and her father adjusting his glasses, which always sat on a different slant than the bow tie he wore with his tux. She’d discovered the luxurious thrill of having the house to herself after dark. More time to write, she had exulted, with no interruptions.
But all that had changed when Annie moved in. Now Harriet went through her daily spy route with a talkative sidekick. The silence that once had felt special and rich 24
now felt empty. I’m bored, she thought with amazement, turning over a concept that had never seemed to apply to her. I’m lonely and bored.
She set her cake plate and fork in the sink. There was no point in calling anyone else: she’d just get stuck listening to Janie rave about Jason or Sport lose his brains for Yolanda. How does this happen to people? she wondered.
Harriet headed upstairs and took out a green notebook. Her last entries were sparse, and she realized she’d spent more time speculating aloud with Annie than taking notes. This would not do. Ole Golly had always impressed on her that writers needed to experience everything and to write it all down. “Isaac Bashevis Singer said, ‘God gave us so many emotions, and so many strong ones. Every human being, even if he is an idiot, is a millionaire in emotions.’” Ole Golly had paused to make sure that Harriet took in her words. “The difference between one millionaire and another, between writers and everyone else, is merely a matter of pen and ink.” Harriet picked up her pen and stared at her green notebook, frowning. She didn’t feel much like a millionaire. Everyone else is having emotions, she thought, even if they’re really stupid ones. Nothing is happening to me.
All right, then write about that, she thought. Ole Golly told me to write about everything. She thought for a moment, then set pen to paper.
WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE CRUSHES? AND WHO CAME UP WITH THAT
WORD FOR IT, ANYWAY? “CRUSH” SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING THAT
HAPPENS TO WINDSHIELDS IN CAR CRASHES. IS IT BECAUSE PEOPLE ACT
CRACKED WHEN THEY HAVE THEM? WHAT MAKES PEOPLE THINK
THEY’RE IN LOVE?
An inspiration struck her. Ole Golly will know, she thought. In the course of the past year, Ole Golly had fallen in love with George Waldenstein, married him, moved up to Montreal, left him with plans to expunge him forever from memory, and had a dramatic reunion. She was expecting his baby in just a few months. Ole Golly must be a billionaire in emotions, thought Harriet. She’s a tycoon.
She dug through her desk drawer and hauled out the present Ole Golly had given her last Christmas, an elegant box of stationery from her favorite store, Jasmine’s Art Supply, with textured paper and cream-colored envelopes tied with a pale satin ribbon.
Harriet carried it into the butter yellow bedroom across the hall, where Ole Golly had slept when she lived there. She sat down at the writing desk under a framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers and snapped on the sensible desk lamp. The afternoon hours no longer stretched ahead forlorn and empty. I know just what to do with myself, she gloated. I’ll write to Ole Golly.
By bedtime, the wastebasket overflowed with wadded-up cream-colored paper.
When Harriet finally finished a version she liked, she looked at the clock on her dresser and realized that, for the first time, she was late for her nine-thirty flashlit goodnight.
25
“Where were you?” demanded Annie the following morning. “I semaphored twice.”
“Important international correspondence,” said Harriet, tapping the envelope on which she had written AIR MAIL, PAR AVION, and VIA AEREA, just in case.
“Fancy schmantzy,” said Annie. “I suppose that explains your neglecting an ailing friend?”
“I forgot, okay?” Harriet strode to the corner mailbox and dropped in her letter.
“Anyway, you’re all better.”
“I was never that sick in the first place.” Annie shrugged. “My aunt Barbara’s a lunatic. Anything new on the spy route?”
“Nothing of note.” Harriet was reluctant to admit she’d gone straight home for cake and milk.
“Let’s stake out the premises after school. I have a feeling the case is about to break open. A turf war with the Dei Santis.” Annie spotted a soda can on the sidewalk and kicked it into the snowbank. Harriet chased her, relieved to find someone her age who still wanted to be a kid.
“With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out: And what love can do, that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.” Mr. Grenville held the textbook away from his face and intoned like an actor, even though, with his thinning hair combed over and sprayed in a mat, he was nobody’s picture of Romeo. All across the classroom, girls leaned over their desks with their cheeks propped on their palms, looking dreamy-eyed. Janie was actually stroking the photo of Jason Orlando on the key chain that hung from her purse. Harriet stifled a giggle. She glanced back at Annie, who pointed at Janie and rolled her eyes. Harriet smiled.
When the bell rang at three, they were first down the steps. “We need to come up with a cover,” said Harriet as they walked side by side toward the Christmas tree stand.
“We can’t just keep hanging around the Koreans’. If we pick up any more fruit without buying it, Mrs. Kim’s going to boil us in oil.” Annie thought for a moment. “We could build a snowman,” she said. “Right there, on the edge of the fence. That would give us a clear line of sight.”
“Too suspicious.”
