“At least the note narrowed it down a little. The person who wrote the death threat only wants Ripley dead if she wins the contest money,” I reminded him.
“So I’m thinkin’ that puts the other people in the contest at the top of the suspect list,” said Joe.
“Whoever they are. And whatever the contest turns out to be.” All missions start out with a lot of unknowns. But this one had more than usual.
Joe checked our plane tickets. “We’ll find out tomorrow. We’re flying out in the morning.”
The first bell rang. “Right after school we need to strategize on what to tell Mom and Aunt Trudy,” I said. Dad, of course, would already know the real deal, since he founded ATAC and everything.
I actually think Mom and Aunt Trudy would be cool with our missions. They’d worry about the danger, yeah. But they would get how important what we do is. They’d get that sometimes there are situations where teenagers are the best undercover operatives possible. But ATAC rules require absolute secrecy, so we have to keep Mom and Aunt T out of the loop.
“No can do,” Joe answered. “Right after school I have to do a little shopping.” He showed me the envelope full of cash from ATAC.
“Is there some special gear we need?” I asked.
“I’m going undercover as a rich boy. I need to look the part.” Joe grinned. “The first piece of equipment I need is a pair of Diesel sunglasses.”
I stared at him. “The ones you were drooling over at the mall? The ones that were almost three hundred dollars?”
“Authentic cover can make or break a mission, you know that.” Joe slapped me on the shoulder. “Dude, those sunglasses could save our lives!”
“I don’t think going on the show is a good idea, boys,” Mom told us at dinner. “You’ve already missed a number of school days this year, and we’re not even halfway through.”
Mom always has the facts. Maybe it’s because she spends so much time in libraries. She works in one, in the reference section.
“I agree,” Aunt Trudy said. “Those shows are death traps. People have gotten burned, bitten by snakes . . . I know someone lost a little toe, but I don’t remember how. I’m sure that somebody is going to die on one of them soon, right in front of all the people watching at home.”
“Aunt T, come on. All the contestants are teenagers. The producers are going to make extra sure everything we do is safe,” Joe answered. “And it’s me and Frank. You know we can take care of ourselves.”
“Losers, losers, losers,” Playback added from the kitchen. Our parrot seems to think he should have a part in every conversation. “Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”
Dad was the only one staying out of the discussion—for now. Joe and I are always telling him that we want to handle things ourselves, the way any other ATAC agents would have to. Agents whose father didn’t start the agency. I think because we say that so much, sometimes he enjoys watching us sweat it out a little.
“Even if you don’t die, they’ll make you eat something horrible,” Aunt Trudy went on. “Like worms. Then you’ll come back with . . . with worms. Or parasites. Or some other nasty thing.”
I looked over at Mom. “Can we go back to the school issue for a minute?”
She nodded.
“Joe and I have started designing an experiment around the experience of living in the house. We haven’t worked out all the details, because we don’t know what the specifics of the contest will be. We’re definitely going to act as if we come from different socioeconomic backgrounds to see how that effects the judging. And we plan to come up with a few hypotheses on how the other people involved will behave under pressure.” That last part was actually entirely true. “Our science and social studies teachers have given us the go-ahead to use the project to get class credit.”
“And our English teachers are on board if we keep a journal every day and keep up on the reading. Plus we’ll definitely get the assignments for everything else,” Joe jumped in. “Even the principal thinks it’s cool that the two of us could be on TV representing Bayport. Although we aren’t exactly going to be ourselves. We’re doing that socio-eco thing.”
“I wish we knew more details,” said Dad.
I couldn’t decide if he was trying to make us sweat some more, or just trying to keep up his own cover of reasonable, concerned father who has no idea ATAC even exists.
“A million dollars could pay for lots o’ college,” Joe wheedled.
“True,” Mom answered. She looked over at Dad. One of those looks that has a whole conversation in it. He gave a small nod. She gave in. “As long as you don’t fall behind in school,” she added.
“Great!” Joe was on his feet, gathering up dishes—even though no one had quite finished eating. “We’re going to bring home the college money for sure,” he said over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.
I picked up some empty plates and followed him. “You know we can’t keep the money even if we win. We’re not actually contestants. We’re undercover,” I reminded Joe, keeping my voice soft.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s only fair that if we win, we really get the money,” Joe insisted.
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“Because if we get killed while we’re undercover, we’re really going to be dead.”
He had a point.
To Living Through It
I adjusted my new sunglasses and stared at the huge wooden gate. Behind it lay the villa. I felt kind of like I’d stepped into the beginning of the Willy Wonka movie. A bunch of other kids and I were standing around waiting to be admitted into a sort of magical world.
I hadn’t gotten a chance to suss out all the other golden-ticket holders yet. I’d shared a limo from the airport with my long-lost bro, Frank Dooley, a guy named Bobby T, and a girl who wouldn’t say her name—or anything else. I’m talking not one word. Silent Girl just stared out the window the whole way here.
Bobby T talked enough for two people, though. He’s a famous blogger. Well, he says he’s famous. I’ve never heard of him. But he claims that Worldview Pictures paid serious dough to option his blog so they could make a movie out of it. The option ran out before the movie got made, but he’s hoping they’ll renew the option and unload another dump truck of cash on him.
