It was rusty.
And it was yellow.
Banana yellow.
The screen door slammed behind me. I glanced back. Mrs. Daggett had joined me on the porch, sea-green housecoat rippling in the breeze.
She grimaced at the car, like she might do when opening a container of moldy food. “Like I said, it has some problems. But it got me here, didn’t it?”
“You drove that?” She fit in that?
“I have my license, you know.”
“Yeah? Well, so do I.” As of two weeks ago. I’d told Grandma that I was going to die if I didn’t get my license before summer break. She probably believed I’d actually hurt myself because she had suddenly made it a priority.
“Well,”—Mrs. Daggett waved me off the porch—”go try it out!”
Oh-kay. “Thanks, Mrs. Daggett. This is really nice of you.”
She grunted. “You’re welcome.”
I jogged down the porch steps, inspecting my new wheels as I crossed the driveway. Compared to Kip’s Bimmer, it was a piece of junk. Bums like me, however, couldn’t afford to be picky. I hoped it was an automatic. I’d taken a defensive driving class last spring and knew how to drive a stick, but with my leg…
Ooh. I hoped it had air.
I reached the curb and paused. Man, it was an ugly beast. Arches of rust hugged the fenders where paint had long ago chipped away. I circled around the front. A huge swath of paint was missing from the hood, exposing the gray steel beneath in the jagged shape of what looked like the profile of Phineas from Phineas and Ferb.
I opened the door to a wall of heat and tried to climb in but got stuck halfway and had to feel for the seat controls. I found a latch and pushed the driver’s seat as far back as it would go.
I settled onto the cracked vinyl. Hot! Getting into a car that had been sitting outside in the California sun was a hazard to one’s health. I scanned the dashboard and my heart sank. No air. But it was an automatic. So, one out of two. I could drive it now, at least. I rolled down the window, guessing I’d probably never roll it up again.
Oh, man. Even with the seat all the way back, my knees were as high as my elbows and my hair dusted the ceiling. A chunk of crusty foam sticking out from a gash in the vinyl seat scratched the backs of my legs. I tugged my shorts down as a buffer.
The front and back doors on the passenger’s side opened. Mr. S climbed into the front. Prière got in the back.
“We met in a car, Spencer,” Mr. S said. “Do you remember?”
People didn’t forget things like that.
“Why don’t you take us for a ride?” he added.
“Oh, come on.”
Mr. S pulled his door shut. “I think it would be nice. Just around the block.”
As the back door shut, I glanced in the rearview at Prière. Behind us, a black sedan waited at the curb, occupied by undercover agents David Kimbal, who happened to be my uncle, and Jean “Sasquatch” Sloan—or his identical twin brother Christophe. The twins were part of the Mission League’s Project Gemini program and shared one identity. Along with my uncle, their job was to follow me everywhere and make sure I didn’t get kidnapped or murdered. After two and a half years, I’d finally gotten used to them.
“Very cozy,” Prière said from the back. With the French accent, this sounded like: Vehlee cohzee.
“I’ll bet.” I stuck the key into the ignition and turned it. The motor crackled to life, choked to nothing, then coughed. I pressed the gas. The RPM needle flipped to the other side, and the engine whined. I shifted into drive and the beast jolted forward, then backfired like someone had just shot off a twenty gauge.
I steered away from the curb, pressed the gas a little harder, and the engine screamed without accelerating. I took my foot off the gas, then pushed down slowly. The car stuttered forward like a woodpecker.
“Impressive automobile,” Prière said.
“I’m taking this thing to Lukas,” I said. He was good with cars. He’d know if I was driving a death trap or not.
We were in a residential area with four-way stop signs at each crossroad. I turned right at the end of the block, wanting to make this a quick trip and also not wanting to risk stalling in the middle of the intersection.
“Things only have the value we give them,” Mr. S said. “Prière, why don’t you bring up your concerns?”
Oh, whee. Prière had concerns.
“I confess, I am pleased to hear that the basketball is over.”
