Agent Angus (5 page)

I tell him that we'll approach the skate bowl from the west so we can take cover in the clump of trees on that side. All goes very well. We enter the shrubbery and edge forward until we're almost through. I call a halt while we're still concealed by low-hanging branches.

“Wait here,” I hiss. “I'm going to see if I can spot her.”

“You don't need to whisper,” Shahid says. “Nobody will hear us.”

He has a point. It's a sunny afternoon, and the skaters are out in full force. The wheels on their boards rumble on the concrete surface and clatter on pipes. Music pumps from a stereo.

I shrug and then shuffle over to a tree trunk. I hold on to it while craning my head until I have a clear view. I almost lose my grip on the tree when I spot our target.

“There she is!”

“No duh,” Shahid says. “I can see her from here.”

The fact is, Rachel Stone is rather hard to miss. She got her nickname last year when she began dressing like (one assumes) her idol. Today is no exception. I decide to let go of the tree trunk and make notes.

Suspect: Rachel Stone, alias Gaga Girl

Description: Girl disguised as rainbow

Height: Taller than me/shorter than
Shahid

Hair Color: Purple

Distinguishing Features: Blue wing-style
mask with curly tendrils protruding
from tips. Shiny green cape, knee
length. Brilliant yellow micro dress.
Orange legs (difficult to tell if legs are
painted or if she is wearing stockings).
Red ankle boots.

This is what I mean about her being decorative. Most days she's satisfied with looking like she's ready to go on stage. Days like today, when there's an apparent theme, must take a lot of planning. Previous costumes have made her appear as a plant, a cloud and a rock.

“What is she doing?” Shahid asks. “Is that a sketchbook?”

“Huh?” I look up from my notes, and, sure enough, Rachel is holding something. Now it's time for my plan to go into action. “Okay! Here's what I want you to do, Shahid. See that low wall over there? The one just beyond where Rachel is standing?”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to put the glasses on and walk over there. Walk casual-like, as if you're just sort of wandering.”

“Wandering?” Shahid echoes.

“You know what I mean. Don't draw attention to yourself. Once you're there, 69 I want you to keep your back to Rachel. Maybe lean your elbows on the wall and make it appear that you're gazing out the other way, bird-watching or something. But make sure you can see her in the mirror. Got it?”

He stares at me.

“Okay,” I sigh. “I'll go over it again. I want you to walk casually over to—”

“I get it!” he snaps. “What are you going to be doing while I'm
bird-
watching?”

“I'm going to go off that way.” I point toward the street. “Beyond the wall. Then I'll circle back and crouch down on the other side, close to you. You can tell me what you see, and I'll take notes.”

“Oh, man,” Shahid moans. “Why can't we just walk by her and get a closer look at the book?”

“Because,” I say. “That's too…”

“Easy?” he cuts in.

“No. It's too obvious. What if we can't get a good look at it? We can't keep walking back and forth until we do.”

“Fine,” he says in a tone that tells me it's not fine. He pulls the sunglasses out of his backpack. He opens them and stretches the elastic over his head. He sets the glasses in place, and there's an audible
snap
when he releases the elastic. “Ow!”

“Don't forget to fluff your hair,” I tell him.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Fluff my hair.” He's still mumbling as he stomps away.

“Casual, Shahid,” I call after him. “Wandering.”

He surprises me by responding with a rude gesture. That's totally not like him. It reminds me of something, but I can't remember what. I decide it's not important and set off on my own route to the wall.

Chapter Nine

What appeared to be a low wall from the skater side is a high wall from the other side. It's one of those concrete-block retaining walls that separates the ground into two levels. The lower level is the flat surface of a soccer field. It's perfect. I can glimpse Shahid's head above me as I take up my position.

“Shahid,” I hiss. “Can you hear me?”

“Yesss,” he hisses back.

“Can you see Rachel in the mirror?”

“Yesss.”

I'm so delighted, I could dance a jig. Not that I dance jigs, but if I did, I would.

“Excellent. What is she doing?”

“I don't know.”