It looks like he’s spent a big chunk of the cash he already got on hair product. For starters, his hair is mostly blue. And it stands out in all these different directions. It has a finger-in-a-light-socket thing going. That takes some serious mousse or pomade or gel. I know that from an undercover op.
FRANK
Frank here. The undercover op was as a student at Bayport High. His undercover identity: Joe Hardy.
JOE
Out, Frank.
Like I was saying, we were all standing in front of this massive gate. We couldn’t see anything of the villa, because there was a wall around the place. While we were waiting for the gate to open, I noticed everybody kept shooting looks at Ripley Lansing. Even Frank—who barely knew who she was.
She was definitely worth looking at. She had super-straight, long, dark brown hair and ice blue eyes. And she had on a short dress, like the one in the clip that was part of our ATAC mission disc. Her legs were long and tan and basically awesome.
One of the guys I hadn’t met pointed his camera phone at her. I was sure she was going to grab it and stomp on it, the way she supposedly did anytime anyone tried to take pictures of her.
Here it comes, I thought, as I saw her hands clench and the muscles in her neck tighten. But then she tossed her hair and gave a big smile. Huh.
“It’s opening,” Frank said, pulling my attention away from Ripley. We all had to back up as the tall gate swung wide. A couple of cameramen circled around us to get our reactions as it did.
“Welcome!” a woman in a tight dark blue suit with matching dark blue shoes called out. Her hair was really blond, almost white, and her lipstick was very red. “I’m Veronica Wilmont, and I’ll be your host—o
r maybe headmistress is a better term—while you’re living here. I hope you’ll consider me a friend, and—”
“I didn’t come here to make friends,” interrupted a wrestler-looking guy with a skull and crossbones shaved into the back of his short hair.
Veronica raised one eyebrow and looked at him. It was a look that could make icicles grow on your nose hairs. “James Sittenfeld,” she finally said.
“That’s me,” the guy answered, throwing his arms wide.
“I remember your audition tape very well,” Veronica told him. “I thought your so-called van-surfing was immature and incredibly dangerous—for yourself and for everyone on the road.” She smoothed her already perfectly smooth hair. Her nails were very red too, and so wet-looking, I half expected the polish to wipe off in her hair. Not really, but you know what I mean.
“I didn’t want you on the show, but I was overruled by the producers,” Veronica continued. “They thought you’d be entertaining.”
“I’ll try to be entertaining when I crush everyone and walk away with the million.” James winked at her. Veronica did not appear entertained.
This guy really wanted to win. But how bad? Bad enough to send Ripley that death threat?
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: James Sittenfeld
Hometown: Hunley, Wyoming
Physical description: 5’11”, 220 lbs., short hair with skull and crossbones cut into the back.
Occupation: High school student
Background: Extreme sports fan, youngest of three brothers, average grades.
Suspicious behavior: Very aggressive in presenting his desire to win.
Suspected of: Sending death threat to Ripley Lansing.
Possible motive: Losing isn’t an option.
A girl in an acid yellow T-shirt that said ASK ME ABOUT MY CRIPPLING SHYNESS jumped to the front of the group. “Are we going to take that from him?” she cried. It was like we’d suddenly been transported to a pep rally. “He basically just called us all losers,” she added. I noticed she was careful to angle her face toward one of the cameras.
“Not basically,” said James. “I did just call you losers.”
“Well, I’m Kit Elroy,” she told him, although she kept looking at the camera. She sucked down a big swallow of coffee from a huge paper cup. “And I am no loser! You better watch out for me!”
“No more interruptions, please!” Veronica called out. “Tonight’s agenda is an easy one. Get unpacked. The bedrooms are upstairs and your room assignments are posted. Then feel free to explore the house. There will be a barbecue by the pool in an hour.”
“Is that when we get the deets on the contest?” Bobby T asked.
“No, all you have to do tonight is enjoy yourselves,” Veronica answered. “I’ll see you tomorrow and explain everything you need to know then.”
“Oooh, mysterious,” said Bobby T. “I’m going to get a juicy blog entry out of this.” He started for the gate.
Veronica held up one hand. “First, a word about cameras. As you can see, you are being filmed now. You need to know that there are also cameras positioned everywhere in the house and grounds.”
“Does that include—,” Frank began.
“Bathrooms aren’t included,” she answered. “And, because you are all minors, union rules don’t allow you to be on-camera twenty-four hours a day. Simply being on-camera is considered work for you. However, I will not tell you when the cameras will be off.”
She smiled her very red smile. “And there are no union rules covering the hours I may watch you.” Veronica waved us through the gate. The cameramen stayed close as we entered.
The photo we’d seen of the villa didn’t really give the scope of the place. There were miles of land around it. Not another mansion in sight. I wished Mom and Aunt Trudy could see the garden. It was insane. I don’t know if it should even be called a garden. It was too huge. I tried to do a quick inventory as we walked toward the mansion. Palm trees with flowering vines snaking up the trunks. Rosebushes. And a ton of other flowers and trees. A huge fountain in the center of a courtyard paved with red stones.
