The Price of Saving the World.
MRS. SMITH IS IN AN important meeting and unavailable, so I find Toby in the library and drag him outside to the Cavanaugh Family Meditative Pond and Fountain. I pick the fountain because it makes loud gurgling noises that will mess up any attempts to record our conversation. Then I make fun of myself for being paranoid, but I don’t change the location.
“What’s going on?” he asks, looking aggravated. “Aren’t you supposed to be leaving for the airport?”
“I have twenty minutes,” I say. “So do we get academic compensation for Center work?”
“I have no idea what that means,” he says.
“I have a Chinese History exam tomorrow,” I hiss. “And I’m going to be sitting around being bait in San Francisco.”
“Since when do you care about failing exams, Abby?” he asks. He’s not being sarcastic but rather asking a sincere question. I’ve never been overly concerned about grades. I always figure they will work themselves out somehow. So why am I suddenly panicking over this missed exam?
“Why did you really drag me out here?” he asks.
Because I have no idea what’s going on and I’m a little scared. I decide to tell him the first part but keep the scared bit to myself. I cross my arms and plant my feet the way Veronica does. “I need information.”
“Well, Mr. Chin will give you an F. What can I say? He’s naturally grouchy.”
“I don’t care about the test!” I shout-whisper.
“You just asked about it!” Toby shouts back, annoyed. “What am I doing out here, then?”
“The Ghost,” I say. “You guys are all so freaked out. Now, I don’t know if you’re always like this or what, but just tell me, how can one bad guy be so important?”
“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “He’s been around a long time, but things really started to get out of control when Mrs. Smith took over the school.”
“You know how Mr. Roberts always asks for real-world examples when we try to explain our answers in physics?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how about you try that for the Ghost? Tell me what he does.”
“Okay,” Toby says. “Let’s see. How about you think of a giant wheel where each spoke is a different criminal element, like drugs and weapons and human trafficking and cyberterrorism and regular terrorism and all that other stuff you see on TV. There’s even a spoke for people who sell kids. And the Ghost is at the center of the wheel. He’s the guy who keeps the thing rolling. He connects everyone and helps them get what they need to commit their crimes. And they pay the Ghost for the privilege. Do you remember at the very first school meeting Mrs. Smith talked about how we all had such potential and her job was to help us reach it?”
I don’t because I was too busy panicking over where I was supposed to sit, but I nod anyway.
“Well, everything the Ghost does takes advantage of the people no one is looking out for. These people will never reach their potential because the Ghost is in the way. He uses people and throws them away. Or worse. So every monkey wrench we throw into that wheel kind of feels like a step toward saving the world.”
My whole body tingles. Now, that’s a pep talk!
“And Abby?”
“Yes?” I whisper.
“Your car’s waiting. Don’t want to miss that flight.”
He’s right. I’m a monkey wrench in the spokes of the Ghost’s evil wheel, and I have a world to save.
As I board the plane, I look for spies. Who here is watching me? By the time I take my seat, I’m convinced everyone is watching me. This is not healthy. I settle in and try to sleep because I’m afraid if I don’t I’ll be mistaken for a zombie and quarantined in San Francisco. I close my eyes and relax my shoulders. I count sheep. I count backward. I replay Toby’s words in my head over and over. Nothing works. Finally, I give up and pull out the turbo iPhone. Toby says I can use the communication network on the plane even though the flight attendants say I can’t.
“We don’t subscribe to their regulations,” he said. Whatever that means.
“Toby is cool,” I whisper into the phone. “Show me the Center apps.” The bright orange Center logo appears. I tap it and up pop the symbols for the gun, the spray bottle, the whistle, and the old-fashioned radio. I tap the radio and additional options appear. Chat. Text. Video. Panic button. Panic button? He never told me anything about a panic button. I wonder if I can video the guy snoring next to me directly into Toby’s brain? I seem to be striking out when it comes to seatmates lately. I pull up the text option, thinking I’ll ask Toby if he happened to hide any movies on this phone, but as I begin to enter his name, a drop-down list of contacts pops up that wasn’t there before. And these aren’t names like Jane and John and Paul and Aunt Rose. No way. These are names like Polar North and Jericho and Bright Star. Code names. My mouth goes a little dry, but maybe that’s because they deprive you of oxygen in airplanes.