“We’re kids! Kids all over the world build snowmen. Well, maybe not in Borneo.”
Harriet shook her head. “It would call too much attention to us. Anyway, the snow is disgusting.”
26
Annie looked down at the curb. It was true. The last snowfall had been on the ground for so long that the drifts were black-edged and grainy with soot. “I know!” she said, a triumphant smile blazing across her face. “Let’s shop for a Christmas tree!”
“What?” Harriet stopped in her tracks, staring at Annie as if she’d gone crazy. “Is that what you call undercover?”
“It’s deep undercover. It’s hiding in plain sight. Don’t you see? We’ve walked past the stand and hung around staring a million times, but we’ve never been inside the fence. If we go in as customers, they won’t be suspicious at all. We can get up close and personal.” Annie’s eyes were shining.
“But it doesn’t make sense,” argued Harriet. “The worst thing a spy can do is to let someone make her. That means ‘identify,’” she added importantly.
“Nonsense,” said Annie. “The worst thing a spy can do is to pass up a great opportunity. We might even get to see inside the shed, where Douglas and Balsam keep their stuff. Where their secrets are. What are you waiting for?” Harriet knew it was useless to argue. “Wreaths,” she said, nodding. “They’re on the shed wall.”
“Good thinking, H’spy.” Annie grinned and set off.
Douglas was sprawled on a stool with his legs splayed out, leaning his broad back against the fence. He had something clutched in his lap, and his lips moved a bit as he peered at it, turning a page. “Look,” Annie whispered. “The Dumbwit is reading a book.” Douglas looked up and she reddened.
“Can I help you with something?” His voice was woolly and low, with a slight scratchy drawl that made it dead clear he was not from the city.
“Um, wreaths?” Annie’s voice had gone squeaky again.
“We’re just looking,” said Harriet breezily, hoping to cover for her friend’s sudden nervousness. “My mom will come back here to pay for one later.”
“Be my guest,” Douglas nodded. “I’m here if you got any questions.” Annie nodded, mute, scuttling to the far end of the shed, which was studded with twin rows of wreaths. She pretended to look at a huge white pine wreath, braided with holly and tied with a shiny gold ribbon. “How about this one?”
“Too big,” said Harriet loudly, striding her way. “That’s for a lobby or something.” She stood next to Annie and fingered a smaller wreath, flipping the price tag.
“Science fiction,” she said in a sidelong whisper. Annie looked blank.
“What he’s reading,” Harriet told her impatiently. “The Chronicles of something or other. Douglas’s thumb was on top of the word. His nails are incredibly grimy.” This last observation pleased her no end. Attention to detail was the essence of spying; one never knew what might turn out to be crucial.
27
“Science fiction,” said Annie, dripping disdain. “That figures.” She glanced at Douglas, whose back was to them. He turned a page, lost in his reading. “Let’s look inside the shed before Balsam gets back.” Harriet frowned, looking at Douglas. “But…”
“He won’t even notice, he’s somewhere on Pluto. Come on, you’re a spy.” She reached forward and pushed the door open. Harriet winced as the hinges creaked. Inside the windowless shed they could make out two cots heaped with blankets and sleeping bags, a landslide of discarded clothing and take-out containers, a pair of old boots.
“What’s that smell?” Annie whispered.
A figure sat up on the cot, pushing aside the open newspaper that covered his face. It was Balsam, in faded and coffee-stained long Johns. “Private back here,” he said mildly. “Do I go into your living quarters? My very word.”
“That was awful,” said Harriet. Her heart was still pounding.
“Balsam didn’t know we were spying. He just thought we’d made a mistake.”
“We did. An enormous mistake. We can’t ever go back there again.”
“You worry too much, H’spy,” Annie said. She climbed down from her stool at the Feigenbaums’ kitchen counter and went to the stove, taking off the white kettle before it shrilled. She poured steaming water into two mugs and opened a packet of cocoa. “It’s diet. That’s all they have.”
“Any marshmallows?”
“Dream on. There might be some high-fiber Ry-Krisp or something.” She opened the fridge. “Do you like chopped liver? I hate it.” Barbara Feigenbaum entered the kitchen, her large earrings clunking against her neck. She was tanned even in winter, with close-cropped and lacquered black hair. Her shoulders hunched slightly, giving her the look of a beady-eyed bird. “Oh good, you girls found a snack. Do you have any homework?”
Annie shrugged. “Couple of work sheets.”
“And act three of Romeo and Juliet,” Harriet reminded her.
“Shakespeare,” said Barbara, taking a bottle of seltzer and drifting back out.
“Very nice.”
Annie took the book out of her backpack, holding it at arm’s length. She flopped her hair over one side of her head and intoned, “If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.” Harriet peered at her. “What do you think about crushes?”
“Ridiculous.”
“Pointless.”
28
“Childish.”
