Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls

by Beth McMullen

  “Is it cashmere?” Charlotte continues. “It looks so soft. Makes me want to pet you like a cat.” She giggles. Certainly now she’s gone too far? But no, Gladys actually smiles and giggles right along with Charlotte.

  “I got it at Goodwill,” Gladys says. “It was a steal! People don’t know a good thing when they see it.”

  “I know,” Charlotte says. “But I could tell right away you have a keen eye. It’s probably why you’re such a valuable member of the museum team, right? I bet you know this stuff inside and out. We can only hope to attain your level of knowledge.”

  “What is she doing?” Izumi whispers in my ear.

  “Getting us into the museum,” I whisper back.

  “Amazing,” Izumi says in awe.

  “No kidding.”

  Gladys puts down her paper and grins at Charlotte. “I don’t want you kids to fail,” she says, suddenly a vision of concern for our academic futures. “What is this paper on?”

  We don’t take Art History until we’re Upper Middles, but I’ve listened to the museum’s audio tour about seven hundred times and just hope I can come up with something. I clear my throat and step forward. But Charlotte beats me to it.

  “We’re examining how while Rembrandt reached for grandeur, Vermeer favored quieter, more ordinary scenes,” she says with a shy smile. “We need to explain how this affects the experience of each artist’s work, and in order to explain the experience we need to get in here and, you know, experience the art.”

  We are so in.

  After a pause, Gladys says, “An impressive thesis for a young person. I’m inclined to let you in if you promise to behave. Now, did one of you mention being a member?”

  “And that’s how it’s done,” Charlotte whispers as we thank Gladys and race into the museum before she changes her mind.

  Once inside, I head right for the Garden Court. The morning light filters through the glass-paneled ceiling, bathing the space in a calming yellow glow. I immediately feel better. I don’t know why, but I do.

  In the middle of the long, rectangular courtyard is an oblong pond with a fountain at one end. Opposite the fountain is a bench. We sit on the bench.

  “Now what?” Charlotte whispers. There at the other end near the fountain is the statue of Persephone from the drawing. I have sat on this very bench with Jennifer a hundred times and yet it took me days to figure out what I was looking at on the paper. What else am I missing?

  I get the feeling this is like Jake’s. We go there all the time not because the pizza is good but because Jennifer uses the board to communicate. So if we come here all the time, it’s probably not because Jennifer really likes the art. She has to be using this space for something too.

  “Abby?” says Toby.

  “Yeah?”

  “Look.” He points to the far side of the very large room to a sign indicating the direction of the restrooms.

  “You don’t have to ask permission. Just go.”

  “You’re hilarious. Look at the symbol. The arrow. It’s the first one of the nine. On the paper.”

  “Like I Spy!” Charlotte shouts.

  “Of course,” says Izumi. “Why didn’t I think of that? We find the symbols in sequence and that leads us to the prize. Whatever that is.”

  I love my friends. They are proving to be just the sort of accomplices an aspiring spy girl like me needs. “Jennifer does make me play I Spy more than is normal.”

  Quickly, I refold the paper so we can see all nine symbols. We jump off the bench and huddle by the arrow on the wall. “The star is next,” I say. Slowly, we spin in circles, looking everywhere for a star. Izumi finds one in a painting in the Oval Room, and we dash in that direction. A guard glares at us and we slow down. The Frick is a small museum by New York standards; only a handful of rooms. We need to be careful lest we get thrown out for acting like lunatics and break Gladys’s heart.

  We stand in front of the painting and spin again. This time Charlotte finds a small sculpture of the Aries ram. We go on like this for a good forty-five minutes before reaching the last item on the list, the cross. It doesn’t take long to find a marble statue of a warrior holding a sword and a cross.

  “Is this the evidence?” Charlotte asks, circling the artwork.

  Toby shakes his head. “No, but I think Abby’s right. It’s close.”

  “It’s under the statue,” says Izumi with confidence.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but where else is it going to be?”

  “It wouldn’t fit under the statue,” I say. “Plus, it’s alarmed. We can’t touch it.”

