“We know from our intelligence sources Jennifer was to meet a man named Peter Rhodes,” Mrs. Smith says. A photo pops up on the screen of a man with a round bald head and beady eyes. “Peter Rhodes claimed to have information. People claim to have information all the time. This isn’t unusual. Rhodes was to meet Jennifer at the Eiffel Tower.”
“But within five hours,” she continues, “there’s this.” Another picture. This time Rhodes lies on a slab, wearing a white sheet and a toe tag. Gross.
“He was found in the Seine,” Toby says. “And he wasn’t swimming.”
“We know Jennifer came back to New York,” Mrs. Smith says. “But there’s been no sign of her since her return. And this is unusual.”
“And you guys, you know, tried calling her and asking her and stuff?” They look at me as if I’ve gone completely mad.
“She wasn’t supposed to be even thinking about the Ghost,” Veronica says.
My mind is trying to deal with all this information so quickly that I’m surprised steam doesn’t billow from my ears. “So basically you don’t know where she is or what she did in Paris. And now you can’t find her.”
“This is Jennifer Hunter we’re talking about,” Toby says. “If she’s gone rogue, no one will find her.”
“Toby,” Mrs. Smith snaps.
“Sorry,” he mutters. But I heard him.
“Rogue?” I say quietly. The definition of “rogue” is one who is no longer obedient and therefore not controllable or answerable. My stomach flip-flops.
“The Center has an extensive network of worldwide contacts,” Mrs. Smith says. “There’s been noise on the network that Peter Rhodes gave Jennifer something important, something having to do with the Ghost. We need to know what it is. Now, there’ll be a number of other parties interested in knowing this too. Unfortunately, the world is full of bad guys trying to one-up one another, so it’s critically important we get to Jennifer first.”
The definition of “rogue” also includes things like “renegade” and “unpredictable.” A little voice in the back of my head wonders why, after years of what sounds like loyal service to the Center, Jennifer would suddenly go around them. But I know better than to ask this question. Instead, I ask how they intend to find her if she’s as good at hiding as Toby implies.
“You misunderstand, Abigail,” Mrs. Smith says with a jagged little smile. “We don’t intend to look for her. She’ll come to us.”
“How?” I ask, my voice creeping up a few octaves.
“If Jennifer is deep under, she won’t come up for anything except—”
“Except . . . ,” Veronica says with a hint of glee.
“Except you,” Mrs. Smith finishes.
“Me?”
“If Jennifer has something on the Ghost, the Ghost’s going to want Jennifer,” Mrs. Smith says. “Following so far?” Kind of. Maybe. “The Ghost’s enemies, of which there are many in the criminal world, will also want Jennifer for the same reason we do. She’s very popular right now. But Jennifer will only come up for you.”
I begin to see where this is going. They’re using me. As bait.
Toby interrupts. “So you walk around and let the bad guys come after you, and Jennifer swoops in and saves you, and we grab her and debrief.” He says this as if the whole idea is incredibly fun and he just can’t wait to get started. I want to punch him.
“That’s the plan?” I ask. It sounds more like a hope than a plan.
“You have a better one?” snaps Mrs. Smith. She seems unusually tense, even for her. I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “So where do I go to be, you know, bait?” Mrs. Smith smiles and her shoulders relax just a bit.
“We’re working on that,” she says. “While we narrow in on Jennifer’s possible location, I’ve asked Veronica to give you the rundown on how we do things here at the Center. We don’t have much time, but used wisely, it’ll be better than nothing.”
This is clearly news to Veronica. “What?” she says. “Why can’t Toby do it? This is so not fair.”
“What’s fair and what’s necessary aren’t always the same thing,” Mrs. Smith says. “We do what needs to be done.”
Veronica is obviously furious at this assignment. I hang my head. My cheeks burn. With all my heart, I wish Jennifer were here. I wish she were here so I could tell her I’m never speaking to her again for the rest of my life.
Chapter 11
Spy Training with Veronica: Night Number One.
