Shahid and I were alone in our belief that the toilet-tissue results were useful. We were able to go home and tell our parents which brand was best for the planet.
Unfortunately, my father then insisted I compare how much bleach was used in the production of each brand and whether they used recycled paper. He peered over the top of his glasses and said, “Consider all variables, Angus.”
Shahid and I followed my dad’s advice and became toilet-tissue experts. The main thing we learned was that few people are interested in toilet tissue.
Shahid’s father reacted by signing him up for baseball. That was a disaster. Not only were the other players hostile about tissue talk, but Shahid had terrible hand-eye coordination. He never once hit or caught a ball. His father finally stopped making him go, but only on the condition Shahid never mention tissue again.
For me, it was my mother who trashed the tissue. She said the most biodegradable brand was no better than using newspaper. She also found it embarrassing. One of her women friends claimed our tissue gave her a paper cut.
None of that matters now except to show that my friendship with Shahid went through many strainers and didn’t dissolve. If anything, the trial by tissue gave us a solid kinship.
When I tell him about my encounter with Ella, he stares at me, eyes wide. “You lied to her?” he asks. “The girl who has that strange effect on you? The one whose house you keep making me walk past?”
“I only made you walk by there once,” I say.
“Three times. I’m including the times you pretended we had to go that way for exercise.” He holds up a hand, palm out, to stop me from speaking. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll ask again if my father will adopt you. It’s your only hope.”
Solid kinship we have. But there are some cultural differences. “I already have a father, Shahid.”
“But will he find a wife for you?” he asks.
I glare at him. “How many times do I have to tell you? It doesn’t work like that in my family. And just because I like someone doesn’t mean I’m looking to get married.”
“Not yet. But one day, when you are a man. And without a father to arrange it for you, I fear your chances are very bad.” His shrug is sorrowful. His loose joints make him easy to read. It’s got something to do with the way he’s put together. Long skinny arms, long legs, long neck, long feet. Even his kneecaps are elongated. He’s like a baby giraffe, long-ness all over the place. He moves like that too—all over the place.
But when Shahid makes deliberate gestures, he is very expressive. That gives me an idea. “We’re smart, aren’t we?”
Shahid grins. “You want to forget this girl and get back to work on Gordon?”
Gordon is the remote control robot we’ve been building for the past six months. We plan to enter him into a competition this summer. “No. Forget Gordon,” I say.
Shahid gasps.
“I don’t mean forget him forever. Just for a minute. Or a couple of days. I want us to put our brains to work on something else. I have a plan to fix my problem with Ella. Think about this. How hard can it be to become a mentalist?”
He shakes his head. “A mentalist is a strange person.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re supposed to have psychic skills. Have the ability to read minds. You can’t become one, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. He tries to, anyway. His snaps never make a sound. “Furthermore,” he says, “mentalists believe that only our minds are real. Everything else, even physical objects, are here only because we think they are.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
“I’m just telling you what they believe,” he says. “I’m not saying I agree.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask.
Shahid looks away.
“Shahid?”
“When you went on vacation last summer…” He pauses before muttering, “I decided to become a magician.”
I squint at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Some mentalists perform magic acts.” Shahid sighs before adding, “That’s the part I wanted to try—doing magic.”
“You never mentioned this before.”
“It was a brief phase. There was a problem with the artificial fog I made in our kitchen. It was very thick. My parents were, you know…” He shrugs. “I had to give it up.”
“I see.” I watch Shahid for a moment. We’re in our lab—the family room in
my basement. Without thinking, I pass him a bag of chips. He grabs a handful and stuffs them into his mouth. And suddenly, I have renewed hope.
Chapter Three
I watch Shahid munching and tell him, “You don’t like those chips.”
He stops chewing, and his eyes widen.
“And your eating them suggests to me that you don’t like this conversation. You see? Having food in your mouth is a convenient way to avoid talking about my idea.”
Shahid’s swallow is loud.
“Come on, Shahid. What’s the real problem?”
“I don’t think you want to get involved with this girl. Because if you do, then…” He stops.
“Then what?” I ask.
“Then you’ll never have time for Gordon,” he says.
“What?” I snort. “Like that could ever happen. All we have to do is spend a couple of days doing light research on faces. And maybe some fieldwork. We can conduct experiments now.”
Shahid frowns. “How?”
“I’ll tell you how. Right now, you’re frowning. That tells me that you’re thinking about something.”
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asks.
I squint at him. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” I study his face carefully. “You’re thinking about my idea. And… that’s it.”
Shahid rolls his eyes. “You can’t tell I think you’re crazy?”
“Don’t kid around. This is serious.” An image of Ella’s smiling face floats into my mind. “I have to try, Shahid. If I can avoid her for the next few days while I learn how to read people, every-thing will be fine. I’ll be able to talk to her openly. It’ll be like I never lied.”
“Your logic is faulty,” Shahid says. “Unless you’ve found a way to alter the space-time continuum, the lie has already happened.”
Sometimes Shahid can be annoying. “Fine,” I say. “The lie happened. But I’ve liked Ella for eons. Possibly as long as five months. In all that time, I never got up the nerve to talk to her. Now that I finally have, I want to do it again. As my friend, I’d like you to help me.”