In addition to baseball uniforms, Walter and I had been given some registration paperwork and two sack lunches to complete our disguises as new recruits. I’d managed to hide the too-small utility belt Ben had given me and my League com unit underneath the peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich Ms. Elma had made (she’d insisted that tomatoes were a fruit, so it was a legitimate peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, but I definitely wasn’t going to eat it). The plan was for Clatterbuck and the others to listen in on the mission via the com and, if possible, I would relay some of the file information back to them so we could figure out what SRS was up to.
“We’re here,” Walter said breathlessly as we pulled up in a minivan—it was meant to make it look like we were being dropped off by our mom. I took the time to go over my legend again. Quincy Delfino. From Long Island. Parents are real estate investors. Varsity baseball player. I turned the facts over and over in my head. I could do this. So long, of course, as they didn’t actually expect me to play baseball.
The agent who was playing our mom turned around in her seat. She lifted our brown bag lunches—my heart stopped for a second, thinking about how close she was to The League’s stuff—and shoved them in our direction. Both of us had been given pocket digital scanners so we could make copies of the files SRS wanted. I wondered if Walter’s was in his lunch bag, like mine was, or taped on his leg somewhere.
“Have a good first day!” she said loudly. Then, quietly, and with far less enthusiasm, “I’ll return for you at fifteen hundred hours.”
We got out of the car and faced the building as the agent drove away. Like most of SRS’s work, this was a “clean mission,” which meant that we were supposed to get in and out without anyone ever realizing a spy organization had been creeping around. The only way that would work was if the agent—our mom—left and then came to pick us up when school was over, like any other parent would. Walter, who looked unsurprisingly fantastic in his baseball uniform, hurried to the main doors. He paused.
“I’m Nathan Delfino. Third baseman. Two Little League World Series wins,” he whispered to himself. His voice was jumpy—not scared, exactly, but punchy in a way that didn’t fit with all the bragging he’d done about his first field mission, back at that chess championship. I frowned at him. Plenty of seemingly perfect agents had trouble pulling it together in the field—and given his voice and the jitter in his step, it looked like Walter might be one of them. I stepped forward and opened the door, since I was beginning to doubt Walter had the nerve to do it.
Step 1: Enroll at Nelson Sports Academy
This place looked like some sort of Olympic facility. There were timers along the walls, mats on the floors, people tumbling past us again and again and again while heavyset coaches shouted at them in foreign languages. There were signs in the little lobby area, pointing us to other gyms for wrestling, basketball—even ballet. Another sign told us the main office was down the hall to our right. When we arrived, I saw the door held a list of junior Olympians and a sign-up sheet for a twenty-four-hour endurance run, which wasn’t something I even knew existed.
“New students?” said an old man with a cactus-like beard when we pushed the main office door open. The place was clean and looked well organized, but the smell of plastic gear and foot powder was overwhelming despite the efforts of a coffeemaker hissing away in the corner. There were rows and rows of thick file cabinets behind a large desk, and opposite that, a wall of cubbies that appeared to be full of students’ cell phones, purses, and street clothes. I could hear the muffled sound of piano music coming through the wall—I guessed the ballet studio? The coach rolled his eyes as the music swelled. “Wouldn’t kill them to dance to something with a groove,” he muttered, and then walked over to the file cabinets. “Your names?”
“Nathan and Quincy Delfino,” Walter said a little too quickly. “Baseball, sir.”
“I’m not sir—I’m Coach,” the man said. “Forms, please.”
We handed them over. Coach scanned through them. “Little League World Series. Nice. Now, look—just because your father owns most of Montana and a good portion of Texas doesn’t mean you’re going to get special treatment here. You want to be pampered? Go to Wellington Sports Prep with the other sissies. You think we give the Prime Minister of Brunei’s son special treatment? No. He’s doing laps with the rest of them. And speaking of laps, you’re gonna get them today for being late, I’m sure.”
“On the first day?” I said, pouting. I figured Quincy Delfino was sort of a whiner. Coach rolled his eyes at me, and then dropped Walter’s and my forms into folders, which he turned and put into the file cabinet behind him.
“All right, rookies. Baseball practices on the fields. Go through these doors, down the stairs, past the wrestling gym, around the side, and you’ll see them. You can’t miss them.”
“Thanks. Hey, when’s lunch, by the way?” I asked.
Coach gave me a long, appraising look. “Wouldn’t hurt you to think of something other than food, son. Lunch is at noon—most of the other students buy theirs here, since we’ve specially formulated meals for peak performance. For today just leave your bags in the cubbies,” he said, jerking his hand toward the wall. I was a little wary to leave all my League stuff—and SRS’s pocket scanner—in a random cubby. Walter looked horrified at the prospect, but neither of us really had much of a choice, since Coach was watching. We shoved our lunch bags into a cubby together and then left the main office. Walter immediately started toward the baseball fields, just like Coach had instructed.
“Stop,” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Our mission—there’s a plan, Hale, and we have to follow it. Though I understand if you’d rather wait here for lunch,” Walter snapped.
“Don’t be stupid—I was asking so I could find out when Coach would be out of the office.”
