Owen Foote, Super Spy

by Stephanie Greene

  Owen turned around. "Hi, Mr. Mahoney."

  "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were planning a dangerous military mission," said Mr. Mahoney. He looked around the group with a friendly smile. "What are you boys up to?"

  His hand felt like a steel clamp on Owen's shoulder. One firm squeeze and Owen's bones would crumble like pretzels.

  "Not much," Ben said.

  "We were just talking." Owen's face felt hot.

  "Talking about some pretty serious stuff, I'd say," said Mr. Mahoney. He patted Owen's shoulder. "I'm looking for Mrs. Furlone. Have any of you seen her?"

  "She's over there with Mr. Hall's class," said Ben. He pointed to the back of the cafeteria. "Someone spilled their milk on the table."

  "So she is," said Mr. Mahoney. "Thank you, Ben." He patted Owen's shoulder again. "I'd better see if she needs help. See you boys later."

  One last squeeze and he was gone.

  Owen sagged against the back of his chair. "That was a close one," he said.

  "You were great." Joseph was looking at him with huge eyes. "You didn't sound nervous at all."

  "It's a good thing you guys did the talking," said Anthony. "I think my voice box was paralyzed."

  "Do you think he heard anything?" Owen looked around the group.

  "Nah. No one can hear anything in the cafeteria," said Ben.

  "I guess you're right," said Owen. He craned his head around to see where Mr. Mahoney was. When Mrs. Furlone, the cafeteria monitor, slapped the end of their table with her hand, he almost fell out of his chair.

  "Line up, boys," she said. "You've left some chips under the table, Anthony. Ben, I believe that's your napkin." She looked at Joseph. "Joseph? Are you okay? You look a little pale."

  "I'm fine."

  "Okay. Whose turn is it to clean up?"

  "Anthony's and mine," said Ben.

  "Then you'd better hurry," said Mrs. Furlone. "Everyone else is already in line."

  Ben and Anthony rushed to get a wet cloth for the table and a broom. Owen and Joseph went to throw away their trash.

  "What if we get caught?" said Joseph. His face was back to its usual color, but his eyes looked worried. "He almost caught us then and we weren't even spying."

  "We're not going to get caught," Owen said firmly. "I'll make you some camouflage like mine. He won't be able to see us. I promise."

  "My dad doesn't wear the kind that look like shorts," said Joseph. He got in line behind Owen. "He wears the kind with the 'y' in front. I'll look like I'm wearing a shower cap."

  "Don't worry," Owen said. "My dad probably has another pair. You can come over tomorrow after school to see if they fit. We can practice our Morse code, too."

  "Another pair?" said Mrs. Foote. "Your father's going to think I'm burying his boxer shorts in the same underwear cemetery where I bury his socks."

  "These were in the garage. Dad was going to use them as a rag." Owen smoothed out the pair of boxer shorts on the coffee table. They had a large hole in the back. "I have to make a pair for Joseph. He's a nervous wreck he'll get caught."

  Owen bit his lip, but it was too late.

  "Caught?" said his mom. She looked alert, as if Owen had just sent up a flare. "Who are you spying on, that he's worried about getting caught? Do you think maybe you're getting a little carried away with all this spying, Owen?"

  It was his dad who came to his rescue.

  "If he is, it's genetic," he said, stooping to kiss his wife on the cheek. He put his briefcase on the couch. "His mother is a voyeur at heart."

  "I know what that means," said Lydia. She looked up from her homework. Ever since she had started taking French in middle school, she acted as if she'd been born in France. "It means..." She frowned. "I forget."

  "It means Mom's a spy," said Owen. "Like me.

  "I am not," said his mom. "I like to see how other people live, that's all. I should have been an anthropologist."

  "Do anthropologists give fake names to realtors at model homes?" said Owen.

  "And do they drive around at night, hoping people have left their curtains open so they can see into their living room windows?" said Lydia.

  Mr. Foote laughed. "Looks like they've got your number, honey."

  "It's not spying," insisted Mrs. Foote. "I find it interesting, that's all. It's like looking at a play, or a painting."

