Double Cross

by Beth McMullen

  They systematically move around, sidestepping spectators and evaluating each effort. Right away, I notice Jane Ann parked next to Team OP. Did she get the footage she wanted last night of Team OP’s design and is here to gloat? I have no great love for Team OP, but I hate the idea that Jane Ann’s cheating more. Gemma and Emma would be so disappointed! I stride over to their table.

  “Good morning, fellow Smith team!” I bellow.

  Poppy crosses her arms defensively. “What do you want?”

  “Just saying hello.”

  “Fine. You said it. Now leave.”

  Nice. If only she knew what I know . . . but she can’t know, because who knows what would happen if I told her? I turn my attention to Owen Elliott, hoping to distract him with my dazzling smile.

  “Did you guys stay up all night?” I ask. “What did you build?”

  Poppy literally puts her body between Owen Elliott and me. The edge of her red idea notebook peeks out of her pocket. “Tell her nothing. She’s the enemy.”

  Jane Ann watches this scene unfold with a clinical gaze.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “We’re both playing for the same school.”

  “You know how I feel about that,” growls Poppy.

  “But what about the rest of your team?” I try to peer around her to make eye contact with Owen Elliott, but Poppy plays good defense. This pleasant back-and-forth is interrupted by Jane Ann. She gets down at eye level with Team OP’s water-cleaning device.

  “Wow,” she says. “This is . . . amazing. So intricate and smart.”

  Poppy blushes. “Just a little something I whipped up.”

  “We,” Owen Elliott interrupts. “Something we whipped up.”

  “Oh, yeah,” says Poppy, eyes never leaving Jane Ann. “Him, too, I guess.”

  Is Jane Ann building her up so when Briar wins it stings more? This feels low even for Jane Ann.

  “I was just telling my friends about how you guys are really the next level up,” Jane Ann says. “We admire you so much.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really?”

  “Abby, shut up and go away.” Poppy returns her attention to her adoring subject. “I pride myself on being an inventor.” And off she goes, explaining the agonizing details of Blackout to a riveted Jane Ann. A good spy can tell when something is off—they can feel it in the air or in their gut—but Poppy has no idea that Jane Ann has less than the best intentions.

  I gesture for Owen Elliott to come with me. He looks relieved as he slowly backs away from the inaugural meeting of the Poppy Fan Club to a discreet distance. “Don’t ask me anything that can compromise me with Poppy, okay?” he says quickly. “I need this Challenge win. You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t?”

  He sighs and, for a flash, looks ten years older, and tired. “My parents. Bragging rights. Like, Owen Elliott won another prestigious award, so this week we like him.”

  I feel a twinge of sadness. Winning would be nice, of course, but I can’t imagine Jennifer liking me more because of it. Don’t his parents know that when Tucker Harrington III shoved Miles Broadus into the Cavanaugh fountain, Owen Elliott jumped right in there and fished him out? And that fountain is disgusting. There are fish. And algae. Plus, he tolerates Poppy! He might even have found something legitimate to like about her. His parents have no right being mean to him. I feel a hot wave of hostility toward two people I’ve never met.

  “Can you, I don’t know, tell them it bugs you?” I ask.

  He snorts. “Are you kidding? It would just give them another thing to fight about.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer.

  He stares at the space above my head. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “It is what it is.”

  “Hey, did you happen to notice any butterflies in your work space last night?” I ask casually.

  “Butterflies? Like, in the room?”

  Oh, man. I sound like a lunatic. There’s an awkward pause. Come to think of it, most of my interactions with Owen Elliott are awkward. It’s possible I’m blushing.

  “Never mind,” I say. “I hear you are the reigning world champion at Asteroids. I totally stink, and I don’t know how much longer I can take Toby mocking me over it. Want to meet up at the game room later and you can give me some tips?”

  His face lights up, and my stomach does a weird twisty thing that is surprising but not entirely unwelcome. “Yeah,” he says. “Cool.”