“What does it
look
like she's doing?” I ask.

He whispers, “It looks like she's staring at my back.”

“What?”

“I
said
,” he says, “she's staring at me.”

This is worrisome. “Has she been doing that the whole time?”

“No. Before this, she was unpacking art supplies. Paint and stuff.” There's a pause before he adds, “And also looking at the sketchbook.”

I'm delighted again. “Did you see what was in it? Were there drawings of faces?”

“I couldn't tell. There were drawings, but…” He stops. And then he says, “Gack.”

“Huh?”

And a girl's voice says, “Excuse me. I was wondering—how long do you think you'll be here?”

“Uh,” Shahid stammers. “I can't say for sure. But going by statistics, I'll be around for another seventy years.”

There's a gap in the conversation, and then the girl laughs. “Very funny. I meant, how long will you be standing in front of this wall?”

“Oh. I don't know. I hadn't thought about it.” Even from a distance, I can hear Shahid swallow. “It's not something I generally do.”

Another space of silence follows. Then the girl asks, “You don't generally stand in front of walls, or you don't generally think?”

“Walls,” Shahid blurts. “That's what I meant. Thinking, I do all the time.”

This seems like the right answer to me, but the girl sounds disappointed. “Oh. That's too bad. I find thinking interferes with life.”

“Really?” Shahid squeaks.

“Yeah. Thinking gets in the way of the pure experience, you know? The mind can be such a fake place.”

“Fake? But…but,” Shahid stammers. “Oh. Huh. I guess that would make you the opposite of a mentalist.”

“What did you say?” she asks.

“I don't know.” Poor Shahid. He's not himself.

“That word,” she mutters. “
Mentalist
. It rings a bell. Oh!” And suddenly, there she is—Rachel. She's leaning over the wall, looking straight down at me. Beneath the violet hair and the blue mask, her mouth is smiling. “You must be Angus.” She turns to Shahid. “And you're his friend, right? Ella told me to watch for you.”

I'm stupefied. This makes no sense at all. I can't speak, but that's okay because Rachel keeps going. “She didn't tell me you two were so…cute. And artsy.”

“Artsy?” Shahid's voice is faint.

Rachel nods. “Definitely artsy. I've never seen shades like yours. They make such a
large
statement.”

“They do?” Now Shahid sounds really confused. “What are they saying?”

She giggles. “You tell me.”

“I can't,” he says. I know that Shahid means this literally.

It's time for me to step up and save him. I try out my voice, and it works. “Ella told you about us?”

“For sure,” Rachel says. “She told me you're a—what was the word again? A mentalist. And that you're helping her find her sketchbook. She said you'd be checking around.”

I can't believe this. Ella needs more help than I thought. Tipping off the suspects is so…naïve. “Yeah, well,” I mutter. “I guess you know how important Ella's drawings are to her.”

“They're very important,” Rachel says. “She's really good. Way better than me. You should see how pathetic mine are.”

Aha. She may think by offering to show me her art,
I'll
think she must not have anything to hide. But I can't be thrown off so easily. I tell her, “I doubt your drawings are pathetic. I'd be happy to see them.”

“Really? Then come on up here and I'll show you.” She disappears from view.

I whisper to Shahid, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he says. “No, I'm not.”

“I'll be right there,” I tell him.

I don't have to go far to find my way around the retaining wall. I hike up a little slope and march toward Rachel. Scattered on the ground at her feet are felt pens, spray-paint cans and a sketchbook. She picks up the sketchbook and holds it aloft as I approach. Once I'm there, she flips it open.

“See? These are my graffiti ideas.”

The drawings are almost as bad as something I'd do. They're nothing more than rough, blocky shapes. “Huh,” I mutter. “Graffiti ideas?”

“Yeah.” She points at the retaining wall. “That one is mine. The park people are letting us do our own thing around here.”

“Oh.”

“Cool,” Shahid croaks. “I guess that's why you were wondering how long I'd be standing in your way.”

“You got it. But hey, no worries. I'm glad I got to meet you two.”

