"Hey, Cammie …" He was taking long, lazy steps, backing away from me, toward the lights and sounds of the festival in full swing. "…tell Suzie she's a lucky cat."
Have sexier words ever been spoken? I seriously think not!
"I'm Josh, by the way."
I started running as I yelled, "Good-bye, Josh." But before the words even reached him, I was gone.
The Overnight Express truck was waiting at the end of the alley when I got there, lights off. I felt Mr. Smith's pop bottle in my hand, and for a second I couldn't remember why I would be carrying such a thing. I know. I'm almost ashamed of it now—the fact that ten seconds with a boy had driven my mission from my mind. But I did look at it, and I did remember who I was—why I was there—and I knew it was time to forget about boys and trash cans and cats named Suzie; I remembered what was real and what was legend.
As I pulled open the back door of the truck, I expected to see my classmates sitting there, envying my mission-accomplishing superspy-ness, but all I saw were packages and packages—even the television was gone, and instead of cries of congratulations, I heard the words Tell Suzie she's a lucky cat echoing in my head then growing silent as I realized something was wrong.
I spun in the street. I looked in the cab of the truck, where a bright orange cap lay on the dashboard, probably where the rightful driver had left it. We had come and gone without a trace, and now all that was left was that bottle and a long run home.
I told myself that having to run two miles in wet jeans was just karmic payback for having indulged in both the corn dog and the ice cream, but as I reached the edge of town, I wasn't so sure. As I ran, my mind was free. I was back on the street with Josh. I was watching Liz and Bex disappear around a corner with Mr. Smith. I was talking to an old woman about a grandmother I didn't know. I was just another girl at the party.
The lights of the school cut through the leaves of the trees in the distance as my boots beat a heavy rhythm on the pavement. Damp denim rubbed against my legs. Sweat poured down my back. Mom is always saying that a spy should trust her gut, and right then my gut was telling me that I didn't want to go back to the mansion, that I didn't want to be anywhere near Joe Solomon and Mr. Smith, and by the time I reached the main gates, I would have given just about anything not to have to go through them.
"Big night, Cam?" A stocky man with a buzz cut and a perpetual mouth full of bubble gum appeared at the guardhouse doof. He knew my name, but I'd never been introduced to him. If I had, I probably would have called him something other than Bubblegum Guard. But as it was, he was just another guy on the staff who worked for my mom, who probably went on missions with my dad, who knew all the details about my life, while I knew none about his.
I suddenly missed my bench in Roseville. I longed for the noisy, anonymous chaos of the square.
I started down the driveway, but Bubblegum Guard called out to me, "Hey, Cam, you want a ride?" He gestured toward a ruby red golf cart that sat behind the guardhouse.
"No, thanks." I shook my head. "Good night."
I'm sorry I don't know your name.
When I reached the main foyer, I started for the stairs. I wanted a shower. I wanted my bed. I wanted to shake free of the uneasy feeling that had settled in my gut from the moment I saw that orange cap lying on the dashboard— abandoned. I had the bottle in my hands, but somehow I knew that wasn't really the point.
Then I heard footsteps and a cry of "Wait!" as Mr. Mosckowitz rushed after me.
"Hi, Mr. M. Great driving tonight," I said. I remembered that it had been his first mission, too.
Something important must have made him chase me down, but for a second his features shifted. He actually glowed (but not like the time he tested that flame-retardant skin gel for Dr. Fibs).
"You think?" he asked. "Because, well, at that second stop sign, I think I might have hesitated a little too long. Forty-eight hours or less," he said, with a punch at the air, "that's the Overnight Express motto; I just don't think a real driver would have waited so long."
"Oh." I gave him a nod. "I thought it was just right— nothing causes delays like an accident, you know."
His face brightened again. "You think?"
"It was perfect."
I turned again and started up the stairs, but Mr. Mosckowitz said, "Oh, gee, wait. I was supposed to tell you…" He paused, and I imagined him churning through the gigabytes of his brain. "… that you are supposed to go to the CoveOps class for a debrief."
Of course I am, I thought as I gripped the bottle. Of course it isn't over.
As the optical scanners swept over my face I heard Mr. Mosckowitz ask, "So, hey, Cammie, it was fun. Wasn't it?" And I realized that one of the most brilliant men in the world needed me to verify that he'd had fun.
This place never ceases to amaze me.
Chapter Eight
Sublevel One was dark as I got out of the elevator. I followed the maze of frosted glass through the light of emergency exit signs and the flickering computer screens. I passed a library filled with facts too sensitive for a seventh grader to know. I walked along a balcony that overlooks a massive three-story room the size of a gymnasium that comes complete with movable walls and fake people, so Bex and I call it the dollhouse—it's where spies come to play.
As I got closer to the classroom, the hallway got brighter, and soon I was looking through one wall of illuminated glass at the silhouettes of my classmates. No one was talking. Not Mr. Solomon. Not any of the girls. I crept toward the open door—saw my classmates in their usual seats and Mr. Solomon perched on a low bookcase at the back of the room, his hands gripping the dark wood as he leaned casually back.