I waited for Travis, kicking at dried-out clumps of crabgrass in front of the school, for a whole hour. Because hey, that’s what friends are for too.
Finally, he emerged through the double doors. Head down, hands heavy, skate shoes dragging along the pavement with an audible shlump shlump shlump.
“So. How’d day one of detention go?”
He just gave me a look.
“Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad,” I said, trotting beside him.
I got another look. One even colder, if possible.
“Whoa—they must have done a number on you in there. Did they bamboo-shoot you? Travis! Talk to me! What’s my name? What’s my name?”
Travis shrugged my hand off his wrist, but a ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
“Dirk the Dork. Now leave me alone.”
“Come on. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. They just made me write I will not deface school property 100 times.” He held up his left hand. Clawed. “I’ll never play piano now, never again.”
“Since when do you play piano?”
I got a look that could freeze gonads.
“So that’s it? Nobody sawed off your leg? Or threatened your mother?”
Travis shook his head. “That new grade 8 teacher, Miss Robinette, is in charge of detention these days. Apparently she’s really mean, and no one wants to mess with her—not even the Detention Gang.”
He trudged along beside me. “I still can’t believe anyone would frame me like this. Like, what did I ever do to anybody?”
We heard a loud snort. Very close by. Both of us practically jumped out of our epidermi.
It was Opal. She was suddenly there. At Travis’s elbow.
“Jeez Louise, where the heck did you come from?” Travis squeaked.
Opal shrugged. “Who, me? Nowhere. I was just hanging here, minding my own business, and you two practically ran me over. You should watch where you’re going.”
She fell in step alongside us. “I couldn’t help but overhear you guys. Talking about who might have it in for you, Travesty—I mean Travis.” She gave him a sideways glance. “How about, like, everyone?”
Travis didn’t answer her.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Not this again!” Travis clutched both sides of his head. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Darren! I told you, she’s a saboteur. Out to get us. Playing both sides of the fence.”
Opal smiled even more broadly. I saw the tip of one of her pearly white canines flash brightly in the sun. “Of course that’s what you’d say, Travis. After all, who’d know more about double-dealing than you?” She turned to me. “You know you shouldn’t trust this guy, right? I mean, I know you two have been friends for, like, forever, but he’s not exactly straight up with you. Is he?” Her eyes swung back to Travis. “He’s made a lot of enemies around these parts.”
“Oh yeah? Like who?” I said.
“Adios, Opal,” Travis said, stepping up his pace.
Opal laughed. “Go ahead. Let your good pal Darren fight your battles for you while you run away. You won’t be able to hide. Especially up there in detention…”
She laughed again, right in his face.
I could see Travis’s cheeks getting redder by the second. If Opal had been a guy, he would have popped her one already.
Opal f lipped a waterfall of blond hair over her shoulder. She gave him one more smug smile. A cat licking cream. Then she looked at me. “You know I’m not a gossip girl, no matter what he says. So I’ll let Travis be the one to tell you all about it. Right, Travis?”
That smirk again.
She gave me a little fingertippy wave over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Darren.”
And she blew me a kiss.
My jaw dropped open like it had a fish hook in it and the line had snapped tight.
Flappety flap flap. Just like that, I felt myself being reeled into the kill bucket.
Strangely, it didn’t seem bad at all, not with Opal holding the fishing rod…
Travis tugged my sleeve, yanking me out of my trance. “Don’t fall for her crap. I already told you, she’s a liar and a schemer. You shouldn’t believe a word she says.”
“Yeah yeah yeah.” I was walking like a man in a dream. My head in the ozone, my feet…somewhere else.
We walked along in silence then. Travis was fuming inwardly—smoke didn’t need to pour from his ears to make that clear.
Meanwhile, my own brain attempted to reboot itself.
Eventually, it came up with a red-alert warning. Flagging one unexplainable oddity.
Opal hated Travis.
But why?
Suddenly, I was back. Brain online. In control. Inquiring.
“Trav? What are you not telling me? There is something, isn’t there?”
He rounded on me. “Oh great. She’s blowing steam up your butt, but you’re still going to believe her over me? Your best friend? Nice, Darren. Nice.”
“No—I don’t!” I said, letting my hands dangle at my sides. “I’m just…just…confused. That’s all.”
“What’s there to be confused about? You trust me or you don’t. You believe her lies. Or you don’t.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there like a fire hydrant waiting for the dog.
“Fine. Go ahead. Be ‘confused.’ But don’t forget, I’m confused too—like about who exactly set me up for detention. And now I’m thinking maybe it was you. You and Opal.”
“What? That’s nuts!”
Travis’s whole body stiffened.
“Darren. Look at me. Come on. Right in the eye. Look me right in the eye and tell me you and Opal had nothing to do with getting me detention.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Opal and I didn’t get you detention. Okay? Jeez, I can’t believe you would even think that.”
Travis still had his eyes on me. It was unbearable, the mistrust I saw there.
Truly unbearable.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and started walking away.
“Okay. OKAY! Forget it! Look, I’m just tired. And mad. And frustrated. And that…that…Opal is getting under my skin. I can’t believe you want anything to do with her.”
