Agent Angus

by K. L. Denman

  “Yeah.”

  “I want you to put the glasses on and walk over there. Walk casual-like, as if you’re just sort of wandering.”

  “Wandering?” Shahid echoes.

  “You know what I mean. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Once you’re there, 69 I want you to keep your back to Rachel. Maybe lean your elbows on the wall and make it appear that you’re gazing out the other way, bird-watching or something. But make sure you can see her in the mirror. Got it?”

  He stares at me.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll go over it again. I want you to walk casually over to—”

  “I get it!” he snaps. “What are you going to be doing while I’m bird-watching?”

  “I’m going to go off that way.” I point toward the street. “Beyond the wall. Then I’ll circle back and crouch down on the other side, close to you. You can tell me what you see, and I’ll take notes.”

  “Oh, man,” Shahid moans. “Why can’t we just walk by her and get a closer look at the book?”

  “Because,” I say. “That’s too…”

  “Easy?” he cuts in.

  “No. It’s too obvious. What if we can’t get a good look at it? We can’t keep walking back and forth until we do.”

  “Fine,” he says in a tone that tells me it’s not fine. He pulls the sunglasses out of his backpack. He opens them and stretches the elastic over his head. He sets the glasses in place, and there’s an audible snap when he releases the elastic. “Ow!”

  “Don’t forget to fluff your hair,” I tell him.

  “Right,” he mumbles. “Fluff my hair.” He’s still mumbling as he stomps away.

  “Casual, Shahid,” I call after him. “Wandering.”

  He surprises me by responding with a rude gesture. That’s totally not like him. It reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what. I decide it’s not important and set off on my own route to the wall.

  Chapter Nine

  What appeared to be a low wall from the skater side is a high wall from the other side. It’s one of those concrete-block retaining walls that separates the ground into two levels. The lower level is the flat surface of a soccer field. It’s perfect. I can glimpse Shahid’s head above me as I take up my position.

  “Shahid,” I hiss. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yesss,” he hisses back.

  “Can you see Rachel in the mirror?”

  “Yesss.”

  I’m so delighted, I could dance a jig. Not that I dance jigs, but if I did, I would.

  “Excellent. What is she doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does it look like she’s doing?” I ask.

  He whispers, “It looks like she’s staring at my back.”

  “What?”

  “I said,” he says, “she’s staring at me.”

  This is worrisome. “Has she been doing that the whole time?”

  “No. Before this, she was unpacking art supplies. Paint and stuff.” There’s a pause before he adds, “And also looking at the sketchbook.”

  I’m delighted again. “Did you see what was in it? Were there drawings of faces?”

  “I couldn’t tell. There were drawings, but…” He stops. And then he says, “Gack.”

  “Huh?”

  And a girl’s voice says, “Excuse me. I was wondering—how long do you think you’ll be here?”

  “Uh,” Shahid stammers. “I can’t say for sure. But going by statistics, I’ll be around for another seventy years.”

  There’s a gap in the conversation, and then the girl laughs. “Very funny. I meant, how long will you be standing in front of this wall?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” Even from a distance, I can hear Shahid swallow. “It’s not something I generally do.”

  Another space of silence follows. Then the girl asks, “You don’t generally stand in front of walls, or you don’t generally think?”

  “Walls,” Shahid blurts. “That’s what I meant. Thinking, I do all the time.”

  This seems like the right answer to me, but the girl sounds disappointed. “Oh. That’s too bad. I find thinking interferes with life.”

  “Really?” Shahid squeaks.

  “Yeah. Thinking gets in the way of the pure experience, you know? The mind can be such a fake place.”

  “Fake? But…but,” Shahid stammers. “Oh. Huh. I guess that would make you the opposite of a mentalist.”

  “What did you say?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” Poor Shahid. He’s not himself.

