Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls

by Beth McMullen

  “I can’t believe I liked you!” Tom screams, clawing frantically at the ice. “I can’t believe I thought you were pretty!”

  Sure, Tom is awful and a liar and a traitor and an all-around terrible human being. But his compliment makes a nice little warm spot in my belly, now the only nonfrozen part of my anatomy. I stumble, hunched over, toward shore, slipping and sliding. My eyelashes freeze. My face burns. Up ahead, beams of light whip through the darkness like a Vegas laser show. As I draw closer, here’s what I see.

  Veronica. Beating the living daylights out of Rip Curl. What’s he doing here? Why can’t someone nice ever show up? I pause long enough to see Veronica’s doing a pretty good job on him. He might be killing it at CrossFit, but that doesn’t mean much in the real world, I guess. When Veronica spots me lurching toward them, she screams, “Abby, watch out!”

  From out of the darkness, a soaking-wet Tom lunges at me and we hit the snow in a tangled heap.

  “The Crow, Abby, the Crow!” The Crow? What’s she screaming about? Oh right, that thing she showed me where you stick the pointy part of your elbow in your opponent’s eye. Just like a crow pecking his dinner. “Now!”

  I’m glad she can defend herself against Rip Curl and critique my performance at the same time. Tom pins me to the ground, grinning like a maniac. I jam my bent knee into his lower back. Ice cracks off my pants.

  “Ow!” Tom bleats. In the split second he’s distracted, I push him off me and deliver the Crow. He howls in pain, and I dash for the boat racks. Rip Curl has Veronica pushed up against the boathouse wall, his forearm across her neck, her feet five inches above the snow. He rants about how he’s had enough of girls to last him a lifetime. Veronica struggles.

  I dig into the nearest canoe and grab a wooden oar. Jennifer always says a girl needs to know how to do certain things, like hit a baseball, drive a stick shift, and rappel off a cliff. I swing that oar like nobody’s business, and Rip Curl goes down.

  Veronica gasps for air, clutching her throat. Behind me, Tom staggers to his feet, rubbing his eye. I give him a quick whack with the oar just to be on the safe side.

  “Okay, Abby,” Veronica says. “Stop hitting people now. Put that thing down.”

  But I don’t want to put down my oar. I can’t put it down. I’m suddenly light-headed and giddy.

  “It’s adrenaline,” Veronica says softly, removing the oar from my hands and tossing it aside. “You’re safe now. It’s okay. Relax.”

  “Relax?” I squeak. “I don’t think I can relax.”

  “That was nice work,” she says, taking me by the hand and leading me back toward the road.

  “I did Snake in the Grass and the Crow,” I babble. “And the oar thing I just made up.” There’s a red mark across Veronica’s throat. I start to cry.

  “It’s fine, Abby. This is a normal reaction. It’s scary. You’re okay now.”

  I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m all jittery and my eyes dart this way and that, seeing danger in the shadows where there’s nothing but trees. But in the moment, defending myself, I felt good. I felt powerful and able, and I didn’t feel anything like the silly little girl I sometimes think the world sees when they look at me. But I also hurt those people. Sure, they were out to do me harm, but still—I hurt them. And I’m not sure that’s supposed to feel good under any circumstances.

  A white SUV appears out of the shadows. The lights glow warm and welcoming. Veronica puts her hands on my shoulders. “You did okay tonight,” she says, “if we overlook all the parts where you screwed up.” It’s a sort of compliment. I spontaneously hug her. She goes stiff as a board. “What are you doing?” she says hotly.

  “Nothing,” I say, stepping back. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t do that again. Spies don’t hug.”

  “Spies don’t hug,” I repeat.

  “And I didn’t need saving back there,” she huffs. “Just for the record, I had it totally under control.”

