Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls

by Beth McMullen

  “If you say so,” I say. Rip Curl remains hunched over. I take the opportunity to do something funny and slip the super-iPhone out of my zippered pocket. Hot water? Rubber bullet? Or maybe I’ll just text him to death?

  I decide on the hot water, recognizing that if this doesn’t work I will be in hot water. Rip straightens up and sees the iPhone in my hand.

  “Hey!” he yells. “Give me that! What did I tell you?” As he lunges for me, the sleeve of his wet suit slides up an inch. His forearm is inked.

  “Wait!” I shriek, hitting a seriously high octave. Rip Curl jumps back, eyes wide.

  “What?”

  “Your tattoo. What is it?”

  He looks utterly confused, but he’s a man used to taking orders. He peels up the wet-suit sleeve to reveal an awkward falcon on a surfboard. Talk about poor choices.

  “Not a triangle,” I murmur.

  “A triangle, did you say? Well, I might be crazy, but I’m not that crazy. He brands his people like cattle. Only crazies ride the crazy train with that crazy dude, you hear what I’m saying?”

  Yes. I can now take comfort in the fact that there are two separate criminal elements out to get me, Team Triangle and Team Surfing Falcon. “Crazy people only,” I say with a smile.

  “Yeah. Now give me that phone.”

  Sorry. No way. I aim it level with his face. “Toby is cool. Spray bottle!” I yell. The phone makes a high-pitched gurgling sound and practically leaps out of my hands, but a stream of boiling water emerges from the top, directly into the eyes of my very surprised captor.

  He shrieks. “My eyes! What did you do? Acid! I can’t see!” He hops around on one foot like he just stubbed his toe, the palms of his hands covering his face.

  Without thinking, I kick him where it counts—I didn’t grow up in New York City for nothing. Rip Curl falls to his knees, pawing at his eyes. I kick him again and run, shouting back over my shoulder, “It’s just hot water! Don’t be such a baby!”

  I dash up the rickety stairs leading from the deserted beach to a narrow walking path above. Charging down the path, trying not to fall on my face, I frantically hit the radio icon on the phone until Toby answers.

  “Abby?”

  “Yes! It’s me!”

  “Where have you been?” he yells, frantic. “Why didn’t you answer any of my messages? We finally heard from Bronwyn and she said you never got off the plane. Everyone is looking for you!”

  That’s because apparently I went home with someone named Suzie who tried to lull me into complacency with a cute boy! I’m embarrassed to be such an easy target. As for Toby’s messages, I remember Tom with my phone this morning. Was he erasing messages? Of course he was! Down on the beach I see Rip Curl struggling to his feet. I start to run.

  “What are you doing?” Toby yells. “I can’t see you, and I can barely hear you. Something must be up with my connection.”

  “But your connection is foolproof,” I gasp.

  “No connection is foolproof,” Toby says. “You sound out of breath.”

  “Well, that’s because I’m running for my life! I was just kidnapped by a kite surfer, but I used the hot water on him and—”

  “So the water worked? Cool. I never got around to field-testing it.”

  “No! Not cool! What do I do?”

  “I don’t know. Keep running?”

  That is so not helpful.

  “Okay,” Toby says. “I’ve got Mrs. Smith on the other line. She says . . . keep running. I’m zeroing in on your location. You can’t stand still for a second, can you?”

  “Are you insane? Why would you even ask me that?” I charge along the path, race up about fifty wooden steps, and finally hit the paved road. I glance left and right. Now what?

  “I’ve got you on the sensors,” Toby says. I take off down the road. “No!” he shouts. “The other way.”

  I pivot and set off in the other direction, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder. I’m keeping good distance between Rip Curl and me, but it won’t last. The reason I didn’t try out for the cross-country team in the fall is I hate running and I’m not that good at it. My entire body is drenched in sweat, my quads burn, and my heart feels like it’s going to burst right out of my chest.

  But I keep running.

  “Mrs. Smith says she’s sending someone to get you,” Toby says. “Can you hang in there?”

