A Spy Like Me (21 page)

I leaped over miniature poodles. I tried my
hardest not to look behind me. At this point, Jolie with his Santa
belly wouldn’t be the one chasing me. Malcolm would be. Even though
we’d kissed rather passionately more than once in less than
opportune times and positions, that didn’t mean squat in his world.
He kept telling me he was spying on Jolie for me, but every word
out of his mouth down in the basement of Jolie’s shop said
otherwise. He was too convincing for a waiter.

Lies. Lies. And more lies. Everything about
him was a lie.

With every step, the muscles in my back sent
shooting pain up my spine in anticipation of a hand about to clamp
down on my neck. But it never came. At least half a mile away, I
prayed I’d be safe, slowed down, and tried to hide behind a group
of older woman out for a shopping trip. At a crosswalk, I strode
between two businessmen until I was safely on the other side.

I had to stop and rest. My lungs burned, so I
plopped down on a hard wooden bench.

Malcolm was nowhere in sight. I breathed a
deep sigh of relief and let out a couple deep sobs. I’d made it
out. Jolie wasn’t shoving me into his freezer. If I was lucky,
Malcolm and Jolie didn’t even know who it was spying on them from
the stairs.

I let my head fall back and stared up between
the tree branches. I stifled a laugh. Everything I hated about
being a spy I had become. I hated butting into other people’s
business and living life like a trapeze artist, constantly afraid
of falling and dying. I hated lying to people as much as I hated
being lied to. I hated being sneaky. Except when I kinda liked it.
Mom had never been honest with me. Like mother, like daughter. I
guess.

Hands gripped my shoulder and I felt his
breath against my ear before he whispered.

“Why hello there. What happened to you?”

Malcolm plopped onto the bench next to me and
casually crossed his legs, his arms extending to the sides. He
played with the ends of my hair, twirling it between his
fingers.

I choked and froze. I could’ve been a statue
carved hundreds of years ago.

“No. Seriously. You look…” He took my
appearance in, his eyes roving up and down my body. The grimy face,
my hair half dried and caked with dust, and my clothes still damp
from my surprise shower and trip through the underworld of Paris.
“…like you’ve been dragged through the mud. Literally.”

I bit my bottom lip so the words building,
screaming to get out, wouldn’t. I had questions I wanted to beat
Malcolm over the head with until I got answers. Questions about
everything. His alliance with Jolie. My mom. Whether he liked me or
not. I pressed that one deep down into my subconscious. I didn’t
want the answer to it, because then I’d have to admit that my
emotions had been manipulated. While I’d pretended to be the
ultra-cool spy, he’d been slipping through the backdoor, raiding
the privacy of my heart.

He tugged at the strand of my hair, nudging
me to answer. I peeked sideways at the emotion radiating from his
face, the caring look in his eyes, the way his head tilted to the
side, his lips. Oh, those traitorous lips. He acted like he cared,
but underneath he was probably terrified I could expose him.

Spies act cool, calm, and suave in any and
all dangerous situations. And this was a tricky one. He had to know
I’d been down in the catacombs, especially if he’d followed the
trail of water I’d probably left in my wake. He wanted to know what
I knew.

“Okay, I’ll try another one. Where did you
disappear to yesterday? You never came out of the bathroom at the
Notre Dame. I had to sneak in and look for you. And that’s
dangerous territory entering a girl’s bathroom.”

The splinters of the splinters I used to call
my heart could not break any smaller.

“Major girl problems.” I lied like a pro.

“Oh.”

That shut him up. Always a good excuse.

“Why didn’t you call?”

Crap
. “My phone was dead.”

He pulled his arm back. “I don’t believe
you.”

“That’s fine. Don’t.”

My arm twitched, and I had to grab onto it to
stop myself from slugging him a good one. How could he ask me these
questions? We both knew the answers.

“If you’re feeling up for it, I found this
great bookstore with an incredible café next door. The tarts have
gotten top reviews. You’ll love it.”

