Harriet the Spy, Double Agent (12 page)

“No idea. One day she was going to class and the next she was gone.”

“It was Thanksgiving weekend, remember?”

“How could I forget?” said Sport gloomily. “It was the dawn of my heartbreak.” He stuck his key in the door that led to his lobby and held the door open for Harriet. They started up the three flights of worn stairs to his walk-up apartment.

“How’s Annie doing?” he asked, his voice tender.

“I wish I could tell you. She’s not speaking to me.”

“Why not?” They turned onto a landing.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Harriet hedged.

“Try me.”

“I kind of spied on her. Followed her places when she didn’t know it.”

“Not cool,” said Sport. “People’s feelings get hurt.”

“Tell me about it,” said Harriet, trying to stifle the misery that had crept into her voice. They were outside the door to Sport’s apartment, marked 4-c with brass figures.

As he fiddled with upper and lower locks, Harriet gazed at the pattern the receding flights of stairs made below them. What’s the right way to describe that? she wondered.

Rectangular spiral? Maybe Matthew would have the right phrase.

Sport swung the door open. “I’m back,” he called out. “With Harriet.” Kate emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel she’d stuck in the waistband of her business suit as an apron. “Well, hello, stranger. We haven’t seen you in way too long.”

“Happy New Year,” said Harriet awkwardly. Kate stood there smiling at her.

“Want to try some of my sourdough?” Sport said. “It came out pretty well.”

“He’s a genius,” said Kate, clapping Sport on the back.

Sport shrugged. “Anybody can bake.”

“That’s what you think,” said Kate. “Remember my buttermilk biscuits?”

“Those were kind of nasty.” Sport grinned.

“Matthew loved them. Of course, he’d eat paperweights if he was writing. I’m going to go change my clothes before I spill tomato sauce all over myself. Make yourself at home, Harriet.” She gave Harriet’s arm a quick conspiratorial squeeze as she passed.

What is
with
her? thought Harriet, flinching.

Sport went into the kitchen and sawed off two raggedy slices of bread. “Want it toasted?”

“Whatever you think.”

“Plain with butter,” he said, setting the bread on two plates and grabbing a butter knife. His back was to Harriet. “I’m sorry to hear about Annie. I know how you feel. I still miss Yolanda.”

“That’s different,” Harriet said. “Yolanda’s not real. Annie is.”

“She was real to me,” Sport said, unwrapping the butter.

“Sorry,” Harriet muttered.

“It’s okay,” said Sport. “I’m sorry you’re sad.” They looked at each other a moment. Then Sport stepped forward and gave Harriet a stiff, clumsy hug. She backed away instantly, banging into the table so hard it hurt.

“What are you
doing?”
she practically screamed. “You’re not supposed to do stuff like that! You’re my
friend
!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“This is just too … peculiar,” said Harriet, still backing up.

“For God’s sake,” Sport snapped, “it was just a dumb hug. I’ve known you since we were both four!”

Harriet looked at him, cornered against the dishwasher. “We’re not four anymore,” she said. Her left side was throbbing where she had slammed into the table, and both of her ears felt unnaturally hot, as if they’d been toasted.

“Did you really think I was putting the moves on
you?
That’s ridiculous!” Harriet didn’t answer. Sport was glaring at her, and she felt very small and embarrassed. She stared at her shoes and thought, I’ll write about this someday.

“I’m in love with Yolanda, you jerk. You’re my
friend
.” Sport slammed Harriet’s plate on the table in front of her. “Now eat this before I get mad.” Harriet did. It was excellent.

Chapter 11

The very next morning, as she was brushing her teeth, Harriet made a decision.

Annie had been freezing her out long enough. This whole thing was out of proportion—annoying, in fact. Harriet wasn’t a double agent. She hadn’t done anything wrong. I’m a spy, she thought defiantly; spying is what spies do.

She went back to her room, straightened her pale blue bedspread, got dressed in the clothes she’d already chosen, and looked at the clock. She still had ten minutes. She got out her latest green notebook and sat down to make a list of possible strategies.