  I stop running because I’m about to throw up. The world around me swims in lazy circles. I bet Veronica can run clear to the top of this hill, and then drop and do fifty push-ups on the summit. I need more exercise. Fewer breakfast donuts and more exercise. I might die before I get to act on this resolution, though.

  I’m doing my best not to hyperventilate when Toby says, “Okay. So, Abby?”

  “What?”

  “Time to get moving again. Your friend is coming up fast.”

  “Rip Curl is not my friend,” I wheeze.

  “Cut across the scrub,” Toby says, remote piloting me like I’m a human drone. “Hard right. It’s bushwhacking time.”

  “I don’t even know what that means!” I shout.

  “Off road. Disappear in those bushes!” I careen off into the low scrub. This is a harsh environment, and these are hard plants, covered in spikes and razor-sharp leaves. They slice at my legs and grab my jacket. I push on. “Now get down low and stop moving,” Toby says.

  “Gladly,” I say, dropping behind a bush and making myself small. I try to quiet my breathing, but it’s not easy. Soon, I hear footsteps on the road. They grow louder. From my hiding place I see Rip Curl jogging along, panting. He stops perpendicular to me.

  Blend with the bushes. Become one with the foliage. Oh, please don’t see me!

  “No sign of her,” Rip Curl says into his phone. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? She shot me in the face with acid, okay? I might be blind in one eye! Besides, none of this was my plan. It was yours. Where are you, anyway? I’m freezing.”

  Moments later a black SUV trundles down the winding road and stops beside the man. The rear passenger door swings open, and I catch a glimpse of a hand, a decidedly female hand wearing a big diamond ring that actually glints in the pale sun.

  “Get in,” says a voice. Imagine Tinker Bell but much larger and not so taken with Peter Pan.

  “Sorry, boss,” says Rip Curl, hanging his head.

  The hand beckons him forward, and the voice warns him not to get the seats wet. I pick this moment to have my very first exercise-induced asthma attack.

  Chapter 21

  The Headless Prius.

  GASPING AND WHEEZING ARE THE least of my problems. I’ve blown my cover. Tinker Bell shoves Rip Curl back out of the monster SUV.

  “Get her!” she yells. Rip Curl spots me immediately and starts plowing through the scrub in my direction with great enthusiasm. His boss is watching. Clearly, he wants to impress her. I would think she’d have been plenty impressed with the kite-surfing bit. I’m on my feet, running full-out again. My lungs are on fire. Rip Curl draws closer. I stumble. Can Toby hear me? Does he know what’s going on?

  Jennifer liked to talk about self-reliance. “When things are really crazy,” she’d say, “that’s when you need to have the most confidence in yourself and be bold even if it’s scary.” Now, I thought she was talking about crossing the street against the light or muscling through a hard set of math problems. But she was probably talking about running away from bad guys. I can’t rely on Toby to help me from three thousand miles away. I’m by myself.

  I get back on my feet just as Rip Curl’s hand grazes my ankle. I kick hard and sprint for the road. In the distance, a black Prius flies in my direction. That must be my ride. That had better be my ride. With an extra burst of speed, I race toward the oncoming car.

  But the car has no driver. Yes, it’s coming toward me at
eighty miles an hour and it’s not careening off the road, but the driver’s seat is empty. Just last week Izumi was reading to me about Google inventing the self-driving car. She was superexcited by the idea. I am not. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  The car skids to a stop in front of me. I throw myself into the backseat and slam the door just as Rip Curl arrives. He pulls on the door handle, but it’s locked. The Prius peels out. Yes, they can do that. I know. I find it surprising too.

  The SUV comes up fast behind us. The Prius rips down the road, banking so hard around the curves I slam into the door. We make another tight turn, and I’m thrown in the opposite direction. I hit my head on the window. I can’t even yell at the maniac driving to slow down, because there is no one, maniac or otherwise, at the wheel.

  The SUV is right on our bumper. I wedge myself in the foot well and brace against the driver’s seat. Another hard right and I swear we are up on two wheels. Suddenly, a loud explosion from the rear of the car, like a backfire, and a sharp clattering sound. A dense acidic smell fills the air. I gag and pop my head up enough to catch a glimpse of a cloud of dark smoke behind us. And the road appears littered with shiny metal spikes.