WHAT ON EARTH IS VERONICA going to teach me in spy training? Kung fu? How to properly wear a disguise? How to forge a passport, an identity, a fingerprint? Will she teach me to speak fifteen different languages so I blend into local cultures like I belong? I really want to ask her who the other spies are at school, but I’m afraid she’ll tell me that information is on a need-to-know basis and then karate-chop me for asking.
I follow her down a blindingly bright hallway. There are doors off the hallway on either side. We enter room number seven. Lucky seven. Or in my case, probably not-so-lucky seven.
The room is large, with a wooden floor and white padded walls that absorb the sounds of my footsteps as well as the sound of me being knocked to the ground. Because suddenly there I am, flat on my face, a victim of the same foot as Doreen way back at the beginning of the year at a school meeting. That foot is fast. That foot is an army of one. That foot is on the small of my back applying a not-insignificant amount of pressure. I groan.
“If you want to work for the Center,” Veronica says, still simmering, “there are some lessons you need to learn. Lesson number one: awareness. Your environment is ever changing. If you don’t pay attention, you end up on your face. Or worse.”
I’m very aware that if Veronica pushes down any harder, she will rupture my spleen. I don’t want to consider “worse.”
“Awareness,” I wheeze.
“Speak clearly, innocent!”
I can’t do that because my mouth is pressed to the floor. I can barely breathe. Plus, I never asked to work for the Center! I never asked for any of this, and after only twelve seconds of Veronica training, I’m pretty sure I’m going to suck at it.
I grow light-headed from lack of oxygen. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can lie here and suffocate or I can get her off my back. I place my hands into push-up position. I have never been very strong, but I’m long, so I can create leverage. On the count of three. One. Two. Three. With all my strength, I snap my arms straight. Veronica’s foot dislodges and I roll away, tucking myself into a crouch position in case she decides to kick me in the teeth as a follow-up.
“Awareness,” I repeat, as clearly as I can. Veronica circles me. I remain tucked.
“Stand up,” she says. I do as I’m told.
“Your job is to block. Whatever I throw at you, defend yourself.”
“Wait!” I yell. “Why do I need to defend myself if I’m bait? Doesn’t bait just, you know, sit there and wait for something to happen?”
Veronica takes a moment to look appalled. Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. Again. “Lesson number two,” she growls. “Things don’t always go as planned.”
“Well, I kinda figured that one out already,” I point out.
“You’re hopeless,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. “Sit.” We both drop down on the hard wooden floor. “Listen carefully. A lot of times, bait gets eaten. Your job is to adjust on the fly.”
Did she just say “eaten”?
“I have two nights to give you enough basic skills so you don’t make a total mess of everything,” she continues. “Not that anyone believes even I can work that kind of magic, but here we are. So I’m going to do my best and hope it’s enough. It won’t be, but whatever. Now get up. We have work to do.”
Veronica’s idea of a pep talk doesn’t fill me with confidence,
but I get to my feet because I don’t want to find out what happens if I don’t.
Turns out I should have taken my chances on the floor. Veronica’s hands are as fast as that foot of hers, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising. She gets me in the chest, in the neck, in the soft part of my belly. She hits my thighs, my shins, the insides of my palms. Each hit feels like a bee sting, the accumulation of which causes my eyes to water. I do my best to block her, to get my hands in place before she strikes me. But I’m too slow.
As I fail and fail again to defend myself, I think about how none of this would be happening if Jennifer had told me the truth: her job, those trips, this school, Mrs. Smith. It’s a long list, and with every item I add I get a little angrier. Did she send me to boarding school because she wanted to search for the Ghost unhindered? Was I just a nuisance? She did say she wanted me to be safe, but I thought she meant from my sometimes-not-very-good choices. In any case, I’m now being beaten up by Veronica. That is definitely not in the “safe” category. I’m so mad my anger actually cancels out the sting of Veronica’s lightning-fast hands.