  “That word,” she mutters. “Mentalist. It rings a bell. Oh!” And suddenly, there she is—Rachel. She’s leaning over the wall, looking straight down at me. Beneath the violet hair and the blue mask, her mouth is smiling. “You must be Angus.” She turns to Shahid. “And you’re his friend, right? Ella told me to watch for you.”

  I’m stupefied. This makes no sense at all. I can’t speak, but that’s okay because Rachel keeps going. “She didn’t tell me you two were so…cute. And artsy.”

  “Artsy?” Shahid’s voice is faint.

  Rachel nods. “Definitely artsy. I’ve never seen shades like yours. They make such a large statement.”

  “They do?” Now Shahid sounds really confused. “What are they saying?”

  She giggles. “You tell me.”

  “I can’t,” he says. I know that Shahid means this literally.

  It’s time for me to step up and save him. I try out my voice, and it works. “Ella told you about us?”

  “For sure,” Rachel says. “She told me you’re a—what was the word again? A mentalist. And that you’re helping her find her sketchbook. She said you’d be checking around.”

  I can’t believe this. Ella needs more help than I thought. Tipping off the suspects is so…naïve. “Yeah, well,” I mutter. “I guess you know how important Ella’s drawings are to her.”

  “They’re very important,” Rachel says. “She’s really good. Way better than me. You should see how pathetic mine are.”

  Aha. She may think by offering to show me her art, I’ll think she must not have anything to hide. But I can’t be thrown off so easily. I tell her, “I doubt your drawings are pathetic. I’d be happy to see them.”

  “Really? Then come on up here and I’ll show you.” She disappears from view.

  I whisper to Shahid, “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he says. “No, I’m not.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell him.

  I don’t have to go far to find my way around the retaining wall. I hike up a little slope and march toward Rachel. Scattered on the ground at her feet are felt pens, spray-paint cans and a sketchbook. She picks up the sketchbook and holds it aloft as I approach. Once I’m there, she flips it open.

  “See? These are my graffiti ideas.”

  The drawings are almost as bad as something I’d do. They’re nothing more than rough, blocky shapes. “Huh,” I mutter. “Graffiti ideas?”

  “Yeah.” She points at the retaining wall. “That one is mine. The park people are letting us do our own thing around here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Cool,” Shahid croaks. “I guess that’s why you were wondering how long I’d be standing in your way.”

  “You got it. But hey, no worries. I’m glad I got to meet you two.”

  I mutter, “Likewise.”

  “Maybe you’ll come back sometime and see how it turns out?” she asks. She’s looking at Shahid.

  “Yes,” Shahid answers solemnly, like he’s making a promise. “I will.”

  “Good. Are you guys done with the wall?”

  We nod.

  “Then I’m going for it.” With a grand gesture, she tosses back her green cape.

  Shahid and I mutter, “Good luck.”

  We’re almost home when Shahid says, “Her legs were painted orange.” His tone is one of wonder.

  Chapter Ten

  Usually, the minute my heads hits the p
illow, I fall asleep. Not tonight. No, I lie awake thinking about Shahid telling me that I must admit to Ella that I’m not a mentalist. I can’t read facial expressions. I have no idea who stole her sketchbook.

  I know Shahid is right. By lying to Ella to get her to like me, I’m no better than a player. I decide that I’m not actually a player, because I think those guys lie to lots of girls. Still, I am a liar.

  I try to picture telling Ella “The Truth.” What words could I use? Would she be angry? Would she never speak to me again? My mind shies away from this awful scene. I switch to picturing the way she looked at me like a hopeful puppy. I recall her skill with a pen and the amazing likeness she drew of the scrawny kid.

  This leads me to remember the stench of the stink bomb and the scrawny kid flipping us off. What a jerk.

  Wait a minute. Was he looking straight at us when he did that? Wasn’t Ella’s arm raised, pointing toward Principal Garnet? She was pointing at something. I was a bit distracted when all that happened. Or would that be disoriented? Whatever it was, I know I was affected by Ella’s presence.

