“I do not think you’re my minions!” I protest.
“You’re awfully sensitive,” says Izumi.
“I am not!”
“Quit shouting,” says Toby. “People are looking.”
I spend the next ten minutes sulking. That my friends hardly notice does not improve my mood. I should have left them at school. Finally, our train pulls into Grand Central Terminal, which at this hour smells deliciously like bagels and croissants. Toby has to stop for sustenance lest he keel over dead from calorie deprivation. “I’m a thirteen-year-old boy,” he grouses. “I eat. It’s what we do.”
We veer left from where our track exits into the terminal and head toward Zaro’s. On the way, I take a moment to gaze at the constellations on the ceiling. This is one of my favorite places. Jennifer and I once came here on a Sunday morning when the terminal was empty, except for a few stragglers, and lay on the floor for a perfect ceiling view. Yes, lying on the floor of a train station that services roughly 750,000 passengers per day is kind of gross, but Jennifer said the experience made it worth the risk. “Sometimes you have to see the bigger picture,” she said.
“Hey, snap out of it.” Charlotte yanks me back to reality. We are at the front of the Zaro’s line, and if we don’t order promptly, we will be set upon by a horde of angry commuters. This is not the place to daydream.
Toby buys two bagels with cream cheese and a hot chocolate. Charlotte, Izumi, and I split a black-and-white cookie, a doughnut, and a Diet Coke. These are not healthy choices, but neither is running away from boarding school.
Breakfast in hand, we head to the lower concourse and find an empty table in a corner. A good spy sits with her back to the wall so she can see the whole room. That’s not a Veronica-ism, in case you’re wondering. I think I read it in a book. I lay the pencil sketch on the table.
“So Jennifer’s a world-class doodler,” I explain. “It’s like she has to have her hands moving all the time. Have you guys noticed how Mrs. Smith paces?” I get nods all around. “Well, this is just Jennifer’s version of pacing.”
“And?” Charlotte prompts.
“I took this from Mrs. Smith’s desk,” I continue. “It has to be the clue she couldn’t figure out.”
“Did they take it from your house?” Izumi asks.
“No,” says Toby. This is exactly the way he usually reveals gossip that no one could possibly know: His voice drops an octave and goes quiet, making us lean in to hear. “It came from a pizza place.”
“Jake’s!” I shout, leaping from my seat and nearly upending the table. “The place on the corner! Jennifer always hangs her sketches on the giant bulletin boards there.” Blank looks from my friends. “Jake’s an amateur artist,” I explain. “He likes to give other amateur artists a chance to publicly display their art. He calls the wall the ‘artists’ corner.’ It’s just a pizza place, but I guess it works for some people.”
Izumi drums her fingers on the table, her brow furrowed. Charlotte elbows her. “Spill it,” she says.
“I’m just thinking,” she says.
“You’re always doing that,” Charlotte says.
“Someone has to. Anyway, Jennifer takes her little pictures and puts them on the bulletin board, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are the pictures the same every time?”
“No. They’re totally random, actually. Why?”
Izumi takes the sketch and holds it right up to her nose. She turns it upside down and sideways.
“What are you doing?” asks Charlotte.
“See how the page has creases all over it?” she says. She puts the sketch back on the table and begins to bend it this way and that along the preexisting folds. We watch, holding our breath.
“Aha!” she yelps, holding up the sketch. She’s folded it in half lengthwise and then again in a series of triangles as if making a paper fan. “Look.” Where the folds meet, there are nine neat symbols—an arrow; a star; the symbols for Aries, Leo, and Gemini; the infinity symbol; a cracked heart; something that looks like the Liberty Bell; and finally, a cross.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” Izumi whispers.
“There are no coincidences,” I add. “Coincidences stink.”
“I totally agree,” says Charlotte. “But what do they mean?”
Everyone looks at me. “I have no idea.” The atmosphere around us deflates. “But maybe we need to go to Jake’s and ask him what he knows? Maybe he’s in on it? I mean, she’s been passing messages off at his place for as long as I can remember.”