What did Toby say they used to call Jennifer?
Teflon. And there it is, neatly tucked into the list between Sunburst and Unity. I click it and it jumps automatically into the To: box. I stare at the screen. Nothing pops up telling me to stop, so I type, Hi, Mom. Really. That’s it. What else am I supposed to say? Thanks for telling me you’re a freaking spy? An angry knot fills my otherwise empty stomach. She’s my mother! She has no business going off and getting into a heap of trouble until I go to college! Plus, she’s been lying to me for my entire life. Okay. Maybe not actively lying but certainly leaving out important details, and really, what’s the difference? I clench my fists and fight back tears.
Veronica’s number one lesson was awareness. Now, I don’t necessarily trust Veronica, because she doesn’t like me and probably doesn’t have my best interests at heart. But maybe an awareness of what it’s like to be Jennifer might help? I loosen my death grip on the iPhone and try to put myself in my mother’s shoes. What would happen if there was something I’d been after my whole life and suddenly I had a chance at it? How far would I be willing to go to achieve my goal? If Jennifer has the Ghost in her sights, is there anything she won’t do to get him?
Mrs. Smith thinks if I’m in harm’s way, Jennifer’s priority will be protecting me. I’ll walk around San Francisco with a target tattooed on my forehead and let the bad guys take aim, meanwhile waiting for my mother to ride in and save the day.
But what if she doesn’t? What if taking down the Ghost is more important than saving me? What if I’m Jennifer’s price for saving the world?
I hit send on the phone. My words whirl away into cyberspace. I wait patiently for the inevitable error message. But it doesn’t come.
Chapter 17
Where I Look for the Red Flower.
I’M STARING OUT THE WINDOW at what the pilot says is Indiana when the iPhone vibrates in my sweaty palm. A new message. I tap it and it pops open.
Don’t text, it says. And it’s from Toby.
Me: But u r the 1 who gave me this phone
Toby: It’s for emergencies
Me: U never said that
Toby: What do u think “buying time” means?
Me: Whatever. What’s with the panic button?
Toby: Don’t press the panic button!!
Me: What if I’m panicking?
Toby: The phone blows up
Me: You keep saying that
Toby: I’m working out the kinks
Me: Great
The phone vibrates again, kind of violently this time, and just like that the spy directory is gone, taking with it my slim hope of contacting Jennifer. The only people I can text now include Toby and Toby. I want to chuck the phone up the aisle, but I’m afraid it will explode, and I really don’t want to drop out of the sky from thirty-nine thousand feet into a cornfield in Indiana before dinner. Instead, I squeeze it really hard. As if it cares.
M
e: Not cool
Toby: U r not supposed to have access to the directory anyway
Me: Why not?
Toby: Not for lower middles
Me: Whatever
Toby: Just forget about it
Me: Whatever
Toby: I’m serious
Me: I’m getting that
Toby: I swear I liked u better when u were just some girl
Some girl? He’s such a jerk! It’s not my fault the directory was on the phone. I’m not in charge of spy gear and wonder phones. I think of a number of mean comebacks I could hurl at Toby but choose the silent treatment instead. I power down the phone and slip it into my backpack. So there.
I finally fall asleep when the pilot says we’re over Kansas. I’ve never been so tired. This is not the same fatigue you get from staying up all night at a sleepover. Or reading under the covers with a flashlight until three a.m. This exhaustion is in my bones. It wraps itself around me and hugs me until my eyes close, my mouth hangs open, and I’m pretty sure I drool. I feel loose and twitchy, and at one point Snoring Guy asks me if I’m okay. I nod and pass right back out. Maybe my body thinks if it goes into a deep- enough sleep, it will wake up to a reality that makes more sense. If that’s the case, I’m all for it.
