Agent Angus (2 page)

“It's the twisted line,” I choke as I run away. I disguise the run as a dignified jog. I call another lie over my shoulder. “I think I left a Bunsen burner turned on.” Shahid and I have been friends since we were eight. We met six years ago at science camp. We bonded over a toilet-tissue experiment. We were the only kids who wanted to learn which tissue was the most biodegradable. It wasn't hard, but it required patience to soak the different brands until they fell apart. The next step, putting the samples through a strainer to see which left the most paper undissolved, was more hands-on.

The other kids thought our project was weird. They were more interested in fizzing Alka-Seltzer or watching the gas in yeast blow up balloons. Shahid and I were alone in our belief that the toilet-tissue results were useful. We were able to go home and tell our parents which brand was best for the planet.

Unfortunately, my father then insisted I compare how much bleach was used in the production of each brand and whether they used recycled paper. He peered over the top of his glasses and said, “Consider all variables, Angus.”

Shahid and I followed my dad's advice and became toilet-tissue experts. The main thing we learned was that few people are interested in toilet tissue.

Shahid's father reacted by signing him up for baseball. That was a disaster. Not only were the other players hostile about tissue talk, but Shahid had terrible hand-eye coordination. He never once hit or caught a ball. His father finally stopped making him go, but only on the condition Shahid
never
mention tissue again.

For me, it was my mother who trashed the tissue. She said the most biodegradable brand was no better than using newspaper. She also found it embarrassing. One of her women friends claimed our tissue gave her a paper cut.

None of that matters now except to show that my friendship with Shahid went through many strainers and didn't dissolve. If anything, the trial by tissue gave us a solid kinship.

When I tell him about my encounter with Ella, he stares at me, eyes wide. “You lied to her?” he asks. “The girl who has that strange effect on you? The one whose house you keep making me walk past?”

“I only made you walk by there once,” I say.

“Three times. I'm including the times you pretended we had to go that way for exercise.” He holds up a hand, palm out, to stop me from speaking. “Here's what we'll do. I'll ask again if my father will adopt you. It's your only hope.”

Solid kinship we have. But there are some cultural differences. “I already have a father, Shahid.”

“But will he find a wife for you?” he asks.

I glare at him. “How many times do I have to tell you? It doesn't work like that in my family. And just because I
like
someone doesn't mean I'm looking to get
married
.”

“Not yet. But one day, when you are a man. And without a father to arrange it for you, I fear your chances are very bad.” His shrug is sorrowful. His loose joints make him easy to read. It's got something to do with the way he's put together. Long skinny arms, long legs, long neck, long feet. Even his kneecaps are elongated. He's like a baby giraffe, long-ness all over the place. He moves like that too—all over the place.

But when Shahid makes deliberate gestures, he is very expressive. That gives me an idea. “We're smart, aren't we?”

Shahid grins. “You want to forget this girl and get back to work on Gordon?”

Gordon is the remote control robot we've been building for the past six months. We plan to enter him into a competition this summer. “No. Forget Gordon,” I say.

Shahid gasps.

“I don't mean forget him forever. Just for a minute. Or a couple of days. I want us to put our brains to work on something else. I have a plan to fix my problem with Ella. Think about this. How hard can it be to become a mentalist?”

He shakes his head. “A mentalist is a strange person.”

“What do you mean?”

“They're supposed to have psychic skills. Have the ability to read minds. You can't become one, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. He tries to, anyway. His snaps never make a sound. “Furthermore,” he says, “mentalists believe that only our minds are real. Everything else, even physical objects, are here only because we
think
they are.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

“I'm just telling you what they believe,” he says. “I'm not saying I agree.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

Shahid looks away.

“Shahid?”

“When you went on vacation last summer…” He pauses before muttering, “I decided to become a magician.”

I squint at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Some mentalists perform magic acts.” Shahid sighs before adding, “That's the part I wanted to try—doing magic.”