  Our moment is interrupted by Charlotte howling for me to get back to the table. The three men and three women judges wear khaki pants, blue blazers, and stern expressions. The tall woman clicks her pen open and closed, open and closed. This is no laughing matter. The judges examine our work without smiling. They pour brownish water through the filter and dip bits of paper in the water that comes out the other side to test it for quality. They mutter and mumble and record numbers on their clipboards. I am absolutely sure they are part of the cyborg army. After a few minutes, they move on to the next table and repeat the whole ghastly process.

  In the end, we take fifth. First place goes to Team OP. One of the Briar teams pulls second. Poppy preens her glorious feathers, accepting congratulations like a member of the royal family. Toby clenches his fists.

  “I have never come in fifth in anything ever before,” he growls. He glares at the celebrating Smith team. I’m worried he might go over there and do something foolish. In my experience, food is a fail-safe distraction when it comes to Toby,

  “Lunch!” I shout. “Wouldn’t that be good right about now?” I link an arm through Toby’s and haul him away. “And don’t worry. We will win the next round.”

  “I’m going to hack that butterfly,” he says, eyes steely. “Right now. Fifth place. Jeez.”

  Nothing motivates like losing.

  Chapter 13

  The Adults Are Up to No Good.

  WE ARE MEANT TO TAKE the afternoon off and relax before the Challenge continues tomorrow. Of course, even though we are all zombies desperately in need of sleep, everyone heads immediately for the game room. Toby is so distracted by losing, he even agrees to let me play Monster Madness 3.0 on his lightning-fast gold phone while he hacks the butterfly and I set off in search of Baldy, who never showed up this morning. And my face is buried in the game, which is why I don’t see the very man I’m looking for until we crash into each other full force. My chocolate chip cookie stash goes flying. I just barely hold on to the phone.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Baldy says sharply as I sprawl to the floor. “I’m in an incredible rush.” His phone is pressed to his flaming red ear, and sweat drips from his eyebrows onto the folder he carries. Without an apology or offer of assistance, he steps over me, squashing a perfectly good chocolate chip cookie, and charges on his way.

  Jennifer says that people tell you everything you need to know without saying a word, and right now Baldy is telling me something is not right. Sure, it might be a student who fell in the lake and got bit by a trout, but it might be something else. But between the look on his face and his no-show this morning, I’m betting it’s not fish-related. Before I’m even conscious of my decision, I’ve abandoned the cookie mess and am hot on Baldy’s heels as he practically runs for the exit.

  I stay hidden behind the open doors as outside on the massive steps, he collides with Jane Ann. He does not look happy to see her. He looks like his head might explode. Was she waiting for him? Is this a meeting? My pulse quickens.

  “You promised me you’d get it done,” he barks. “Everything depends on it!” Jane Ann regards him with disgust.

  “You need to calm down,” she replies, cool as a cucumber. “I am getting it done. In the time frame you asked for. Don’t blame me for your mistakes.”

  Baldy runs his hands over his head as if he actually has hair there. He shakes the folder at her, and several papers escape, dancing in the wind at his feet. He barely notices. “Just get it done,” he hisses. “I’ll talk our way into more time.”

  As Baldy dro
ps down to his knees to begin collecting the contents of the folder, Jane Ann gives him a look full of pity. “You’d better,” she says.

  I wedge myself behind the door as she glides by. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s off to commit more crimes against Gemma and Emma Glass, but what do I know? Outside in the elegant school driveway, lined with shrubs cut to look like Greek gods, a black car pulls up. The driver pops the trunk and opens the rear passenger door. Where is Baldy going? Who is he going to beg for more time and why? When the driver notices Baldy crawling around on the ground collecting papers, he leaps to his assistance, and I leap in the open trunk, pulling it swiftly closed. My heart races. It’s a large trunk, all things considered, and not too uncomfortable. Really, I’m pretty lucky. It could have been a Smart Car chauffeuring Baldy. That would have required the human pretzel approach.

