Finally, I pop through and fall five feet flat on my face. I won’t lie. It hurts. None of the waiting passengers look up, their faces bathed in the eerie light of smartphones. In the bathroom, the lock gives, and Lotus flies in. It takes him about a second to realize where I’ve gone. He’s tall enough that he can just barely stick his head out the window.
“Get back here,” he snarls. “Or you’ll regret it.”
I regret so many things right now I don’t even know where to start. Blood runs from my nose. Lotus Man tries to push through the window. First one shoulder and a long arm, but there’s no way he can fit despite his seeming ability to contort himself into a pretzel. If he wants me, he’ll have to go around, and this really makes him mad.
At the same time, the bright headlights of an inbound train appear. I am lucky. I am stealthy ninja girl. And I’m totally screwed if Lotus Man gets out here in the next sixty seconds. His eyes register everything I’m thinking except probably the ninja bit. He pulls his arm back in the window and disappears.
The train slides into the station with a whoosh of exhaust, and the doors open. The passengers file on.
“Four forty-two express to Grand Central Terminal! No stops. Four forty-two, express only! Please have your tickets ready!”
I wedge myself into the pack and board the train. The digital sign indicating the track number and train’s destination reads 4:41. One minute.
I see Lotus barrel around the corner, coattails flying. He’s lost the watch cap, revealing a head of thick white hair. It’s 4:42.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Close doors. Close!” The train is crowded. A number of commuters in tidy gray suits and shiny shoes are staring at me now. I wipe the blood from my nose on the back of my sleeve and shrug. No one asks if I’m okay. A bell sounds. The doors begin to slide shut. Yes!
But then, from my position near the doors, I see just the back of Lotus Man’s coat as he jumps on the train one car down. Pulling my backpack off, I heave it between the closing doors. A buzzer goes off. I pull the doors open another inch and wedge my body into the tight space between them. A final shove and I fall back out on the platform. The train speeds away, taking my backpack with it. Lotus Man meets my gaze with a look of pure fury as his car passes. I’m about to be happy, being alive and having escaped and all, when a hand wraps around my mouth and everything goes black.
Chapter 7
What You Think You Know? Well. You Don’t Actually Know Anything.
I’M FLAT ON MY BACK. At first I think I’m still in the infirmary, having a series of bizarre, head-injury-related nightmares. But it doesn’t smell like the infirmary and I’m pretty sure I’m lying on concrete staring up at a white ceiling. I try to roll over, but a burst of pain runs from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. I groan. I blink my eyes a few times, willing them to focus. Everything wears a hazy halo. My head aches as if I got hit with a baseball bat at the base of my neck. Did I? I attempt to roll over again with the same results.
“Don’t move,” a voice says. In a flash, I remember escaping from Lotus Man. How could he have gotten me? He was on the train! I saw him! Unless he had a partner? I never considered that. I bring my hands to my temples and push in, hoping to relieve the pressure.
“If you move,” the voice comes again, “you’ll just make it worse.” Worse how? For my head? For my chances of survival? Now is not the time for an economy of words. I finally make it to my hands and knees, but lifting my head proves impossible. I think I might puke.
There are feet before me. Shoes. Girl shoes. Stiletto heels, in fact, attached to feet attached to legs attached to someone very familiar. I’m having a serious nightmare. Yup. That’s the only explanation. And my nightmare stars Mrs. Smith, who, in my hazy state, looks like an angel, which is weird, all things considered.
She lifts my chin so we can see each other better. Another wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me. It’s as if I just got off the Tilt-A-Whirl at a carnival, and I’ve never been a big fan of the twirly rides.
“Abigail,” she says. “You’re safe. You fainted and hit your head.” I have got to stop doing that. “Try and focus. You’re fine.” A glass of water appears in my field of vision. I roll back on my heels and take it. My hand shakes and the water sloshes all over my pants. I gag on the first sip. The second is easier. I chug the glass, wiping my mouth on the back of my sleeve when I’m through.