I open my eyes when the pilot announces we’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes. As directed by the cheery flight attendants, I return my seat back to the upright position. I stow my electronic devices. I put up my tray table. Then I give myself a little pep talk on how this is all going to be just fine. I don’t believe any of it, but it seems worth a try.
As I follow signs to baggage claim, I run through how I am to know Bronwyn is Bronwyn. Black jacket. Red flower. Long black hair. Baggage claim. Turtle. I realize I forgot to ask about the specifics of the code-word exchange. Does she whisper it in my ear or something? Just as I’m about to go through the list again, a woman sweeps me up in an unexpected embrace, practically lifting me off my feet.
“You’re here!” she says with enthusiasm. “It’s so good to see you!”
I study her. Long black hair. Black jacket. Red flower. We’re not in baggage claim, but I can see it from here.
“Bronwyn?” I ask tentatively.
“Welcome, Abby!” she replies with a big grin. I don’t say anything because I’m waiting for the turtle exchange. We end up staring at each other until Bronwyn asks if I’m feeling okay.
“Yes,” I say. “But, you know, is there something you want to tell me?”
She looks puzzled. A strange feeling settles into my stomach. I glance around. She’s the only one in the airport wearing a red flower. This is San Francisco. People don’t dress up here. This has to be Bronwyn.
“A specific word?” I coax.
“Oh, right! The code word. That’s what you’re talking about!” She leans in close and whispers “turtle” in my ear. My stomach relaxes.
“Okay?” she says. “We good now?” She glances at her watch and then over her shoulder, dragging me toward an exit in the opposite direction of baggage claim. She’s in an awful rush. My stomach does that thing again, but I remember how Mrs. Smith told me my job was to listen to Bronwyn and proceed as directed. So that is what I try to do.
And Bronwyn talks. Boy, does she talk. “Did you have a good trip? Any turbulence? It can be bad this time of year. You got here early, which is great, really great. You have no idea how great. I’m never early. I just parked! I thought I might miss you, and that would be bad, right? Anyway, welcome to California! Did I say that already?”
Some people think all of California is sunny. Malibu is sunny (I’ve been there), but San Francisco is not. We step out into fog soup. The wind whips my hair as we head for Bronwyn’s car. She continues to prattle on about the weather and the 49ers’ terrible last season and how this one time she was sailing on the bay and her boat almost sank and how some friend of hers just opened a restaurant and blah, blah, blah.
We climb in the car. Bronwyn pulls a small device that looks like an old-fashioned flip phone from under her seat. She pushes some buttons.
“Got her,” she says to someone. “Make sure Mrs. Smith knows she arrived safely.” If there’s a response, I can’t hear it. She shoves the phone back under the seat and peels out of the parking garage.
We drive for several miles in silence. She keeps glancing in the rearview mirror. Visibility is about two feet. I hold on to my seat. Maybe she’s used to driving in this fog, but it’s freaking me out.
“How much do you know?” Bronwyn asks finally.
I could lie, but why bother? “Nothing.”
“They keep you kids so in the dark,” she mutters. “It’s inconvenient.”
I know! Tell me everything! But she doesn’t, which is also inconvenient. Instead, she says, “Mrs. Smith believes your presence here in San Francisco will make Jennifer show her hand. Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know,” I say. No one has asked me what I think about any of this.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s just assume they’re right. What we need to do is make you visible. Out in the open. Doing things in a very public way until someone makes a move on you and Jennifer jumps in to save you. Then we grab her.”
“What?”
Bronwyn throws a glance my way. “That’s not how I meant it,” she says soothingly. “We want to make sure your mother doesn’t come to any harm. She’s sitting on some very valuable information. Speaking of which, do you happen to know what it is? Did she ever discuss it with you?”