  "Face it, Mom. You're a spy," said Owen. He stood up. "You can sneak over to the Gallos' house with me sometime. You'll love it. Their garage is bigger than our whole house."

  "She's getting interested," teased Mr. Foote. "I see that gleam in her eye."

  "I do not sneak," said Mrs. Foote primly. She swatted Mr. Foote with the newspaper. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

  "The right side," said Owen. He started for the door.

  "Where are you going?" said his mom. "It's your night to set the table."

  "Not yet. I've got to get started on Joseph's camouflage."

  "What's wrong?" said Lydia. "Doesn't Mr. Hobbs wear the right kind of underwear?"

  "The right kind of underwear?" Mr. Foote looked from her to Owen. "What does Mr. Hobbs's underwear have to do with camouflage?"

  "You don't want to know, Dad," Lydia said.

  "Don't tell him," said Owen. "I want him to be surprised."

  "Oh, he'll be surprised, all right," said Lydia. "It's whether he'll finally have you committed that I'm wondering about."

  4. Fancy Meeting You Here

  "Come in, Owen. Come in, Owen."

  Owen held the walkie-talkie up to his mouth and pressed the button. "Owen here."

  "Green car alert. Green car alert." Anthony's voice was full of static.

  "Over and out," said Owen. He clicked off the walkie-talkie, shouted, "Duck or die!" and hurled himself into the ditch by the side of the road.

  Joseph dove behind a pile of rocks.

  They were just in time. A green car came flying around the corner and sped past them in a blast of warm air.

  "Whew! That was a close one." Joseph crawled out from behind his hiding spot. "That guy was going fast."

  The car had disappeared around the corner.

  "You know whose road is down there, don't you?" said Owen.

  The smile slid from Joseph's face.

  "I'd better call them in." Owen pushed the speak button. "Owen to Anthony. Owen to Anthony."

  There was a squawk, then a voice. "What's up?"

  It was Ben.

  "Enemy territory straight ahead," said Owen. "We'll wait for you. Over and out." He put the walkie-talkie in his back pocket and looked at Joseph.

  The game was over.

  Owen had invented it the night before while he was lying in bed, thinking about Ben's walkie-talkies. He named it "Duck or Die." The way it worked was that he and Joseph were one team, Anthony and Ben were the other, and cars were the enemy.

  He and Joseph had started down the road first. Anthony and Ben gave them a five-minute lead. Then they started walking, too.

  If a car came from their direction, Anthony and Ben had to radio a warning to Owen and Joseph. If it came from their direction, Owen and Joseph had to warn them.

  If a car got to your team before you hid, you were dead.

  It was a lot of fun. They had been playing it for more than an hour now. They had worked their way down Chesterfield Road, jumping over bushes and rolling on the ground.

  But now Mr. Mahoney's road was around the corner. The real game was about to begin.

  Anthony and Ben ran up to them. They were out of breath.

  "Mr. Mahoney's road is right down there," said Owen. They looked to where he was pointing and nodded solemnly. "We can cut through the woods here and get there in about five minutes. No more talking. And no more walkie-talkies."

  "No fair," said Anthony. "They're the best part."

  "Owen's right," Ben said. He put his in his pocket. "They make too much noise."

  "You know Mr. Mahoney," Joseph said nervously. "He hears everything. Eve
n things kids haven't said yet."

  They all looked at one another. It was true.

  Some kids at school said Mr. Mahoney had a radio receiver implanted in his ear. Other kids swore he could read minds.

  No one felt safe having bad thoughts when Mr. Mahoney was around. Much less doing bad things.

  And here they were, getting ready to spy on him in his own back yard.

  Joseph coughed. Owen knew what that meant. If they didn't go right now, Joseph might either change his mind or throw up. If he threw up, they'd all change their minds.

  Owen pulled his camouflage down over his head. "Come on," he said gruffly.

  He jumped over the ditch and started into the woods. Joseph and Anthony and Ben scrambled up the small hill behind him. No one wanted to be left behind.

  Owen walked as quietly as he could. The other boys followed behind him, single file. Owen held on to branches that stuck out in front of him so they wouldn't whip back and hit anyone in the face.