PROBLEM: BEST FRIEND IGNORING ME POTENTIAL SOLUTIONS:

1) LIVE WITH IT.

2) IGNORE HER BACK. LET HER SEE HOW IT FEELS.

3) YELL AT HER. WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS??

4) APOLOGIZE.

Harriet paused to reread her list. Option 1 was a bore. She’d already tried Living With It, and she’d had enough; that was why she’d made this list. She crossed it out.

Option 2, Ignore Her Back, had potential, but Annie was ignoring her so effectively that she might not even notice. Harriet crossed this out too.

Option 3, Yell At Her, had a lot of appeal. Harriet was extremely irritated that this had been going on so long, for more than a week now. She had plenty of steam to let off, and if she really let Annie have it, Annie would have to respond in some way. Probably by getting mad back, thought Harriet, deciding that 3 wasn’t such a good option after all.

That left only option 4, Apologize, which presented its own set of problems.

Harriet wasn’t about to apologize for behavior she didn’t regret. I
am
sorry that Annie’s not speaking to me, she thought, but I’ll never be sorry that I’m a spy.

“
Harriet
!” her mother called up the stairs. “You’ll be late!” Harriet closed her notebook, then opened it to write one final sentence: PROBLEM NOT SOLVED.

Mr. Bolbach leaned on the blackboard, droning about polyhedrons. When he turned to draw an example, the back of his gray jacket was yellow with chalk dust, 66

making him look like a human eraser. Harriet stifled a giggle, turning to see whether Annie had noticed. Annie gave her a look that would wither ripe fruit.

I’m sick of this, Harriet thought, reconsidering the Yell At Her option. She thought about throwing a spitball at Annie, the satisfying
thwack
it would make when it hit her between the eyes, right when she least expected it.
That
would show her that Harriet M. Welsch was not somebody you could ignore.

Harriet tore a page out of her assignment pad, moving in superslow motion so she wouldn’t make noise, but before she was finished, the bell rang and Annie swept into the hall with the rest of the girls.

The next class was gym. Harriet hated gym at the best of times, but this was the worst: it was time for the annual Presidential Physical Fitness evaluations. Harriet had already humiliated herself with her inability to climb a rope, do more than one pull-up, or swing herself into a long standing broad jump. Today she would get to be slower than anyone else at the shuttle run.

Why don’t they rate us on things that kids actually
do
, thought Harriet, angrily pulling on sweat socks. I’d be in the ninety-ninth percentile at sledding or bike riding.

Annie was changing her clothes in the corner, with her back turned to Harriet.

Marion and Carrie, who both took gymnastics and ballet after school, were yammering on about their gymnastics meets and the trophies they’d won. Harriet grimaced and tried to pretend they were inside an active volcano. Suddenly Marion’s voice changed.

“What’s
that?”
she demanded in mocking tones.

Harriet turned. On the floor underneath the bench was an object she recognized instantly: Annie’s sock monkey. Annie’s backpack had tipped over onto the floor and the toy must have fallen out. Marion snatched it, grinning, bobbing it up and down.

“What wittle baby bwought
this
to school?” Harriet caught a quick glimpse of the mortified, angry expression on Annie’s face and said quickly, “That’s mine.”

Marion turned. Her smile was enormous, as if she couldn’t believe her good luck.

“It’s yours? Wittle Welsch dwopped her toy?”

“It’s a treasured antique, if you don’t mind.” Harriet kept her voice even and held out her hand for the monkey. Marion cracked up.

“A treasured
antique
! Oh, in that case.” She handed the monkey to Harriet.

“You’re going to need this when you suck your thumb.” Carrie cracked up and high-fived Marion. They went out of the locker room in fits of giggles. Annie and Harriet looked at each other. “Here,” said Harriet brusquely, tossing the sock monkey to Annie and leaving the room.

Annie caught up with her on the starting line for the hundred-yard dash. Just before Coach Wiejazcka blew the whistle, she grabbed Harriet’s hand for a split second, whispering, “Thanks, H’spy.” The whistle shrilled, and they both charged for the finish line.