I mutter, “Likewise.”

“Maybe you'll come back sometime and see how it turns out?” she asks. She's looking at Shahid.

“Yes,” Shahid answers solemnly, like he's making a promise. “I will.”

“Good. Are you guys done with the wall?”

We nod.

“Then I'm going for it.” With a grand gesture, she tosses back her green cape.

Shahid and I mutter, “Good luck.”

We're almost home when Shahid says, “Her legs were painted orange.” His tone is one of wonder.

Chapter Ten

Usually, the minute my heads hits the pillow, I fall asleep. Not tonight. No, I lie awake thinking about Shahid telling me that I must admit to Ella that I'm not a mentalist. I can't read facial expressions. I have no idea who stole her sketchbook.

I know Shahid is right. By lying to Ella to get her to like me, I'm no better than a player. I decide that I'm not actually a player, because I think those guys lie to lots of girls. Still, I am a liar.

I try to picture telling Ella “The Truth.” What words could I use? Would she be angry? Would she never speak to me again? My mind shies away from this awful scene. I switch to picturing the way she looked at me like a hopeful puppy. I recall her skill with a pen and the amazing likeness she drew of the scrawny kid.

This leads me to remember the stench of the stink bomb and the scrawny kid flipping us off. What a jerk.

Wait a minute. Was he looking straight at us when he did that? Wasn't Ella's arm raised, pointing toward Principal Garnet? She was pointing at something. I was a bit distracted when all that happened. Or would that be disoriented? Whatever it was, I know I was affected by Ella's presence.

And then an idea strikes me with such force that I sit bolt upright in bed.
Scrawny kid stole Ella's sketchbook!
Of course he did. He thinks she ratted him out to the principal. He took her book for revenge.

Wow. This is it. I know it. It makes complete and total sense. Once again, I picture scrawny kid flipping us the finger. I remember Shahid doing that very thing to me today. At the time it reminded me of something. It's as if my brain knew more than me. Is that possible? It's my brain. It shouldn't know things that I don't know. Although in all fairness, my brain did try to get in touch with me.

None of that matters now. The important thing is that I know who stole Ella's sketchbook! This feels so good I decide I can reply to her email. I get up and send this message:

FYI: Update on investigation. Have
identified the culprit. Have large hope
that recovery of your sketchbook will
happen soon.

Agent Angus

PS Thanx for the link to Mr. Wilder's
blog. Am very sorry about his wife.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to get the book back from Scrawny.

“The first thing we have to do,” I tell Shahid, “is find him.” We're standing at the top of the stairs overlooking the main hall at school. It's one of the best places to observe students.

Shahid shakes his head. “If this kid got caught for stink-bombing, wouldn't he be suspended?”

He has a point, an inconvenient point. “We'll have to find out about that,” I say.

“How?” Shahid asks. “We don't even know his name. We can't go into the office and ask the principal what happened to Scrawny.”

“Obviously not,” I snap. “But the secretary likes me.” The warning bell sounds for first class. “If I get sent to the office on an errand today, I'll see what I can find out.”

I don't get sent to the office in first period. Nor am I asked to fetch or carry anything for the teacher in second class. I find this frustrating, but by lunchtime I have a new plan. I explain it to Shahid at my locker.

“Who do we know,” I ask, “that must overhear many conversations?”

Shahid shrugs. “You tell me.”

“Grunt! He's always in the washroom, right? He must hear plenty. He might not have heard Scrawny talking about his bomb plot, but he could have heard something. Like the
name
of the person who set off the bomb.”

“Maybe so,” Shahid says, “but that doesn't mean he'll tell us. He doesn't like us, for one thing. And for another, he can barely form words.”

“I know that. But I have an idea. Let's see if he's there, If he is, follow my lead, okay?”

Shahid heaves a weary sigh and nods.

We proceed to the washroom, and, sure enough, the door to Grunt's cubicle is closed. A quick peek under the door confirms that his feet are there. I turn the tap on and raise my voice. “That was quite the prank.” I look at Shahid expectantly.