Spies, Lies, and Allies

by Lisa Brown Roberts

  Ewok’s honor was something he made up when I was eight years old and scared to play soccer with girls more experienced than me. Dad swore on my stuffed Ewok I’d have a great season. I hadn’t, but then he’d created a new family motto: Kristoffs Never Quit. Almost ten years later, I’ve proven his point by earning a spot on the varsity soccer team.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” I say. “My saber skills are rusty from lack of practice.”

  Dad sighs. “I’m one of the good guys. My company is full of them.”

  “We shall see,” I say dramatically.

  We don’t argue for the rest of the drive. By the time he pulls into the underground parking garage, I dare to hope this summer will be what I wish for––the chance to reconnect with my dad.

  “A New Hope,” I whisper, cracking myself up with a nerdy joke.

  “Ready, princess?” Dad’s eyes meet mine.

  “Take me to your Death Star, Vader.”

  His gaze narrows but I spot a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. “I hope your opinion of my business changes by the end of the summer, Laurel.”

  I hope so, too, but I’d bet my Carrie Fisher autograph that it won’t.

  …

  The reception lobby of Emergent Enterprises is urban and trendy, with exposed brick walls covered with canvas prints and metal wall sculptures from local artists. Steel beams crisscross overhead, wrapped in plastic tube lights. The building used to be a paint factory back in the horse-and-buggy days, but now it’s one of the trendier buildings on Market Street, close to the baseball stadium and hipster bars and restaurants.

  “Laurel Kristoff!” A voice booms across the lobby as a determined figure bears down on us. His shiny bald head glows under the lights and his body practically bursts out of his clothes, like the Pillsbury Doughboy stuffed into a too-small suit.

  It’s Mr. Mantoni, one of Dad Vader’s lieutenants. I remember him vividly from last summer. He pumps my hand. I’m embarrassed by his enthusiastic welcome.

  “Hi Mr. Manic—um, Mr. Mantoni.” My dad’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. I’d nicknamed Mr. Mantoni the Manly Manicotti last summer and made the mistake of sharing the joke at dinner one night. Mom had laughed, but Dad wasn’t amused.

  Mr. Mantoni’s sweaty hand releases mine. “So glad you’re back with us!” His voice is stabbing my eardrums. “We’re looking forward to you helping out the interns this summer.” He lowers his voice. “Great idea, having you vote on the scholarship winner.”

  What’s he talking about? Apprehension skitters up my spine.

  “Get Laurel settled, Tom,” Dad says. “I’ll stop in later to meet the interns and lay down the law.” Dad squeezes my shoulder, then strides away, abandoning me to the Manicotti.

  “Vote?” My voice squeaks when I finally speak. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Manicotti puts a finger to his lips, then glances suspiciously at a couple of employees heading our way. Once they pass, he claps his hand on my back and steers me past Miss Emmaline, ferociously guarding the front desk.

  In an office like this, you’d expect a multi-pierced hipster at the front desk, but Dad has Miss Emmaline, who looks one hundred and two years old but doesn’t miss a thing. I learned that last summer when she busted me Snapchatting in the bathroom, taking an extra-long break with a pile of free snacks from the kitchen.

  Miss Emmaline squints as I pass her desk. I wave, trying to look sweet and innocent, but her scowl doesn’t waver. Mission number one: make her laugh before the summer is over.

  “You know how this scholarship contest works, right?” The Manicotti steers me down a narrow hallway of more exposed brick walls lined with framed magazine covers featuring Dad’s company. “Four contestants. No mercy! Only one can be victorious!”

  I’ve always wondered why my dad hired the Manicotti. If my dad had served in a war, I’d assume the Manicotti saved his life and Dad owed him, but that’s not the case.

  We pause outside a conference room with a closed door. “I’m keeping them waiting,” he says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Made ’em show up at seven. Round one: the elimination. One of them still isn’t here, so he’s off the island even if he does show up.”

  “Wow. That’s, um…intense.” It seems unfair, too, since all of the interns need the salary from the summer job, not to mention a shot at the scholarship. Maybe I need to worry more about the Manicotti than Dad Vader.

  “That’s how I like things. Intense.” His beady eyes gleam behind his rimless glasses. He grins in a way that makes me wish I had pepper spray. “We’re counting on you for inside information, Laurel.”