A minute ago, I liked that she asked me what I thought. Now I’m not so sure. “No,” I say, “I have no idea.”
“Nothing? Not even a clue?” Bronwyn presses.
“No,” I repeat. There’s a pause. I can’t figure out if it’s uncomfortable or not.
“Okay,” she says finally. “That’s fine. Tomorrow we see what falls out of the trees.”
We drive some more. Outside, it’s dark, and I can see bits of the city glittering though the fog. Is Jennifer out there somewhere? She’s my mother. I should feel her presence. Do I? Nope. Nothing. So far, I’m a terrible spy and possibly not a very good daughter, either.
We pull up in front of a beautiful pale blue house on Jefferson Street in the Marina District of San Francisco. As we climb out of the car, I glimpse the actual marina a few blocks to the north and get a whiff of salty air. Bronwyn glances up and down the street as we take the steps to the front door. Her hand rests lightly on her hip, tucked into her jacket. She hands me a set of keys, nodding for me to open the door.
I do and we enter a vestibule with another door. Bronwyn takes the keys back from me and relaxes her hand. I see the gun in her shoulder holster but try not to stare. The interior door is protected by several keypads as well as a traditional lock. Days seem to go by as I wait for her to enter all the codes and finally unlock the door.
Inside is a tidy room, like any standard living room, with a television and a couch. To the right is a small kitchen, and off to the left is a hallway with several closed doors. Bedrooms maybe. Bronwyn dumps her keys and purse on a narrow hall table.
“Home sweet home,” she says. She does not take off her jacket. She does not sit down. Instead, she leads me down the hallway and opens the door to a bedroom. “This is you.” Inside is a single twin bed covered with a thin blanket, a nightstand with a lamp, and a desk. There are bars on the window. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Bronwyn says. “Do you need anything else?”
“Am I supposed to check in with Mrs. Smith?” I ask.
“No, no, I’ll take care of it. You get some rest.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. Still clutching my backpack, I sit on the bed and pull my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around them and squeeze as tight as I can, closing my
eyes against unexpected tears.
Chapter 18
The Blue Safe House. Where I Have Oatmeal and Meet a Cute Boy.
IT’S EIGHT A.M. WHEN I stumble out of my tiny room into the kitchen of the safe house, which looks a little like my kitchen at home in New York, except less ugly. This realization brings with it an intense longing for that drab olive space with the oven that only works when it feels like it and the refrigerator that’s as loud as an airplane taking off. I swear if I could be there right now, I would never complain about it again. I click my heels together three times, but nothing happens.
At the table, Bronwyn huddles with a stranger, whispering. When she sees me, the conversation abruptly stops.
“Good morning, Abby,” she says brightly. “How’d you sleep?”
Sleep? What? Who is that boy sitting next to you, Bronwyn? I need to know right now. She follows my gaze. Does she roll her eyes? Possibly.
“This is Tom,” she says. “He works with me.”
Cue the heart-eye emoji and stars twirling around my head. “Hi,” I croak. Tom has a mop of blond surfer hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He wears a raggedy Nirvana T-shirt and scuffed-up Vans with a checkerboard print. There’s a hole in the knee of his jeans. He’s probably fourteen or fifteen, and he’s cool. I can just tell.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom says. “Hungry?”
Hungry? I’m starving! I slide into the seat across from him.
Bronwyn pushes a healthy portion of oatmeal in my direction. It’s covered in all sorts of things I’d normally pitch a fit over—raisins, walnuts, almonds, bananas—but not today. Today I take it with a grin.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.” I might giggle.
“Teflon’s daughter?” Bronwyn mutters. “Really?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Nothing.”
I smile like an idiot and dig into my heaping bowl of nutritious oatmeal. I try not to let any dribble down my chin. Bronwyn watches me with something akin to horror. Why is Tom here anyway? He’s not a girl.
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