Act natural. Be consistent in your cover story. Simple, true statements work best. Don’t get fancy.
— Rule Number 7 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
It took me more than three hours to get the living room back to normal, minus two handmade, lopsided bowls. I discovered the rest of the red bowl crushed under a pile of my parents’ home and garden books. The blue shards I found under a stack of cookbooks left no hope for my father’s bowl, either. I’d made those for my parents’ Christmas presents several years ago.
What type of person destroys a kid’s art projects? The type that stuffs her face with my leftovers (pepperoni and red pepper pizza from Mai’s) while I cleaned up her mess — that’s who. Still, I doubted that Stella would have ripped apart this room just to be malicious. She must have been searching for something specific. But even if she thought Mom had Frank’s suitcase somewhere, it wouldn’t have been squeezed in between books.
Stella popped into the living room every ten minutes to screech that I wasn’t cleaning fast enough. When I suggested she help me since, you know, she made the mess, Stella used “driving” words — words Mom says I’m not allowed to use until I’m at least sixteen, have my driver’s license, and can buy my own car.
Since then, Stella left me alone to think. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t work on an empty stomach. There was nothing in the Rules about what to do when the enemy was camped out in your own kitchen.
My plan from this morning — bust Aunt Gertie out of jail and get rid of Frankenstella — seemed stupid now that my parents were probably missing. Roy said he trusted my parents’ instincts and that my parents trusted me. Was Roy trying to send me a message about trusting my instincts too?
I took out the museum printouts. The circled “$14,500” stood out on the page. A terrible idea hit me. Frankenstella were planning on selling spoons. That’s what Frank meant by calling the museum a gold mine. He should have called it a silver mine. This time, I noticed “10130” written next to it. I couldn’t figure out what that number meant. Maybe it was a secret code. Suddenly everyone thinks they’re a secret agent, I thought.
Stella was on the phone in the kitchen as I re-shelved the last book, The Definitive Northern Italian Cookbook. Knowing she wouldn’t come out to growl for a few minutes, I tortured myself by flipping through the pictures of gnocchi, tortellini, and farfalle.
Farfalle — the Italian name for bow tie pasta! Suddenly it dawned on me — Aunt Gertie’s handler’s name was Ms. Bow Tie. Oh! My aunt was trying to tell me to contact her Agency handler.
All I needed now was Ms. Bow Tie’s phone number, Aunt Gertie’s password, and her spy phone. But how was I going to talk with Gertie when she was in jail? Before I could think of a good plan, my least favorite cousin walked in through the front door, smiling like she’d won a million dollars. “Mabel, you missed so much today.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Victoria rolled her eyes. “You are gullible.” She grabbed my wrist, pulling me close to her, and whispered directly into my ear, “Are they here?”
“Your mother is in the kitchen,” I answered in the same low voice. “Your father’s been gone all day. And I’m hungry.”
“She didn’t let you eat.” It was a statement. “Go to your room. I’ll be there in a few.”
I sighed, sick and tired of being bossed around in my own home.
“Mo-o-om!” Victoria’s wail grated my nerves, so I beat a hasty retreat upstairs.
In my room, I stared out the window, wondering where on earth my parents might be. Gusty winds blew scattered clouds across the deep blue sky. The leaves of the apple tree glimmered in the late afternoon sun. I tripled-checked the sunflower cipher for clues but came up with the same random smattering of bent petals, which meant nothing since it could be any one of those places — or none of them.
Victoria walked in with two glasses of milk and two bags of chips, one bag tucked under each arm. I took a milk and a bag from her. She pulled a peach out of her pocket and gave it to me with her free hand. Then she sat on the floor, nibbling her fingernails. “Are you ready now?”
“For what?” I asked through a bite of peach.
Victoria rolled her eyes again, but at least she smiled this time. “To help me, silly.” She popped open her chips and crunched one.
“I have a few problems of my own right now.”
“Helping me helps you.”
“How?” I asked.
“Once the producers of Exploring Locked Places see my entry, they’ll know I’m a natural star. Last year’s winner got an endorsement deal for shampoo and styling gel, and her own web series.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound impressed. “I didn’t know.” Of course, I hadn’t heard of Exploring Locked Places, either, so that was probably why.