“Why so Luddite, though?” asks Charlotte. “Why not, you know, text or something? It’s faster.”
“Duh,” Toby says. “Electronic footprint? Nothing in cyberspace is secure. I love technology, but not when you’re trying to fly below the radar. Teflon’s got it right on that one. Hey, Charlotte?”
“What?”
“Will you go get me a chocolate croissant?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“How about a slice of pizza?” I say. “Let’s go see Jake.”
We collect our stuff and head out of Grand Central into a sunny but cold New York City morning.
Chapter 29
Where I Realize What Is Right in Front of My Face.
JAKE’S PIZZA IS A TINY dive around the corner from our apartment, with an inch of grease on the windows and five mismatched tables. It’s always one thousand degrees inside regardless of the season because of the giant pizza oven, which, according to Jake, came from an old Italian villa and was shipped here in one piece. There are windows facing the sidewalk and a wall covered entirely in corkboard. This is the artists’ corner, and the board is plastered in paintings and comics and sketches and poems and photographs and collage. There’s even a small table for sculpture if you’re brave enough to leave one.
Jake’s is a fine place and the pizza’s good, don’t get me wrong, but I always thought Jennifer liked it way more than seemed reasonable. When I was little, we used to go there a lot, and she always had something to add to the wall. She’d laugh as she pinned up whatever doodle had jumped from her brain onto the paper as if it were all so innocent. But now I see it’s not. Now I see this was Jennifer’s supersecret communication method. Untraceable. Totally secure. Meaningless to almost everyone.
We arrive at the corner of Eleventh Street and Second Avenue only to find Jake’s Pizza closed. Of course, it’s not even eight thirty in the morning, and according to the sign in the window, the shop doesn’t open until noon. We sit down on the steps of the apartment building next door. This is not an auspicious beginning to our sleuthing. But being as I’m the de facto team leader, I feel obligated to keep up our spirits.
“This isn’t a big deal,” I say. “We can wait.” Charlotte gives me an incredulous look.
“Are you kidding me?” she complains. “It’s freezing. Let’s go to Starbucks and have hot chocolate.”
“We’re low on funds,” I remind her.
“So what?” She shrugs. “I have Daddy’s emergencies-only credit card committed to memory.”
“Did you not hear what I said about the electronic footprint?” Toby says. “Why don’t you just broadcast our whereabouts to the entire world? No credit cards. No phones.”
But I see Charlotte’s point. My fingers are freezing, and I bet Starbucks is toasty warm. Plus, they have those miniscones I really like. When I’m just about to concede that taking the risk of stealing Charlotte’s dad’s credit card is worth it, Jake emerges from the apartment building behind us. He wears pj bottoms with aliens on them, a stained white T-shirt, and pink bunny slippers. He scratches his large, doughy belly and yawns.
“Hey, Abby,” he says, as if finding me outside his front door is not even a little weird. “You guys don’t happen to have any coffee, do you? I could really use some.”
We shak
e our heads. Toby holds out a scrap of bagel wrapped in paper. With a nod of thanks, Jake takes it.
“Jake, these are my friends Charlotte, Toby, and Izumi,” I say.
“And you’re out here on my steps because why?” he says with his mouth full. “It’s not lunchtime yet, is it? If you want slices, I gotta get the oven going and things. Might be a little while.”
“No,” I say. “We’re actually wondering about this.” I pull out the sketch and hold it up for him to see. He smiles.
“One of Mrs. Hunter’s,” he says. He always refers to her as Mrs. Hunter, even though she’s told him a thousand times she’s not a missus and he should call her Jennifer.
“Was it up on your wall?” I ask. “Did Jennifer put it up there?”
“You mean your mother?” he asks. “Does she know you call her Jennifer?”
I hang my head. “Did my mom bring it in?”