  “What if it’s a tiny piece of microfilm?” Izumi asks.

  “Or one of those miniature scrolls you can only read with a magnifying glass?” adds Toby.

  “Hey, guys,” Charlotte says. The plaque identifying the statue and its artist is mounted on the pedestal in such a way that it protrudes about an inch. Charlotte shoves her tiny hand in the narrow space in between. She grins.

  “Bingo.” She holds up a very small tin box in triumph.

  “Oh my God,” I yelp before clamping a hand over my mouth. Toby grabs the box. I grab the box from Toby. Izumi jumps up and down. The guard tells us to simmer down or else.

  “Open it, open it!”

  Our excitement dims considerably when I pry open the box to reveal a miniature videotape. “What is it?” I ask, holding it up for inspection.

  “MicroMV,” Izumi says immediately. “Only produced for a few years by Sony back in the early 2000s. Obsolete technology.”

  “How do we see what’s on there?” Charlotte asks.

  “Do you happen to have a MicroMV camcorder?” Toby asks, rolling his eyes in disgust.

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “This tape is useless,” he says, “unless we can find a camera to play it on.”

  “We could find an old tourist and bribe him,” Charlotte suggests.

  “No self-respecting tourist uses this kind of camera anymore,” Izumi says. The rush of success is all but gone. “We should go back to school and just give this to Mrs. Smith. Maybe we won’t get in trouble because she’s been looking for it?”

  “Are you crazy?” Charlotte snaps. “There has to be one of these cameras somewhere in this city, and I’m not going anywhere until I see what’s on that tape. Wasn’t that the whole point of this anyway?”

  “I’m with Charlotte on this one,” Izumi says. “I want to see what everyone has gone so insane over.”

  “But where do we find a camera?” I ask. “Realistically, I mean, because I don’t think the tourist angle is going to work.”

  Toby looks uncomfortable. He’s also suspiciously quiet. “What?” I demand.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You’re lying,” I say. “No lying on this quest.”

  “Don’t call it a quest,” he says. “You sound like a dork.”

  “You can try and distract me by being all grouchy, but there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  Toby looks defeated. “Fine. There may be a way to watch this tape.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” demands Charlotte.

  He glares at her. “Follow me,” he tells us. “And try to keep up.”

  We walk thirteen blocks so quickly my blisters get blisters. When we finally come to a stop, we’re all panting. I stare up at an opulent building. Until I got to Smith, I didn’t really associate with superrich people. This place is literally golden.

  “Why are we here?” asks Izumi.

  “I live here,” Toby says glumly.

  We gawk. “Like in this building, here?” I ask.

  “Well, I never said I liked it.” Toby pushes into the lobby and we follow.

  The lobby reminds me of a cruise shi
p with enormous sparkling chandeliers and towering gold fountains. The floors are pink marble and so shiny I can see my reflection. Toby cuts diagonally and heads for an elevator bank. We follow like ducklings. A guy in a uniform wearing a BRAD name tag gives Toby a high five.

  “Where you been, Tobias?” Brad asks cheerfully. “It’s been months.”

  “Dad’s in Saudi Arabia,” Toby replies. “Or Singapore? I forget which. I’m just picking up a few things for school. These are my friends.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, friends of Toby,” Brad says with a grin. He hustles us into the elevator, sending us off with a friendly wave. As we race skyward, Toby looks more and more glum. He, too, is the only child of a single parent, and while I know this is sometimes hard, he looks downright depressed at the thought of going home. Of course, a dad like Drexel Caine might do that to you. Lately, the man has taken to posting YouTube videos of his wacky late-night experiments with robots and rockets and weird kitchen appliances. He’s sure to show up on reality TV any day now.

  “So,” I say quietly. “Why did you bring us here?”

  “The Collection,” Izumi says thoughtfully.

  “The Collection!” Charlotte exclaims. “Of course!” Toby looks at his feet.

  “Can someone please explain?” I ask.

  “The Obsolete Technology Collection,” Izumi says, as if I should know this. “The New York Times did a whole article on it a few years ago.”