  The SUV emerges from the cloud of smoke and hits the spikes. It careens off the road and comes to an abrupt stop in the bushes. The Prius takes off like a shot. I’m thrown from the foot well and back into the window, but this time I tuck my head down by my knees and make myself into a tight ball.

  If I live through this, I will be thrilled.

  The rough ride continues for another five minutes, by which point I feel as if I’ve had a turn in the clothes dryer. Finally, I crawl back into the seat and glance out the window. We’re on a multilane freeway with the bay to the east. I have no idea where I’m going. I pull out the iPhone to try Toby, but my battery is dead. No, no, no! I dig around in the pack for the charger but come up with something much more sinister: another purple tracking device. Tom must have slipped it into my pack this morning. Is there anyone who doesn’t think I can lead them to whatever Jennifer has? Mrs. Smith, Toby, Lotus Man, Tinker Bell, Rip Curl, Fake Bronwyn, Tom. The list is getting long. If you had asked me last week if I had enemies, I would have said no. Sure, Veronica and her pack of mean girls are, well, mean, but they’re like that to anyone. This is different. These people want to do me harm.

  Before I can full-out panic, there’s a sudden commotion in the trunk, and the rear passenger seat beside me flattens to reveal a contorted Tom. I’m in a driverless car with the enemy. Quickly, I stuff the phone and the battery back in my pocket, out of sight. Tom unfurls a long leg and an arm, and finally the rest of his body comes out of the small opening and practically into my lap.

  “Hey!” I shout. But I keep my face neutral. He doesn’t know that I know he’s a bad guy. And being as he appears to be in charge of the self-driving car, there is no need for him to know that I know he’s a bad guy.

  “Hey, yourself,” Tom grumbles. “Can you pull my leg straight? I have a hamstring cramp.” He throws his leg over me and winces. I grab his tennis shoe and push down on his knee. He howls.

  “Well, don’t whine,” I say. “You asked for help.”

  “I’ve been in there for an hour. I don’t think I’m ever going to be a fighter pilot.”

  “Was that a possibility?”

  “Not really.” He grins. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Who was that who took me?” I ask. I was instructed to do as I was told and not ask questions, but the situation has changed and I need intel.

  “We don’t know,” Tom says, all innocent. “It’s probably safe to say we’re not the only ones after Teflon. It’s a good thing I threw that extra tracker in your bag, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Totally.” How bad would it be if I unlocked the door and kicked him out of a car moving at seventy miles an hour? Bad. Really bad. I subtly try the handle, but it’s locked, and there’s no obvious way to unlock it. This confirms my status as hostage. I’m having a big day, and it’s not even lunchtime.

  Tom grins at me. I grin back. We’re both lying.

  “What is this car, anyway?” I ask, hoping he’ll spend the next hour gushing like boys do about cool toys while I formulate a bombproof escape plan. But he won’t move on.

  “I’m really sorry I lost you back there,” he says. “We didn’t expect that.”

  “So where’s Bronwyn?” I ask. I mean Suzie, you traitor.

  “She’s at the safe house. Up in the mountains. That’s where we’re headed now. It’s impossible to find.”

  “Of course. A safe house. To, you know, keep me safe.”

  “Exactly! We won’t let anyone else get to you.”

  Because you got me first and I bet you’re making sure Jennifer knows it. “I feel so much better,” I say.

  “Hey,” he says with calculated casualness, “can I see that phone of yours again? It was really cool.”

  Are you kidding me? Do you think I was born yesterday? “I lost it on the water when I lost my wrist tracker,” I say. “Total drag.”

  Tom ripples with tension. I can’t tell if he believes me or not. I wait for him to make a move, unsure what my options are in this close environment. Veronica never mentioned how to beat someone up in a space the size of a soda can. But the moment passes and he relaxes.

  “So, the car?” I ask again. And he starts telling me all about it. That’s how we spend the long drive to the mountains.