“Excuse me?”
“The recruitment process for the NCAA programs. It had far too much exposure for someone like you.”
A fire kindled in my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You are in hiding, Spence,” Prière said. “Putting your face on Internet computer, in newspaper and television . . . is not best way to go unnoticed.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not done with basketball, if that’s what you think,” I said, turning right at the next stop sign. “Another month or two and I’m back on the court.”
Mr. S twisted to look back at Prière, eyebrows raised in an “I told you so” manner.
“I understand your feelings, Spence,” Prière said, “but is best that you do not to pursue this.”
Prière was a weird dude. We’d always gotten along pretty well, but this confrontation ticked me off. Besides, the people who were looking for me knew exactly where I was. Had Prière forgotten all that had happened in the past few years? Tito and Blaine? Anya tracking our group to Okinawa. I’d blown my cover back in Moscow, my first year in the League. “NCAA ball is my dream,” I said. “I’m not giving up.”
I turned right at the next corner, then glanced at Prière in the rearview. He was looking out the window, stroking his mustache like it was a cat.
“There is also the problem of the drugs,” he said.
“Oh, come on,” I said, rolling my eyes. “The cops dropped all charges against me. School let me back in. I’m not even in trouble with Grandma. Anymore.”
“But there is the issue of the contract you signed,” Prière said.
All new recruits had to sign this intense contract with more clauses than Santa’s family tree. “What do you want me to do? Quit?”
“Prière just wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Mr. S said.
“How am I supposed to control that?” I asked. “Twice now crazy people have drugged me. Why is that my fault?”
“King David got in trouble because he wasn’t where he was supposed to be,” Mr. S said.
I gritted my teeth. “I get it, okay? No more Kip. I’m done with him.”
“No more parties?” Mr. S said.
“I’m not going to become a hermit, but I’ll be smart. I promise.” I made the last turn and headed down my street. I probably I should have told them about MacCormack, but what if Prière used it against me? He’d once threatened to make me move. If he thought the baddies might be closing in on me, I might very well find myself living in Eastern Oregon attending a 2A school under the pseudonym Cletus Snell. “Look, I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now. I’ve got school, physical therapy, and Grandma has me designing a website for her preschool. It’s about to be the last summer before my senior year, and I’ve got to try and get back in touch with some colleges. I don’t have time to mess up. So stop worrying about me, okay?”
I was back home. I parked the car in the same place Mrs. Daggett had left it and climbed out. “Thanks for the chat,” I called back to the men, who were fighting their way out of my compact wheels. Behind it, a half a block away, the black sedan slowed to a stop in its usual spot.
I sighed. Just another day in the life of me.
****
Sunday after church I drove the banana to Lukas’s place and found him in the front yard on his back under a midnight blue Chevy Impala. He climbed out to greet me, and I introduced him to the banana beast.
“Is it junk?” I asked.
He circled my wheels, stroking his new
ly grown goatee. His hair was currently bleached white, but his goatee was golden brown. “No, but it’s a turbocharged mid-eighties Chrysler. If you’d have texted me first, I’d have told you to run away screaming. How much you pay?”
“Nothing. My neighbor gave it to me.”
“Free car? Well, that’s different. Can I take it for a drive?”
“Sure.” I handed him the keys.
He climbed in and started it. Revved it hard a few times, then peeled out from the curb and down to the end of the block. The breaks squeaked when he stopped at the stop sign, then he turned right and the banana beast backfired.
Ha! Say that three times real fast.
My shadows in black sedan took off after Lukas, which also made me laugh. I filed this situation away should I ever need to ditch them. In the distance the banana’s engine roared like some sort of Indy race car. I hoped Lukas could fix that at the very least, otherwise the sound would wake my whole block if I ever got home late.
Isabel’s white Ford Focus approached from Fifth and pulled into the driveway. I shoved my hands into my pockets, feeling stupid for standing alone on the Rodriguez’s lawn.
