Agents of the Glass (7 page)

Andy looked around to see if Jensen was still in the room as the three girls laughed about her, but she had already gone.

Is
she
the girl I'm supposed to be watching?
he wondered.

A reasonable guess, I suppose, but, no, it's not Jensen. If you're as clever as I think you are, you've probably already figured out who Andy's target is. If you haven't, keep reading, and pay attention; you only get one chance to read this. When you're done, I'll make every word of it disappear.

Two blocks from Wellbourne was a bodega with the unlikely name YouNeedItWeGotIt! spelled out in squished-together orange letters across the awning. Andy went inside, reached into a cooler for a bottle of GoodTimes root beer, and squeezed it to make sure it was nice and cold.

“How was your first week?” Silas asked.

Andy's head jerked to the left, and his eyes widened in surprise when he recognized him. “How did…You
scared
me.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to check in, make sure you're all right. Any problems?”

“No, it was okay. Everyone was pretty nice, I guess. My student advisor is a girl, Winter, uh…Neale. Yeah, that's it. She showed me around. Oh, and I found out I'm going to be in the Broadcast Club, even though I…Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Maybe a little,” Silas admitted.

“Can I ask a question?”

“You can always ask. I can't always promise an answer.”

“The girl I'm supposed to be watching—is her name Jensen, by any chance?”

“Why? What makes you think it's her?”

“Just a guess. She seems like someone who might…
need
watching. Based on what you've told me about your job, at least.”

“I see. Well then, I suppose you should keep an eye on her.”

“But is she
the
girl?”

“Enjoy your root beer, Andy. I'll try to check in with you in a few days, but don't worry if you don't see me or hear from me. I'll be out of the…out of town for a while. In the future, if you have any problems, or if you
really
need to talk to me, come in here and buy a soda—any flavor
except
root beer—and I'll be in touch as soon as I can.”

Andy turned to look at the woman at the register. “Is she one of—”

Silas didn't let him finish. “When I get back, I'm going to introduce you to some important people, and get you started on your service requirements down at the Twenty-First Street Mission. You're going to be volunteering there occasionally. Don't worry about your dad; he'll get a message from the school reminding him of your community service obligations. Remember…not a word about any of
this—
that is,
me—
to anyone. Have you told your parents about the dog yet?”

“Yeah. They're cool. I thought Mom would have a problem with it, but she thinks it'll be good for me to have some responsibility. Dad doesn't care as long as she's quiet during the day. He doesn't get home from the radio station until three in the morning, so he sleeps late.”

By the middle of his third week at Wellbourne, Andy was already fitting in. He quickly learned that he had no reason to be intimidated by his classmates' brilliance; sure, some of them were pretty darn smart, but nobody was “off the charts,” as he put it.

Before classes began on that Wednesday, he opened his locker to find a paper bag from an exclusive French bakery propped up on the top shelf. Across it, written in flowing, perfect cursive, was a message:
Have a great day, Andy! So glad that I get to be your SA this year! See you at lunch, Winter.

“That's weird,” he murmured as he examined his lock and mentally retraced his steps from the previous afternoon. “I guess I forgot to lock it.”

He unrolled the top of the bag, and the scent of what was inside rose to his nostrils, triggering a memory that made his mouth water. Once—
once—
a few months earlier, he had been in that same bakery with his mother to buy a baguette, and she treated him to an almond croissant. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. He walked by the bakery almost daily but couldn't bring himself to spend four of his hard-earned dollars on something so…so
frivolous,
and French, besides. (His father—well, Radio Dad, anyway—
hated
the French, refusing to eat anything with a French name, and Andy wondered if some of those negative feelings had rubbed off on him.) He tore at the bag, staring in disbelief at the flaky, almondy goodness that lay at the bottom. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he took the first bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. It was as good as he remembered.

During his lunch period, he found Winter and thanked her.

“De rien,”
she said. “Just a little welcome-to-Hellbourne present. I'm so glad you liked it. I took a chance that you're not on a gluten-free diet like everyone seems to be these days. And the almonds. I mean, chocolate is so last week, right? Almonds are just so much
more,
don't you think?”

“Uh, yeah. They're definitely…more. Did I…uh, forget to lock my locker?”

“What? Oh…yeah. The lock was just hanging there. Did you decide? Are you going to try out for the anchor job?”

Andy blinked, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “Um, yeah. I mean, no. I don't think I'd be very good. I watched the news last night, and I have a
lot
to learn first.”

“Well, come and cheer for me, anyway. I'll do better if there are friendly faces in the audience.”

From the moment she sat behind the desk and stared into the camera, there was no doubt who would be Wellbourne's news anchor. Even the juniors and seniors who were competing with her for the job congratulated Winter after her audition. She was
that
good. (“It didn't even matter what she was saying,” Andy told Silas. “It was like you just couldn't…
not
watch her.”)

Ms. Albemarle invited him into the control room to watch on the monitors, and between auditions, she talked about possible roles for him in the club.

“Something tells me that one day you're going to make a great producer,” she said. “I think you'll fit in perfectly. How are you with tech stuff?”

“Pretty good. I'm not, like, a computer genius or anything, but I can usually figure things out. My dad showed me a few things. He works…at a radio station.” He felt a little guilty about it, but Andy hated telling people that Howard Twopenny was his dad. He had learned at a young age that there was no middle ground when the subject was
Tellin' It Like It Is.
People either loved the show or thought that it—along with Howard Twopenny—was a symbol of everything that was wrong with the world.

“Well, it's best if you learn from the bottom up, anyway. Luckily, we have some older kids who can teach you how to use the equipment. And if it's all right with you, I'm going to pair you up with my best reporter. She can be prickly as a rosebush at times, but if you can get past the thorns…”

“Talking about me again, Ms. A.?” said Jensen Huntley, suddenly standing next to Andy, much to his surprise. Neither he nor Ms. Albemarle had heard or seen her come in. “Best reporter. Prickly. Thorny. There's only one person at Wellbourne who fits that description.”

“Don't be so sure about that, Jensen,” said Ms. Albemarle. “We have a
number
of excellent reporters, and some of them actually wear the proper school uniform.”

“Maybe, but only one that you would describe as prickly.” She tugged on a frayed end of her scarf.

“Hmm. We'll see. I want you to meet someone. This is Andy Llewellyn. He's new, and he learns fast. I want you to show him the ropes. Andy, this is Jensen Huntley.”

He held his hand out, which Jensen shook reluctantly with a mumbled “Heywhat'sup,” reminding him instantly of his uncomfortable handshake with Silas, and causing him to wonder if it was something about
him
that made people not want to shake his hand.

“I want you two to work together.”

“What? I thought you said I could work alone,” Jensen protested, looking with disdain at Andy. “Sorry, nothing against you personally, but I work better alone. I'm an investigative journalist, not some fashion blogger. Don't sweat it, though. You're cute enough. There'll be plenty of girls dying to work with you. I just hope you like stories about how to do your eye makeup.”