“Go,” says Ryan, his mouth filled with the contents of a new bag of chips. “Enjoy.”
“Later, y’all,” says Sam, leaving the kitchen.
“How come he gets to go?” moans Ryan.
“Ask Bridget,” he says.
“I . . . uh . . . need him,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Oooh,” Ryan and Joanna chorus. “Bridget needs Sam!”
And then they make stupid juvenile kissing noises and I’m relieved my glasses and veil prevent them from seeing my burning-red face.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Get Me to the Church on Time
“Check it out,” says a guy named Footwear as he hands me a green passport. “Better than the real thing.”
Sam and I are in the back office of an auto garage under the Brooklyn Bridge. The smell of motor oil is everywhere. Footwear, a large bald man wearing stained blue overalls with his name sewn into the chest, stands over me as I flip through the passport. The words are in Trezekhastani, but the picture is of me. Proof that I am, indeed, Zamira Kamirov.
“Nice work, Footwear,” I tell him.
“Anything for my man here,” Footwear says, punching Sam in the arm. “Never lets me down when I need Knicks tickets.”
Sam tosses Footwear a friendly salute and guides me out of the office, through the garage, and onto the street, where the town car whose driver owed him a favor waits to open the door for us.
I climb into the backseat. Sam sits next to me.
“Okay, Reardon,” says Sam to the driver. “The Trezekhastan Orthodox Cathedral.”
“Corner of Twenty-Third Street and Eighth Avenue,” says the driver. “Traffic’s gonna be a challenge, but I’ll get you there on time.”
I check my watch. It’s ten minutes after one. The coming-of-age ceremony is scheduled to start at two.
“You two make a cute couple,” says Reardon the driver.
“She makes me look good,” says Sam. He squeezes closer to me and whispers in my ear. “You know, your spy abilities. My people skills. We should team up. I’m not just talking about dating. I mean, we could really help each other out. We could trade information, dig up secrets for each other. You could help me look into people’s backgrounds; I could help you gain access to pretty much anywhere you wanted to go. We could lock down both coasts.”
And right there, in the tone of his voice, in the smooth way he lays out his vision of our joint future as if there’s no doubt we’re going to have one, I see how he gets what he wants. Sam’s very persuasive, so much so that, when he was talking, I was thinking, Why not? Sounds good. We could lock down both coasts. In fact, why stop at both coasts?
The phone in my pocket rings. It distracts me from Sam’s voice. I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but then I remember this isn’t my phone. It’s the one I fished out of the pocket of the hoodie criminal who stole it on the subway.
“Hello?” I say.
“You have my phone,” says a woman’s nervous voice.
It’s the hoodie guys’ victim! I tell her how happy I am to hear from the owner of the phone I found quite by accident. I make arrangements to return it later this afternoon, and after the victim has thanked me profusely and hung up, I continue a one-sided conversation, pretending to tell my new friend all about my family, my school, and life in Reindeer Crescent. I maintain this charade for the entire thirty-eight minutes it takes Reardon to drive us into Manhattan because I don’t want to give Sam any more opportunities to persuade me to team up with him and lock down both coasts.
At two o’clock, we’re on Eighth Avenue and Seventeenth Street. The traffic ahead of us is not moving. The air is filled with angrily honking horns. I add to the noise by impatiently drumming my fingers off the window.
“If it’s any consolation, everyone’s in the same boat,” says the driver. “No one’s going to be on time today.”
It’s no consolation.
I go back to drumming on the window, and then I notice the limousine waiting in the lane next to us. A girl sitting in the backseat is staring blankly out of her window. She’s looking in my direction. I recognize the boredom in her expression. I recognize something else. I know this girl from her Instagram account. I am this girl. Zamira Kamirov is in the next car.
She can’t get to the cathedral at the same time as me. I squeeze past Sam and open the door nearest the curb.
“What are you doing?” Sam says. “Get back in.”
“I need to buy some breath mints,” I lie, and jump out of the car. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“No you won’t,” he says, and starts to follow me out into the street.