  “You are?” Imaginary warning bells clang in my mind.

  He nods, sweat gleaming on his forehead. “Yep.” He glances around the hallway like we’re hiding behind enemy lines, then drops his voice to a whisper. “Your dad says your vote counts twice.”

  “Vote?”

  He blinks rapidly, like a cartoon. “On who wins the scholarship, of course!”

  Stunned, I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, he throws open the door and pushes me inside. I stumble, then compose myself to take in the sea of faces around the conference table.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s not this. Somehow “underprivileged” had converged in my mind with…unpresentable. And that couldn’t be further than the truth. I feel myself blushing at my awkward entrance and my unfair assumptions.

  As I take another hesitant step into the room, I catch the eye of one of the guys. His shaggy dark hair could stand a haircut, but he’s wearing the right suck-up clothes, including a tie that looks like a casual afterthought. His deep chocolate brown eyes lock onto mine, his wide mouth briefly curving in a smile that could easily slide into smirk territory. My heart does a little kick start as I take in his angular good looks and self-assured demeanor, but then I remember last year’s winter dance debacle, in which a guy like this humiliated me in front of the entire school.

  I turn away, my gaze landing on a pretty blond girl, who may as well be a supermodel compared to me. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a brain hiding under all the pretty. Sitting next to her is a guy with close-cropped curls and smooth brown skin wearing a suit. He’s even more beautiful than the supermodel. He flashes me a quick grin that may or may not be genuine. I hope it is.

  A disgusted snort startles me, and I turn around. Snorting girl leans against the doorjamb, chewing gum like it’s her mortal enemy. She has vampire skin—pale and translucent—spiky neon blue hair, and a glittering nose stud. She’s definitely not dressed for success, wearing ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with the anarchy symbol. She’s riveting, in a scary way.

  “Well, look who’s here. Daddy’s girl.” Her slit-eyed glare makes me wish for a disappearing cloak.

  My cheeks heat as I sink into the nearest chair. I didn’t want to reveal who my dad is, but she’s just blown my cover.

  “Patricia, that’s enough,” Mr. Mantoni snaps, and the puzzle pieces rearrange themselves in my sputtering brain.

  Mr. Mantoni has a daughter who just finished her first year of college. Trish—that’s what Mom calls her when she and Dad talk about work people. She used to attend the company holiday parties at our house, but I haven’t seen her in a few years. Last time I saw her she didn’t have blue hair, though she did have the attitude.

  “Whatevs.” Trish flings a hand dismissively, then saunters around the table and plops into a chair next to Suit Guy. She arches an eyebrow and runs the tip of her tongue around her lips, eyeing him like he’s a delicious snack and she’s ravenous. Even though I suspect she’s going to make my life miserable, I’m in awe of her brazen technique––especially in front of her dad.

  “Interns of Emergent Enterprises!” booms Mr. Mantoni. “Welcome to your own version of Survivor.” Tiny drops of spittle fly from his mouth, making me flinch. “May the best intern win!”

  A cough sounds behind us and everyone turns to stare.


  Especially me, because framed in the doorway like a dream come to life is Jason Riggs, a guy for whom I’ve long harbored a secret, pointless crush. Me and half the girls I know. It’s cliché, crushing on the quarterback, but I think it’s a high school requirement, like taking U.S. History.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Jason’s gaze darts around the room, then lands back on Mr. Mantoni. “My car broke down and I had to run for the—”

  “Off the island!” Mr. Mantoni points a finger in the air. “Tardiness will not be tolerated.”

  Jason takes a step back, his green eyes wide. “B-but I—”

  “Do you know what the world needs less of, young man? Excuses, that’s what. Your car breaks down, you have a plan B. Your flight gets canceled on the way to close a deal, you have a plan B.”

  Mr. Mantoni wipes a hand across his sweaty brow. I study the other interns, all of whom look as shocked as Jason—except Trish, who’s aimed her tongue skills at the fresh meat hovering nervously in the doorway.

  I can’t believe this is how the interns are being welcomed. I feel awful for Jason. He’s one of the few scholarship students at my school; rumor is he got a full ride because of his stunning athletic abilities. I have no doubt his ancient clunker broke down.

