0062120085. (C) (8 page)

“W
OW, MISTER, ARE YOU OKAY?” THE JANITOR ASKED.
“You’re bleeding, you know?”

The guy reached up and dabbed at his head with a handkerchief.

“Yeah, I was aware,” he said.

“You picking up some kids, or . . .” the janitor trailed off, realizing how odd the two men looked.

“No, we’re with the school board,” the guy said. “We’re here for a meeting with Principal Gomez. I just had a little fall outside.”

He faked being embarrassed pretty well. Just the same, I couldn’t let this farce continue.

“He’s lying!” I said. “They’re trying to kidnap us!”

The bleeding guy scowled, and the janitor’s eyes widened. Then he looked at the two men and back at me, apparently completely unsure of who to believe or what to do. This went above and beyond a normal janitor’s duties, I assumed.

“You shouldn’t have said that, kid,” said one of the guys in suits.

Before the janitor could react, the guy hit him in the side of the head with what could only be described as a wicked roundhouse kick. The janitor flew off his feet and hit the ground. As the guy in the suit raised his hand to hit the janitor again the realization that
I had caused this
suddenly hit me. I was going to be responsible for the janitor getting brain damage, or worse, if I didn’t do something.

But they were clearly trained fighters so I would have to hit them hard the first time. I unzipped my bag as I ran toward them, taking out a few pens and textbooks. As soon as I was close enough, I threw one of the books at the guy who had kicked the janitor.

I had been aiming for his groin, but I missed pretty badly.
Fortunately, though, the corner of the book hit him right in the eye and he dropped to his knees and grabbed his face.

Before the other guy had a chance to react, I charged him and drove the pen right into his left thigh. Well, that’s what I tried to do, anyway. His leg must have been pure muscle because the pen basically just snapped in half in my hand without even breaking his skin.

But it bought Olek just enough time to react to the situation, because he came charging in and kicked the guy right in the shin.

“Ah!” he yelled, taking a step back.

“That’s it,” the guy who had gotten a textbook to the eye said. “Enough games.”

He scrambled toward me, grabbed my foot, and yanked.

I went sprawling back to the floor, and my vision went black for just a second as my head hit the hard tile. I sat up just in time to see the other guy fling Olek off him with ease. Olek landed pretty hard right next to me.

The two men were on their feet and cracking their knuckles as they moved toward us. I was finding it hard to inhale. So I just closed my eyes and waited to either
suffocate or to get beaten unconscious, whichever happened first.

That’s when I heard a yell followed by the muffled sound of a kick or punch. I opened my eyes and saw someone attacking the two men in suits with smooth and faster-than-the-eye-can-see kung-fu moves straight out of an action movie. One of the assailants was already on the ground, not moving. The other one was backing away, trying to hold his own against the person who just showed up.

That’s when I saw who it was.

It was Mr. Jensen.

But it wasn’t Tall Jensen. It was Short Jensen. The scrawny music teacher who was terrified of horror movies and loved show tunes.

Short Jensen made a move toward the one attacker still on his feet. The guy on the ground stirred, but Short Jensen kicked him in the face without even looking, and he was out for good. Short Jensen was like those guys you see in movies who can take down six guys by themselves, except that he wasn’t doing crazy jump kicks or wild roundhouses or anything flashy. He was moving fast, and just making little motions here and there, but each one was delivering some kind of
devastating blow on the guys in suits.

“Get out of here,” Short Jensen said to Olek and me. “Now!”

Even though I was still shocked by what was happening, I didn’t need to be told twice. “Let’s go,” I said, helping Olek to his feet.

We started down the hallway and then I suddenly realized something. If Short Jensen was actually the secret agent, then that meant that I’d delivered Betsy to an unsuspecting and completely clueless sixth-grade teacher earlier that morning. And her countdown was only a few hours away from reaching zero.

I whirled around.