Harriet was vastly relieved. “I don’t understand all these girls turning suddenly stupid and going around telling everyone they’re in love.”
“In love is not the same thing as a crush.” Annie landed on the last word with a sneer of disdain, but something had changed in her voice.
Harriet stared at her. “Annie?”
“What?” Annie’s tone was offhand, but her cheeks had a definite flush.
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve fallen in love?”
“Of course not,” said Annie, turning as red as a beefsteak tomato.
“Who is he?” Harriet’s tone was demanding.
Annie paused, then lifted a hand to her forehead like the star of a Hollywood film.
Her voice was Cassandra D’Amore’s. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I don’t believe this. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong, H’spy, I’m a woman in love. With an older man.” Harriet stared. “It’s not Mr. Grenville, is it?”
“Yuck!” Annie opened her mouth, pointing down at her tongue in a vomiting gesture. “That’s revolting!”
“Then who?” Harriet practically screamed.
“I have a right to my secrets.” Annie picked up her cocoa and gulped.
Not from me, thought Harriet, watching through narrowed eyes. Not from your best friend. And certainly not from a spy.
29
When Morris Feigenbaum’s last patient left for the day, Harriet headed back home. She opened the heavy front door and looked at the tray on the sideboard where the maid always left the day’s mail. There was nothing of interest, just a phone bill, an L.L.
Bean catalog, and a New Yorker magazine full of cartoons about rich people’s parties. No letters from Montreal. Somebody has to explain this to me, thought Harriet. It had been bad enough to lose Janie and Sport to the ranks of the mushy deluded, but Annie’s declaring that she was in love was the last straw. There’s nobody left, thought Harriet, flopping down on her belly on the couch. I’m the last bastion of sanity.
“Harry? Is that you?” Harriet’s mother came into the library wearing an evening dress, her head tilted to one side as she put on an earring.
“It’s me,” said Harriet, prone.
“Oh, hi, darling. I thought you were over at Annie’s.”
“I’m back.”
“That’s nice.” Her mother sounded distracted. “Your father is late, for a change.
We’re supposed to go out with the Connellys, and he simply can’t wear his suit. It’s a black-tie reception. I bet he’s forgotten.”
“I haven’t.” Her father’s voice boomed through the doorway. “Though if I had the knack of forgetting an evening with Sylvia Connelly, I’d be a happier man.” He leaned down to kiss Harriet’s cheek. “You look like you’re swimming indoors.
I hope that’s not preadolescent moping I see.”
“No, Daddy.”
“Good. That would make me feel old.” Perhaps because Harriet’s father worked in television, it seemed to her sometimes that he had a permanent layer of sarcasm.
“Harry, you have to get dressed,” said her mother.
“I know, I know. Can’t a man say hello to his daughter?”
“You’re going out again?” said Harriet.
“Yes dear,” her mother answered. “You’re staying here and Cook will be staying too. I left you our number.”
“We won’t need to call you!” Harriet exclaimed. “I can fend for myself.” She picked up a pillow and headed upstairs, stamping loudly on each stair tread.
She unlocked the old toy box at the foot of her bed and took out her green notebook. As always, the sight of the volumes arrayed in numerical order gave her a 30
ripple of pride. Ole Golly had called the green notebooks Harriet’s oeuvre, which was a French word for “body of work.” My oeuvre looks pretty substantial, thought Harriet, running a hand along the books’ spines. She felt better already. She picked up her favorite pen, the one with the peacock blue ink in a small plastic cartridge, and started to write.
ANNIE SMITH CLAIMS SHE’S IN LOVE WITH AN OLDER MAN. I HAVE
WITNESSED NO EVIDENCE. COULD SHE BE FAKING IT?
Harriet paused for a minute, then wrote, WHY?
It didn’t seem logical that she would lie. To be sure, Annie had invented a long list of phony identities, but none of her names had been secret. The fact that she wouldn’t identify her older man gave the phantom some weight.
CLUES AND POSSIBLE SUSPECTS, she wrote, and paused again before writing, NOT MR. GRENVILLE.
It wasn’t a whole lot to go on. There was only one other male teacher at the Gregory School, Mr. Bolbach, and he was a wheezing antique with ill-fitting false teeth.
Maybe it’s somebody I haven’t met yet, she thought. This older man might be a teacher from Annie’s old school, or even an eighth or ninth grader. He might be a friend of Sport’s.
INTERROGATE SPORT, she wrote, and the instant the words were on paper, she knew what she wanted to do. She closed her notebook, locked it back in the trunk, and ran down the stairs to her
parents’ room. Her father was grumbling his way into a stiff white shirt. Mrs. Welsch sat at her vanity, brushing on blush. Harriet could see three of her mother in the angled mirrors, and all of them looked very elegant.
“Can I go to Sport’s place for dinner?” Harriet panted.
Harriet the Spy, Double Agent Page 4
