#4 Spooky Ballet! (Agent Amelia)

by Michael Broad

  “But I’m the prima ballerina!” Trudy squealed. “The star of the show!”

  “Sorry, I had to steal the show!” I laughed and headed for the door.

  Mom was pretty sheepish when I returned to the car. I didn’t give her a hard time about tricking me though. Because not only had I sort of saved the world again, but I’d also learned some brilliant leaps and twirls that would definitely come in handy on secret-agent missions.

  On sunny days, Mom sometimes packs a picnic and drives us out to the country. We find a nice, quiet meadow away from the road. We lay a blanket under a tree, and then we relax all day long. Mom enjoys getting away from the hustle and bustle. I enjoy getting away from evil geniuses and criminal masterminds trying to take over the world.

  Having spotted a peaceful meadow, we unpacked the car. We made our way down a winding path with the picnic basket and blanket. I also had my trusty backpack. A secret agent has to be prepared for anything.

  Which was just as well …

  As we climbed over a fence into the meadow, there was another family coming toward us with a picnic basket and blankets. Instead of looking happy and relaxed, they looked terrified.

  “LEAVE THIS PLACE!” the mother warned, flapping her arms dramatically.

  “Excuse me?” Mom gasped, as they bustled past.

  “The phantom picnic thief has struck!” she said. She quickly clambered over the fence, followed by the rest of her family. “We packed a delicious picnic with sandwiches and cake and apple pie. Now we have nothing!”

  I was about to quiz them on the specifics of the buffet burglary, but they were gone before I had a chance. They ran down the road as fast as their legs would carry them.

  It was then that I saw a notice nailed to the fence post.

  I snatched the piece of paper before Mom saw it. I stuffed it in my pocket.

  Even though I was supposed to be having a day off, it was my duty as a secret agent to investigate the mystery.

  But first I had to convince Mom that this was still the perfect spot for a picnic.

  “How rude!” I said. “That family obviously wants the whole place to themselves!”

  “What do you mean?” Mom gasped. She looked completely bewildered.

  “They must have seen us coming down the lane with our picnic basket!” I said. I pretended to sound shocked and appalled. “So they made up that silly story about a phantom to scare us off!”

  “But they’ve left,” Mom frowned. The fleeing family had disappeared around the corner.

  “That’s just what they want us to think,” I said, tipping my sunglasses. “They’re probably hiding behind a bush until we leave. Then they’ll come back again. Well, we’ll show them!” I headed straight for the tree in the middle of the meadow.

  I’m not sure Mom was entirely convinced by my story—but the alternative was to admit that she believed in the phantom picnic thief! So she reluctantly followed me into the field.

  Once we’d laid out the blanket and had a glass of lemonade, Mom seemed to forget all about the other family and their bizarre warning. The spot we’d chosen was bright and pretty. It looked like the most innocent place in the world.

  When Mom took out her book and began reading, it was time for me to go to work. I scanned the hilly meadow for any likely hiding places like trees and hedges, where a food thief might hide. But the area was completely open. Then I turned my attention to the neighboring farm fields. I narrowed my eyes at the scarecrows scattered along the edge.

  “I think I’ll go and pick some wildflowers,” I said whimsically. I grabbed an extra pointy pencil from my backpack. I took some paper too so it would look like I planned to do some drawing, but I had other plans for the pencil….

  “OK, darling,” Mom said, peering over her book. “But stay where I can see you.”

  “I will,” I said. I casually made my way toward the nearest field.

  Skipping along the fence at the edge of the field, I paused at each scarecrow and gave it a quick jab in the leg with the pencil. I wanted to make sure no one was hiding inside. None of the scarecrows flinched.

  Then I glanced at the far field. I saw a lone scarecrow that was very different from all the others. This scarecrow was covered in big black crows!

  The birds were perched along its raggedy arms. Their heads were tilted as though they were listening to something. Then the scarecrow suddenly nodded its head, and the crows all took to the sky!

  The birds hadn’t flown very high when they turned in midair and dive-bombed straight into the long grass of the meadow! The crows had vanished, but I could still see their tracks as they beat a path through the grass.

  They were heading for our picnic basket!

  I dashed across the meadow, hoping to head off the tracks of ruffled grass as the crows charged toward our tree. It was neck and neck as we both drew closer. Then I leaped forward and landed at the edge of the blanket. I’d blocked the crows’ path. They had no choice but to take to the sky again. They shot out of the grass like feathered rockets.

  They left, flapping away angrily.

  I turned to make sure Mom was OK. I was relieved to find her fast asleep with the book over her face. Then I marched down the hill toward the weird scarecrow with the angry crows now circling above it.

  The scarecrow didn’t move when I approached. In fact, it looked as innocent as all the others. But I’d already seen it nodding. I knew there was someone lurking inside, so I pulled out my pencil.

  I don’t jab people with pointy things if I can help it. I thought I’d give the crook a chance to surrender first.

  “Give yourself up!” I said, waving the pencil at him.

  Nothing.

