Harriet the Spy, Double Agent

by Louise Fitzhugh

  Harriet’s heart took a lurch at that xx, P. She had an initial! And everyone knew that x’s meant kisses. Someone whose name started with P had sent Annie kisses—and, of all inexplicable things, a childish sock monkey that didn’t, on closer inspection, appear to be all that clean. Whoever P. was, his idea of what one should give to a sophisticated twelve-year-old girl was wildly off base.

  She lifted the note in one sleeve-covered hand and picked up the envelope in the other. It wasn’t that easy to open it without the full use of her fingers, and before she was able to wiggle the ticket out so she could see it, the toilet flushed down the hall. Harriet scrambled to put the note and envelope back and replace the lid. She was still standing up when she heard Annie’s footsteps outside the door, so she looked out the window to cover.

  “It’s snowing a lot,” she said. “Maybe they’ll cancel school.”

  “I used to love snow days in Boston,” said Annie, her voice sounding mournful for just a split second before she bounced back with “I bet they get plenty of snow days 45

  up north in New Hampshire. Not that that matters to dropouts.” The week flew past. Each day, the Feigenbaums twisted another bulb into the electric menorah in their front window. The girls at the Gregory School were buzzing with Christmas vacation plans, and one teacher after another plastered the walls with seasonal cutouts. Harriet wondered if there was some kind of holiday vest rule: it seemed that every teacher and even the school nurse, Mrs. Kelder, came in wearing a vest embroidered with holly or candy canes.

  Harriet had decided to buy a calligraphy pen like Ole Golly’s and make her parents a limited-edition collection of her favorite poems. She asked Annie if she’d like to make a Saturday afternoon pilgrimage to Jasmine’s Art Supply, but Annie demurred, saying she already had plans.

  I bet you do, Harriet thought. Plans with P. She resolved to keep her eyes glued to the Feigenbaums’ house on Saturday. Right after school on Friday, she went to the bank with her mother and made a withdrawal, “for certain upcoming expenses.” As expected, Harriet’s mother smiled at her fondly and took the bait, saying, “As long as you know that the most special presents are always the ones you make yourself.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, Harriet reassured herself; although most of the money would go directly to her new Emergency Spy Fund, she did plan to buy the calligraphy pen for making her parents’

  gift.

  It took her a full hour to pick out just the right pen and paper at Jasmine’s Friday afternoon. There were all sorts of creamy linen and textured rice papers, and deckle-edged cardstocks in every hue. Finally she selected five sheets of a handcrafted paper with small flecks of marigold petals. While the clerk rolled them into a tube, Harriet’s eye roamed a shelf of bound sketchbooks and landed on one with a marbled blue cover. That’s gorgeous, she thought. It’d make a great journal. Not a spy notebook, but something more elegant: notes from a grand tour of Europe, for instance. She picked it up, checking the price. Underneath was a second book, just like the first, except that the marbled design was in shades of deep red. I bet Annie would like that for Hanukkah, Harriet thought. Or for Christmas. Or both.

  “Will that be all?” asked the clerk, a slim Japanese girl with sculptural earrings.

  Harriet paused. She would have loved to buy both of the books, but they cost too much. “And this,” she said, handing the clerk the red sketchbook.

  That evening, she cut the marigold papers and sewed them together, using the bookbinder’s stitch she’d learned from her art teacher, Mrs. Nussbaum. Now all she needed to do was select the poems. Which would give her a perfect excuse to spend Saturday in the library, waiting for Annie to leave her apartment. This time she had a prearranged cover: she’d told her parents she would be spending a couple of hours with Sport in the park.

  By midafternoon she had three times as many poems as she could fit into the book she had made. She was flipping through a volume of poems by Edgar Allan Poe with 46

  woodcut illustrations, kind of creepy for Christmas but hard to put down, when she saw Annie leave through the side alley gate. She was wearing her red beret and clutching something Harriet recognized as the ticket envelope she’d seen in the lavender box.