“Where am I?” I ask, my voice rough.
“You’re fine,” she says again. That’s not what I asked, but before I can repeat my question, another figure appears beside her. The missing Veronica Brooks.
“You’re alive!” I yelp before I can stop myself. Veronica levels a heart-stopping glare at me. I sink back toward the ground. “But I saw you in Mrs. Smith’s office and you were a mess and you had vampire bites or something and you told me to run and . . .” I trail off when I realize I sound ridiculous.
“For the record,” Veronica says to Mrs. Smith, “I’m totally sick of this.”
“I know,” Mrs. Smith sighs. “But it’s necessary. You know that. We aren’t just about ourselves but rather the greater good. Yes?”
“I guess,” she says. But she doesn’t sound convinced.
“Can someone tell me what I’m doing here?” I ask quietly. “Or, you know, where ‘here’ actually is.” My head pounds. I’d like nothing more than to go back to my bed and lie down for eight or nine years. Mrs. Smith and Veronica each take an arm and pull me to my feet. This is bad for my head. It swims in the haze and my body goes limp. But they don’t let me fall.
They deposit me in an awkward heap on a beige suede couch. I do the blinking thing again, trying to clear my vision. Slowly the room comes into focus. It’s windowless, with a low ceiling, and painted entirely white. The lights are so bright you could do surgery in here, although I hope that’s not on today’s agenda. Next to the couch are a couple of chairs and a coffee table, a cozy living room dropped into the command center of some futuristic military police force. A rectangular steel table sits in the center of the room surrounded by eight white leather chairs. A variety of unidentifiable gadgets litter the table. Nine large flat-screen monitors are mounted on the wall to form a rectangle. On the opposite wall are about fifteen round clocks, all labeled with international destinations. At the far end of the room is a door. And standing beside that door is Toby, staring at his shoes and shifting his body weight side to side.
I’m having a very strange day.
Mrs. Smith sits down beside me on the couch. “You’d probably like an explanation,” she says.
“Yes, please,” I say. But instead of offering said explanation, she turns to Veronica.
“Can you bring Abigail something to eat?” she asks. “She looks like she needs a few calories.”
Veronica makes a face like she just swallowed a bug as she disappears through the door by which Toby continues to stand and contemplate his shoelaces. I have a thought: I’m here because Toby turned me in. A flare of anger ignites in my stomach, but that doesn’t make sense because Toby didn’t know I was busting out of Smith unless one of the girls told him and my friends aren’t traitors. So how did I get from the train platform to here? Is this the place they bring you for punishment when tutoring meatheads and cleaning toilets isn’t enough?
“I’m going to tell you some things that may surprise you,” Mrs. Smith begins. “This isn’t the normal course of things, you understand, but circumstances being as they are, we find we have no choice.”
My visual haze recedes a little, but Mrs. Smith still wears a halo. She gets up from the couch and begins to pace. She goes about as far as the steel table, spins, and comes back. Repeat. I assume the standard hedgehog defensive posture: a small tight ball.
“Can I call my mother?” I whisper.
Mrs. Smith stops pacing. She stands before me. “Abigail,” she says. “There are
times when our great nation is under a lot of stress. And when that happens, we call upon an elite force to help combat the many evils we face. Sometimes the Center is all that stands between us and chaos.”
“The what?”
“The Center. Our organization.” Is it me or does her tone suggest I’m a complete idiot for not already knowing that? “Do you hear what I’m saying, Abigail?”
“Yes.” Which is not the same as understanding what she’s saying. Veronica returns with a plate of toast that she practically throws at my head. Mrs. Smith doesn’t notice because she’s back to pacing.
“No one ever suspects a child,” Mrs. Smith says. “Children can go practically anywhere without arousing suspicion. This is the cornerstone of our operation. We train young people to participate in the security of this great country.”