He continued rambling on about this perfect
date we should go on. That night. Both my fingers clenched into
fists. My neck tightened. The blood raced beneath my skin, roiling
and boiling at this boy’s balls. Did he think I couldn’t see
through his act? That the “date” was his attempt to lure me into a
trap, so they could squirrel me away somewhere, tied up to a chair
with nothing to look at but the bones of the past?

“And then we could talk a bit more about Spy
Games this weekend. In two days, I’ll be a spy. I might need some
last minute tips.”

“Will you just stop?” The words came out
louder than I’d meant, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed
answers. Even if they weren’t what I wanted to hear.

He uncrossed his legs and jiggled them up and
down. “I’m sorry. You must be tired of talking about Spy Games.
It’s just it’s my first time, and I’m a little nervous.”

I whipped around in my seat, my glare
piercing through his act. Screw his act. I wasn’t a spy. I didn’t
have to act like one.

“Stop.” I choked out. “I don’t want to play
this game anymore. Tell me about my mom. Do you have—”

He put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

“Don’t touch me.” I jerked my head away.
“Okay. You want to talk about something else. Fine. Let’s talk. Why
did you ask me out that first night? Was it to spy on my
family?”

My voice cracked and trembled, threatening to
betray my real feelings. But the words came pouring out, unbidden
and free. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close.

“That’s fine if you were paid to spy on my
family. I don’t get why because we’re a broken family from
Pennsylvania. But you had no right to lead me on, to act like you
cared, to become my friend, to kiss me.”

And then I couldn’t help it. The fear and
rage coursed through my limbs, spreading and gaining speed. I
punched him in the stomach. He doubled over.

“Good one,” he said in a strangled voice.
“For a girl.”

“I’m not joking. You can’t make this go away
with a joke and a laugh.”

I punched him again. In the arm, the chest,
until my fist hurt. He didn’t fight back. He took it, took in all
my feelings of hurt and betrayal. Finally I slumped over and put my
head in my hands, not wanting to look at him.

He stiffened. “Fine, you want the truth
now?”

I didn’t answer, but waited, not looking,
with my eyes closed, and my heart shielded.

“I tried my hardest to keep you away from
Pouffant. But you refused. I tried to distract you and to warn you
to stay away. But you wouldn’t. You nosed around in things you know
nothing about. I know that now. Because if you knew the truth, the
real secrets behind all this, you wouldn’t be so careless and
stupid.”

I was stunned. Too stunned to form thoughts,
never mind words.

His voice lowered. “I’m sorry if I confused
you. I thought your flirtations were part of the game. You started
it. You got yourself into this.”

His words slipped past the cracks in the
shield around my heart, the place he always managed to infiltrate.
One question burned there. I might’ve started it, but did he care
about me at all? And I didn’t even care about any romantic
feelings. I mean was he my friend or not? Because at this point the
friendship part was hurting a lot more.

And then it was as if he’d read my mind. “I
don’t want to hurt you. But you need to know the truth. This whole
thing, you and me, flirting and having fun, has been a game, a
charade, a distraction. I played along. I pretended to like
you.”

Any shred of hope and dignity that once
bloomed inside me, shriveled up and died. He was right. I was
playing a game I knew nothing about and should’ve stayed away from.
I should’ve played my little role in Spy Games, believed Aimee’s
note about traveling, and not questioned anybody.

Right. I didn’t think so either.

“And this is my warning to you. Stay away.
And you might get away with your life.” His words left a trail of
dread wrapping around my body. “Stop asking questions. Stop
pestering Pouffant. And I’ll make up something to keep the big boys
away from you. I’m a good liar. As you know.”

Those were his last words to me before he got
up and strode briskly away. I watched his back, his confident
strut, like he was the master of this game. He never looked back,
not once.

I stayed on the bench and leaned back,
looking up at the trees and the innocent leaves being tossed back
and forth by the breeze. My body felt depleted, empty of any
emotion. I’d been through the wringer. In that one conversation I’d
gone through fear, anger, hurt, betrayal, heartache, and back to
anger. When I looked back to the road, Malcolm had disappeared into
the crowd.