Jake takes the sketch and studies it close. “Yeah,” he says finally, “probably last week sometime. I remember because she seemed all tired and twitchy. You know how people get when they’re nervous? Well, that was Jennifer all right. Her eyes were bouncing around like electricity.”
“And?” Charlotte prompts.
“She had a slice,” he continues. “She always says nice things about my pizza. She’s a great lady, your mom. After she left, I thought I should have asked after her, you know? Being a single mom in New York City is no easy thing.” I experience an unexpected wave of guilt thinking of all Jennifer’s text messages, about what she’s having for lunch or who she ran into at the gym or what she’s reading, that I don’t even bother to read.
“Did you by any chance notice who took the sketch from the board?” Izumi asks politely.
“Yup,” he says immediately. “She was a tiny thing, wearing high heels. Blond hair. Never saw her before. Kind of scary.”
“Mrs. Smith,” we say in unison.
“Whoever,” Jake says with a shrug. “It’s part of the deal when you put stuff up. A person likes something, she takes it. It’s the big circle of art, you know?”
We nod like it makes perfect sense.
Jake gets to his feet, rubs his eyes, and stretches. “Okay,” he says. “You guys have fun doing whatever it is you’re doing and be safe. Come back later if you want a slice. I’m going for coffee.” In bunny slippers and his pj’s, Jake heads down the street to Starbucks. We watch him go with equal parts awe and dismay.
Ten minutes later, we sit on a park bench in Union Square. It’s cold, so we mostly have the park to ourselves.
“Do you think that message was intended for Mrs. Smith?” Charlotte asks. “Or was it more like an interception?”
“Well, this is how Jennifer and Mrs. Smith worked back in the old days,” says Toby. “Jennifer got the intelligence or whatever, left the clues, and then ran interference while Mrs. Smith swooped in and picked up whatever Jennifer left for her. I bet Jennifer was counting on Mrs. Smith being able to do it again, like before.”
“But this time Mrs. Smith didn’t understand the clue and couldn’t find what Jennifer left for her,” Izumi says. “And so she figured she’d shortcut her way using Abby.”
“Which was an epic fail,” Toby says.
“Where is Jennifer anyway?” Charlotte asks.
“We’re totally in stealth mode,” Toby reminds her. “Even Teflon would have a hard time tracking us.”
“So what do we do now?” asks Charlotte.
I dig out the sketch and examine the symbols. They still mean nothing to me. I unfold the paper and smooth it out.
Izumi sniffles. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I hate the idea we won’t always be friends,” she says softly. “Like Jennifer and Mrs. Smith.”
“You don’t know that,” Charlotte says. “Maybe we should do the blood-sisters thing?”
Toby snorts. “The Persephone Club girls did that,” he says. “Look how well it worked out for them.”
“Persephone Club?” Charlotte asks, confused.
As Toby explains about the founding spy school class, the name Persephone rattles around in my brain, looking to lock on. According to Greek mythology, Persephone, daughter of Demeter, was kidnapped by Hades and forced to live six months of every year in the Underworld. Demeter, goddess of the harvest, mourned her daughter’s absence during these months and let everything on earth die. This was the way the ancient Greeks explained the changing seasons. But why does it matter?
“Persephone,” I mutter. “Persephone.” The word continues to bang around until finally it stops. I gasp.
“What?” Toby asks.
“Persephone!” I yell, holding up the sketch. “This is the statue of Persephone at the Frick! The one in the courtyard.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the bronze Persephone at the Frick museum,” I say. “In the Garden Court? I’ve been there with Jennifer a million times. It’s one of her favorite FFF destinations.”
“Stop speaking in code,” says Toby.
“Forced Family Fun,” I say. “It’s when Jennifer makes us do stuff together that I don’t want to do.”
“Interesting,” says Toby.
“Not really,” I say.
“But what about the symbols?” Izumi asks.
“I still have no idea about the symbols, but the statue is a definite.”
“So where is this Frack place, anyway?” Charlotte asks.
“The Frick. Seventieth Street,” I say. “Near Central Park.”