  “Aw, come on, Mr. Mantoni,” Trish says, smacking her lips. “Cut the guy a break. It’s the first day.”

  Crud. I wish I’d said that, especially when Jason gives her a dimpling, grateful smile. Instead, I covertly ogle Jason from under lowered lashes. That’s my technique, honed with years of practice.

  “Interns!” Mr. Mantoni booms, jarring me out of my Jason trance. “I will put this to a vote. Who believes we should give this young man a second chance and allow him to stay?”

  The interns stare at each other as I sneak another glance at Jason, who looks like he wants to bolt. His wavy blond hair needs combing and his blue dress shirt is half-untucked from his khakis. His tie looks like he borrowed it from his grandpa. In spite of, or maybe because of all this, he’s adorable.

  “Show of hands!” Manicotti’s voice thunders. “If you think he should stay, raise your hand.”

  Supermodel raises her hand tentatively. Surprised, I revise my snarky first impression of her. It was brave of her to do that. Suit Guy narrows his eyes suspiciously at Jason, while Chocolate Eyes shrugs and leans back in his chair like he doesn’t care one way or the other, but he doesn’t raise his hand. Guys are such competitive jerks, never giving each other a break.

  I stare hard at Trish. Come on, I will her with my Jedi mind control, raise your hand. You’re the one who practically licked him by osmosis. Her gaze locks onto mine and her eyes narrow, but I don’t look away. Slowly, like it’s killing her to do it, her hand creeps into the air.

  Mr. Mantoni huffs. “Two against two. A split decision can make or break a man.” He whirls on me. “It’s up to you, Laurel. Let him stay or cast him back into the ocean without a lifeboat?”

  I don’t have to think twice. I raise my hand without hesitation and smile at Jason, who blinks and swallows, then graces me with a gorgeous grin, his gaze fully connecting with mine, sending my heart rate into the stratosphere.

  Supermodel smiles at me, Trish rolls her eyes, Suit Guy frowns…and Chocolate Eyes? He studies me with an unnerving intensity that jolts me right out of my fuzzy Jason daydream. I blink and turn away from him.

  A girl’s gotta take what she can get, and so I do, focusing on Jason’s sweet face because I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before this summer job blows up just like Alderaan.

  Three

  “Mr. Kristoff will be here shortly,” says the Manicotti as Jason settles himself at the table. “You’ll introduce yourselves and tell us what you hope to do at Emergent. You each get two minutes.” He points at me. “Laurel, you’ll time everyone.”

  “I will?”

  He glowers at me, and Chocolate Eyes smirks. I’ll be glad when we do the introductions because I need to stop with the nicknames.

  “Laurel is your personal assistant for the summer,” Mr. Mantoni says. “Which is much more than a secretary. Not that there’s anything wrong with secretaries. It’s a noble profession for women. Ah, men, too, if that’s all they want. I mean…” He breaks off, clearing his throat.

  This guy desperately needs help digging out of the hole, but I’m not going to hand him a shovel. I’m appalled by his bumbling sexism and his attitude with the interns. Dad and I are going to have a serious chat on the drive home about the way the interns are treated, and this crazy idea of me being the final vote on the scholarship winner. What the heck is my dad thinking?

  I glance at Trish, feeling a twinge of sympathy for her. I’d be a fan of anarchy, too, if the Manicotti were my dad. She looks like she wants to throttle him, but she keeps her mouth shut. I bet she’s planning an after-work dad chat, too.

  We sneak peeks at each other, look away, then sneak more peeks. Jason eyeballs Supermodel, which sort of breaks my heart but isn’t surprising. He’s got a type, and she’s it. Trish sits with her arms crossed over her chest like a shield, giving everyone the slit-eye. Suit Guy eyes Mr. Mantoni warily, like he’s half-expecting a racist comment. Chocolate Eyes’s steady gaze sweeps around the table, making me flush when it pauses on me, then returns to Mr. Mantoni. The door swings open, saving us all from more painful, awkward silence. Everyone sits up straight, even Trish, because my dad has that effect on people.

  “Welcome to Emergent Enterprises,” he says. Even though he’s my dad, I know he’s exceptionally handsome in his dark gray suit. He’s even rocking cufflinks today, which I didn’t notice earlier. I try not to roll my eyes at the affectation. His thick dark hair, shot through with a few distinguished strands of silver, won’t dare move between now and the end of the day.

