A Spy Like Me

by Laura Pauling

  Twenty-one

  Finally, the big day arrived. Pouffant’s Pastry Extravaganza. I’d not only find out the secret behind Mom’s secret assignment but I’d see her again. And trust me, I had a list of questions. A long list.

  I lied to Dad about needing a day of shopping then slipped out. The crisp morning air kissed my cheeks in the typical French greeting, and I headed off to the Extravaganza, backpack slung over my shoulder, balancing a covered tray of cupcakes on my right arm. I know. Lame.

  I walked the streets, a pile of nerves. The mystery of Aimee and Marie and their house gnawed away at the back of my mind. And what about the piles of money stashed in the back of my closet? What the hell was my mom getting paid to do? Why was taking a picture of Pouffant worth that much money? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the truth.

  Leaving the main traffic area and entering the blocked-off side street used for the Extravaganza was like entering a different time, like I’d been transported a hundred years into the past. Les Pouffant’s was transformed. Men with berets and women with their hair rolled up in buns stood by their carts of freshly baked bread, hunks of homemade cheese, and fresh tarts. A group of older men with beards and violins played classical music. Excitement pulsed.

  But no sign of Mom. Yet.

  Important-looking men strode through with clipboards, ruining the romantic atmosphere. TV cameras flooded the place, setting up around the big, sure-to-win chefs. I approached the registration table. The smell of sweet frosting and cinnamon laced the air. I bumbled through beginner French to get my number, then searched for the corresponding table.

  “You, little girl.”

  I ignored this statement because why would anyone call me a little girl? I guess older men consider teenagers to be little.

  “Excuse-moi! Girl.”

  I stopped and turned. No way. Pouffant, with his grey hair curling at the sides, peered down at me from atop his throne. His big old belly protruded out and if he swung at the right time he could take someone out with it. But his eyes freaked me out. I’d never noticed them before. Crystal-clear blue eyes as translucent as the Mediterranean Sea. A creepy chill crawled across my back. He seemed to look right through me as if he knew all my secrets. I forced myself to remember how he took care of the upset customer in his shop, and that he had kindness inside somewhere. I hoped.

  “Are you stupid, girl?”

  I should whip out my camera and snap his picture, but my cupcakes were already in danger of slipping and crashing to the ground. I glared then turned my back to him, which caused a rippling gasp to spread throughout the crowd surrounding him.

  A female reporter nudged me. She spoke in French, so I just nodded my head and said, “Oui.”

  “Vien ici. Come here.”

  I was content to ignore him, but the gap in the crowd closed and people inched forward, pushing me back toward him until there was nothing to do but turn around.

  Pouffant leaned close. “I applaud your efforts, girl. Entering a contest this big with professionals.” He said professionals as if the word was synonymous with royalty.

  “Whatever.”

  He stepped in front of me and put his cracked and stubby fingers on my collar. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Kris Kringle?”

  He burst out with a jovial laugh, and I swear his belly jiggled like a bowl full of my dad’s homemade grape jelly. The throng of adoring fans all laughed too. He pulled me close.

  “You can joke, girl, but I promise, no one pulls a fast one on me.” He dropped his voice low so only I could hear. “I know who you are and why you are here. A word of warning. No one crosses Jolie Pouffant and lives to tell about it.”

  And then he let me go like I was a street urchin. I backed away. He knew about the camera? And the money? He couldn’t. What else could he have meant? Shaken, I stumbled away until I found my table. The layout was simple but breathtaking.

  On top of a white paper tablecloth spread from one side to the other were different pastries and cakes in the layout of a small village. Small tarts were cars. Larger square cakes were in the shape of cottages, and it was all for me. I double-checked my number against the table number. Yep. It was mine. The instructions had failed to mention that I didn’t have to worry about my entry. I shoved the cupcakes under the table.

  With a silly grin, I stood behind my masterpiece. It didn’t take long for my smile to fade as people pretty much ignored me. I didn’t care. The judges had to taste my entry—even though I hadn’t made it—and that was all that mattered. My hardest trial was not snacking on the tasty tidbits spread out in front of me. And keeping my mind on my mission. And waiting for Mom.

  Every older female who walked past with longish brown hair wearing a scarf or a hat, I hoped would signal for me to follow. Or drop a note by my side stating a time and place to meet.

  It never happened. Was she okay? Maybe she wasn’t just paranoid. I gripped the bag over my shoulder, feeling the lumpy form of the camera against my side. My palms grew sweaty, and I fiddled with my ponytail. Why a special camera? My heart rate increased exponentially. Is that so the film couldn’t be traced back to anyone? Why the secrecy? My mission became a reality. Just a picture. I could do this.

  I grabbed the camera from the bag and headed toward Pouffant. The crowds drifted around me. I breathed in the heavenly scents, wishing I could dip my finger and sneak a swipe of a delicious-looking cake, but I didn’t want to get kicked out. I neared Pouffant’s table and lifted the camera to my eye. My vision blurred and my hands shook. I zoomed in on his table overflowing with samples from his bakery. An army of tarts and croissants surrounded his entry. Frosting of multiple colors decorated the tops with fancy lettering and ribbons. Special glazes glinted in the sun.

  Then I focused on Jolie, his curling hair, wiry beard, and old-man nose. I pressed the button on top of the camera.

  The force of something leaving the camera pushed my body back.

  Two seconds later Jolie Pouffant fell headfirst into his pastries, obliterating the tower of flaky goodness and the surrounding army.

  Oh, crap.