  Harriet jumped to her feet, grabbed her backpack and parka, and yelled up to her parents, “I’m going to Sport’s now, okay?” She rushed out before they could answer.

  Harriet tailed Annie’s footprints west in the new-dusted snow, even though she was certain where Annie was heading. Sure enough, she walked straight to the Papaya King stand. This time the surfer guy with the blond beard met her right at the door, flashing a crooked grin that made Harriet flush unexpectedly. He’s kind of cute, she was startled to find herself thinking; I would have picked him over P. There was no time to dwell on this unexpected sensation—she had to move quickly before Annie saw her. She bent to the pavement, pretending to tie her shoe, and was rather embarrassed to realize, slightly too late, that her boots had no laces. That’s pretty lame, thought Harriet, with her ears flaming. I hope he’s not paying attention.

  She stole a glance up from the sidewalk as the surfer waved down a cab with long-armed grace. Harriet’s heart raced when she realized that he wore fingerless gloves, just like hers. Whoever he is, he has great luck with cabs, she thought as Annie slid into the back and he followed her, shutting the door.

  Harriet’s heart sank. Tailing a bus on foot had been almost impossible; she could never keep up with a Manhattan cabbie. She looked at the oncoming block of traffic and was astonished to see, amid dozens of occupied cabs, one that was just clicking its roof light back on after letting a passenger out at the corner. Her hand shot up like a basketball player’s, and she waved her fingerless glove as the stoplight turned from yellow to red.

  Come on, she prayed silently. Do it.

  The cab driver floored the gas pedal and ran the red light, squealing up to the curb. Harriet leaped into the backseat and shouted the order she’d longed to give for her whole spy career: “Follow that cab!”

  47

  The two taxicabs hurtled downtown. Harriet’s driver was a jovial man with a pointy black beard and a lilting West African accent; his license tag named him as Quiah Sissoko. He was listening to zouk on the radio, and the air in the cab smelled improbably of strawberry perfume, probably from one of the charms that hung from his rearview mirror. “Where they going?” he asked Harriet.

  “Downtown,” she said hastily, then added, in case that sounded incomplete, “My sister forgot something I need to give her.”

  “Ah,” said the driver. “You want me to honk at the next light?”

  “No!” she practically shouted, and then added limply, “She might be embarrassed.”

  The cabdriver shrugged. “It’s your dollar.”

  They drove down Fifth Avenue, past Central Park and the Plaza Hotel. There were glittery garlands and Christmas-themed shop windows everywhere. Finally Annie’s cab pulled over, just outside the entrance to Rockefeller Center. Harriet’s cab pulled over behind it. “You go see the big tree?” asked the driver, beaming at her. “It’s fantastic. I took my three kids on the first night they lit it.” Harriet handed him money and lunged for the door.

  “Your change!” he called.

  “Keep it,” she said, jumping onto the curb. “Merry Christmas!” Annie and her escort were moving away from her fast, and Harriet was sure she’d lose sight of them in the huge crowd of tourists. She fastened her sights on the man’s blond head—because he was taller, she told herself; Annie’s beret could get lost in a crush of big shoulders.

  They were passing between two tall buildings, on a double path split by a long row of topiary reindeer. Snatches of carols drifted out from boutiques on both sides, but as they drew close to the plaza where the gigantic Christmas tree stood, the amplified sound from the skating rink drowned out the rest of the music. Annie stopped in her tracks to gape up at the twinkling enormity of the great tree, and Harriet realized that this was Annie Smith�
�s first New York City Christmas.

  Someone waved from the corner rail of the skating rink. Harriet recognized him at once as the cashmere-clad man with the curly hair, the older man Annie had met in the restaurant. It’s P., she thought. Twice in two weeks. She squinted at Annie to see if she showed any telltale shifts in behavior, but Annie’s expression was hard to read. She walked toward the skating rink, and the blond guy went with her, laying a casual hand on her shoulder.

  48

  He was wearing the same Guatemalan wool jacket he’d had on the first time Harriet had seen him. It suited him. But it was that fingerless glove resting on her friend’s shoulder that stirred up a feeling that made her feel stupid, embarrassed, and happy at once. It could not be a crush, she told herself sternly. Not on a spy mission.