  And then an idea strikes me with such force that I sit bolt upright in bed. Scrawny kid stole Ella’s sketchbook! Of course he did. He thinks she ratted him out to the principal. He took her book for revenge.

  Wow. This is it. I know it. It makes complete and total sense. Once again, I picture scrawny kid flipping us the finger. I remember Shahid doing that very thing to me today. At the time it reminded me of something. It’s as if my brain knew more than me. Is that possible? It’s my brain. It shouldn’t know things that I don’t know. Although in all fairness, my brain did try to get in touch with me.

  None of that matters now. The important thing is that I know who stole Ella’s sketchbook! This feels so good I decide I can reply to her email. I get up and send this message:

  FYI: Update on investigation. Have identified the culprit. Have large hope that recovery of your sketchbook will happen soon.

  Agent Angus

  PS Thanx for the link to Mr. Wilder’s blog. Am very sorry about his wife.

  Now all I have to do is figure out how to get the book back from Scrawny.

  “The first thing we have to do,” I tell Shahid, “is find him.” We’re standing at the top of the stairs overlooking the main hall at school. It’s one of the best places to observe students.

  Shahid shakes his head. “If this kid got caught for stink-bombing, wouldn’t he be suspended?”

  He has a point, an inconvenient point. “We’ll have to find out about that,” I say.

  “How?” Shahid asks. “We don’t even know his name. We can’t go into the office and ask the principal what happened to Scrawny.”

  “Obviously not,” I snap. “But the secretary likes me.” The warning bell sounds for first class. “If I get sent to the office on an errand today, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  I don’t get sent to the office in first period. Nor am I asked to fetch or carry anything for the teacher in second class. I find this frustrating, but by lunchtime I have a new plan. I explain it to Shahid at my locker.

  “Who do we know,” I ask, “that must overhear many conversations?”

  Shahid shrugs. “You tell me.”

  “Grunt! He’s always in the washroom, right? He must hear plenty. He might not have heard Scrawny talking about his bomb plot, but he could have heard something. Like the name of the person who set off the bomb.”

  “Maybe so,” Shahid says, “but that doesn’t mean he’ll tell us. He doesn’t like us, for one thing. And for another, he can barely form words.”

  “I know that. But I have an idea. Let’s see if he’s there, If he is, follow my lead, okay?”

  Shahid heaves a weary sigh and nods.

  We proceed to the washroom, and, sure enough, the door to Grunt’s cubicle is closed. A quick peek under the door confirms that his feet are there. I turn the tap on and raise my voice. “That was quite the prank.” I look at Shahid expectantly.

  Shahid frowns and mutters, “Yeah.”

  “What?” I say loudly.

  “I said, yeah.” Shahid has caught on and increased his volume.

  I grin at him and yell, “I wonder what he put in that stink bomb.”

  Shahid yells back, “Whatever it was, it sure was smelly.”

  “Too bad,” and then I lower my voice and deliberately garble the next word, “Jasackolon,” and I return to yelling, “Got caught.”

  “No kidding,” Shahid shouts. Then he makes his fake name quiet too. “Roboley,” he turns up the volume, “thought he’d get away with it.”

  The toilet flushes and we hold our breath. Grunt emerges. He squints at us and says, “Ergh. You guys. Hah. That idjit Rolf deserved to get caught. Nyuh.” And he leaves.

  Shahid doesn’t display his usual stricken face. He simply casts a sad look at the soap dispenser and sighs. “Did he say Rolf?” he asks.

  “That’s what I heard,” I reply. “The question now is, is Rolf his actual name? Or is that a Grunt-ism?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Yeah.” I ponder deeply for a moment, and then snap my fingers. “I saw Scrawny talking to someone that day, just before he got nabbed by Principal Garnet. If we could ask that guy if he knows a Rolf…but then we’d have to find him too.”