Step 2: Sneak out of baseball practice and collect the files
Walter’s face fell. It took a lot of willpower for me not to look smug.
“Anyway—we can’t go to the baseball fields. They’re on the other side of the world. We’ll never be able to get back here to collect the files,” I continued.
Walter’s eyes flitted from one end of the hall to the other. “But . . . that was the plan . . .”
I gave him an impatient look. “We’ll have to pick another sport—something closer to the office.” I looked down at my baseball uniform. “I guess we can’t exactly go to gymnastics dressed like this.”
Walter nodded, like the very act of creating a new plan would help his nerves. “Maybe we could pass the pants off as . . . Hm. What do soccer players wear?” Walter asked as he untucked his shirt, trying out a few variations on the baseball uniform. Eventually he took it off entirely, revealing his sleek black SRS uniform underneath.
“Oh. Oh, no. No, no, that can’t be the only way,” I groaned, putting my head into my hands.
“What? What’s the way?” Walter asked, stooping to try to turn his baseball pants into something soccerlike.
I exhaled and pointed through the closest window. The ballet students were lined up at the barre, and piano music rose and fell like waves around them as they bent knees, extended toes, and tilted chins up like they found the hardwood floors too good for them. There were mostly girls, but a handful of boys, and every single one of them was wearing a black leotard.
Step 2: Sneak out of baseball ballet class and collect the files
“Oh!” Walter said when he saw what I meant. “Oh.”
“Ballet is right by the main office. Look—we’d be able to see in the mirror when Coach leaves, even. Come on,” I grumbled, and stripped my baseball shirt off. Walter looked like he had half a dozen Hale-in-his-uniform jokes on hand, but I guess none of them were as funny without the Foreheads around. I balled up my baseball uniform and chucked it into the nearest trash can. Walter followed suit.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll give you a cue, understand?”
“A cue? What do you
mean? Tell me exactly,” Walter said, swallowing warily. I opened my mouth to explain my whole plan to him in detail—since, apparently, despite being a junior agent, Walter couldn’t handle a little improvising—but suddenly the door to the ballet studio flung open.
“What are you doing out here? You should be in class!” the ballet mistress snapped. She was a tiny, troll-like woman, and she held a yardstick in one hand. I thought she and Ms. Elma would probably get along well.
“Sorry, ma’am—we’re in your class, actually. New students,” I said quickly, and then moved forward. I had to turn around to grab Walter’s arm—he seemed suddenly paralyzed. We followed the ballet mistress into the room, and the entire class turned to face us like our entrance was choreographed. They looked sleek, put together, and quite a lot like clones.
“I was not told to expect new students,” the ballet mistress said. She had a French accent, but it was so diluted that it was nearly undetectable. She grew closer, and I could see fire in her beady eyes. I considered what it would look like if she and Agent Otter got in a staring contest, then realized her comment about not having new students had been hanging in the air for quite some time.
“You didn’t?” I frowned. “We’re from Le Ballet de Quebec. I’m sorry you didn’t receive word we were coming. I get the impression Nelson Academy doesn’t value its ballet program very much. Coach said he hadn’t finished our paperwork because he was busy dealing with the sports.”
“He said that? That man. Baseball and football all the time. No respect for the ballet!” She rapped her yardstick on the nearest barre, and the crack echoed up into the ceiling and made the dancers jump. Still muttering about Coach, the ballet mistress finally pointed to a spot on the barre in the back of the room; Walter and I hustled to take our places there beside the male dancers.
The ballet mistress cued the music, and the pianist—a real pianist, I realized—launched into a fast and chirpy number. “Tendu combination!” the ballet mistress shouted.
I matched my feet to the dancers’. Or at least, I tried to. They moved so fast. First their feet were a V shape, then shoulder-width apart, and then they bent their knees and turned and began again and really, I began to think that SRS should consider investing in a ballet program. It would probably help agents learn to multitask. Walter was doing much better than I was, because of course he was. His toes weren’t pointed and he wasn’t exactly graceful, but at least his feet were moving in time. The ballet mistress circled around the class, eyeing everyone hawkishly. When she got to Walter, her nose crinkled. When she got to me, her entire face crinkled.
“To the floor!” she said, and the class spread out around the room, away from the barre. “Step, pas de bourrée, glissade, assemblé, right and left, repeat every eight counts!” The music began again, and the first row did the combination, then the second, then the third, our turn. I elected not to look in the mirror at my attempt, which was a mistake, because all I could see was Walter soaring like some sort of ballet prodigy. I was so busy being annoyed that I almost missed the main office door opening, and Coach walking out. I coughed a bit under my breath as the next exercise started again, and Walter met my eyes in the mirror. It was time.
This combination involved some sort of crazy, prancing jump. We stepped, chassé-ed, jumped up, and—
Bam.
I hit the ground like a rock, crumpling over myself and rolling a few steps. The piano music abruptly stopped, and everyone whirled around to face me, hands clasped to mouths.
Step 2. Sneak I get everyone’s attention,
and Walter sneaks out of baseball ballet class
and collects the files
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” I struggled to stand, wincing in fake pain as I tried to put weight on my ankle.