“Sam, you’ve done a lot for me today, and I’m grateful,” I tell him. “But you can’t help me anymore and I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt,” he says.
“Remember how you found me this morning?” I remind him. “All beaten-up and hanging from a hook? Your mother already doesn’t like me. Imagine what she’d think if I let something like that happen to you.”
“Nothing . . . ,” he starts to say.
“Enough!” I bark. “Do yourself a favor and get back in the car.”
Sam flinches like I slapped him. He probably thinks I’m mean. Good. The meaner he believes me to be, the safer he’ll stay. I start to run up Eighth Avenue. I manage maybe three steps in my heels before I lose my balance and have to grab the arm of a shocked stranger. The passerby shakes me off. I lean against a street lamp and pull off Alex Gunnery’s too-big shoes. Then I start running again. On the crowded New York sidewalk, shoes in hand, my stupid veil pushed up over my hockey puck–shaped hat, zipping around pedestrians, shoving my way through groups of teens idly shuffling along, narrowly avoiding collisions with mothers pushing strollers, nearly charging head-on into fully grown adults immersed in their phones, and all the while checking the uneven ground beneath my bare feet for garbage, open manhole covers, and smelly things that I do not want to step in. This probably isn’t a smart way to get to my destination unscathed.
On Eighth and Eighteenth, I see a boy tumble off his skateboard and roll onto the sidewalk. As he tries to sit upright, I jump onto his board, kick out with my left leg, and shoot up the street.
“Hey!” I hear him yell behind me.
“Sorry!” I call back.
With my veil flying and my shoes in my hand, I probably don’t look a lot like the average skateboarder. The New Yorkers who scatter out of my way as I rocket along the sidewalk are shouting abuse and jabbing angry fingers at me. I know I’m a hazard but I can’t help it. I’m in a hurry.
From halfway up Eighth and Twentieth, I can see the police presence outside the cathedral. The building is cordoned off with yellow tape. Limousines are lined up for inspection. Cops are checking inside the trunks, shining flashlights under the cars, and looking in the hoods. As I keep rolling, I see guests lining up in the street, each one being patted down by police officers.
I made this happen with one phone call, I realize. I also realize I’m a minute or so away from being patted down myself.
I slow down my pace as I approach the corner of Eighth and Twenty-Third. Police cars and local news trucks surround the cathedral. I hop off my stolen board, squeeze back into my shoes, wipe the thin film of sweat from my brow, and lower my veil.
“Celebration guests over here,” yells a policewoman.
I join the end of a long, long line. Extravagantly dressed men, women, boys, and girls in front of me talk loudly and rapidly in languages that are either Trezekhastani or Savlostavian. I do not need a translator to explain that these people who have traveled long distances to attend this ceremony are not happy about waiting in the street to be patted down by American police officers.
The couple in front of me, a woman wearing a hat the size of a satellite dish and her rotund husband, both stop in the middle of their angry exchange and peer in my direction.
Uh-oh.
If they s
peak to me in either Trezekhastani or Savlostavian, I’m in trouble. If they know the real Zamira Kamirov—and the chances are fifty-fifty—I’m in huuuuge trouble.
Satellite Dish Hat starts yakking a mile a minute in what she must imagine is our shared tongue.
I remain silent behind my veil and dark glasses. Satellite Dish Hat doesn’t give up. She leans toward me and speaks both louder and slower. Rotund Husband joins in.
How do I get out of this?
I burst into tears. Or at least, I shake my shoulders and make appropriately pathetic weeping noises.
“Saying good-bye to childhood is so-o-o-o sad,” I manage to get out.
Satellite Dish Hat and her husband look embarrassed at my wailing. They turn around and resume their conversation. I sigh with relief but maintain my sniveling as a deterrent in case anyone else tries to engage me.
The police finally beckon to the couple in front of me. I watch as they hand over their passports and endure the rubber-gloved hands exploring their pockets for hidden weapons.