I stopped walking. Gave him a big fat grin.
“In case you haven’t noticed, dude, Opal’s really pretty. Okay?”
Travis’s shoulders relaxed. He smiled too, a crooked, apologetic smile.
“Pretty shmitty. You’re forgetting she’s the enemy, Dirk. Sent to niggle out your secrets. Prey on your weaknesses. And turn you into cow patty.”
“That’s a pile of crap and you know it,” I said, making us both laugh out loud.
Shhh—someone is listening.
Watch yourself—someone is spying.
Always, always, there is the narrowed eye. The quivering ear. For your adversary is taking note of all you do. Watching for that one word slip, listening for that one careless whoopsy, that gives you away. Watching, and waiting… But alas, discovery equals death in the shadow world. There is no respawn. Just you, your failure and the endless sleep.
Fear not. You will not be discovered. Not, that is, if you are Dirk Daring, Secret Agent.
For Dirk Daring has thoroughly mastered the arts of subterfuge and secrecy.
His model? The purloined letter, hidden in plain sight.
His muse? The incredible art forger Han van Meegeren.
Carefully, I collect the precious chemical compound that I will use for my “ink.” It is not easy to gather, not without attracting attention. Nor is it pleasant. Nevertheless, I proceed. For nothing stands in the way of Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, when he has struck a plan, and the plan is sound.
The ink is a pale fluid that will disappear once it dries. In its place will be an invisible text—one that requires arcane knowledge to bring it back to readability. A knowledge only known to Dirk Daring and the one to whom he confides the secret.
No one must know of
my covert actions. Therefore, I use ultimate discretion and a steady hand to obtain my ink. And carefully, carefully, I transport it to my bolt-hole—a secret, forbidden location. There, I have hidden my specially prepared writing implements, crafted from a seagull feather; they are taped to the underside of the sofa. None but the cat will espy them. None but the Cat would suspect…
I look left, then right. Left, right. No one is watching. No one is listening.
I store the ink in the ancient desk’s drawer and wait until the bowels of the night. Then, and only then, when no one stirs, not even a Waldo, I creep from my bed. Creep to my bolt-hole. Retrieve my pen.
I use my cell phone as a flashlight. At first, its small, bright screen blinds me, but I let my eyes adjust to its glow. There’s just enough luminosity to allow me to see what I am doing. But not enough to alert unwelcome noseypants of my presence. Good to go.
I slide a bare sheet of paper from the desk. I withdraw the cup of pale ink from the drawer and place it carefully, carefully, on the desk. It would not do to spill even one drop of the precious elixir.
I dip the pen. I write, and dip, and write. As quickly as I can, I jot down my confidential report. Dip again.
It is slow, laborious work. The nearly colorless fluid dries and fades even as I write, leaving nothing but a ghostly trail on the paper. I cannot check my work, so every letter must be perfect from the get-go. Naturally, Dirk Daring, Secret Agent, does not err—I have precluded the possibility by memorizing my memorandum, word for word, beforehand. It will be accurate. To the point. A model of efficient covert communication. A masterpiece of missioncraft.
At last. It is done. The message written. The ink, a memory trace.
But still my mission is not complete. Now I must disguise my sheet of paper so it does not look like what it is: a blank sheet of paper. Deception within deception—the hallmark of my genius.
But how will I transform the sheet of blank paper into something “other”? Will I write upon it in “regular” ink, deceiving casual observers with an alternate, innocuous message—“milk, potatoes, toilet paper?” No—because that is too obvious a move for Dirk Daring. Better to make my piece of paper not look like a piece of paper at all.
I will make it a sculpture. A toy. A delicate artwork for the delight and amusement of small, easily amused children. No one will suspect such an innocent plaything will contain a secret message of the highest import.
I fold the paper in half, then in half again. Squash to make a square. Turn and squash again. Fold it twice, then swivel and flatten to make a kite shape. Repeat on the other side. Bend up one “leg.” Bend up the other “leg.” Crimp the end of one “leg.” Now it is a beak, not a leg.
Voilà. My masterpiece is complete—an origami bird. That flaps its wings when you pull its tail.
It is this subtle subterfuge I will bring with me to the designated meet. There I will pass my message on to a confederate—an agent called T-Bone. T-Bone will then magic the message away to his own bolt-hole. Then, and only then, will he perform the arcane procedure that is necessary to reveal the message so he can enter its information into his massive secret database.
It is imperative that none but T-Bone come into possession of this priceless resource. So fly away, little bird! For on your wings you carry all the hope of a better world.
“Oh, that birdie is so cute! I looooove origami!” Lucinda cooed. “Can I try flapping it?”
“No!” My voice came out excessively harsh. “Er, it’s delicate, that’s all. I made it for Travis.”
“Aw, isn’t that special,” Amber said.
“It’s not like that,” I said, scrambling. “You see, Travis is making this thousand-crane thing. For his cousin. She’s in the hospital. With, um, Dalmation Pekinisia! A terrible disease. The cranes are for good luck. And healing.”
Lucinda turned her face to Travis. “That’s so…sad!”
“Doggone sad.” Amber tossed her head and laughed—a vulgar bark of a laugh.