“And if Mom and Dad think there’s more money to be made in Hollywood, we’ll be out of here like that.” Victoria snapped her fingers.
The whole scheme seemed so far-fetched that I was sure Victoria had better odds of being struck by lightning while Hula-Hooping and singing the national anthem at a Seahawks game. “What if your video doesn’t get picked?”
“Why are you so negative?”
“I’m not. It’s called worst-case scenario planning.”
“Sounds more like planning to lose. You wouldn’t recognize big dreams if they slapped you with a wet rag, would you, Mabel?”
It wasn’t true, but I didn’t have the luxury of arguing with Victoria. I had real problems to deal with.
“So are you going to help me?” Victoria asked.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, stalling.
“Is that the pumpkin the girls made for you?” she asked, pointing to my glittery pumpkin.
“Obviously.”
“It’s cute. One of the Hannahs said I could make one with them this weekend.”
“You’re making plans for the weekend?” I said, hating the squeak of my voice.
“Yeah. Why? Is that a problem for you?”
If Victoria was still here this weekend, it would mean my parents weren’t, and that meant that they’d be missing my birthday. I shrugged like it didn’t matter, but I don’t think I fooled her.
“Face it, Moppet. You’re stuck with us.” She smirked. “Unless you want to help me with my dream.” She rummaged around in her backpack until she pulled out a big beige envelope with my name printed on it. “Ms. Drysdale said to give you this.”
“Thanks.” I guess Principal Baker was serious about making sure I didn’t miss any homework assignments.
“Are you failing your classes?”
“No,” I snapped. Not that it was any of her business.
“You sure? She seemed real concerned that you do your history homework, but she only gave the class ten pages of reading for a quiz tomorrow.”
“Teachers. Who can figure them out?” I found it weird that Ms. Drysdale and Mr. Baker had both fixated on history of all subjects. I’d made perfect scores on all the tests and assignments so far.
Ding! Ding! Suddenly my spy sense kicked in. What if they were trying to tell me something? I had to get rid of Victoria quickly.
“Would you like to borrow a book?” I asked. “I have the new Fulton Sisters’ Adventure.”
“Number Eighty-Seven? It’s so awesome when April and Samantha find out the waitress is a ninja who —”
“No. Stop with the spoilers.” I covered my ears. “Do you want to watch television?”
“Do you guys have cable?” Victoria opened the door to the hallway.
“Dad installed satellite dishes. We get a couple hundred channels.”
“Excellent. I have some serious catching up to do on my favorite shows.” A smile spread across her face. “Coming, Moppet?”
“Nope.” I tried to appear sad. “Gotta get my homework done.” I waited until I couldn’t hear Victoria’s footsteps, and then I tore open the envelope. There, under the history assignment, was a note from Mr. Baker:
Mabel —
I talked with Gert.
Farfalle is a type of pasta shaped like bow ties. She really wants you to have some for dinner.
Do you have a carbohydrate deficiency?
Seriously, I think the idea of being in jail is too difficult for her. Is there any way you can contact your parents?
— Mr. B
Well, that helpful note came too late. Something hit my bedroom window before I could despair. I pushed it open and was rewarded with a pinecone to the face.
“Sorry, Mabel.” Stanley stood at the base of the apple tree. “What happened to you today?”
“Long story. Please, whatever you do, don’t knock on the back door or the front door. Or go near them.”
“OK,” Stanley said. I liked that he took my word for it and didn’t ask any questions.
A flash of inspiration hit me. “Hey, do you want to go for a walk?” I called down to Stanley. “But we can’t be seen.” Dad would’ve called this a covert operation — spy talk for a secret job. It usually involves breaking the law for the greater good.
“Sure.” He said it like we sneaked out of our houses all the time. “Where to?”
“Jail.”
“OK.” If Stanley was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I have to be home before nine.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” I said.
Stanley nodded, plopped down on the ground, pulled out a sketchbook, and started drawing.
“No whistling,” I added, before he could start. “And stay away from the windows.”
My very first covert ops mission, and I was going to break in to jail. I bet Montgomery never expected that.