The toast sticks in my throat. I must look ridiculous, gagging and choking. Mrs. Smith sighs. “Like James Bond?” she says. “Without the martinis and fast cars? Does that make sense?”
Is this what Mrs. Smith meant by “exciting year” in that welcome letter I received over the summer? “You’re kidding, right?”
“Mrs. Smith never kids,” says Toby. He lives! I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I can’t believe I ever considered him a friend, even if we never actually liked each other.
“A spy school for girls,” Veronica says. “You should be flattered we’re even telling you about it.” I feel more flattened than flattered. I shift on the couch and spill more water on my pants. Veronica looks disgusted.
“Tell us about the man who grabbed you,” Toby says suddenly, stepping forward, eyes bright.
“Lotus Man?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just called him Lotus Man. He did this pretzel thing with his legs.” I look at Mrs. Smith. “If it’s a spy school for girls, what’s he doing here?”
Mrs. Smith smiles in Toby’s direction, a warm genuine smile that is way freakier than her usual icy one. Toby smiles back. That seals it. I’m not in Kansas anymore.
“Toby helps us with some of the technical aspects of our missions. He’s the man on the ground. Or the boy.”
“Him? Toby? Really?”
Her smile fades. “You sound skeptical.”
Yes. But I’m not stupid. “No,” I stammer. “I get it. Sure. Toby. Right.”
“Lotus Man?” Toby says again. I’m scattered around like marbles on a hardwood floor. I can’t keep a train of thought.
“Did he have dark hair? A scar on his cheek? Did he wear a hat? Was he armed? How old would you say he was? Did you happen to notice a triangle tattoo anywhere?”
“What? No. Yes. I don’t know. He had a manicure and blue eyes and his coat smelled bad. He was skinny. He asked where it was, what she did with it, whatever that means. And yeah, he had a tattoo. How did you know?”
Toby looks ready to leap out of his skin. “That means Teflon really got what we think she did!”
But Mrs. Smith holds up her hand to silence him. “Toby, we know nothing of the sort. We only have rumor at this point and useless clues.” To me she says, “Those were the man’s exact words?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Yes. I think so. Maybe. Is all of Smith in on this?” I don’t believe any of it. It’s far too ridiculous, but still. “Am I just the last to know?”
“No,” Mrs. Smith says. “The school is exactly as it appears, a top-tier New England preparatory school for high-achieving students, our country’s future leaders in business and public service. Very few students get recruited for purposes of intelligence gathering. And those who do are given information only on a need-to-know basis.”
“Are you saying the spies don’t know who the other spies are?”
Mrs. Smith narrows her gaze. My shoulders immediately tense up. “As I just said, information is on a need-to-know basis.”
“And they know you do this? The people who run the school?”
“I run the school, Abigail,” she hisses. “The man on the bus asked you where she hid it? He was that specific?”
“No,” I say. “He didn’t say anything about hiding. He asked what she did with it.”
“Very interesting,” murmurs Mrs. Smith. “Perhaps she really found something.”
“She did!” Toby yelps. He bounces around in his scuffed tennis shoes like a live wire. And I have to ask, “What do I have to do with any of this, please?”
Toby goes back to studying his shoelaces. Veronica stands to the right of the couch, her hands folded loosely behind her back, her feet spread about a foot apart. It’s an at-ease military stance that gives me a chill. A mean girl is dangerous enough. A mean spy girl sounds infinitely worse. Mrs. Smith returns to the couch. She pats my leg without warmth or affection.
“We need your help,” she says. Veronica makes a face. My confusion feels like a Victorian-era corset cinched too tight, and I gulp for air. They watch me closely.
“I really want to talk to my mom,” I whisper. “Can I please call Jennifer?”
“Not exactly,” Toby says.
“Nope,” Veronica adds.
“Actually,” Mrs. Smith says, “your mother is why you’re here.”
Chapter 8
Where Confusion Is Replaced by Mild Hysteria.