“How are the Birdlip Twins?” asked Annie as they walked away from the Gregory School.

“Dull,” replied Harriet, glad that Annie was speaking to her again.

“Well of course they’re dull. They wouldn’t be Birdlips if they weren’t dull. How about Fabio and Naima?”

“She dropped him.”

“What?” Annie stopped in her tracks so abruptly that the second graders walking behind them nearly slammed into her. “What happened?”

“Fabio must have been cheating on her. I went up the fire escape to that window in back of the cleaners—the one that looks down on the tailoring section. Naima was cutting his jacket to pieces with pinking shears.” Annie’s eyes were enormous. “His
motorcycle
jacket?” Harriet nodded. “He dropped it off for a stain removal two days ago. I want to see his face when he comes back to pick it up.”

“Let’s go!”

“Sure,” said Harriet, smiling with deep satisfaction. Annie doesn’t mind spying when it’s not on
her
, she was thinking. “Let’s pick up a snack at the Koreans’. I still have some milk money.”

They riffled through bags of chips. Annie favored the oddly shaped, glazed Japanese snacks with small flecks of seaweed, but Harriet insisted she try
plantanitos
.

“They’re made from fried plantains,” she said. “They’re like a cross between bananas and potato chips, only better.”

“Fine,” Annie said, “but I get to pick out the drinks.” She went to the cooler and came back with two cans of papaya punch. Harriet narrowed her eyes. Had Annie developed a taste for papaya while meeting with P.’s kind-of-cute surfer bodyguard? She thought of him flashing that peace sign and saying, “Nice gloves,” and felt instantly dizzy, as if she’d been spinning in circles too long. I’ve got to find out who he is, she thought, but this was hardly the moment to ask. Annie had just started speaking to her; the last thing Harriet wanted to do was get her angry all over again.

She took the two cans of papaya punch and the bag of plantain chips to the front counter, where Myong-Hee was leafing through a copy of
Vogue
. Over the register, next to the dollar bill that had been taped up there ever since Happy Fruit Farm had opened, Harriet spotted a Christmas card with a photo of dozens of baby pines planted in rows, and the message
Season’s Greetings from Whitaker Christmas Tree Farms
. Underneath, someone had written with a red felt-tip pen,
Happy New Year to Myong-Hee, from Zone
Whitaker (and Sam)
.

Harriet stepped on Annie’s foot. “Ow!” Annie yelped, turning indignantly. Harriet tilted her chin with a look of significance. She had to do this twice more before Annie got it and peered at the card. She read it through, took a step back, and said, “Sam?” Harriet stepped on her foot again.

“
Stop
that!” said Annie. Harriet paid Myong-Hee as fast as she could and trundled Annie out to the curb before she could say anything incriminating.

“You need some poker-face lessons,” she said.

Annie looked at Harriet, her face a mask of intense disappointment. “Douglas Fir’s name is
Sam
. What a dull, normal name. There’s no poetry in it. I
can’t
be in love with a Sam.”

“What happened to a rose by any other name smelling as sweet?”

“I can’t make the leap.” Annie shook her head.

“Are you someone different when you’re Rosarita?”

“I
think
I am,” Annie said. “Sometimes that’s all you can have.” She reached for the bag of plantain chips and set off down the sidewalk, angling her feet so she’d leave unusual footprints.

Harriet hurried to catch up and walked by her side, angling her feet in just the same way. “Twin clubfeet,” she said.

“Ballet victims,” Annie replied. “Third position for
life
.” They limped side by side to the corner of East Eighty-seventh Street. Suddenly someone stepped out from between two parked cars.

Harriet’s heart leaped. It was the surfer guy, and he was wearing his fingerless gloves. He laid a hand on Annie’s arm.

“Come with me,” he said, in a low, urgent whisper. “Right now, before anyone sees you.”

Annie turned wide eyes to Harriet. “Don’t tell,” she begged.