“Mr. Jensen! There’s this package that some guy gave to me, it was like a computer or something, with secret data, and it said it was going to self-destruct, and I left it on the other Mr. Jensen’s chair this morning!” I knew I was rambling and talking way too fast, but this was obviously urgent.

Short Jensen, who now had one of the guy’s arms in a lock that looked like a guaranteed shattered wrist, looked up at me just long enough to say, “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it. Just get out of here and go directly home, both of you.”

We took off running and didn’t look back. For some reason, even though those guys had attacked us, I didn’t really want to witness what Jensen had in store for them. But there was no doubt that Mr. Jensen had things under control and would not be needing our help.

Once we were at least a few blocks away from the school, Olek and I stopped running and caught our breaths for a few moments.

“Where do you live?” I asked. “I’ll walk with you.”

Olek nodded, still catching his breath. He pointed up the street and we started walking.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “I thought I was . . .”

He didn’t finish. Either because he couldn’t come up with the right English words or because he couldn’t bring himself to actually say it. Not that it mattered either way. Before I could say anything, he spoke again.

“You save my life,” he said. “I did not know Agency hire kids.”

“Agency?”

Olek grinned at me and nodded.

“Do not worry, Carson, you do not need to pretend. I know you are agent. You save my life!”

I shook my head. “Hey, I would do it again in a second, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m no secret
agent or anything. I’m just some kid who was in the right place at the right time.”

As I said this, I couldn’t help but to marvel at the whole situation. What kind of crazy secrets did this town have? Here I thought we were just some normal small town in North Dakota where the biggest news stories consist of snowstorms, clearance sales at Walmart, and an occasional fender bender. But apparently the place is teeming with spies, secret agents, evil dudes in suits, unmarked black sedans, talking self-destructing secret message systems, and who knows what else.

And it was awesome.

Olek merely laughed at my denial.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, holding his finger to the side of his nose. “I understand, you are not agent.”

“Olek, why were those guys after you, anyway?”

He sighed. “Did Agency really not tell you? What do they say, ‘Hey, Carson, protect this kid.’ ‘Why I protect him? Oh, well, this is not important.’” He scoffed. “That sounds like Agency.”

“No, they didn’t say anything because I’m not . . .” I saw him making that face again. The one that said he knew I was an agent no matter what I said. “Whatever. Sure, I’m an agent.”

“I know this.” He beamed. “Well, do not worry. My parents, they testify in front of It Do hearing soon.”

“It do?” I said.

“Yes, it is I-T-D-O. International Terrorist Defense Organization.”

“Terrorist?” I said. “Why would your parents . . .”

“Look, this is where I stay,” he said, stopping and motioning toward a normal-looking two-story house. “I must go in now.”

“Wait a second.” I had so many questions, I didn’t even know where to start. But Olek was already halfway up the walkway. “Well . . . I’m just glad you’re okay, Olek,” I said.

“Ha! Me, also!” he said.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then?” I said.

What in the heck were you supposed to say right after saving someone’s life?

“Yes, on bus. We sing again?” he said hopefully as he opened his front door.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said with a grin.

I
T TOOK AWHILE TO DIGEST EVERYTHING THAT HAD HAPPENED TO
me that day. And even by the time I went to bed, I still don’t think I fully believed that any of it
had
actually happened. I went over the facts in my head:

There were still more questions than answers. And I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get those answers.

The next day started off normal enough. By that I mean I rode the bus and made it to school without anyone chasing me or ninja kicking my face or randomly handing me highly sensitive and mysterious information. Olek was on the bus again, though. I don’t know what kind of life that kid had lived, but he acted as if nothing at all had happened, as if almost getting kidnapped was just another typical Thursday. The only time he even mentioned it was right before we got off the bus. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Thank you again, Carson. Don’t worry, your secret is protected with me. Locked in my brain like criminal.”

The rest of that morning was pretty uneventful, too. No strange occurrences, no guys in suits, nothing. Even lunch that day was just plain old ordinary chicken and mashed potatoes.