But wait, maybe that’s because Veronica isn’t landing her jabs. Maybe that’s because as my brain stews, my hands do the busy work of defending my body as if on autopilot. Of course, the minute I realize what’s happening, the whole system collapses and Veronica gets me right in the face.
Okay. Concentrate. Think about . . . Quinn? All right, that might work. I love his hair, the way it’s a little too long and curls around his ears and the blue-green of his eyes and his lopsided smile. I love how his Smith School official navy-blue blazer always looks like it spent the night thrown in a corner and his shirts are not much better. But he likes Charlotte. It’s a nonstarter. WHAM! Veronica gets me in the thigh with a foot, and I stumble back against the padded wall.
Okay, Abby, time to move on from Quinn. Think about New York. Think about the courtyard pond at the Frick museum, so quiet and serene with the fountain gurgling in the middle and the lilies floating on the surface of the water. Yeah. That’s good. I like MoMA, too. And Shake Shack! Oh, that’s a good one. I could lose myself in fantasies about Shake Shack for days! It takes a minute to realize there’s been a pause in the pummeling. Veronica, in ready position, appraises me.
“Do you want to know why I don’t like you?” Veronica asks. Not really, but I bet she’s going to tell me anyway. “You get special treatment because you’re Jennifer Hunter’s daughter.”
“Huh?”
“You walk around with a sense of entitlement, like everything that was hers should be yours just because you share DNA. The rest of us work hard for what we get. We work for Mrs. Smith’s respect while you just coast.”
Wait a minute! Up until yesterday, I had no idea Jennifer Hunter was anything other than my mother. I’m about to say as much when Veronica’s hands fly at me. But fueled by a new surge of anger, I land two sweet jabs to Veronica’s sternum and push her back on her heels. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
“That’s better, innocent,” Veronica says. She wears a funny smile. I’m in a full sweat. My body aches head to toe. I don’t know how much time has passed. It could be minutes or days.
“What’s with the ‘innocent’?” I ask.
“It’s what we call the new people,” she says with a shrug. “You’re all so naive when you walk in here. You think the world is safe and benign and full of happy endings and fairy dust. But you’re wrong. And once you see just how wrong, all that innocence is gone. Tomorrow night, lessons three and four. Don’t be late.”
With that she leaves, slamming the door behind her. I guess I survived night number one of basic training.
Chapter 12
The Next Day. Where I’m Extremely Tired and Cranky.
AT TWO IN THE MORNING, I climb back into McKinsey House through Tory Agnew’s open first-floor window. Why the girl sleeps with the window open in February is anybody’s guess, but I’m grateful. I show my gratitude by landing with a thud, tripping over a lacrosse stick and a pair of soccer cleats, and falling headlong into the desk. An upright container of pencils tumbles over, and the pencils scatter everywhere. I catch myself on the wall and pull down an Alex Morgan poster. This is terrible. I freeze.
Fortunately, Tory sleeps like the dead. She doesn’t even twitch, and I make it safely to the hallway and back up to my room. I should have asked Veronica how she gets in and out of McKinsey House, because I’m betting it’s not like this. She probably has a key. Or a passcode. Or maybe she just growls at the door and it yields in fear.
Lying in the darkness, I realize it’s the first time I’ve been alone with my thoughts since my ill-fated attempt to run away roughly thirty-six hours ago. My mind spins like an overcaffeinated hamster on his favorite wheel. My mother the wonder spy has done something she wasn’t supposed to and gone off the grid. The Smith School for Children is really Mrs. Smith’s Spy School for Girls. Veronica’s actually more terrifying than I originally thought. And Toby, well, who is Toby? My eyes feel crusty and raw every time I blink. When I close them, bright colors flash against my lids. A flicker of pale sunlight appears in my window before I fall into a restless sleep.
The next morning, even the effort required to lift a bite of scrambled eggs to my mouth seems herculean. I push my breakfast tray out of the way and put my head down on the table.
“What’s wrong with you?” asks Izumi, poking me with her fork.
“She’s been like this all morning,” Charlotte says. “A big drag.”