“And sooo sweet of you too, Travis!” Lucinda’s big cow eyes started to swim. She clasped her hands together; I fully expected her to moo any second.
“Riiiight.” Travis yanked at his collar like it was too tight. “Fine.” He waggled his fingers at me. “Give it, then.”
I gently flipped him the bird. Travis bobbled it in his right hand for a second. Then it came to rest in his palm. He peered at it closely. His nose crinkled.
“What did you make this with, dude? Toilet paper? ’Cause it reeks like the boys’ peebox.” He waved his left hand in front of his nose. “Stinkybird.”
I felt the tips of my ears redden.
“If it has a slight gamey fragrance, it’s because I used A1-quality origami paper. It’s 100 percent organic and all natural.” I tried to send him a discreet but clear ‘shut up’ signal by waggling my left eyebrow, but Travis ignored it. His lip twitched.
“Right again. You can tell me all about its organic pee-urfume over lunch. I have a pee-strami sandwich. What did you bring? Pee-nut butter?” He laughed at his own bad jokes, then shoved the bird into the dark maw of his desk, pushing it as far as it could go with the eraser end of his pencil. “I think I’ll handle it as little as possible, in any case. Since it’s so ‘delicate.’”
“Can you make a birdie for me, Darren? Please?” Lucinda said.
“And me?” Amber batted her eyes. “I’m sure you have another peece of paper somewhere, Darren.” Then she guffawed, a giant Amber guffaw.
“How about I make you a muzzle?”
She was just forming her fingers into a fist when Miss Templeton called the class to order.
Transcript of surveillance mission—Operation Listen-in. 20:32.
Audio recording via listening device #1.000000
Location: Window mount/Waldo’s bedroom
20:32:00>> 20:32:58
Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssscracklehissssssssss
ssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssscracklecrackle hiss
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssburppppphis
sssburpetyburphisssssssssssss
20:33:00>> 20:33:42
[cell phone ring tone: Birdy Birdy Song.]
Rustlerustlerustle
Waldo: You again…What now?…Look—I already did what you
asked…Fine. But this is the last time. I mean it.
Rustle rustle rustle
20:34:00>> 21:30:00 Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssscracklehisssssssssss
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssscracklecrackle hissssssss
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssburppppphisssshiss
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
sssssssssssssssss
We met to discuss the matter in hand after school. After T was out of detention.
Location: My room.
“Any idea who he was talking to?” Travis asked me, still shrugging off his coat.
“Oh, I have an idea. Or two. I’m sure I recognized that laugh.”
Travis’s neck stiffened. “What are you saying, Darren?”
“Chill, dude. I didn’t mean you.”
“Oh. Sorry. For a second I thought…So who do you think it was?” He kicked back on my bed and cracked his knuckles one at a time. Pop pop pop. Pop pop pop. Poppety pop pop. I did my best to ignore it, but it wasn’t easy. Pop pop. He had more knuckles, it seemed, than freckles.
“Who do you know that has a laugh you can hear clear through a cell phone?”
He cracked a grin. But then his brows collapsed into each other, forming a fuzzy pair of vulture’s wings over his dark eyes. “But wait—what the heck would she be calling Waldo for?”
“Well said, Monsieur Le T-Bone. What exactly, indeed!” I held up one finger and rocked forward in my chair until I was practically nose to nose with Travis. “And even mo
re important, what could she be holding over our own dear archenemy step-psychopath?”
Travis’s smile grew even broader. “Blackmail. Extortion. Not what I would have imagined as her style. I’m suddenly liking her a lot better!”
“You are so twisted.”
“Thank you.” Travis dipped his head. “But really—this is some choice data, Darren. Nice work. I hereby promote you to chief espionage officer. In training.”
When the ensuing wrestle-mania session ended, we still had a problem at hand.
“Fact,” I said. “Waldo has a secret.
“Fact: His secret is known to another and is being used for extortion and blackmail.
“Fact: We do not know what said secret is, and if we did, we could have even more valuable information at our disposal. We might even be able to shut the Waldo Wagon down for good.”
“Sounds like a mission statement to me, bro,” Travis said, giving me one last noogie.
My mother was calling—no, not calling—screaming my name. “Get right down here. This INSTANT!”
I scrambled, trying to assemble my very best innocent youngster face. I wondered what the heck I was going to have to talk myself out of this time.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out. When I skidded into my mom’s office, she was leaning against her old desk, one arm across her body, the other holding my precious ink. Which I, apparently, had neglected to spirit out of my bolt-hole when I’d finished my business with it.
Oopsy.
“What is this doing in my drawer?” Her eyes would have shot lightning bolts if she’d been plugged in properly, but my mom was too mad to read her own operating manual. Lucky me.
“Sorry, lemme take that from you. I can explain.” I reached for the jar.
“You’d better, and fast, tell me how a container of urine wound up in a room to which you are expressly forbidden admission.”
“Mom, it’s really very simple—here, come on. Give it to me.”
“Talk. Now.” She raised the jar up in the air, away from my grasping hands.
Dirk Daring, Secret Agent Page 4