  “It’s very pointy!” I added, tapping the point with the tip of my finger.

  Nothing.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I said and jabbed the scarecrow in the leg.

  I immediately jumped back, expecting the scarecrow to yelp or yell or jump down and chase me across the field. But like all the other scarecrows, it didn’t even flinch. I stepped forward again and gave his brown pants a few more jabs just to be sure.

  Nothing.

  When I got no response, I grabbed the legs and gave them a prod and a squeeze to discover they were just a pair of old jeans stuffed full of straw. Then I poked its belly and found that it was full of straw too. Finally, I reached up to find that it had saggy straw arms and twigs for fingers.

  It was obvious this was just a regular scarecrow. I decided that the wind must have blown its sack head forward. That scared the crows away and made it look like a nod….

  “Have you quite finished prodding me?” said the scarecrow. It tilted its head to peer down at me through two button eyes! “Because poking a scarecrow is very rude, you know.”

  I yelled and darted back a few steps.

  “And now you’re screaming at me,” sighed the scarecrow. It shook its head from side to side with disapproval. Then it glanced up into the sky at the circling crows and whistled a command.

  Suddenly the crows all started dive-bombing again. This time they were heading straight for me!

  So I sprinted across the field toward the other scarecrows. I hoped the birds might actually be scared of these ones. But as I got nearer, they didn’t seem bothered at all.

  I ripped down the nearest scarecrow and pulled on its ratty hat and straw-filled sweater. And I did it just in time because one of the crows pecked my arm with its beak.

  The other birds swooped down and pecked at me too, but the hat and stuffed sweater protected me from their jabbing beaks. Then I flapped my arms around like a lunatic until the startled birds flew off.

  “PHEW!” I sighed, scratching my itchy head through the hat.

  The scarecrow obviously thought it was clever, using the birds to pay me back for prodding him with the pencil, but there was still one thing about all this that just didn’t make sense.

  I’ve seen some weird things during my time
as a secret agent, but there has always been a rational explanation behind everything. I know for a fact that scarecrows can’t talk, which meant I needed to have a serious conversation with this one!

  I decided to grab my backpack first because I still didn’t know who or what I was dealing with. I might need a gadget to get me out of a sticky situation—or something heavy to swing at the nasty birds!

  Unfortunately, Mom was lying on one of the straps of my backpack.

  When I tugged it free, her book slipped down her face and her eyes popped open. She was still half-asleep and gazed up at me though sleepy eyes.

  “Afternoon, Ma’am,” I said quickly, tipping my hat politely. “I’m just off to scare some crows,” I added cheerily, prodding my fat straw belly.

  Then I hurried away doing a silly scarecrow walk.

  My mom always takes ages to wake up in the morning, so I hoped my bizarre behavior would make her think she was dreaming. I whipped out my mirror-on-a-stick gadget and held it up to look behind me. I saw Mom frown for a moment and then fall back to sleep.

  By the time I got back to the talking scarecrow I was pretty annoyed.

  “Now listen here!” I snapped, waving a finger at him.

  “I know that scarecrows can’t talk or nod their heads or send their nasty little birds after a young girl who is just trying to protect her picnic….”

  “Really?” interrupted the scarecrow.

  “Yes, really!” I said, dumping my backpack in the grass.

  “Then why are you having a conversation with one?” The scarecrow chuckled.

  “Because there’s something else going on here. I’m going to get to the bottom of it!” I said, rolling up my sleeves and taking a step forward. “You picked the wrong picnic this time, Mister!”

  “What are you doing?” gasped the scarecrow. “Get away from me!”

  I ignored the scarecrow’s protests. I began tugging at his legs, practically swinging on them to loosen the waist knot. Eventually I managed to pull them free, and they landed with a soft thud on the grass. Then I picked up the jeans and shook them upside down.

  said the scarecrow.

  “Those are my legs!”

  “Hmmm?” I said, picking through the straw to find a few sandwiches.

  Next, I grabbed the hem of his shirt. I pulled hard with my foot propped against the vertical post for leverage. The horizontal post ran through the sleeves, and it took all my strength to rip it.

  “Stop that!” yelled the scarecrow. “I’m already legless, leave me my body!”

  “It’s not your body,” I grunted, straining with the effort. “It’s just rags and straw and stolen food!” I added. Eventually the torso tumbled down and landed at my feet. When I popped open the shirt buttons, I found a squished cake and an apple pie among the straw.

  “Now what have you got to say for yourself?” I said, pointing at the food.

  The head leaned forward and peered down at the evidence.

  “I have to admit, it doesn’t look good,” it said.

  “Oh, I haven’t finished yet,” I said, rummaging in my backpack.

  I pulled out my extendable grabber-hand gadget and waved it at what was left of the scarecrow. The head had been pretty chatty all the time it thought it was out of my reach. Now it simply quivered on its post.

  “Anything to say before I pull your head off?” I said, extending the hand and knocking its hat off. Then I closed the hand over the head sack of the scarecrow. “Any last words?”