“We better go have a look,” Toby says.
We start walking. The complaining starts almost immediately. Charlotte’s feet hurt. Toby wants snacks. Izumi is cold.
“Quit whining,” I say. “Keep walking.”
“Can’t we take a cab?” Charlotte asks.
“After Zaro’s, we don’t have much money left,” I say. At school, no one really needs cash when they are on campus, so we didn’t start this little adventure with much to begin with. And Toby’s no-credit-card rule. Everyone pulls out their change and crumpled bills and piles them into Izumi’s hands.
She counts. “Eight dollars and thirty-seven cents.”
“No cab,” I say.
“I’ll pay,” Charlotte says. She holds up her phone, the Uber app filling the small screen.
“No!” Toby yells. “Turn it off!”
“Relax!” Charlotte yells back. “Besides, it’s too late. I already requested a car.”
Toby grabs the phone from her. His thumbs fly. “I told you no phones,” he hisses.
“You need to just chill out,” Charlotte hisses back. Toby powers down the phone and throws it back to her. Izumi looks at me, wide-eyed.
“It was only a minute,” I say in Charlotte’s defense. “Probably no big deal.”
“You’re so naive,” Toby snaps. “It only takes a minute for people like that to track us.”
It reminds me of why Veronica called me “innocent,” and I can’t argue because he’s right. Before my friends move on to beating each other up, an Uber car pulls up curbside. You can’t spit in New York City without hitting an Uber car, but Jennifer never lets us use them. She says she doesn’t like having her every move tracked. Cash and the bus, she always says. I thought she was just being old-school and stubborn, but probably it was more than that.
“Yay!” Charlotte says, pulling open the rear passenger door. The driver window is shaded, so I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, and just recently I’ve developed a phobia of driverless vehicles.
“Wait!” I yell. “We don’t know anything about this car!”
“Abby,” says Izumi, “it’s Uber. Its job is to take us places. You need to relax.” Izumi hops in beside Charlotte. We may have had a breach in our stealth mode, but the car is appealing nonetheless.
“It is kind of cold
out here,” Toby mumbles. He slides in next. I don’t feel good about this. I feel the same tingling I did in the airport with Fake Bronwyn, but maybe I’m crazy? My friends seem to think this is just fine. Probably Izumi is right and I need to relax. Maybe we all do.
Chapter 30
Where We Find Out Something Interesting About Toby.
WE ARRIVE AT THE MUSEUM, warm and comfortable. There have been no complaints for at least fifteen minutes, which is a record so far. The Frick Collection is housed in what used to be the personal residence of Henry Clay Frick, a steel magnate in the early 1900s. Being very rich, he set about building himself a mini Palace of Versailles right next to Central Park. The apartment I share with Jennifer is nine hundred square feet, so it is hard to imagine having enough space to play regulation basketball in the living room. Eventually, the mansion and the art collection were turned into the museum upon whose steps we now stand. But eight dollars and thirty-seven cents is not going to be enough to get us in the door.
I cautiously approach the lady behind the ticket desk. She wears a navy-blue cardigan covered in cat hair and a name tag that identifies her as Gladys. Her lips form a tight line, suggesting she is not excited by what I’m going to say even if I haven’t said it yet.
“My dear,” Gladys says, “we really do prefer children be accompanied by adults. It’s a rule, and we have it for a reason.”
“I’m a member,” I blurt out. “We’re writing a paper on Vermeer versus Rembrandt and we’ll fail unless we get in to see the paintings.”
“And this is my problem how exactly?” she asks, her eyes drifting back to the New York Times open on her desk. Charlotte appears beside me and hip-checks me out of the way.
“Ma’am,” Charlotte says with a smile, “that color blue really brings out the violet in your eyes. They’re stunning. Did you model?”
What is she doing? She’s going to get us pitched out of here in a hot minute. But something in Gladys’s face softens. She runs a hand down the arm of her own sweater as if noticing it for the first time.
Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls Page 15