  Oh my God, I’m a real spy, and I saved Veronica’s life even if she says I didn’t! I stop before spontaneously hugging her again. She eyes me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You are such a Lower Middle.” But for the first time maybe ever, I finally see her smile. And here we are, grinning at each other, about to have the girl bonding moment of the century if I don’t freeze to death first, when the front passenger door of the white SUV swings open and out steps Mrs. Smith.

  Chapter 24

  Where Mrs. Smith Makes Me Feel Bad. Again.

  “LADIES,” MRS. SMITH SAYS, “ABIGAIL is at risk of hypothermia. I suggest you get in the car.”

  The driver is a big man in a black suit wearing dark sunglasses even though it’s the middle of the night. He doesn’t acknowledge us as we climb in. My companions avert their eyes as I struggle into dry clothing and an enormous down parka while we fly down the icy road at an alarming speed. I wait patiently for Mrs. Smith to congratulate me for exceeding the expectations of a Lower Middle, but she doesn’t say anything.

  We drive in silence for about ten minutes, finally arriving at a single airstrip in seemingly the middle of nowhere. A small prop plane sits on the tarmac, rotors spinning. The SUV brings us right up to the plane, kind of like we’re royalty or the president or, you know, on television.

  Mrs. Smith thanks the driver and we all pile out. The plane is tiny inside, a Coke can with wings, and we pitch and yaw all the way to the much-larger runways of San Francisco International. There, we transfer to a private jet. A private jet! Who are these people, anyway? But no one has said a word since we climbed into the SUV way back in the Sierra Nevada, so I don’t ask. Only after we are settled into our comfortable leather seats does Mrs. Smith speak.

  “I need to know everything that happened, Abigail,” she says. “Every detail. Leave nothing out.”

  “But who were those people?” I blurt. “I think they work for Lotus Man and how did Rip Curl find me up there and who does he work for and—”

  “That’s none of your concern,” she interrupts.

  “But—”

  “Remember, information is on a need-to-know basis. This is for your own safety.”

  “I don’t care about my safety!” This comes out much louder than I expected. Mrs. Smith eyes me with pity as if I’m tragically miswired.

  “Oh,” she says smoothly, “but we do care. Very much. Now walk me through the last twenty-four hours. All the details.”

  How come I don’t exactly believe her level of concern for my welfare? We stare at each other until I understand that we can stare at each other for all eternity and she’s still not going to tell me anything. I avert my eyes and jump in, starting my story at the airport with Fake Bronwyn and how she had everything right except the stumble with the password. “How would she have known all that?” I can’t help but ask. “Is there someone on the inside, like a mole or a traitor or something?” Mrs. Smith frowns. She’s about to remind me I don’t need that information, that telling me anything will compromise my safety, but I cut her off. “Never mind,” I say quickly, and continue with the story.

  I plow through Tom and Rip Curl and the self-driving car and the snowy safe house and the triangle plaque and going out the window and running and finally ending up in the lake. Mrs. Smith does not look impressed. She does not congratulate me. She simply nods her head.

  “I did not have the time to come out here and rescue you,” she says. “I wish you’d followed directions.” Her gaze moves to her phone.

  “But—” I protest.

  “You should get some rest,” she says curtly.

  “Why didn’t Jennifer show up like she was supposed to? Why didn’t she come and get me? You said that was what was going to happen!”

  Mrs. Smith’s eyes dart back to me. “Clearly, I made an error in judgment,” she says. “Now I have work to do.” She slips on her reading
glasses. I just failed Spying 101. But it’s not fair! I did everything I was supposed to! She’s the one who messed up. My eyes brim with hot tears. I fumble out of my seat belt and bolt for the lavatory at the back of the plane. It’s one thing to cry. It’s another thing to cry in front of Mrs. Smith.

  I sit on the closed toilet and call Toby because there’s no one else I can talk to about this. Toby pops up on the small screen and gives me a smile. I burst into tears.

  “Oh hey, wait a minute,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I blubber. “I mean, yes, I am, but no, I’m not, you know?”