All four doors opened. Isabel, Arianna, Samantha, and Grace got out.
Grace.
Blood drained out of my face until I felt my cheeks tingle. She looked at me.
Of course I was staring at her.
She walked toward me. Gosh, she looked amazing. I swear someone was playing Soul Sister, because the way she moved was so not fair.
“Hola, Spencer.” This came from Isabel, somewhere on my right. “What you doing in my yard?”
“You’re back,” I said to Grace. My voice came out kind of raspy, and I didn’t dare say anything else for fear I might choke on my own spit.
“I’m back,” Grace said.
That voice. Chills ran over me.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Isabel sang. “Nice talking to you too, Es-pensor.”
The girls giggled. Not Grace. She was still looking at me. Her cheeks were extra pink. Was she embarrassed because I was staring at her? I should probably stop.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
A distant chainsaw revved, growing louder and louder, until the sound parked at the curb. Grace looked away, breaking the spell that had locked our gazes. I turned to see what had stolen her attention.
Oh yeah. My car.
The girls gave the banana beast a “You’re not worthy” look, then giggled their way into the house.
I watched them go, mostly Grace.
Lukas appeared beside me, looking back toward the road. “Man, it’s slow to accelerate. Like zero to sixty in two miles. Handles like a horse on skates.” He tossed me the keys. “Transmission is jarring. Head gasket is minutes from giving out. And I bet that after-fire is from a bent valve.”
The screen door slammed shut. Grace was now somewhere inside the Rodriguez house. “She’s back,” I said to Lukas.
He sighed and flubbed his lips. “Yeah, I know.” He gestured to my car. “So … this car needs a lot of work.”
Was she back for good? Or just a visit?
“Spencer? You hear me, man?”
I dragged my gaze away from the house. He’d said something about the car. “Can you make it quieter?” I asked.
He winced. “How much money you got?”
“Uh… Fifty three bucks.”
Lukas barked a laugh. “Yeah, it’s going to cost more than that.”
“I’m designing a website for Grandma’s preschool,” I said. “They’re supposed to pay me two hundred, but I don’t get it until I’m done.”
Lukas nodded. “I know a guy who runs a junkyard in Van Nuys. We can probably score some free parts. I’ll do it for nothing, but you have to help.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I can’t imagine I’ll be much help, though.”
“No problemo,” Lukas said. “I’ll teach you.”
“Cool.” I looked back to the house. No sign of movement at the living room windows.
“I thought you didn’t like her,” Lukas said.
“I didn’t.”
“But you do now?”
I lifted one shoulder.
“Liar,” Lukas said. “Everyone knows you’re into her.”
I gave him my best stare down. “Who’s everyone?”
“So ask her out.”
I pictured myself asking, and Grace laughing or glaring or rolling her eyes.
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Me and girls… I can’t… I just … I don’t know. It just doesn’t work out, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Lukas gestured to the Impala. “I’ve got to get back to work. You going to hang around?”
“Naw. Got to work on the website.”
“Okay. See ya later.” Lukas lay on his back on a wooden skateboard thing and slid himself under the car.
The moment he vanished from sight, I started toward the house. I had no plan. I just had to see her one more time.
I opened the front door and stuck my head inside. The girls were sitting in the living room, giggling. All four looked my way and went quiet.
I met Grace’s gaze, swallowed. “Hey, Tumblelina.” The nickname melted away my anxiety and I grinned. “Welcome back.”
REPORT NUMBER: 2
REPORT TITLE: I Get a Manicure
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: Harris Hall, Pilot Point Christian School, Pilot Point, California, USA
DATE AND TIME: Monday, May 21, 6:27 a.m.
Monday morning in Harris Hall: no Grace.
No fair.
I’d thought about her pretty much constantly since I’d driven the banana beast away from the Rodriguez home yesterday. I’d decided to go for it. Barely knew what I meant by that. I just wanted to be close to her and talk to her and get her to talk back. Maybe touch her hand or arm or hair.
That was the gist of my plan.