At home, I slipped in through my bedroom
window, leaving a trail of dirt against the outside of the
apartment. But that was better than through the living room. No
lights were on, so I hoped Dad was out on official Spy Games
business. The games were in two days, but I only cared about one
thing. A shower. My grimy skin could just feel the pelting streams
of hot water washing away the fears and memories of the past day,
especially the skeleton memories. I slipped out of my clothes and
stuffed them into a bag to be incinerated.

The shower cleaned my body, but no matter how
hot I ran the water, the fears remained, wedged in my mind. One
word pounded in my heart. Mom. Mom. Mom. Maybe she had good reasons
for not being around. Like being held prisoner in the catacombs. I
prayed she’d escaped from the clutches of the mad pastry chef. I
could barely think, never mind say his name.

With wrinkled skin and wearing comfy clothes,
I flopped on my bed and drifted off.

At some point in between sleep and wake I
jolted up in bed. My room was pitch black.

Someone was in the house.

Shoes tapped on the kitchen floor. I held my
breath. Heat pricked my skin, needles running up and down my arms.
Dad normally slams the door and talks to himself. Who was in our
apartment?

I slid out of bed, grabbed the heaviest book
on my shelf, and stood to the side of my door. My legs shook so
hard I could barely stand. Drawers opened in the kitchen. Papers
shuffled. What did Jolie or Malcolm think we were hiding? Could
they really think we were spies? What a joke.

The floor creaked right outside my door. He
wasn’t wasting any time. The door opened. Slowly. I raised the book
above my head. As soon as the door opened all the way, I screamed
and whammed the book at the intruder.

“Savvy!” he said with a grunt and wrapped his
arms around me. Except it didn’t feel like Malcolm. Or sound like
him.

“Dad?”

He let go of me. I scrambled away and flicked
on the light.

“Savvy, what are you doing?”

“I was trying to sleep.”

And then I got mad. Like really mad. I threw
the book on the floor, threw my hip out and crossed my arms. If
someone usually slams the door and grumbles on entering, then he
should always slam the door and grumble.

His eyebrows went up. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are you creeping around the apartment
like you’re a burglar or something?”

“I didn’t want to wake you in case you were
sleeping.”

“Oh.” I uncrossed my arms and let them hang
at my sides. “Sorry. I’m a little tired. Only because I’ve been
training people for Spy Games.”
And trying to stay
alive.

“Come on into the living room. We need to
talk.”

I stumbled over to the couch, desperately
trying to squash the desire to tell Dad that these could be his
last moments with his one and only daughter. But he always found a
way to make my confessions seem foolish. I sat on the edge of the
couch and pulled a frayed pillow into my lap. I wanted to rewind
back to a couple of years ago, before my parents started arguing
almost every night. That summer we’d made fires out in the fire pit
and roasted marshmallows. We’d talked, laughed, done family-like
things.

Dad rubbed his temples. Finally, he looked at
me but still couldn’t find my eyes. “It’s about Spy Games.”

The lines around his eyes were deeper and he
seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders as he
hunched over. He sighed and waited almost a minute before speaking.
I pulled about fifty threads out of the pillow.

“After tomorrow, I give you my official
blessing to leave Spy Games. I promise I’ll stop trying to live my
dreams through you. I’ll stop talking about West Point, and I’ll
stop forcing you to pretend you’re a spy.”

“Dad....” I didn’t know what to say.

Was I that much of a failure that he didn’t
want me on Spy Games anymore? I’d screwed up at the Louvre, but I’d
make up for that. He’d see.

“And one more thing.” He squirmed like a
child who’s stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. “I’ve been lying
to you.”

What? I stared at him. Dads don’t lie. They
always tell the truth and set the example. Right?

“I know how to communicate with your mother.
I haven’t, but I know how.” He pulled at the threads of a frayed
pillow too. Tears stung my eyes. He knew?

“But, but. . .” I couldn’t finish.

“I’ve been selfish and didn’t want to share
you, especially after she left without offering you a choice. Of
course, I love having you here, but if you’d rather be with your
mom, I can work it out. I haven’t been much of a dad lately. You
could be back in the States next month or earlier.”