“I’m tired,” I moan.
My friends have very little sympathy for how exhausted I am because they don’t know I spent the night being beaten up by Veronica.
“Have some tea,” says Izumi. Izumi firmly believes the solution to every problem begins with tea.
“Coffee has more caffeine,” offers Charlotte. Coffee is available for the upper-school students, not that we invisibles don’t drink it anyway. In fact, Charlotte drinks lots of it, black, but makes awful faces while doing so.
“I hate coffee,” I whine.
“Oh no,” Charlotte yelps. “Here comes Quinn. Hide me.”
I pick my head up to see Quinn and Toby moving toward us, Toby giving me an award-winning hairy eyeball. How am I supposed to act normal with him looking at me like that? And how come he’s so perky? He mock-toasts me with a cup of coffee. Fine. I push back from the table. “Anyone want coffee?” I ask, resigned to my fate. I cannot fall asleep in Chinese History again.
“Oh my God!” Izumi suddenly shouts, and Izumi never shouts. We follow her gaze toward the cafeteria entrance.
“Veronica,” Charlotte whispers. “She’s alive!”
“You have no idea,” I mutter under my breath, stalking off toward the coffee urn. Veronica heads right for me. She, too, looks perky and energized. I’ve got to figure out how they do it, because it’ll be some sort of miracle if I survive the morning, let alone the rest of the freaking day. I feel Toby’s eyes on me as Veronica approaches, as if he’s beaming a warning directly into my brain. Stay cool, Abby.
So I try. I continue to walk toward the giant coffee urn along the far side of the dining hall. Veronica passes on my left. She does not make eye contact. She does not acknowledge my existence. I’m relieved and yet oddly disappointed. I know her now. I’m one of two people in this room who know her. Or maybe there are more? How am I supposed to know? No one tells me anything. But the point is, a wink or a nod would’ve been appreciated, some recognition that we’re in this, whatever it is, together. I’m being melodramatic, but I’m kind of cranky this morning. I don’t kick her in the shins, but the thought makes me smile.
Veronica heads to the popular girls’ table. They don’t seem surprised to see her. I have a terrifying thought. What if all the Queen Bees are in on the spy gig, a kind of Charlie’s Angels, Mean Girls version? I shudder at the notion. I might survive Veronica, but five
or six of her? No way.
Only when I go to pour my coffee do I realize I now hold a small piece of paper. How did she do that? With my back to the dining tables, I smooth the paper flat in my palm.
The office. 1 hour.
I assume it means Mrs. Smith’s office. In one hour, I’ll be right in the middle of Chinese History. Oh, why does it have to be Chinese History? Why can’t it be Beginning Concepts in Physics with Mr. Roberts? Mr. Chin doesn’t even like us breathing in class, let alone up and leaving halfway through. Plus, he’s already mad at me about the falling-asleep thing. I stuff the note in my pocket and head back to the table, my coffee sloshing all over as I go.
Exactly sixty minutes later, I raise my hand. Mr. Chin peers at me over his half-moon glasses. He does not like being interrupted.
“Why, Miss Hunter.” He glowers. “You must be awake if your hand is raised. How lovely for us. Do you have a question?”
“May I be excused to use the restroom?” I say.
“The restroom?”
“Yes. It’s kind of an emergency.” Snickers from my classmates. My face flushes bright red.
“Is this a real emergency, Miss Hunter, or an excuse to sneak out of class and text smiley faces to your friends?”
“Um, my phone is in my room, sir,” I say quietly. “No electronics during class time.”
“It’s nice to see you understand the rules,” he says, “even if you feel they don’t apply to you. Perhaps you intend to nap like you did yesterday?”
“No, sir,” I mutter, “I just need to use the restroom.” This is awful. I wonder what would happen if I crawled under my desk and pretended to be invisible? The minute hand on the clock lurches forward. Now I’m in trouble and going to be late.
“Do you think the rulers of the Ming Dynasty care that you have to go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls Page 6