  “Sure,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

  “Mrs. Smith hates me,” I whisper. “All I had to do was hang around and I couldn’t get that right. And where was my mother? Why didn’t she come?”

  There’s a pause while Toby shoves a handful of potato chips into his mouth. He’s in his dorm room, at his desk, feet propped on his bed. He takes a swig of Coke. “I think the information Mrs. Smith had about Jennifer being in California was wrong.”

  “She said that?”

  “No,” Toby says. “I kind of overheard it. Sometimes they forget I’m in the room. Can you stop crying, please?”

  “Okay,” I sob, gushing more tears.

  “Mrs. Smith got on the plane as soon as she realized what was happening. None of this is your fault.”

  It’s nice of him to say so, but it doesn’t change the way I feel, and the way I feel is surprisingly bad. I’m familiar with messing up. I did it all the time before I landed at Smith. But this feels different. I wanted to succeed. I wanted to show them that when it counted I could pull through. And I didn’t.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Toby says.

  “I should have known Bronwyn was Suzie,” I say.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Jennifer would have known.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Abby.”

  Too late. “On the bright side”—I sniff—“your phone works after being submerged in freezing water.”

  “Really? Did you drop it in the sink?”

  “Not exactly. I’ll give you the details when I get back.”

  “I can’t wait,” he says with a smile.

  “Thanks,” I say. And I really mean it.

  Chapter 25

  Where Toby Calls Me Names.

  THE NEXT NIGHT I’M BACK in the Annex with the crew, eating cheese fries as if nothing happened. Except Toby is being nice to me. As I lie my way through a story about a nonexistent wedding in San Francisco, Toby asks leading questions and fills in the bits that I leave out. But the girls are no dummies. Izumi looks from Toby to me and back to him.

  “What’s going on?” she asks bluntly. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Oh, come on,” Izumi says. “Really?”

  “Really!” I say.

  “You two, being nice to each other,” Charlotte says. “It’s weird.”

  “Yeah,” says Quinn. He always takes Charlotte’s side, no matter what. “Yeah, why are you being nice to her? You called her an annoying brat just, I don’t know, like last week.”

  “An annoying brat?” I ask.

  “He said you were, like, more annoying than one of those yappy dogs? What are they? Chihuahuas? Yeah. That’s it. He called you an annoying Chihuahua. Always up in his business, you know?”

  Toby punches him in the arm. “Shut up, man.”

  “What? You said it.”

  “God, you’re an idiot. Abby, that’s not what I meant.”

  I stand up. “Sure it is,” I say, surprised at how much his comment stings. “I think I’m out of here.”

  Charlotte squeezes out from beside Quinn. “You are an idiot,” she tells him. “And, Toby? You are too.”

  “Total idiot,” Izumi concurs. “But are we surprised? Not really.” We all tumble out of the Annex without looking back. The night air is biting cold, and we walk quickly back to McKinsey House.

  “Don’t let them bother you,” Charlotte says.

  “I won’t,” I say. “It doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does,” Izumi says. “But who cares what Toby thinks, right?”

  “Right,” I agree.

  And she has a point, an important one. I am still my own person despite what Toby or Mrs. Smith or Veronica think about me. I could have folded many times up there in the frozen mountains or running from Rip Curl, but I didn’t. I kept at it even though I was scared. I’m like Jennifer that way. I don’t quit. And everyone knows Jennifer was the best.

  So maybe I didn’t succeed in the way they wanted me to, but I’m still here. I’m still alive and upright, and I managed to get away. I’m suddenly proud of myself in a radically unfamiliar way. I do a little dance step and almost knock Charlotte over.

  “What’s with you?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” I grin. “Who cares what they think?”

  “Yes!” Izumi cheers, pumping her fist in the air. “Wait—that’s what I said.”

  “I know! And you’re totally right!”

