Kelsey the Spy (2 page)

Leo is having a birthday?
I think, startled. Leo never once mentioned his birthday. I don't even know the date.

A blond curl dangles from Leo's aunt's hair tower as she leans closer. “What are you planning?”

Mrs. Polanski grins. “A surprise birthday bash.”

“With other children?” Leo's aunt sounds shocked. “But Leopold is such a loner.”

“Not anymore. He's made some friends at school,” Mrs. Polanski says proudly. “I worried when his only friends were robots.”

“That's wonderful he has some little friends,” the aunt says.

Little friends?
I roll my eyes.
Seriously, does she think we're still in kindergarten?

“I worry about him though,” Mrs. Polanski adds, frowning. “Celebrating his birthday is risky. What if his friends discover his secret?”

Logical, scientific, honest Leo has a secret? Something to do with birthdays? Could he have an allergy to birthday cake? A phobia of balloons? A tragically sick twin who's hidden away from the world?

“I don't know what to do.” Mrs. Polanski pushes away her teacup. “Keeping the pretense was easy when Leo didn't have friends. But now something as simple as a cake or a birthday card could expose the lie.”

“He should tell his friends the truth.”

“I've begged him to.” Mrs. Polanski sighs. “But Leo refuses.”

Her sister shrugs. “It's just a number.”

“A number is a big deal in middle school.” Mrs. Polanski wrings her hands. “But I don't want to risk Leo being hurt. So at his birthday party, I'll put thirteen candles on the cake. Leo's friends must never know he's only turning twelve.”

- Chapter 2 -

Suspicions

I stagger away from the gate, so shocked I trip over a paver stone. I don't feel any pain, only numbness as I pick myself up and jump on my bike. Even if Leo is home, I can't talk to him right now. The words I just heard don't compute.

How can brilliant Leo—our club's covert technology strategist—be two years younger than me? Eleven years old!

To be fair, I turned thirteen in March so he's probably only a year and a couple months younger. But OMG—he's the age I was in elementary school. How can he act so mature and spout off knowledge like a miniature teacher when he's barely in double digits?

Calm down and think this through
, I tell myself as I pedal away.

It's not like being younger is a crime. I can even guess how this happened. Leo is supersmart, which really impresses teachers, so they must have skipped him up a grade. All this time, I thought Leo was short for his age like me. But he's the average height for a sixth grader.

I don't consciously decide to go to Becca's house, but that's where my bike is headed. I have to tell Becca. No, I can't tell her. That wouldn't be fair to Leo. Yet how can I keep something this huge from Becca?

There's a saying that people who eavesdrop hear terrible things about themselves. But hearing something shocking about a friend is worse. Protecting one friend means lying to another. I understand how Leo's mother feels, torn between truth and lies. We're stuck in the same boat, and floating without paddles.

I wish I could un-know Leo's secret.

When I roll through the entry gate into Wild Oaks Sanctuary, a flock of peacocks crossing the road shriek and flutter shimmery feathers, then fly into the trees. It's still too early to meet at the Skunk Shack so I ride up to Becca's country home. I hope she's inside and not helping her mother care for rescued animals somewhere on their 56-acre sanctuary. Becca could be in the pasture, the barn, or one of the many animal enclosures.

Before I even step on the porch, the front door bursts opens and Becca bursts out. “Kelsey! What a great surprise!”

Surprise.
Not my favorite word right now. I cringe but Becca doesn't seem to notice. “Is it okay to come early?” I ask.

“Way okay!” She grasps my arm and pulls me into her house. “You're rescuing me from a severe case of boredom. Mom's out to brunch with a friend and won't be back for hours. Let's go hang out in my room.” Becca's face lights up with a smile so genuine that I want to tell her everything.

“I found out something,” I say, trying to sound mysterious. “It's about—”

“Watch out!” Becca interrupts as an orange streak races through her legs and into the kitchen.

“Hey, that's my kitten!” I stare toward the kitchen where I hear scampering paws. “What's Honey running from?”

I get my answer when a whirl of black whooshes by my ankles.

“And there goes my kitten in pursuit.” Becca laughs.

“Why are Honey and Chris running loose in the house? I thought they were staying in the back room.”

“Like that lasted long. Mom and I are softies,” Becca admits. “They meowed until Mom and I let them in the kitchen, then the living room, and now they have the run of the house—literally. Hey, don't climb on the table!”

Becca rushes off in pursuit of Chris who is chasing Honey. It's like watching an animal channel sitcom, and I burst out laughing.

When Honey darts in my direction, I grab her and cradle my sweet fur-baby in my arms. Her purr rumbles like kitty music. Becca finally catches Chris, and we take our kittens into her bedroom.

Every time I enter Becca's room, I feel like I'm upside down. Bookcases aren't on the floor but hung high on the wall near the ceiling. Pictures and drawings cover the ceiling like wallpaper. Only Becca's bed, a dresser, and a chair are on the floor. A rolling ladder leans near a high bulletin board covered with notes and photos. Becca designed her room so it's animal proof because she shares it with a menagerie, and teachers are skeptical of excuses like “A goat ate my textbook.” Since the nights have been warmer, the goat prefers the pasture, but two dogs jump off the bed to greet us.

My kitten isn't used to dogs yet, and hisses. But the dogs are too busy tail-wagging to notice. She'll have to get used to dogs, because my family has a fabulous golden-whip (golden retriever plus whippet) named Handsome. Unfortunately, due to the no-pets rule in our apartment, Handsome is living with my grandmother for now. But I hope we'll all be living together again eventually.

Becca flops on her bed, patting the larger dog with one hand and plopping the smaller dog on her lap. She turns to me. “So what were you saying? You found out something?”