  She watched as the three of them met at the edge of the rink. This time the older man hugged Annie first, then turned to her escort, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back before handing over a folded bill.

  The blond guy gave Annie a half bow and waved goodbye, turning to amble back toward Fifth Avenue. Harriet froze in her tracks. He was heading right toward her. If she turned away to hide her face and protect her anonymity, she would certainly lose sight of Annie and P. He doesn’t know me from Adam, she thought. I’ll just brazen it out and walk past him like any other tourist who’s come here to look at the tree. She took several steps forward as he approached and realized that he was looking right at her. Worse, he was gesturing, making eye contact.

  “Nice gloves.” He grinned, flashing a bare-fingered peace sign.

  “Thanks,” croaked Harriet, blushing beet red.

  The crowd was so dense by the tree and the skating rink that it was hard to maneuver at all, much less keep a discreet eye on Annie and P. Once or twice Harriet thought she had lost them for sure, but she always managed to spot Annie’s red beret between elbows and backs. When they emerged onto Sixth Avenue, there was no question where they were headed: Radio City Music Hall. Of course, thought Harriet as Annie took her ticket envelope out of her pocket. The Christmas show!

  Uniformed ushers tore tickets briskly in front of each door. P. put his arm around Annie’s shoulders and led her in, past a maroon velvet rope. There was no way to follow them into the lobby without a ticket. Harriet stood underneath the marquee, looking at the sleek art deco doors, and tried to decide what to do with herself. Should she just head back home? Watch the skaters or go Christmas shopping? Or find a good place for a stakeout and follow them after the show?

  This last option promised the most satisfaction. Harriet asked one of the ushers how long the first act would run and found out she had more than an hour to wait. She decided to circle around to the back of the building and look for a place where she could sit down with her notebook until intermission.

  The bray of a donkey surprised her; it wasn’t a sound you expected to hear in midtown Manhattan. Harriet turned quickly, trying to pinpoint the source, and spotted a couple of grumpy-looking stagehands unloading a truck full of livestock. The donkey came down the ramp first, led by a teenage girl in a 4-H sweatshirt. Next came a camel that hissed and spit, balking on top of the ramp. It took three or four handlers to coax it out of the truck and down to the pavement. The stagehands shook their heads, cursing.

  The younger one glared at his crew-cut boss and said, “This is the last time I work on a living Nativity.”

  49

  “If that camel kicks a Rockette, it’s the last time you’re gonna work, period,” growled the boss, pushing him through the stage door.

  Harriet waited. She heard sounds of bleating from inside the truck, but nobody else came out. Maybe all the 4-H volunteers were already in the theater. She looked up the ramp, wondering how many sheep were making that racket, when she was struck by an outrageous idea. “I couldn’t,” she said out loud, and answered herself, “Annie would.” She looked at the stage door again. It was propped open a crack with a stage weight so that it wouldn’t lock while they led in the animals. Harriet’s heart seemed to thump in her throat as she crept up to it, swiveling her head to make sure no one saw her, and slipped inside.

  The backstage was as bare as the lobby was glitzy. There was a warren of dimly lit halls and a metal staircase that led down to the dressing room. Harriet spotted a couple of telltale straws of hay on the floor and walked that way, passing a group of dancers in candy cane outfits. Look sure of yourself, she thought, lifting her chin as though she had every right in the world to be strolling around in the wings of the most famous stage in America.

  There it was, right up ahead. Harriet gaped at the ceiling, which seemed to be hundreds of feet overhead, crisscrossed by fly pipes and a schooner’s worth of rigging and ropes. The back wall was brick, with antique radiators in vertical rows. The huge velvet curtain was backed with plain canvas, stenciled FIRE BARRIER. Freestanding pieces of scenery stood in the wings at odd angles: a candy cane archway, a Nutcracker ballroom, a set of chrome stairs. Harriet watched as a couple of technicians with headsets crossed the vast stage. One peered up at the light bridge, while a second reset the triangular wooden braces behind a big backdrop.