  Of course, the bumpy pavement doesn’t feel so good. The gold phone, which I still have, which means Toby is going to kill me, indicates we’ve been driving for fifteen minutes toward Hartford. I silence the phone to avoid detection and follow along on the GPS as we wind along the tangle of roads outside the city. Traffic is bad. I spend the time crunched up, getting to know the new spy phone.

  I scroll through the pages of apps, some familiar and some I don’t recognize. Judging by their names, it’s probably not a good idea to test them in a confined space. Like a blaring horn? That can’t end well. There’s also a lightning bolt, a swarm of bees (more insects—great), a snarling dog, and a tray of fresh-baked cookies. This must be the app that Toby practically poisoned himself with. I keep my thumb far from that one. It would be extra bad in the trunk of a car.

  Right around when my legs start to cramp, the car glides to a stop. The GPS indicates we’re at the Wadsworth Atheneum, which I happen to know is the oldest public art museum in the country. And I know this because I spent an afternoon here with Jennifer. She told me it was because they have an outstanding collection of American Impressionist paintings and Hudson River School landscapes, but really it was to meet a contact.

  The car grinds to a halt. Doors open and slam. Baldy’s muffled voice comes through the seams of the trunk. I can’t very well jump out and follow him, but it seems a safe bet he’s going into the museum. The car moves again, a little farther down the street and into a parking garage. I wait five minutes before popping the trunk with the glow-in-the-dark emergency handle. The driver covers his face with a Red Sox cap and snores softly. It takes a full minute of dancing from one foot to the other to get the blood back into my extremities. Lucky for me we didn’t drive to Miami.

  I head out to the sidewalk and jog toward the museum. Thankfully, kids get in free, because I’m not exactly prepared for a museum outing. A nice lady in a blue cardigan comments on how wonderful it is for me to be visiting the museum. She does not seem fazed that I am alone and not in school. She tells me not to miss the special exhibit with Rembrandt’s drawings.

  “Oh, they are divine,” she says with a sigh.

  “Have you seen a bald man?” I ask casually. “Sweaty, in a rush?”

  “The anxious one?” she says, without missing a beat. “Certainly. About ten minutes ago.”

  “My father,” I say, with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “He asked for directions to the American Decorative Arts gallery,” she offers.

  “He has a thing for fancy furniture,” I say, with a shrug meant to convey general exasperation with parental units. I don’t think she gets it, but she points me in the right direction and I take off at a fast clip but not so fast as to be suspicious. Not that there is anyone here to wonder.

  Chapter 14

  Well, This Is . . . Unexpected.

  BALDY IS INDEED in the large Decorative Arts gallery. He stares at a silver tankard mug made by Paul Revere Jr. Junior did not ride through the night in April 1775 yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” but he was a mean silversmith. I hunker down next to a tall display case holding an old Eli Whitney pistol.

  Soon, another man shows up. He wears a gray suit with a colorful scarf rather than a tie. When he taps Baldy on the back, the Briar headmaster practically jumps out of his skin. These are not old friends. The two men sit down on a bench about ten feet from where I huddle. They whisper, but I can still hear them.

  “Did you bring the information?” Scarf asks, eyes dark.

  “I’m close,” Baldy says. Sweat pours off his brow despite the air-conditioning.

  “Close?” Scarf asks. “Close?”

  “I’ll have it in the next few days,” Baldy says quickly. “I promise. I swear.”

  “In return for the information, you get a decade of Briar dominance of the Challenge. But my boss is not a patient man. Did he mention what happens if you fail?” Scarf drags his finger across his neck in a slicing motion, and Baldy goes pale. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows repeatedly.

  “I’ll get it. I’ll get it,” Baldy blubbers. “The Smith team is clueless. I just need an opportunity to steal what we need. Tell your boss it’s coming.”

  Wait a minute! Baldy is trading Team OP secrets to this guy for guaranteed Challenge wins? And Jane Ann is in charge of securing the secrets? And I thought Gemma and Emma would be upset about the butterflies! This takes cheating to a whole new level. What on earth does Poppy have in that perky little head of hers that gets Baldy ten years of Challenge victories?

