“Yes,” I said. “Can we please focus on how I’m the worst spy in the world and I’m probably going to end up working the graveyard shift as a cashier at 7-Eleven?”
“See?” Angelo grinned. “You are very dramatic. The first sign of being a wonderful spy. Look at Emma Peel, James Bond. They were never subtle.” He patted my hand, which made me feel better.
“Okay.” I sighed. “I can find these documents. I will find them. I thought I did, but apparently that was just a dress rehearsal. I’ll get them, I promise.”
“It’s not a matter of saying,” my dad told me. “It’s a matter of doing.”
“Then I’ll do it,” I said. “I can. I will. I know how important this is and I won’t screw it up.” I didn’t mention that I had already made out with the target’s son. That probably wouldn’t have helped anyone’s confidence in me.
Least of all myself.
“I’ll get the documents,” I insisted when no one said anything. “Trust me, okay? I’ve got this.”
I had no idea what I was doing.
Chapter 18
The day just got suckier.
It was raining out, which means the school hallways were humid and dank. My hair felt like a too-big hat on my head, and I had gotten splashed by a cab on Jane Street, which meant that everything below my waist was now soaked in gutter water. I was cold, miserable, the worst spy in the world, and now my bangs were so big that they could probably be used as a cell phone tower for all of lower Manhattan.
I had never missed Iceland more in my life. I would rather have been in Luxembourg than where I was at that moment, that’s how cranky I felt.
And to make matters worse, I couldn’t seem to open my locker. The lock was stuck.
“I hate my life!” I wailed, then started to bang my forehead against the metal.
“Oh, please. Self-pity is so last year.”
Roux. The ray of toxic sunlight that I had been missing.
“Do you mind explaining to me why you’re trying to make yourself look like the Phantom of the Opera?”
I didn’t even know where to begin. How was I supposed to do this job when I couldn’t even be honest with the people who could possibly help me? So I settled on the most honest answer.
“I burned my tongue,” I told her.
“Huh.” Roux sipped her latte. “That’s the sign of a bad day to come. We should err on the safe side and ditch.”
I stopped banging my head (which, despite what they show in movies, really hurts) and turned to face her. “I can’t ditch, I have a French quiz.”
“‘Can’t’ should never be a word in anyone’s vocabulary. It implies negativity.”
“You don’t get it!” I told her. “I have responsibilities, okay? I cannot miss French class today. Can’t, cannot, will not, whatever word works for you. It isn’t happening.”
Roux just grinned. “Finally, a little feistiness! I’ve taught you well! And you don’t have to pretend with me, I know you just want to see Jesse.”
I did want to see Jesse, that was true, but at the same time, I kind of didn’t. I knew I had screwed up by kissing him, and if Angelo or my parents ever found out, they’d probably banish me to the Arctic Circle to make snow cones for the rest of my life. Every time I saw him, I was reminded of how unprofessional I had been.
And yet at the same time, I couldn’t wait to see him again.
I wondered if James Bond ever had this problem with any of his lady friends.
“You can see Jesse anytime,” Roux said. “Hell, he’s probably ditching, too!”
I sighed and tried again to get into my locker.
“Tell you what,” she continued, “let’s split the difference and go to Sant Ambroeus for coffee. It’s French, right?”
“I think it’s Italian.”
“Whatever, it’s all under the European umbrella. So let’s go.”
“Shouldn’t you be worried about ditching too much?” I asked her, gritting my teeth and wondering if I could stab my locker with something sharp. “Don’t you have to get into college?”
Roux twirled a bit of her hair around her finger. “Oh, that,” she said, like we were talking about a forgotten errand or something. “College is so self-important. Everyone runs around and gives themselves an aneurysm about getting into wherever and then they get there and drop out after a semester. I’m not playing that game.”
I stopped and looked at her. “Your parents are just going to donate money, aren’t they.”
“Duh. Plus, not to brag, but I am amazing at standardized tests. Filling in bubbles with a number 2 pencil is sort of a specialty of mine. So, do you want to go to Sant Ambroeus now or—?”
“Roux!” I finally screamed. I couldn’t take it anymore, the nonstop chattering, the worry-free life, the fact that her biggest problem was that some loser pothead didn’t like her anymore. “Do you ever back down? Because you are relentless. You’re like a semi with no brakes on a patch of black ice! Just stop!”
Roux was silent for a few seconds before she said, “Well, that’s, like, three similes all in one.”
Her voice was the quietest I had ever heard, and I realized that I had hurt her feelings. Great, friendship was another thing that I sucked at. Add it to the list.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just … I had a fight with my parents this morning because I said I would do this thing and I thought I did it, but they don’t think I did and they’re not listening to me and it’s just a mess and … ugh, I hate this stupid locker!”