“You never mentioned this before.”

“It was a brief phase. There was a problem with the artificial fog I made in our kitchen. It was very thick. My parents were, you know…” He shrugs. “I had to give it up.”

“I see.” I watch Shahid for a moment. We're in our lab—the family room in my basement. Without thinking, I pass him a bag of chips. He grabs a handful and stuffs them into his mouth. And suddenly, I have renewed hope.

Chapter Three

I watch Shahid munching and tell him, “You don't like those chips.”

He stops chewing, and his eyes widen.

“And your eating them suggests to me that you don't like this conversation. You see? Having food in your mouth is a convenient way to avoid talking about my idea.”

Shahid's swallow is loud.

“Come on, Shahid. What's the real problem?”

“I don't think you want to get involved with this girl. Because if you do, then…” He stops.

“Then what?” I ask.

“Then you'll never have time for Gordon,” he says.

“
What?
” I snort. “Like that could ever happen. All we have to do is spend a couple of days doing light research on faces. And maybe some fieldwork. We can conduct experiments now.”

Shahid frowns. “How?”

“I'll tell you how. Right now, you're frowning. That tells me that you're thinking about something.”

“Do you want to know
what
I'm thinking?” he asks.

I squint at him. “Don't tell me. Let me guess.” I study his face carefully. “You're thinking about my idea. And… that's it.”

Shahid rolls his eyes. “You can't tell I think you're crazy?”

“Don't kid around. This is serious.” An image of Ella's smiling face floats into my mind. “I have to try, Shahid. If I can avoid her for the next few days while I learn how to read people, every-thing will be fine. I'll be able to talk to her openly. It'll be like I never lied.”

“Your logic is faulty,” Shahid says. “Unless you've found a way to alter the space-time continuum, the lie has already happened.”

Sometimes Shahid can be annoying. “Fine,” I say. “The lie happened. But I've liked Ella for eons. Possibly as long as five months. In all that time, I never got up the nerve to talk to her. Now that I finally have, I want to do it again. As my friend, I'd like you to help me.”

“Why not just admit your lie? If she's as nice as you say she is, she will forgive you.”

I give him a look. “Shahid.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “I'll help. What do you want me to do?”

I grin. “Excellent. How about this? You make a face, and I'll try to guess what it is.”

He stares blankly.

“That's good. That's the face of Missy Turner in math class. It means you don't understand.” My grin widens. “See? I can do this. Now, make the face of defiance. I need to know that one.”

Shahid's attempt to show defiance is useless. He simply drops his head to the table. It hits with a solid clunk.

“No, no,” I tell him. “I need to see your face.”

He moans, and when he finally looks up, his face is all scrunched. He puts a hand to his forehead and moans again.

“I'm pretty sure that's pain,” I say. “But that's okay. I should know that one too.”

At one time, it would have been easy to avoid Ella at school. Ella sightings were rare. But recently, that's changed. She is no longer as elusive as Shahid's hand-eye coordination. Even though yesterday was the first time I actually spoke to her, she has been popping up almost daily.

Today I see her more often than ever. I narrowly avoid a close encounter in the cafeteria. When I round a corner in the library, she's in the very aisle I had planned to enter. I ask Shahid to go on high alert. This is a system we created long ago to avoid Some People—otherwise known as bullies—when they're in mean mode. Shahid's height makes him an excellent lookout, and he doesn't fail me now. When I attempt to visit my locker at the end of the day, he spots Ella in close range. I dodge her for the third time by ducking into the washroom.

“Phew,” I say.

“Exactly,” says Shahid. “Maybe we should reconsider studying the ninja arts.”

We've discussed this before. Ninjas receive training in stealth. Stealth would be a handy skill. But when we found out we'd also have to learn combat skills, we put that plan on hold. Neither of us is comfortable with violence.

“There's no time for ninja study now,” I say. “Faces are my top priority.”