  Scarf considers Baldy’s words. “My boss would say that opportunities don’t appear. They are made. When he runs out of patience, you will know.”

  “It’s under control,” Baldy whispers. Scarf extends his arm to shake hands, and when he does, his sleeve rides up, revealing the fleshy inside of his wrist.

  And there, for all the world to see, is a triangle tattoo. Not just any triangle. A very specific triangle, each segment thick and colorful.

  I might throw up. The room suddenly swims before me. How can this be?

  “Excuse me?” I look up to find a uniformed security guard standing over me, concerned. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Uh-oh. I pitch quickly forward to my hands and knees. “Contact lens,” I say, pointing at my eyeball and squinting. “On the floor here somewhere.” The guard joins my search with murmurs of sympathy. “Or it might have fallen out over there.” On all fours, I crawl out of the gallery. The guard crawls out too. Talk about doing whatever you can for your patrons. We stay low until it’s safe to stand, at which point I pronounce the search a lost cause, thank the man for his help, and dash for the exit.

  I’m panting hard by the time I reach the parking garage, just in time to see Baldy climb into the back of the car and drive away, leaving me stranded in Hartford. Not that I could have flagged him down and asked for a ride exactly. I pull up Izumi’s number on the spy phone. She seems the one least likely to yell at me.

  “Is that you, Abby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I found her!” Izumi bellows, presumably to Toby and Charlotte. Toby immediately starts howling in the background. I try not to listen to the actual words because they are not very nice, but the gist of it is I should not have taken his fancy phone on a joyride without permission. And I should never have silenced it. Charlotte wrestles it from Izumi.

  “Why are you in Hartford?” she asks.

  It’s comforting to know they care enough to track me. “I followed Baldy. He’s in on it with Jane Ann. But that’s not the worst of it. I have bad news.” She puts me on speaker, and I relay the details from the Wadsworth Athenaeum. When I get to the part about the triangle tattoo, there is silence. My hands shake.

  “Do you think it’s, you know, the Ghost?” Izumi whispers.

  “Maybe the guy is just in the isosceles fan club?” Toby offers. “Loves triangles?”

  “Baldy is trading information about Team OP to the Ghost to guarantee Briar wins the next five Challenges,” Charlotte says. “Is that right?”

  “Pretty much,” I reply.

  �
��But whatever the Ghost wants, Baldy hasn’t gotten it yet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And here I was thinking we were done with the Ghost,” Izumi muses, calmer than she has any right to be.

  “That would be nice,” adds Toby, “but this just got much bigger than Briar cheating on the Challenge. What does Team OP have that is so valuable to the Ghost?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But we better figure it out.”

  “We should call Jennifer,” Izumi says.

  Izumi is right. This is the Ghost we’re talking about here, and he’s no laughing matter. “We’ll call when I get back.”

  “I’m sending a car for you,” says Charlotte, “even though Toby says I should just leave you there, but I kind of miss you.”

  “Gee, thanks.” She makes some kissy noises on her end and hangs up.

  It’s blazing hot, so I stand up against the museum in a patch of shade, tucking the phone into the waistband of my shorts. A woman strolls down the sidewalk, dressed head to toe in black with spiky high heels and a fedora just so on her bleached-blond head. She has red lipstick and dark sunglasses that cover half her face. How can she stand it? I sweat just looking at her. She slows as she approaches, and if I were smarter and better and more exceptional I’d know something is up. But I’m not.

  And that’s how she grabs me and shoves me into a waiting SUV, just like that.

  I don’t even have time to protest before I’m blindfolded with my hands cuffed behind my back. I’m just assuming this is not the ride Charlotte ordered for me and I’m being kidnapped.

  “We meet again,” says the lady in black. Oh, that voice!

  Fortunately, I’m not gagged. “Tinker Bell?” I yell. “Are you kidding me?”

  Can this day get any worse?