  Shahid emits another weary sigh. If he keeps that up, I may have to mention that it’s not a pleasant habit.

  But I ignore that for now because my brain is doing that thing again. It knows something that it’s not telling me. I concentrate fiercely. I picture Scrawny Rolf outside the school on stink-bomb day. I see him and then, very clearly, I see his friend. “Aha!” I grin at Shahid. “I know where to find them. Do you remember those guys that always hang around the corner store?”

  Shahid’s eyes widen. “Those guys?”

  I nod triumphantly. “You got it. We’ll go there after school.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Our quarry is in sight. Scrawny Rolf and his sidekick are leaning against the brick wall at the corner store, sucking back slushies. Shahid and I have taken up position across the street. We’re lurking behind a mailbox.

  “Now what?” Shahid asks.

  “Well,” I say, “we continue to observe.”

  “You don’t know what to do, do you?”

  He’s right. I don’t know what we should do. Part of me wants to march over there and demand that Scrawny Rolf hand over Ella’s sketchbook. But clearly, he doesn’t have the sketchbook on him. He’s so skinny, if he held the book to his chest it would stick out on either side of his rib cage. The surprising fact is, I’m bigger than him.

  The same can’t be said about his buddy. That guy isn’t much taller than me, but he’s as wide and solid as a bulldog.

  “Angus?” Shahid asks. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m thinking,” I say. “On the one hand, we could go over there and interrogate him right now. Or we could wait until they split up.” I realize I like my second idea very much. “They’re bound to go home sooner or later. And when they do, we’ll follow Rolf.”

  “And then what?”

  “Jeez, Shahid. What do you think?” I ask.

  Shahid emits his weary sigh.

  “If you don’t stop that,” I say, “I’m going to get very annoyed.”

  “Stop what?”

  “All that sighing. It’s getting on my nerves. You sound like an old man who’s…I don’t know. Tired of the world.”

  He says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Forget it,” I mutter. “Look, all we have to do is follow Rolf. If he’s still got the sketchbook, he probably stashed it at home. So we’ll have to go there to get it anyway.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if he’s still got it’? Why wouldn’t he have it?”

  I answer in a somber tone. “We have to be prepared for the possibility that he destroyed it.”

  “Oh,” Shahid says. “That would suck for Ella.”

>   “It would.” I glare across the street at Scrawny Rolf. “He’d better not—Look! They’re leaving.”

  “Yeah,” Shahid hisses. “And they’re coming straight for us.”

  My first impulse is to duck behind the mailbox. That’s a bad idea. The mailbox isn’t big enough to hide us. “Start walking,” I urge. “Now.”

  And so it goes for a time, with Scrawny Rolf and his buddy following us.

  “Put on the sunglasses,” I tell Shahid.

  “I don’t have them.”

  “What?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “You forget them now, when we could really use them? We’d be able to maintain a proper distance. Keep an eye on them. Observe when they change direction. All that, without ever looking over our shoulders.”

  “How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?” he asks. “There was no point in bringing them to school. If I put them on there, a teacher would confiscate them.”

  I emit a Shahid-worthy sigh. “Never mind. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take turns looking sideways and use our peripheral vision to see what they’re doing. I’ll go first.” I whip my head over to the right and pretend I’m looking at something across the street. Then I whip my head back into the forward position.

  “So?” Shahid asks.

  “I think I may have given myself whiplash,” I say.

  “Casual,” Shahid chides. “Wandering.”

  I refuse to respond.

  “Fine,” he says. “Be like that. I’ll look.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see him ease his head to the side. It’s quite impressive. Anyone observing him would believe he was simply gazing at the hedge we’re passing by. His pace suddenly slows.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “They’re gone.” He comes to a complete halt and turns fully around. “I can’t see them anywhere.”

  “No way.” I turn too and scan the sidewalk behind us. He’s right. Our quarry has vanished. “That’s impossible. Where could they go?”

  “We passed an alley back there.”