But it wasn’t going to work if she wasn’t going to be around.
“Agent Garmond?”
I jumped, and the legs of my desk scraped against the concrete floor. Snickers and giggles rose around me. I met Mr. S’s gaze through his thick Coke-bottle lenses. “I’m listening.”
He glanced down at the notes on his desk. “What should you do before building a snow shelter?”
Arianna answered. “Remove a layer of clothing, preferably one of your inner garments. That way you won’t perspire as much. Once you’re inside your shelter, put the clothing back on.”
Mr. S sighed slowly. “Thank you, Agent Sloan, but I was not asking you.” He zeroed in on me again. “Agent Garmond, what should you do if some of your clothing gets wet?”
“Uh… hang it up and beat it. Once it gets hard from the ice, I mean.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because the ice will break up and your shirt will be dry.” I knew all about that one. Way too much about it, actually.
“Dry, but still cold, right, Garmond?” Nick said, smacking his gum.
The class laughed.
“Very cold,” I said. We did a winter OST weekend in Big Bear. Everyone went skiing except me, because of my leg. I spent way too much time alone at camp, making snow angels and building snowmen. I’d forgotten we’d only brought the one set of clothing, and the snow in Big Bear had been really wet. We were sleeping in snow shelters, so I’d had to hang my clothing outside that night to freeze dry, which left me having to sleep in my underwear inside my sleeping bag. It wasn’t bad, really. Except when I’d had to put on those icy clothes the next morning.
“Name some symptoms of hypothermia,” Mr. S said. “Agent Williamson?”
Silence. Everyone stared, waiting for El McDub to speak. It was a shyness thing, I think. And Mr. S had trained us to wait in silence until El McDub spoke up. Which he always did. Eventually.
“Shivering?” he said finally. “Slow breathing and being … confused?”
The kid answered nearly every question with a question. His real name was Luke Williamson—middle name McKinley—and since we already had a Lukas in the Mission League, I’d named him El McDub, after his initials.
I’m not sure he cared for the nickname.
Oh, man. I forgot to tell about the new recruits. That’s what girls did to my brain. Now that Grace was back, I’d probably fail all my finals.
A month ago we got three new recruits. Samantha Floyd joined Diakonos. Alpha team got Luke Williamson and Drew Lusco. So Alpha team now had Gabe, me, Grace, Wally, El McDub, and Drew. And Diakonos had Nick, Isabel, Arianna, Lukas, and Samantha. Fairly even, until you took into account graduating seniors. This fall, Alpha team would have five, Diakonos, only three. Mr. S had said that’s how it goes some years.
Actually, he’d said, “ ‘Life isn’t tied with a bow, but it’s still a gift.’ ” But I hadn’t completely figured out the hidden meaning behind that one.
At least the numbers would be in Alpha Team’s favor this time around.
“Kerri is passing out the information packets about our summer trips,” Mr. S said as his wife moved to the front row. “Since this is our Outdoor Survival Training year, we won’t have an international trip this summer. Instead, we’ll do our last four outdoor training courses and end with the big trip to Alaska.”
I was excited about going to Alaska. I’d missed a lot of fun stuff because of my knee. Skydiving was the biggest one. I’d taken the class. I’d done the simulator. I had not gotten to jump. I’d gotten to watch everyone else jump, which had really stank.
“You’ll also be starting OTMs in June,” Mr. S said, “which are…? Agent Lusco?”
“Occupational Training Missions,” Drew said.
“Right you are, Agent Lusco. Prière will assign those tomorrow morning with any other summer assignments.”
I was on the fence about the OTMs. Headquarters was supposed to place each student in a job that they were good at or would at least like learning about. But Gabe had told me a few horror stories of people getting assigned as janitors, dishwashers, and child care workers.
Me and little kids… not so good.
Mr. S’s wife Kerri made it to the back of the class and dropped two packets on my desk. I picked up the one on the Alaska trip and flipped through it.
Broken Trust Page 2