  For a few minutes they walked in silence. There was no one else around.

  Then Owen spotted something through the trees. He stopped and motioned toward it. When everyone had seen it, he started moving again, cautiously.

  It was a house. A brown house. Owen let the air seep slowly out of him with relief.

  The Mahoneys' house was red. He wasn't ready to reach the Mahoneys' house. Not just yet.

  They filed past the brown house silently. There was a trampoline on one side of the yard and a wooden swing set in the middle. Owen saw a fenced-in area with a small doghouse inside.

  His heart stopped beating.

  What if the Mahoneys had a dog? He hadn't thought of that. It would be a military dog, if they did, knowing Mr. Mahoney. Trained to sniff out spies at a hundred yards. To run them to the ground and stand over them—snarling—until the Marines arrived.

  Owen wracked his mind, trying to remember. A cool sweat broke out on his forehead. If he asked the other guys, they might get cold feet. Joseph would know why he was asking, for sure.

  So he kept walking. After a few minutes, they passed a yellow house. That yard was deserted, too. It started to feel as if all they were doing was taking an innocent walk in the woods.

  When he heard sounds of scuffling behind him, Owen turned around. Anthony was holding Ben's walkie-talkie up above his head. Ben was trying to shove him off balance.

  "Quiet," Owen said in a low voice. "We're getting close."

  Ben snatched the walkie-talkie out of Anthony's hand. They fell into line again.

  Then Owen saw it through the trees.

  The side of a dark red house. He pointed to it silently. The mood was suddenly tense.

  Looking at the Mahoneys' house, he wondered if maybe they should go back to playing "Duck or Die" instead. Mess around with the walkie-talkies some more. Anthony would like that, he knew.

  Then Joseph whispered in his ear, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

  That did it. No way was he going to chicken out now. Owen kept walking, leading them along the ridge that ran along the rear of the Mahoneys' back yard. It wasn't high, but it was steep. A straight drop of dirt and rocks down to grass. The edge looked crumbly, so Owen kept away from it.

  He was heading toward a clump of bushes halfway along the ridge. It would make the perfect spying place.

  Down below, the Mahoneys' yard was empty. There was a deck with a round table and chairs. A book was lying open on a table next to a blue-striped chaise longue.

  Owen saw a barbecue grill next to the deck, and a garden in the middle of the yard. There was a shovel sticking out of it, as if whoever had been working had suddenly been called away.

  Maybe the Mahoneys weren't even at home, Owen thought suddenly. Maybe they had gone grocery shopping. The possibility made him giddy with relief.

  Then a door slammed and he froze.

  Mrs. Mahoney came out onto the deck carrying a tall glass. She put the glass on the table next to the book. She sat down on the end of the chaise and untied her sneakers.

  She dropped them on the deck, swung her legs onto the cushion, and picked up the book.

  She started to read.

  Owen was afraid to breathe.

  If they moved, Mrs. Mahoney might look up and see them. If they stayed here—frozen in plain sight—she'd definitely see them.

  He headed for the bushes as fast as he could without running. When he slid in behind them, Joseph, Anthony, and Ben were fast on his heels. The clump wasn't nearly as big as it had looked. They had to scrunch up into little balls and wrap their arms around their knees so no one's arm or leg would stick out.

  They were jockeying noiselessly for position when the door slammed again. Owen looked down.

  It was Mr. Mahoney.

  He handed his wife a bowl and said something that made her laugh. Then he walked down the steps and over to the garden. He grabbed the shovel and started to dig.

  Owen turned his head and saw Anthony and Joseph and Ben staring at him like deer caught in the headlights of a car.

  They were actually doing it. They were spying on Mr. Mahoney.

  Up till now, spying on Mr. Mahoney had been an idea. Owen had never really gotten so far as to imagine how it would feel to finally see Mr. Mahoney.

  Now he knew. It would feel terrifying.

  Here was Mr. Mahoney, the principal of Chesterfield School, relaxing in his own back yard. And here was Owen, crammed behind a bush with three other kids, spying on him.

  If they moved, Mr. Mahoney would hear them.

  If they ran, Mr. Mahoney would see them.