  “Who’s a pretty boy then?” said the scarecrow, as I pulled its head off.

  I have to admit, I was a bit worried about what I might find under the sack. When I peered up to find a brightly colored parrot perched on the post, I was more confused than anything else.

  “You’re a parrot!” I gasped.

  “Polly’s the name,” it said, bobbing its real head. “Pleased to meet you.”

  I was about to quiz the parrot when I became aware of the crows cawing overhead. They seemed very angry and began dropping in a familiar dive-bomb formation. But this time Polly hadn’t whistled a signal.

  “UH OH!” said the parrot, looking up nervously.

  “Call them off!” I yelled, grabbing my backpack ready to fend off the beaks.

  “They won’t listen to me now that they’ve seen I’m just a bird,” squawked Polly. “That’s why I hid inside the scarecrow. And now that they know I tricked them, I think they want all the food for themselves.”

  As the crows swooped down, the frightened parrot fluttered onto my shoulder. I realized how small he was. I couldn’t leave Polly to the nasty crows, so I began whirling my backpack over my head as I ran across the field.

  A few of the birds followed us, giving warning caws, but they soon rejoined the rest of the flock squabbling over the fallen food.

  Away from the pecking beaks, the parrot thanked me for rescuing him.

  I dressed the scarecrow whose clothes I’d borrowed. Then, the parrot told me how he ended up inside a scarecrow’s head, training crows to steal food for him.

  Polly’s owner was a college professor who had taught him loads of clever words to say. The professor quickly discovered that his parrot was much smarter than the average bird. Polly said he liked living with the professor because he wasn’t kept in a cage and could fly around freely. But one day he’d flown too far and couldn’t find his way home again.

  “I thought birds were really good at finding their way home?” I said.

  “I’m not a homing pigeon,” said Polly. “But I do know my address.”

  “Then couldn’t you just ask someone for directions?” I suggested.

  “The professor told me not to talk to strangers,” said the parrot. “He said that people wouldn’t expect a bird to be smart enough to hold a conversation and that I might end up in the wrong hands.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s probably right about that.”

  “I could ask you for directions!” said the parrot, excitedly.

  “I’m not sure how I would explain it to my mom though….” I said, looking over at the tree. It was then that I noticed Mom had woken up and was waving at me to come and have lunch. “Hang on a minute,” I said, pulling out the paper and my pointy pencil.

  squawked the parrot.

  “I’m not going to stab you,” I laughed. “Give me your address….”

  Luckily, Mom bought the story about finding the parrot with a note tied to his leg. She said we’d look up the address on the map and drive him home after lunch. Then, as she unpacked the picnic, Mom told me all about the strange scarecrow dream she’d had.

  “A talking scarecrow!” she chuckled. “Can you imagine?”

  “Hmmm …” I said, peering over my sunglasses at a guilty-looking Polly.

  Mom laid out the sandwiches and cake. She frowned at the parrot perched on the edge of the picnic basket. “Do you think it would be OK to feed him?” she asked, pulling off a piece of cake.

  Polly was gazing at the lump of cake. I could tell he really wanted to say “YES, PLEASE!” But I’d warned him not to speak in front of Mom, just in case she got freaked out.

  “I think he’d like that,” I smiled.

  I often go to the school library during lunchtime and have my sandwich with Ms. Young, the librarian. Ms. Young is really nice and sets aside books for me that have anything to do with secret agents. At the moment, I’m into a series called Suzy Spy. Suzy is a secret agent who travels the world fighting crime. She gets to use brilliant gadgets that the government makes for her.

  This particular lunchtime, I went to the library hoping to get the latest Suzy Spy book, Peril in Paris! The librarian had said it would come on Monday morning and that she would happily put it aside for me.

  When I entered the library, Ms. Young was nowhere to be seen. Standing behind her counter was a large woman with square glasses and short bangs.

  I’m always suspicious when a new staff member joins the school because you never know
when or where someone might try to take over the world. So I approached with caution and tipped my sunglasses.

  “Where’s the librarian?” I asked.

  “If you’re referring to the timid little bookworm who used to work here, she’s retired!” said the woman, typing frantically on her laptop. “You’ll be dealing with me from now on. My name is Ms. Rogue.”

  My secret-agent senses immediately kicked in.

  First of all, Ms. Young was much too young to retire.

  And even if she had, she would definitely have said good-bye to me before leaving. Then there was the new librarian’s ridiculous name! Evil geniuses and criminal masterminds often change their names to make them sound more villainous. Ms. Rogue was the worst made-up name I’d ever heard.

  It was then that I noticed the sound of Ms. Rogue’s typing was echoed through the library. When I looked around, I saw the reading tables were all bunched together and had brand-new laptops on them.

  The laptops were identical to the one she was using. The kids sitting at the keyboards were all typing at the same lightning speed.

  I casually slid along the counter and leaned forward to get a look at Ms. Rogue’s screen. But before I could see what she was typing, she slammed the thing shut and glared at me.