I turn around in time to see the real Zamira Kamirov take her place at the back of the line.
I feel my face go red and my heart start to thump. I whirl back around and watch Satellite Dish Hat and her husband receive the world’s longest pat-down.
Hurry up.
Finally, the couple are escorted through the yellow tape and into a door around the back of the cathedral.
A police translator says something I imagine means “Step forward.” I pass my forged Trezekhastan passport to the cop. He looks at the clipboard with the list of ceremony guests. Then he looks at me.
“You’re here on your own?”
“My father at grain conference,” I say. “My mother army tank commander.”
The cop motions at me to lift my veil and take off my dark glasses. He checks my passport picture.
Passing myself off as Zamira Kamirov is not my most fully thought-through plan. There is a large line of impatient guests behind me capable of outing me as an impostor. But luckily for me, it appears they have other things on their minds. Some of them are singing with passion and volume, a song that, even to my untrained ears, sounds like a national anthem. Behind them, a second group of guests has begun to try and drown them out by singing another anthemic song in a different language. The first group gets even louder. Together they sound like a choir of angry cats.
“Shut it down,” roars the cop. “Shut it down right now or you’re standing out here all day.”
The cop pats my jacket pockets. He pulls out Red and gives him a suspicious stare.
“My lucky marble,” I say.
The cop gives me a pitying look, drops Red into my hand, and then shoves my passport back at me before stomping off to deal with the dueling groups of anthem singers. Another cop guides me to the back of the cathedral. I hear organ music echoing from inside the building. I take a few more unsteady steps in my too-big shoes.
I’m in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Party Crasher
I’m seated eight rows from the front and six seats in. As I try to squeeze my way through the half-filled row without tumbling off Alex Gunnery’s shoes, I feel eyes on me. Not from my fellow row mates; they couldn’t be sweeter or more welcoming. No, these eyes are coming from the right-hand side of the cathedral. The Savlostavian side.
What the Trezekhastan Orthodox Cathedral lacks in grandeur—it can only seat about three hundred people—it makes up for in beauty. I’m stunned by the white marble floor, the artwork on the ceiling depicting a swirl of angels ascending to heaven, and the detail and craftsmanship of the stained-glass windows that surround me. But the atmosphere is heavy with pent-up hostility. The well-dressed occupants of the right-hand side are not happy to be here at this coming-of-age ritual. They are not happy to be so close, separated by only a single aisle, from their one-time enemies.
Every new addition to the left-hand side incites a mass of angry murmurs. I can’t hear the words, and even if I could, I wouldn’t understand them, but I can guess the meaning behind them. He’s poor and common. Their child smells of lumpy milk. My companions in row eight are more sensitive to each new insult. Every time an usher deposits a fresh guest on the left-hand side, my row mates click their tongues, inhale sharply, and shake their heads with disapproval at the boorish behavior coming from the other side of the cathedral. I click, inhale, and shake along with them, but my attention is elsewhere.
I count four uniformed policemen in the cathedral. Two on either side of the door. Two at the bottom of the steps leading up to the altar. I see a man in an ill-fitting suit standing under a stained-glass window on the right-hand side of the cathedral. From the way his eyes continuously sweep the entirety of the room, I’m guessing he’s a plainclothes cop. My eyes are also sweeping the entirety of the room. I’m looking for someone the size and shape of Vanessa Dominion. She may be bewigged, she may have a different posture and a different accent, but if she’s here, I’m going to sniff her out.
I rise from my seat and gesture to my immediate neighbors to save my place. I totter out of the row and make my way up the aisle to the altar steps. I take out the phone I rescued from the subway hoodie guys and I brandish it at the cop standing closest to me.
“Is okay I make film for my muzzer and fazzer?” I ask, wildly overdoing my accent.
The cop gives me a suspicious look. I hand him the phone. “You don’t trust me? You do it for me.”
“Go ahead,” the cop mutters. “But make it fast and then sit down.”