“Drag him off to the side,” the ballet mistress instructed.
“No, I want . . . I need to dance. This is just weakness leaving my body!” I protested as Walter swooped in to help me. I let my feet get tangled up in his legs, and I smacked against the ground again. I was finally able to give Walter a meaningful look. Go!
Finally Walter understood.
“I’ll go get ice,” Walter volunteered immediately.
“Ugh, fine, fine. I’ll page the nurse. Everyone else take a water break or something. It was terrible anyhow,” the ballet mistress said, and stalked toward the side door. I saw her pull a pack of long fancy cigarettes from her pocket, and a whoosh of misty air swept into the room when she opened the door, leaving it propped with her yardstick. Walter vanished into the hallway.
I rubbed my “hurt” ankle tenderly until the nurse arrived, pushing a wheelchair. I heaved myself into the chair piteously, and the other dancers gave me friendly looks as I left, which I thought was awfully nice of them given a) how long they’d known me and b) what a mockery I’d just made of their sport. I moaned in pain as the nurse pushed me along the hall. Walter should be in the office now; I began to groan a little louder while we passed it, both so he knew I was gone and to cover up any noise he might be making inside.
“I’ve just got to grab your file. I can’t give you any medication without checking it for allergies,” the nurse said, suddenly stopping my chair.
“I don’t have any allergies!” I protested. I imagined Walter inside, in the middle of a dozen folders, caught red-handed. It would be my fault. Playing the support side on a mission was scarier than I’d thought—I didn’t much like having someone else’s success in my hands, especially since Walter’s success seemed a little fragile to begin with. Did Clatterbuck feel this way back at the children’s hospital?
“Quincy, please,” the nurse said. “I promise, I’ll be quick. Your last name was Delfino, right?”
“Right, but—” I was cut off as the nurse turned the knob and cracked the door open, her eyes still on me. Walter wasn’t anywhere to be seen inside, which should have made me relax, but instead it made me even more nervous. Why wasn’t he there already? What was the point in me playing support if he wasn’t going to get the files?
“I’ll hurry!” the nurse promised, and pushed the door the rest of the way open. I suddenly saw Walter—he was pressed up behind the door so that it shielded him from her view. He had at least eight folders in one hand, and the scanner SRS gave us to copy them in his right. Assuming he’d already scanned those eight, he still had . . . thirty-four to go. I nodded at him almost imperceptibly—I could buy him time to do the remaining thirty-four.
Step 2. Sneak I get everyone’s attention, and Walter sneaks out of baseball ballet class and collects the files Improvise
“Owwwwww! I think it’s swelling!” I shouted. The nurse rolled her eyes a little, but she had my folder in hand. She hurried to the door and looked down at my ankle, which clearly wasn’t swelling. She gave me a curious look and then tilted my folder open. Suddenly her face changed; she closed the folder and gave me a tight sort of smile.
“You know, I need to check on something with Coach really quickly. Wait here for me?” she said.
“Wait? I can’t walk! I should never have signed up for ballet. I should have—”
“Wait here,” the nurse repeated, and hurried down the hall, her low heels tapping against the floor. I balled my hands into fists. She must have seen in my folder that I was supposed to be in baseball, not ballet. I should have told her that I hated baseball, that I loved ballet, that my father wasn’t supportive of my need to pas de chat. I should have told her a thousand distracting stories that would have bought Walter more time.
But I hadn’t acted fast enough. I slammed my hands against the arms of the wheelchair, furious with myself, and jumped to my feet. And Walter leaped straight up in the air when I slammed the office door open.
“Hale—Quincy! What—”
“She knows something’s up. Let’s move,” I said sternly. “Where are you?”
“I’ve got the first twelve scanned in,” he said, flinging a cabinet open. He began to fumble as our plan disintegra
ted.
“I’ll work from the bottom up. Don’t scan—we’ll have to take the originals,” I said, snatching my lunch bag from the cubby. I yanked out SRS’s scanner and went to work on Zooblish, Undermeyer, Quailer, and Quigley, stacking the finished folders up on the desk behind me. Move, move, move, my mind chanted over and over as I rushed through five more names.
“They’re coming,” Walter said, and he was right. I could hear the nurse’s heels on the floor again, but this time there were others with her.
“Let’s take what we have,” I said. “Come on.” We burst through the office door.
And froze.
Blocking the exit was the nurse. And Coach. And, from the looks of it, the entire Nelson Sports Academy wrestling class.
Chapter Nineteen
One of the wrestlers reached up and shoved a mouth guard past his lips, and then cracked his knuckles. They all looked both very unhappy and very strong.
“Well!” Coach said. “Well!”
I said nothing. Walter’s hands trembled, but he did a decent job of trying to hide it.
“You think I’m surprised to see you here? You think I don’t know what you’re doing? I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Oh yeah? What?” I asked. Keep them talking. As long as they’re talking, they’re not pummeling us.
“You’re spies!” he snapped.
“Oh.” I mean, I hated to be impressed, but this was the first time I’d heard of a target just guessing it outright.
“You’re spies for Wellington Sports Prep!” Coach continued.
The Doublecross Page 13