  At some point I fall asleep, because before I know it, the Headless Prius rolls to a smooth stop on a freshly plowed driveway with fifteen-foot walls of snow on either side. Outside, it’s a winter wonderland.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Tom says. “Wake up. We’re here.” Way back this morning, when I thought Tom was cute and not evil, the Sleeping Beauty comment would have made me blush. But now it’s just plain creepy. Out the front windshield I see an A-frame house. There are no obvious neighbors. I may as well have landed on Mars.

  “I don’t have snow boots,” I say flatly. “Or a toothbrush.” Or clean underwear. Or pajamas. I don’t have the book I’m supposed to read for Chinese History. I’m totally unprepared for being held hostage in the snowy mountains, and my nap in the car has left me cranky.

  “Stop worrying, Abby.”

  Easy for him to say. I climb out, careful not to take a header on the icy driveway. The weak sun drops fast, and I shiver. My feet are still damp from the kite-surfing incident. The house is nestled into a crop of lodge pines, all dusted white with snow. Smoke rises in a plume from the chimney. It’s a lovely scene straight off a holiday card, and it chills me to the bone. How is anyone supposed to find me here? Priority one is charging my phone. Well, priority one is making sure they don’t find and take my phone and then charging it.

  Up close, I notice steel bars over the windows again and multiple locks on the front door. I swallow, my mouth dry. To the right of the door, carved into one of the massive facade stones, is a symbol. A triangle, each thick segment a different color, just like Lotus Man’s tattoo. Down in the catacombs, Toby got really excited when I mentioned the triangle tattoo, but of course he never bothered to explain why it was important. In this information-packed universe, I am clueless.

  Inside, Fake Bronwyn waits for us in the high-ceilinged family room, complete with rustic exposed beams and an enormous stone fireplace. Surreptitiously, I scan the rocks to see if maybe this fireplace is a secret passage to someplace else, like pretty much anywhere but here.

  “Abby, you look exhausted.” Fake Bronwyn appears and gives me a hug. I plaster a smile on my face.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Tired.” She takes me by the shoulders and gives me a serious look.

  “That must have been scary,” she says. “And I’m really, really sorry it happened, especially on my watch. I promised Mrs. Smith I’d take care of you.”

  You d
id not! You stole me from Mrs. Smith! I keep smiling, although I have to grind my teeth to do it. “Maybe I should call her?” I suggest.

  “Oh, let me take care of that,” Fake Bronwyn says quickly, releasing me. “I’m supposed to update her anyway.”

  I bet you are. “Is there someplace I can lie down?” I say with a fake yawn. If I can’t find a way to get this phone charged, I’m sunk. I refuse to think about what they plan on doing to me to get my mother’s attention.

  “Of course,” Bronwyn says. “Tom, will you show Abby the small bedroom in the front, upstairs?”

  Tom leads me upstairs. There appears to be only one way out of this place, and that’s the way we came in. With all the barred windows, this house makes a very scenic prison.

  “What’s with the windows?” I ask as we make our way down a narrow hallway.

  “Bears,” Tom says.

  “Bears?”

  “Yeah. They’re a serious problem up here in the Sierra Nevada. They get into houses and really mess stuff up.”

  “I bet.”

  The room is small and spare, just like the room in the San Francisco house. Clearly, whoever runs this outfit doesn’t allow for a decorating budget. I drop my pack on the bed and give another fake yawn, this time with an exaggerated arm stretch.

  “Well, thanks for rescuing me,” I say, nudging Tom back into the hallway. “I’m going to take a quick nap.” I shut the door in his face.

  Quickly, I pull the phone and charger from my pocket, thinking Mrs. Smith is right. No one suspects a kid. As soon as the phone is plugged in, I press the on button, but nothing happens. The phone is so dead. Here’s that patience thing again. And still not my strong suit.

  I tuck the second purple tracker under the thin mattress and stretch out on the bed. I slide the phone and the quick charger under my back so they are both out of sight. So what do I know for sure? This house, and therefore Bronwyn and Tom, Lotus Man, and Mystery Man are all connected. And it’s probably safe to say that that they all work for someone who has the same idea about me that Mrs. Smith does. Is this someone the Ghost or one of the Ghost’s competitors? Well, it doesn’t matter, because one thing is clear: Their theory is flawed. Whether Jennifer knows I’m here or not, she is not going to save me.