  Izumi gives me a suspicious look. “I think you must have jet lag.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Hey, I gotta stop by and see Mrs. Smith real quick.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, I was supposed to go earlier, but I kind of forgot.”

  “Okay,” says Charlotte, “we’ll see you back at the dorm.”

  I skip off in the direction of Mrs. Smith’s office. I skip down Main Hall. Only when I’m about to round the corner do I pause. Mrs. Smith asked to see me, and I assume it’s to tell me what happens next. But I’m done being bait. If Mrs. Smith wants my help, she’s going to have to give me something in return.

  And what I want is to be a superspy like my mother.

  Chapter 26

  Where I Get Fired.

  THROUGH THE SLIGHTLY AJAR OFFICE doors, I hear Mrs. Smith on the phone. This all feels very familiar, except this time I have no intention of fainting.

  “I had every right!” Mrs. Smith yells into the phone, pounding her fist on her desk. “Remember, it was a lapse in your intelligence that sent us on that wild-goose chase to California in the first place. You told me Jennifer was there. She wasn’t! This stinks like a setup. We had a kite-surfing incident, for God’s sake!”

  There’s a pause. Whoever is on the other end of the phone gives Mrs. Smith an earful. She holds the phone out about a foot and makes faces. How very unlike her! I suppress a giggle. I’m supposed to be here. She asked me to come and see her. But I still feel guilty, a shadow outside the door. Then again, pretending to be invisible is how Toby gets all his good information.

  “Yes, plan B, of course,” Mrs. Smith says softly into the phone. “And no, the girl isn’t part of that plan. Yes, that’s a promise. Listen, we just have to think like Jennifer, do what she would do, and we’ll find her and the evidence.”

  Another pause. I swear I can see steam billowing from Mrs. Smith’s ears. She’s about to lose her cool, something I’ve never seen and would not have thought possible. “I understand no one thinks like Jennifer and that’s why she’s the best!” she shouts. “You don’t think I know that? Good God, my entire life has been spent trying to understand that woman!”

  I pick this moment to push the office door open, making as much noise as possible. If I was confident about asking for what I want five seconds ago, I’m less so now.

  “I have to go,” Mrs. Smith says quickly when she sees me. She slams down the receiver without bothering to say good-bye. She straightens her suit jacket, rearranges some pens on her desk, and offers me an unconvincing smile.

  “Abigail,” she says. “Come in.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Sit down, please.” She gestures toward a se
at in front of her desk. I sit and try not to fidget. It’s not easy.

  “Listen,” I begin. “I know it didn’t go so well out in California, but I think I did okay not drowning and escaping the house and . . .”

  Mrs. Smith holds up a manicured hand. I stop speaking. “Things are complicated, Abigail. As such, we’ve decided to take a different approach to resolving this situation, one that no longer requires your assistance. You’re free to resume your normal activities.”

  Hold up. Did I just get fired? “It’s been a long-standing rule of the Smith School not to involve children under the age of sixteen in this sort of work,” Mrs. Smith continues. “We walk a fine line with those who pay the bills. There are some who believe our tactics are morally questionable. These people wait for us to make a mistake. Naturally, I take full responsibility for this operation’s failure.” She grimaces. She might take responsibility, but she’s not enjoying it. The bits of the conversation I overheard fall into place. She was talking about how plan B doesn’t include me.

  “But wait,” I blurt. “I want to be a spy!”

  It’s true that mere days ago, I found the whole idea of teenage-girl spies preposterous. But now that I’m being kicked out of the club, I’m suddenly desperate to stay.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to be one of you! I want to be terrifying like Veronica and smart, and I don’t ever want to be sitting there on a pier like that, all innocent, ever again. I want to be good at this. Like my mom.”

  Mrs. Smith rubs her eyes. She looks pale and tired as if the weight of the world sits on her shoulders. Plus, I think I’m giving her a headache.

  “This isn’t the time, Abigail,” she says.