“Did I ever! I'm still in shock.” I pull up a chair and sink onto the hard seat. “It doesn't really matter … It's just hard to believe that he isn't …” I shake my head.

“Go on,” Becca urges with a flick of her hand. “Who did what?”

The words are like grenades ready to explode if I don't say them. But my mouth dries up. Leo's secret isn't mine to share. As much as I want to tell Becca, it feels wrong. She's staring at me, leaning forward like she's poised to catch whatever I toss at her. I have to tell her something.

“It's about … about my brother.” I shift my thoughts in a new direction. “He was acting suspicious at breakfast and carrying a mysterious box, so I followed him.”

Becca strokes the little dog in her lap as I talk, never taking her gaze off me. When I get to the part where Kyle bikes down the shadowed alley and vanishes, her eyes spark with curiosity.

“Any idea where he went?” she asks.

“Nope,” I answer. “But I think he was delivering something in the box.”

“I know! He went to the sheriff's office to report a crime.” Becca taps her purple-tipped fingernail on her chin. “And the box contained evidence.”

I consider this, then shake my head. “I doubt it. Kyle only leaves the house for school or the library.”

“But you don't know that for sure. Did you check inside the sheriff's office?”

“No.”

“Well, you should have.”

Becca's right. I assumed my brother went somewhere else, so I didn't investigate. What kind of spy gives up so easily? Like the book
Spy Now, Die Later
says, “Assumptions are roadblocks to discoveries.” I have to stop making assumptions or I'll never discover anything.

“I bet something supersecret was in the box.” Becca twirls the end of her long ponytail. “Maybe your brother is a courier for the CIA.”

I laugh. “Kyle's not that interesting.”

“But he's up to something sneaky.” Becca shifts so she's sitting cross-legged.

“I'm sure of it,” I agree. “I'll keep a close eye on him and try to search his room. If he still has the box, I'll find out what's inside.”

We try to guess what could be in the box (jewels? money? love letters?), and then we discuss ideas for the Sparkler booth. The Humane Society fund-raiser is just a week away, so we have to work fast. “We have plenty of ideas,” I say. “The problem is getting five girls to agree on one—”

“Especially when one of the girls is Tyla.” Becca slumps against a pillow. “Tyla's so sure her ideas are the best—even when they aren't—that it's hard to tell her no. And usually I get stuck with the work because the others are too busy. That's why I wanted you in our group, even if it's only for a week.”

“I'm not into sparkly stuff, but I'm all for helping the Humane Society.”

“I hope we can come up with a fabulous idea. If not, Tyla will get her way and we'll have a face painting booth.” Becca groans. “Again.”

We brainstorm great and terrible ideas—popping balloons, fishing for prizes, karaoke, beanbag toss, fortune-telling—until Becca remembers she has to go check on a bear cub named Fuzzy Wuzzy. The poor orphaned cub was found wandering alone with burn scars after a forest fire.

I love walking with Becca through the sanctuary, surrounded by so many amazing animals. After I help her feed the bear cub, I pet a fawn and cuddle long-haired bunnies. The only creature I avoid is the alligator that snaps loudly when we walk by his enclosure.

At almost noon, we climb the path to meet Leo.

The Skunk Shack, our CCSC clubhouse, is hidden by overgrown bushes and towering trees on Becca's hilly property. We cared for the kittens here until Leo took his kitten home and Becca moved our two into her house. More than anything, I wish I could take Honey home, but I can't while we're living in an apartment that doesn't allow pets.

Leo is already inside the Skunk Shack, reaching high to polish the glassy face of a grandfather clock. When we fixed up this shack, we were surprised to find the broken clock in jumbled pieces. Leo was determined to repair it, and he's done an amazing job. A brass pendulum swings behind a glass box, and the clock chimes on the hour. It's still a mystery though—why a grandfather clock was left in a shack once used for stinky animals. The only clue we have is an old black-and-white photograph of a little boy riding a tortoise.

“Nine, eight, seven, six …” Leo counts down. “Listen for it!”

The grandfather clock starts to chime, a sweet sound that echoes in our clubhouse. I'm not watching the clock though; I'm studying Leo. When we first met, I thought he was arrogant, stubborn, and annoying. He is—but I quickly learned he's also clever, kind, and loyal. Now we're good friends.

How can he be only eleven? He talks like a dictionary and wears formal slacks with a button-down shirt under a vest like a teacher. But when the clock chimes for the twelfth time, he breaks into a boyish grin that shows his true age.

His secret
, I remind myself, and shove it to the back of my mind.

“Leo, I stopped by your house a few hours ago, but no one answered the door.” I pull out my chair from our table and sit so I'm facing Leo. “Where were you?”

“I was with Frankie.” Leo sits down too, sitting straight with his head held high. “We were calculating variances of movement and adjusting gears on a warthog.”

Becca looks up from where she's sorting through our snack box, her black brows arched. “A warthog?”

“A mechanical version of the fictional character from the
Lion King
.”

“Oh, for the drama club,” Becca says.

I nod, understanding. Frankie is Leo's new friend. Leo met Frankie, the set designer for the school drama club, when we were searching for a zorse's mask. Since then Leo has been skipping club meetings to help Frankie.

“It's abnormal for Mom not to answer the door.” Leo taps his finger to his chin thoughtfully. “She and Aunt Joanne may have gone shopping.”

Or into the backyard to share tea and secrets
, I think.

Leo tilts his head at me. “Why did you come over?”

“I was following a suspect.” I smile mysteriously. “But I lost him near your house so I stopped by to see you.”

His blond brows rise. “What suspect?”

“First tell us why you called this meeting,” I counter. “Your email was very cryptic.”