A guy we know simply as Grunt emerges from a toilet stall. “Ergh,” he grunts. “Freaks. Ungh.” And he leaves.

Shahid's eyes widen, and he covers his mouth and nose with a hand. I would call his expression “stricken.” He croaks, “Grunt didn't wash his hands.”

I nod. “He never does. And you know what? You make that same face, every time. Can you freeze like that for a moment? I'd like to study the details.”

Shahid doesn't freeze. He drops his hand, his eyes narrow and a whole bunch of other stuff happens, fast. Little changes in his face occur that involve his brows, his nostrils and his mouth. And then he slaps his hand back in place and tries to fake the face. His eyes go superwide, and something funny happens to his ears. They move.

“Forget it,” I say.

“What?” he asks. “This is the face. Go ahead. Study it. Take notes if you want.”

“No. It won't work. You're just like an atomic particle, Shahid. You behave differently when you're being watched. I really need to find a mentalist manual.”

“Just go online.” He sighs. “There's plenty there.”

“So you know more about them than you said,” I accuse.

“I know it takes years of study.”

“I don't have years.” I crack the washroom door open and peer out. “But I might have luck. Looks like the coast is clear. Let's go.”

We step into the hallway. It's almost empty now. It's amazing how quickly students clear out at the end of the school day. I go to my locker and am dialing in my lock combination when Shahid makes a peculiar sound. “Gack.”

“Huh?” I ask.

And a different voice says, “Angus?” It's Ella.

I spin around so fast that I feel dizzy. Or maybe it's seeing her that makes me disoriented. Whatever it is, I gape at her and say nothing.

“I'm so glad I found you,” she says.

I shoot a look at Shahid, who is bobbing in the background. He's shifting from foot to foot and shrugging his shoulders. I suspect that means he knows he failed me.

“Ella,” I squeak.

And then a very strange thing happens. Ella emits a little whimper and starts blinking rapidly. Her mouth quivers, and she opens her arms wide. For one terrifying second, I think she expects me to hug her. This is exactly what my Nana Carter does when she wants a hug. Not that hugging Ella would be like hugging Nana. But it would take a lot of nerve.

Happily, before I can react, Ella blurts, “It's gone!”

“Gone?” I repeat. “It? Uh…”

“My sketchbook. Someone stole it out of the art room.”

“No!” I gasp.

“
Yes.
I just left it for a few minutes, on my work table. And when I got back—” Her voice breaks, and she whimpers again.

“That's terrible,” I say. “Did you report it to the teacher?”

“Yeah. But he…I don't know. He just seems to think I lost it. Or that someone picked it up by mistake.” Ella sobs as she adds, “But I don't believe that. I did a drawing on the cover of my book so it would be unique.”

“Then it should have been obvious that it was yours.”

“Exactly.” Ella fastens her brown eyes on me. “Angus? Do you think you could use your mentalist skills to help me figure out who took it?”

My mouth opens and closes and opens and closes, and nothing comes out. Finally, a gruntlike sound occurs. And that's it.

Ella drops her gaze to the floor. “That's okay,” she mutters. “You don't have to help me.” She turns away.

“Wait!” Boldly, I reach for her arm.

I don't actually catch it, but she stops and says, “Yes?”

Shahid is spinning one of his long arms in a circle. It looks like he's trying to turn the handle of a large crank. I have no idea what this means. But then he mouths the words, “Tell her!”

He wants me to tell Ella the truth. I gaze at her standing there waiting for me. She looks like a puppy hoping for a treat. And I blurt, “I'll help you.”

Chapter Four

Ella's smile is warm—bright. It's as beautiful as the gaseous outer layers of star glow. “Thank you, Angus,” she breathes.

“No problem,” I croak. And once again, I catch Shahid's movements in the background. This time he's simply shaking his head.

“So what do you think we should do first?” Ella asks.

“Uh…”

There's a space of silence until Shahid says, “Maybe we should visit the scene of the crime.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “That's definitely first.”