  Dad takes a seat and graces us with his practiced public relations smile. “I’m Rhett Kristoff. Please call me Mr. Kristoff, or Mr. K.”

  Mr. K? Seriously? I wince with embarrassment.

  “You’ve met Mr. Mantoni, of course, when he interviewed you for the intern positions. Mr. Mantoni and I go back many years and he has my full trust.” Dad’s penetrating gaze takes in each of the interns, but he avoids eye contact with me. “I’d like to go around the table. Each of you tell us a little about yourselves and why you want to intern here.” He flashes a smile. “Besides the financial reason, of course.”

  The Manicotti raises his eyebrows and taps his watch. Great. I open the timer app. Dad frowns at me.

  “I’m timing them. Two minutes each.”

  Dad turns to Mr. Mantoni. “I think we can allow more than that. This is a chance for everyone to get to know each other.” He shakes his head at me ever so slightly, so I dim my phone’s screen. “Does anyone want water? Coffee? Soda? We have a big selection in the kitchen. Laurel can get us drinks.”

  Though Dad’s calm demeanor is a relief from Mr. Mantoni’s intensity, I’m not thrilled he’s treating me like a waitress. I catch Trish smirking from the corner of my eye. I sneak a peek at Jason, whose eyes are fixed on my dad. He looks almost…worshipful.

  “I’ll take an iced tea,” Trish says. “Two sugar packets and a straw.”

  It takes all of my self-control not to fry her with my death glare.

  “Me too,” chimes in Supermodel, beaming at my dad. “But Splenda for me.”

  “Coke for me, please,” says Suit Guy.

  “Coke would be great,” Jason says eagerly, like my dad invented the red can.

  Hiding my annoyance, I turn to Chocolate Eyes. “How about you?”

  “I’m good. Besides, that’d be too much for you to carry.” He shrugs and gives me a smile that does something unexpectedly swirly to my insides.

  “Be right back.”

  As I head into the hallway, Dad calls out, “I’ll take an espresso, Laurel.”

  So much for Dad worrying about how I’ll carry all the drinks. I close the door more forcefully than I should and head toward the kitchen.
r />   “Laurel. How nice to see you, sweetheart.”

  It’s Ms. Romero, Dad’s personal assistant. As usual, she looks terrific, dressed like a female version of my dad, except her suit is red, and she wears awesome shoes with clear Lucite heels. I wonder if I’d look good in those shoes or like a kid wearing a Cinderella costume.

  Mom and Dad talk about Ms. Romero a lot at home; she’s been with Emergent since a few years after Dad started the company. They think she’s amazing. Brilliant. Loyal. Hardworking. All the ideal qualities my dad talks about ad nauseam.

  “Hi, Ms. Romero.” I tug at my hair. I inherited my mom’s curls, though the color is boring brown unlike Mom’s strawberry blond, thanks to Dad’s DNA. Like Mom, I usually let my hair do whatever it’s going to do. Today I should’ve put it in a hairnet since I’m apparently in charge of food service.

  Ms. Romero takes a granola bar from one of the snack baskets and tears it open. “There are homemade brownies in that basket.” She points to the end of the counter. “I thought you and the interns might want them.” She winks like she knows exactly how Mr. Mantoni is behaving.

  “That’s great, but I can’t carry those plus drinks.” I open the fridge and retrieve two Cokes and two iced teas.

  “Here.” She opens a cupboard and removes a lacquered serving tray. “Ta da.”

  She’s a genius. I stack the drinks on the tray, count out brownies, then grab napkins and the required sweetener packets. I’d better earn bonus points for this.

  “You let me know if you need anything, Laurel. You can come to me with any questions or concerns. Okay?” Her warm brown eyes are full of sincerity.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Let me know if you want to grab lunch one day. We’re surrounded by great restaurants.” She grins. “My treat.”

  Maybe I should be her assistant for the summer. I hesitate, then grab a Coke for Chocolate Eyes and head back to the room of doom. Balancing the tray in one hand, I open the door with the other.

  “…then in 2008, I bought this building,” Dad says. “You’re all too young to remember, but it was a rough downturn for the economy. Real estate was hit especially hard, so I got a great deal on this place, and a few other buildings in the area.”