“Who has a house like this?” a chubby guy asked. “It looks like it should belong to a movie star.”
“That’s because it did. Katrina Decter used to live here. I recognized the place as soon as Veronica opened the gate,” Kit told him. “This is so creepy.”
“Who’s Katrina Decter?” asked Frank.
“Why creepy?” I said at the same time.
“I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her. Everyone in Hollywood thought she was going to be a huge star. I’m named after her. Kit’s short for Katrina. My mom and I have watched her movies a million times. I can’t afford acting lessons—yet. So that’s how I study,” Kit answered.
“What’s the creepy part?” I asked again.
“Ten years ago, Katrina’s husband murdered her. Right in front of their four-year-old daughter. Right in that house.” Kit pointed to the villa.
“Whoa,” the chubby guy murmured.
“How did he kill her?” Frank said. If he hadn’t asked, I would have. It’s a detective thing. Doesn’t matter if a murder happened ten years ago, we still want the facts.
“If there’s a room with a hot tub, I’m gettin’ it,” James Sittenfeld called over his shoulder before Kit had a chance to answer. He’d reached the front door before anyone else. Big surprise. He jerked it open and rushed in.
“Didn’t Veronica say that our assignments would be posted?” the chubby guy asked. He gave a helpless shrug. “I’m thinking if the room that guy wants has the name Mikey Chan on the door, I’m outta luck.”
“Let’s get up there before he gets too much rearranging done,” Frank suggested. He led the way up the S-shaped staircase to the second floor.
Great, I thought when I spotted my name on a small cream-colored card on the nearest door—along with James Sittenfeld’s. Mikey’s name was on there too. And the name Wilson Tarlow. I didn’t know who he was yet.
At least Mikey seemed decent. “Hey, roomies,” James called out as Mikey and I entered the room. He was stretched out on the king-size bed next to the double doors that led to the balcony. Another king-size bed and a bunk bed filled out the sleeping arrangements.
I turned to Mikey. “Want to wait for the other guy before we—”
“I’m here.” A gawky guy with a haircut that showed a little too much ear ambled into the room. We did the introduction thing.
“We were just trying to figure out where we’re going to sleep,” I told Wilson.
“They were.” James crossed his arms under his head and gave an obnoxious sigh of contentment. “I’m good right here. But if you want my advice, I wouldn’t put the president of PBOA on the top bunk.”
Wilson, Mikey, and I exchanged “huh?” looks.
“Pot-Bellies of America,” James explained.
Can I just say—what a complete dillweed.
Deep red flooded from Mikey’s neck up to his face. “I’ll take the bottom.” He grabbed his suitcase from the pile that had been left for us inside the door. Then he got really busy opening it and messing around with his clothes.
“I’ll take the top,” I offered. “It’ll be like camp.”
I unloaded my gear as fast as possible. Which is pretty fast. I’m used to packing and unpacking a lot for missions. “Anyone want to go check out the rest of the house?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Mikey.
Wilson slid his suitcase under his enormous bed. “I’m in.”
I looked over at James. Aunt Trudy and Mom have trained me well.
“I’m not a joiner,” he told me.
“Some people think any kind of fraternizing makes you lose your competitive edge,” Wilson commented once we were out in the hall. “Think that’s Mr. Personality’s deal?”
“I think he’s more your basic jerk,” I answered. “At least he didn’t seem too worried about competition downstairs.”
�
��True,” Mikey agreed. “So where to first?”
“Wherever the girls are hanging,” Wilson said. “That’s my real mission. To find a girlfriend. I watch these shows. The people who live these TV show houses are always hooking up. Even on that Princess and Nerd one.”
I laughed. Wilson didn’t. “Seriously?” I asked. “That’s your mission? You’re saying you don’t care about the million bucks?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down,” Wilson answered. “But I’m here for love. That’s even what I said on my audition tape.”
I took a peek over the wrought-iron railing. “I see some female types downstairs,” I told him.
Wilson shoved his hands through his hair and straightened his shoulders. “Let’s do it.” It was like he was about to go into battle and wasn’t sure he was coming back.
If Wilson was being honest, he was very low on the list of possible suspects who had sent Ripley the death threat. Of course, people aren’t always honest. I wasn’t ready to eliminate any of the contestants yet.
“You guys aren’t going to believe it!” Kit called to us as we came down the stairs. She took a swig of coffee. “This place has a private screening room. I’m not talking a plasma TV. I mean a real screening room. There’s even a little popcorn counter.”
It seemed like she’d gotten over feeling creeped out by the house.
“Only four percent of private homes in the United States have a screening room,” a girl with a ring on every finger announced. “A real screening room like this—not just a large-screen TV with a great sound system.”
“That’s Rosemary. She’s a mathhead,” Kit explained. “She can give you the percentages on anything.” She nodded toward a girl in a long, plain skirt and a long-sleeved blouse. “And that’s Mary. She’s home-schooled.”
Deprivation House Page 2