  The bush seemed to be growing smaller by the second.

  Mr. Mahoney was working his way slowly down a garden row, turning over the soil one methodical shovelful at a time. Every once in a while, he or Mrs. Mahoney said something. But mostly, they were quiet.

  For a few minutes, no one behind the bush moved. They kept their eyes trained on Mr. Mahoney. Then gradually, the shock began to wear off. Owen could think. And what he thought was that Mr. Mahoney looked amazingly normal.

  He was hypnotized by his garden the same way Owen's dad was. He was wearing a hat with a brim that went all the way around it, like the one Owen's dad wore.

  And it looked just as corny.

  Even the dark stain spreading over the middle of his back looked like plain old sweat. Mr. Mahoney looked like a happy man enjoying his privacy in his own back yard.

  Watching him, Owen came to a terrible realization. He would hate it if Mr. Mahoney did anything embarrassing. He didn't want to be able to laugh about him afterward with Joseph and Anthony and Ben. He didn't want Mr. Mahoney to do anything that would make him look silly.

  He wanted Mr. Mahoney to be Mr. Mahoney, awesome principal of Chesterfield School.

  He felt someone squirming beside him. Ben made a face and pointed to his legs. Owen knew what he meant. His legs were starting to ache, too. And his camouflage was itching like crazy.

  He took it off and looked over at the other guys. Joseph still looked worried, but Anthony made a face. A "This is boring" face.

  Owen looked at his watch. They had only been here for fifteen minutes. It felt more like fifteen hours. Mr. Mahoney got to the end of the row and started on another.

  Owen counted. There were ten rows in all. Nine more left. Nine times fifteen. Owen didn't even have to do the math. This was going to go on for a long time.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  It was Anthony. He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. Owen shook his head. There was no way they could move without Mr. Mahoney hearing them.

  Next to him, Joseph was trying to get comfortable. He rocked back and forth on his bottom. Owen had to put a hand on the ground to keep from being knocked over.

  There was nothing they could do but wait.

  Joseph nudged him with his elbow and blinked. "What?" Owen mouthed.

  Joseph blinked again. Owen shook his head to say he didn't understand. "The bathroom,"
Joseph whispered.

  Anthony clamped his hand over his mouth and started to move his shoulders up and down, as if he was laughing.

  Owen glared at him to make him stop, but it was no use. Anthony wasn't afraid anymore. He was bored. So was Ben. He leaned against Joseph and made a soft hissing sound. "Psssss."

  Anthony started to laugh for real. Ben did, too. They were jiggling around, banging against one another, like twin volcanoes about to erupt. There wasn't enough room in that small space to contain them.

  Before Owen knew what was happening, they bumped into Joseph, Joseph bumped into him, and he was sent sprawling out from behind the bush.

  And then he was falling. Tumbling head over heels down the hill with dirt flying up around his face and rocks jabbing into his back. His camouflage was ripped out of his hands. He grabbed a branch and felt prickers dig into his skin.

  It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  Owen landed on his back at the bottom of the hill so hard it knocked the wind out of him. He lay there in a daze and heard the sound of the other boys crashing away through the woods above him.

  Then he heard an even worse sound.

  Footsteps.

  Mr. Mahoney's face blotted out the blue sky above Owen's head like a storm cloud.

  "Owen Foote," he said pleasantly. "Fancy meeting you here."

  5. "Punish Us Now. Please."

  "Who is it? Is he all right?" Mrs. Mahoney came running across the yard.

  "It's Owen Foote, and he's fine," said Mr. Mahoney. He helped Owen to his feet. "He's a little scratched up, that's all."

  Mrs. Mahoney's worried face peered into Owen's. "We always warned our sons to be careful on that ridge," she said. "No matter how many bushes we plant, it keeps eroding. What were you doing up there?"

  Mr. Mahoney didn't have to ask. When he came back down the hill, he had Owen's camouflage in his hand.

  "Nice job," he said, holding it out. "You made it yourself?"

  All Owen could do was nod.

  Mrs. Mahoney was making worried noises, checking him over for damage.

  "Oh, dear," she said. She took Owen's left hand in her own. "Your hand's bleeding."