  Before I can figure out why I should care, the elevator glides to a smooth stop on the top floor of the tower. The penthouse. The elevator doors open directly into an elaborate vestibule, decorated with modern sculpture of naked people. If I laugh, I will demonstrate a total lack of sophistication. I bite my tongue.

  Toby presses his thumb to a pad and the front doors swing open. I’ve been a lot of places, and I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like putting whipped cream on top of the frosting of a chocolate layer cake. It’s almost too much.

  Toby remains silent as we pass through a tennis-court-size living room with stunning views to the west. The furniture, straight out of a magazine, doesn’t look as if it’s ever been used. We walk across a kitchen designed to feed a small invading army. There are bedrooms and sitting rooms and an enormous office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Our footsteps echo in the silence. The whole place feels as unlived-in as the Frick. I can’t believe Toby grew up here.

  We reach a large steel door at the far end of the apartment. Toby enters a passcode and the door yields. Fluorescent lighting comes on overhead, revealing a space the size of a football field. I know it can’t be that big, but it sure looks like it.

  “The lab,” Izumi whispers. “From the videos.”

  “Yeah,” says Toby.

  The lab is freezing and crowded with glass museum-style cases. “Drexel collects obsolete technology,” Toby explains. “He has this whole thing about only knowing where we’re going if we know where we’ve been and blah, blah, blah. Anyway, this is where he keeps his junk. Now all we gotta do is find that camcorder from last century, because I know it’s here somewhere.”

  Talk about a needle in a haystack. Drexel may well be a genius, but he’s a very disorganized one. There are piles of old phonographs and turntables and ham radios and ancient-looking telegraph machines. There are cases full of reel-to-reel recorders and VCRs and Betamax machines. And for every item I can identify, there are dozens that might as well be from another planet. According to Toby, Drexel just knows where everything is, which makes for slow going.

  After the first hour of searching, Charlotte peels off to raid the giant refrigerator and watch TV. At hour two, Izumi leaves to use the bathroom and never comes back.

  By hour three I’m ready to cry and admit defeat, but just as I am, I hear Toby yell, “Yes!” He holds something in the air. “Sony’s finest, circa 2000. Now we can watch the tape.”

  Chapter 31

  Where We Battle Old Technology. and Mostly Lose.

  IT TAKES ANOTHER HALF AN hour to find the right cables to plug in the camcorder, probably dead since before we were born. Toby yells a lot and rampages around the lab, flinging open drawers and cabinets. I stand in the corner, trying to stay out of his way. Eventually Toby finds the cables under this brick-size hunk of plastic he swears is a cell phone from the 1980s. How would you even carry that thing? You’d need a suitcase! Izumi and Charlotte return. They look well fed and relaxed. I hand Toby the tape. He loads it into the camera and an image appears on the tiny screen. We all huddle in close and squint.

  A little girl, probably not even two, is running around in a diaper. There’s a kiddie pool on the lawn and a few other kid toys, and you can tell the little girl is just having the best time throwing herself in the pool. The sound quality is pretty bad, but she’s clearly laughing, falling into the water, and getting back up to do it again. Whoever is filming is gesturing for her to do things. The little girl sits in the pool kicking her chubby legs and yelling, “Dada play! Dada play! Dada play!” over and over again. The sound quality is poor, so the girl sounds off, warped somehow.

  The shot jerks as the camcorder is dropped on the lawn. When the man retrieves it, we get a full-on look at his face. He seems ordinary. Toby pauses the tape.

  “I don’t recognize him,” he says. “Do you guys?” We all shake our heads and he lets the tape roll.

  The girl races at her father and mashes her face right up against the camera.

  “Now, be careful, honey,” the man says. “We need to take care of that boo-boo.” The little girl’s hand flies to her face, which fills the screen. Along the left side of her jawline is a tight row of black stitches, stark against her pale skin. My palms grow clammy. I look at Toby, and his eyes are wide.