  “Excuse me.” A stern voice cut across the air. Harriet turned and found herself facing a tiny woman, barely her height, dressed from top to toe in black with a little red star on her cap. She wore a headset and carried a stage manager’s clipboard. “You can’t be backstage.”

  Harriet stammered and flushed. She would have to think fast. “My—my cousin,” she croaked, “she’s a Rockette. She said I could watch from the wings.”

  “Where’s your stage pass?”

  “My bus came in late from New Jersey,” said Harriet. “I was afraid I would miss the beginning. I didn’t even have time to go down to her dressing room and hang up my parka or anything.” Her voice had begun to take on a New Jerseyesque twang. This is actually fun, she thought. No wonder Annie makes up different personalities.

  The stage manager’s eyes were still narrowed, as if she was not quite convinced.

  Harriet met her eye, trying to look as if she might weep if this didn’t work out. “I came in from Hackensack special,” she pleaded. “How long till it starts?”

  “We’re at five,” the stage manager said. “Five minutes to places.”

  “You want me to go find my cousin and get the backstage pass?” said Harriet, praying that the answer was no. The stage manager looked her right in the eye.

  50

  “What’s your cousin’s name?” she said.

  “Emma,” said Harriet, thinking of one of the girls in the dance class she’d taken with Janie the previous fall. The stage manager frowned, so she blurted, “Her stage name is Lily.” She held her breath, hoping there was a Rockette by that name. Apparently so; the stage manager softened her gaze and nodded. “I’ll show you the best place to sit.” Harriet perched on a stool just behind the prop table, scribbling down details in her green notebook. She noticed that each item was labeled, with its spot on the table outlined in masking tape, so the prop master could see at a glance whether every prop was in place. Systems like this appealed to Harriet. She resolved to draw outlines of every item she had in her backpack when she got home. She unzipped it, took out a pair of bird-watching binoculars that her father had given her, and scanned the triangular wedge of the audience visible to her from this angle, searching for Annie and P. If I get to spy on them from here, she thought, from the backstage of the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show, it’ll be one for the record books.

  She worked her way up and down every row but recognized no one. They must have seats on the opposite side of the audience, Harriet thought, disappointed. She was about to replace the binoculars when she noticed a man and a girl sidling past a row of people who stood back for them, perching on top of their seats.

  Harriet trained her binoculars right on that row. Sure enough, it was Annie and P., who was clutching a large box of Milk Duds. They reached their seats just as the house light
s dimmed. Harriet stared at their faces. Neither of them had the enraptured expression secret lovers in movies always had when they went on a rendezvous; Annie, in fact, looked as if she might burst into tears any minute.

  51

  There were only four days left until winter break, and the halls of the Gregory School were ringing with talk about Christmas vacations. Everyone seemed to be going someplace where she could get tan: the Caribbean, a ski resort, Greece. Beth Ellen Hansen was taking a cruise.

  “Where are you going, Cassandra?” said Marion Hawthorne, who’d just told the group near her locker that her parents had rented a bungalow on Guadeloupe.

  “The family villa in Sicily,” Annie replied. “If my uncles are done with their squabble, that is. Otherwise I’ll just be stuck in Las Vegas.” Marion and Rachel exchanged wary glances and nodded. “Have fun,” Rachel said, scuttling down the hall so fast she looked like an insect.

  “Are you really going away during break?” Harriet asked as she walked Annie home.

  “Where would I go?” Annie’s voice was forlorn. “I’m not supposed to go back to Boston till everything’s settled, and my aunt and uncle are working straight through the vacation. My uncle says his patients all get depressed at the holidays, and my aunt’s patients just keep on having babies. Anyway, they don’t celebrate Christmas. Not even a tree.” She cast a yearning look over at Balsam and Douglas’s tree stand. Harriet had the urge to reach out and take her friend’s arm, but she stopped herself, remembering how Annie had bristled the last time she’d tried that. She doesn’t want anyone pitying her, thought Harriet.