MRS. SMITH’S WORDS HANG IN the air. A very unsophisticated hiccup rises in my throat. It takes all my will to push it back down. I succeed, but now my head might explode.
“Are you okay?” Toby asks from across the room.
Am I okay? What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I’m not okay! Don’t even say the word “okay” to me, okay? Jeez.
“Yes,” I squeak. “Jennifer?” Mrs. Smith begins to pace again.
“Your mother is affiliated with the Center,” she says, “and has been for quite a long time, in varying capacities.”
The hiccup springs loose. I can’t help it. Jennifer works for some mysterious spy ring? That’s insane. She’s my mother! She forgets to brush her teeth and where she parked the car and what time she’s supposed to pick me up. She listens to music from the 1980s (and not the retro, hip kind Quinn listens to). And she never remembers to sign permission slips or homework or anything. There is just no way. I love my mom, but come on.
“No way,” I say.
“Yes way,” Mrs. Smith confirms.
“I don’t feel well.”
“You don’t look well either,” she says. Gee, thanks.
Mrs. Smith continues. “We have some questions for your mother but are having trouble locating her.”
Veronica steps forward, wearing a lovely smirk. “She kind of disappeared,” she explains. “Like, gone. Off the radar. Vanished without a trace. Missing in action.”
“That’s enough, Veronica,” Mrs. Smith says curtly. “Sometimes in espionage work, the lines of communication get . . . muddled. We know that Jennifer Hunter was in New York. And then she wasn’t. And it’s extremely important that we speak to her. She may have something people want, and she might be in terrible danger as a result.”
Terrible danger? That doesn’t sound so good to me. “Did you call her?” I ask. They all stare at me. The air in the room goes thin and I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. Did I say something wrong? “Maybe she just went away on vacation? To a place with no cell service?” I know full well my mother would never do that without telling me. Since I came to Smith, she has texted me at least seven times a day to inquire as to my well-being, even if I rarely answer. But come to think of it, I haven’t heard from her in the last few days. A wave of guilt washes over me. I didn’t notice until now.
“No,” says Mrs. Smith. “We don’t think she’s on vacation.” Veronica smirks some more. Toby continues to avoid eye contact. “But as I said, the situation is urgent, especially in light of what happened to you last night. You’re v
ery lucky Toby alerted us to your plans. Although he was a little late in doing so.”
So one of the girls did throw me under the bus! Which one was it? A burst of anger replaces my overall feelings of guilt, exhaustion, and confusion. And yes, I realize I should be grateful they saved my life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be angry at the same time.
“Unfortunately, we couldn’t apprehend the suspect and secure your safety, which means we were unable to question him about his role in all of this.”
“It was either you or the Lotus Man,” Toby adds. In the silence that follows, I wonder if they’re waiting for a thank-you for choosing me over the Lotus Man. It seems a dubious honor.
“Is Jennifer going to be okay?” I whisper.
“We certainly hope so,” Mrs. Smith says with an offhandedness that does not inspire confidence. I recall the day just six months ago when Jennifer dropped me off at school. She and Mrs. Smith shook hands in the formal way of two people meeting for the first time. But that can’t be true, can it? If my mother is “affiliated” with the Center, whatever that means, she would know Mrs. Smith, at least from a distance. I wish I hadn’t eaten that toast. It’s trying really hard to crawl back up my throat.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” I say. “Whatever I need to do to help.”
“We know you will, Abby,” Mrs. Smith replies coolly, leading me to believe I never really had a choice. “We’ll discuss the specifics of our plan later. In the meantime, Veronica and Toby will fill you in on the details of how to manage your day in light of your new . . . situation.” She then sashays out the door as if we’ve just had a nice little chat about my F in Chinese History last semester rather than one where she revealed that everything I thought to be true actually isn’t.
So here I sit with Veronica and Toby. According to the many clocks on the wall, it’s six fifteen in the morning here, almost lunchtime in London and time for evening study hall in Sydney. Toby flops down on the couch. Veronica glares at me.
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