I pretend to film the angelic vision on the ceiling but I’m really searching for a familiar face. I nod my thanks to the scowling cop and walk slowly back down the aisle, looking from left to right. I want to catch a glimpse of Vanessa, but more than that, I want her to catch a glimpse of me. I want her to feel nervous. I want her to be careless. I want her to remember that I was more than a match for her. I want her to remember that she told me her plans but I didn’t tell her mine. I want her to be so rattled by the sight of me that she makes mistakes. I lift my veil and take off my glasses. Here I am.
“There she is!” screams an outraged, accented voice. “Liar! Impostor!”
The real Zamira Kamirov stands in the doorway of the cathedral with a group of New York cops grouped around her, an accusing finger pointed in my direction.
Uh-oh.
Do I run? Do I cry? Do I rely on Red? That’s a lot of police officers for one small marble. I hear the footsteps of the cop stationed by the altar. Before he gets too close, I sprint over to the right-hand side of the cathedral. The Savlostavian side.
I look at the rows of disdainful faces, the big hats, the gold rings, the huge hoop earrings, the missing teeth, and I shout out two words. “Trezekhastan sucks!” I put on a terrified face. “They tell lies about me. They want to put me in their jail. I did nothing wrong.”
The woman in the satellite dish hat purses her lips at me. “You sit on Trezekhastan side,” she says, her eyes glittering with distrust.
“I didn’t know,” I wail. My accent is all over the map. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be American, Trezekhestani, or Savlostavian at this point. I’m drowning in a sea of my own lies! But I have to keep going. “I’m young and naive. I thought we could all be friends. Now they call the cops on me.”
Satellite Dish Hat beckons to me. “You sit with me,” she says. “No one takes you anywhere.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” I babble, and squeeze my way next to the woman.
“Miss,” calls the cop from the altar. “Come with me, please. You need to answer some questions.”
Satellite Dish Hat waves him off. “She with us. Move on, Johnny Cop.”
“I’m talking to the girl,” he says.
I grab her arm. “Don’t let them take me.”
The woman spits out a short, angry sentence. Every man seated on the right-hand side of the cathedral rises to his feet. I’ll say this about both sides. They may be mortal f
oes, but they’ve been very protective of me.
All the cops working in the cathedral come charging forward. The tension that’s been building since I got here boils over. The Savlostavians throw their prayer books at the cops. The police officers start hauling guests out of the aisles and handcuffing them.
In the middle of the chaos, I get down on my hands and knees and crawl out of the row. I continue to crawl in the shadows under the stained-glass window. No one notices me. I keep shuffling along until I’m close to the cathedral doorway, where I see a stunned Zamira Kamirov. I sympathize with her. She has to fly alone to a foreign country for a ceremony she probably doesn’t care about. She gets stuck in a traffic jam and then reaches the cathedral only to be told someone with her name is already in attendance. And now the cops she hoped would right this wrong are fighting with the guests. Not a great way to spend your first day in New York, but guess what, Zamira, my first day wasn’t much fun, either.
I jump to my feet, run toward the doorway, pull Red out of my pocket, and toss him in her direction. She opens her mouth to scream, giving him the perfect opportunity to jump inside.
“She’s going to be fine,” I tell the arriving guests who see the choking, red-faced girl flailing around in front of them. “Cough lozenge stuck in her throat. I’m taking care of it.”
I grab Zamira by the arm and drag her to the ladies’ room. She tries to struggle and pull away.
“Mmmm mmmm mmmm!” she protests.
I kick open the door and shove her inside.
“Mmmmm mmmm mmmmm!” she tries to scream.
I put my hands on her shoulders and look into her bugged-out eyes.
“Zamira,” I say quietly and calmly, “I’m going to remove the marble from your mouth, but before I do, you have to promise not to scream, and you have to promise to listen to me. Do you promise?”
She stares at me like I’m a dangerous lunatic on the run from an asylum. I do not for one second blame her.
“Do you promise?” I repeat.
“Mmmm mmm.” She nods.
Spy to the Rescue Page 15