  The girl pulls back as the man runs his fingers down her cheek. “Daddy loves you, sweet pea,” he says. His voice cracks, but I can’t tell if it’s emotion or the poor quality of the tape. “Yes, he does. And Daddy will always love Ronny, no matter what happens. Daddy loves Ronny.”

  Toby leaps to his feet. “Did that man just say what I think he said?” he asks.

  “He said Ronny,” I say. “You don’t think . . .”

  “What are you guys talking about?” says Charlotte.

  Toby fumbles with the camera and the video starts at the beginning. We watch the same scenes unfold before us. “It’s her,” Toby says.

  “No way,” I say, wanting him to be wrong.

  “You don’t know her like I do,” he says loudly. “You don’t watch her every move. You don’t have to . . .”

  We stare at him. A red glow rises in his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just I know it’s her. I know it.”

  Charlotte stomps her foot. “What are you talking about?”

  “Veronica!” we shout in unison.

  “Wait,” says Izumi. “The Veronica? As in Veronica Brooks, who was dead and came back to life and is terrifying? That Veronica?”

  “Yes!”

  “You think that’s her on the tape?” Izumi sounds incredulous. I don’t blame her.

  “The scar,” Toby says. “He calls her Ronny. Plus I just know it’s her.”

  “Because you stalk her, right?” says Charlotte. Toby looks ready to pounce.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands for us to all just slow down. “If that kid really is Veronica and this is the evidence Jennifer found against the Ghost, does that mean . . .”

  “His weakness,” Toby says. “The one Teflon was searching for.”

  “But I’ve seen her parents on campus,” Izumi says. “And that guy isn’t her dad.”

  “Veronica’s adopted,” Charlotte throws out. “Did you guys know that? Her family has a house on the Vineyard near ours, and I remember overhearing her mom telling my mom how lucky they were to have her and what a great kid she was and all that.”
<
br />   In stunned silence, we stare at the image of a small Veronica on the video screen. For the first time since this started, I have the distinct feeling I’m in way over my head.

  “This is so not good,” Toby whispers. “You guys don’t understand what the Ghost does. He gets rid of people, anyone who gets in his way, anyone who knows something he shouldn’t. One day you just wake up and discover you’ve vanished. And honestly, I don’t think he’ll be pleased knowing that we know what we know. This is too big. It’s way bigger than us. We’re screwed.” He runs his fingers through his hair.

  “You’re totally losing it,” I point out.

  “And you aren’t?” he yelps.

  Izumi, Charlotte, and I look at one another. Izumi’s eyes are wide, but she’s calm. Charlotte fidgets, but she’s not unglued. “Nope,” I say. “Not like you.”

  Toby sits down on a pile of old hard drives. He puts his head between his knees like he’s in a plane that’s about to crash. “I don’t feel well,” he says.

  Seriously? Toby bolts from the lab. I grab the camera and follow. Izumi and Charlotte bring up the rear. Toby races for one of the twenty-seven bathrooms and we wait in the living room. Toby eventually comes back and drapes himself dramatically across the couch. Charlotte examines him critically. “I’d say that graduate spy school thing in Florida is right out,” she says.

  “Yeah,” says Izumi, “you’re a mess.”

  “Is this why you don’t go out in the field?” I ask.

  “No! I’m too young. So are you. This is not what Lower Middles or Middles are supposed to be doing!” He rests the back of his palm on his forehead.

  “What now, Abby?” Izumi asks.

  The urge to pace is overwhelming. Fortunately, Toby’s living room is a mile long. “I hate to say it, but I think we have to hand the tape over to Mrs. Smith. Toby’s right about one thing: This is bigger than us.”

  “Agreed,” says Charlotte. “Do you think the Center will use Veronica to get the Ghost? Like the way they used you to find Jennifer?”

  This idea gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. I’m not one of Veronica’s adoring minions, but I still hate the idea of her being used like I was. It didn’t feel good. “I don’t know,” I say. Veronica’s whole world is the Center. Sure, she excels at practically everything, but I can tell how much the spy gig means to her. Is anyone going to care about her being collateral damage? I shake this off. I’ve proven my value by finding the tape, and now it’s time to step back.