I get to the basement at 1:31 p.m. The Spy Club door is open, just a crack, and there’s light coming from inside. I’m holding a little bag of crumpled-up newspaper, for camouflage, in case it is a seven-year-old.
I carry my bag down to the last trash can—the one closest to the open door. Making as much noise as possible, I open the lid and dump my “garbage” in. But no one comes out of the room.
I stand in front of the door and listen. There is no sound at all. I push the door with one finger, so that I might have just accidentally bumped it. It swings wide open.
It’s a tiny little room, almost a closet, with dingy walls, a concrete floor, and one lightbulb dangling from the ceiling in a way that’s slightly creepy. There’s a tiny painted-over window high up on the back wall that lets in some light from outside. But not much.
The only thing in the room is a folding table with spindly metal legs. Sitting cross-legged on the table is a girl with short dark hair and bangs that draw a straight line across her forehead. She looks about seven years old.
“You came!” she says. She’s wearing fuzzy pink slippers. There’s an open book in her lap.
“Uh, no. I was actually just throwing out some garbage,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. My dad thinks he’s funny, and he was the one who—”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts, “it’s not my stupid club.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. I’m just here to get paid.”
“Paid for what?”
“I’m a scout.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, you know.” She closes the book and dangles her legs off the front of the table. I can now see that her fuzzy pink slippers have little ears. And eyes. I think they might be pigs. “Scouts look for traps, setups, that kind of thing.”
“How old are you?” I say. “And what kind of traps?”
“Older than I look. And who knows what kind of traps? I told you, I’m doing this for the money. I make fifty cents every thirty minutes. That’s a dollar an hour. Do you think I’d be doing this for free? For a dollar I can get a pack of Chicks, Ducks, and Bunnies SweeTarts. They only sell them in April and May. That’s what I’m doing later. My mom is taking me to the Chock-Nut.”
I realize she means Bennie’s, where I’ve gone almost every day of my life after school to buy a snack. Bennie has a faded blue awning that says CHOCK-NUT, but nobody actually calls it that. When I was in kindergarten and first grade, Bennie would slide a plastic milk crate under the counter for me to stand on so I could see the candy better. I wonder if he does the same for this girl. I think how Bennie is a good guy.
She hops down from the table, landing silently in her pig slippers. “But once I get there, I might go for a Cadbury Crème Egg instead—that’s another seasonal candy.”
“But—who’s paying you?” I ask.
“Safer is paying me.”
“What’s Safer?”
“Safer is not a what. He’s the twelve-year-old human standing right behind you.”
I whirl around and find myself standing nose to nose with the dog boy.
“I’m Safer,” the dog boy says.
“One dollar, please!” The girl holds out her palm.
Safer takes a folded dollar bill out of his back pocket and hands it to her.
“Wait,” I say. “You were sitting there for an hour?”
“Fifteen minutes,” she says. “Plus forty-five more on the lobbycam during lunch.”
“The lobbycam?”
“Yup. Watching you and your dad go out for pizza. It took you exactly forty-three minutes, in case you’re wondering.”
Before I can ask her what the heck she’s talking about, Safer pushes her out the door. “Goodbye, Candy,” he says to the back of her head. “Tell Mom I’ll be up in a little bit.”
“Wait,” I say when he’s closed the door behind her. “Her name is Candy?”
“And your name is—Safer?”
“Yeah.”
I smile. I have a strong feeling that I’ve just met two kids who will never make fun of my name.