“Ewww,” Dillon said as he sat down at our table.

“What are you complaining about now?” Danielle asked.

“Don’t you know what they put in these chicken cutlets?” Dillon said. We all groaned because we’d already heard this a hundred times by now, but he continued anyway. “Chemicals, rat poison, industrial sludge, liquefied old tennis shoes. I’m telling you, they’re poisoning us little by little, and pretty soon they’ll be able to take over the country, because
everyone
eats chicken!”

“Vegetarians don’t eat chicken,” I said.

Dillon scoffed, “Sure, but do you really think an army of unpoisoned vegetarians and vegans will be able to stop them from taking over? I mean, come on, vegetarians are wimps. They can’t build any muscle without protein!”

I didn’t even need to ask him who the “they” were in this crazy theory because we’d heard it all before. Dillon was convinced that the NPPC, the National Pork Producers Council, was planning a takeover of the United States, starting by poisoning everyone who ate chicken.

“There’s protein in stuff other than meat,” Danielle said.

Dillon just laughed. “Oh, Danielle, you’re adorable sometimes.”

Danielle responded by pouring her milk all over Dillon’s lunch tray. She hated it when he was condescending.

“Ah, now I can’t even eat my potatoes,” Dillon whined.

I looked down at my own potatoes and ran my fork through them. They were pasty, like they were made from some sort of powdered mix rather than real potatoes. I was just about to offer them to Dillon when my fork hit a chunk of something that was most definitely not mashed potatoes, real or powdered.

I pushed at whatever it was with my fork. It looked like a long, thin piece of white paper, like the kind you get in a fortune cookie. Was this some new thing the school was trying? Fortune Mashed Potatoes? It sounded just dumb enough to be an idea Gomez might have actually come up with.

After plucking out the little slip of paper with my fingers, I realized that it wasn’t really paper. It was more like a flexible piece of plastic. It’s hard to describe, I’d never felt anything like it. It was somewhere right in the middle of paper and plastic.

Then I saw that there was writing on one side, just like
a fortune cookie fortune. I squinted down at the tiny print.

Meet by the track. 10 minutes. Don’t be late
.

I looked around the cafeteria. How did this get in here? Was it really intended for me? How would it even be possible to make sure that I was the one who got it? I looked toward the lunch line and saw the guy scooping out mashed potatoes. He suddenly looked up, right at me. He stared with a blank face for four or five seconds and then went back to scooping potatoes.

That was pretty much all the sign I needed to know the message was meant for me. The question was, was it legit or some sort of trap? Would I go out to the school track only to find a gang of bullies waiting for me, or even worse, two guys dressed in black suits and black ties?

“Hey, what is that?” Dillon asked.

“Nothing,” I said, putting the message in my pocket.

“That didn’t look like nothing,” Dillon said. “Oh man, did you find something in your chicken? I knew it! See, I told you guys!”

Everyone at the table groaned again.

“Look,” I said, standing up, “I gotta go, sorry. I forgot that I had this meeting with a teacher today during lunch.”

Dillon, Danielle, and our other friends all looked at
me. This was definitely out of the ordinary. I knew that.

“I haven’t been doing very well in math,” I said. “I’ve been too embarrassed to say anything.”

This was of course not true, but it was at least semi-believable. I’d always been a mostly C student. Mainly because I spent too much time planning pranks to actually, you know, study and do my homework and that kind of stuff.

“I had to get extra help in science last year,” my friend Zack finally said.

“Yeah, and I need extra help in
all
of my subjects,” added Ethan.

Everyone laughed at that. Ethan wasn’t the smartest guy in the world. But it was okay—he knew it, we all knew it. He was still a good guy. And a great hockey player. He’d make the varsity team as a freshman for sure, maybe even as an eighth grader. He’d actually probably leave the state altogether to go play junior hockey when he turned fifteen and eventually get drafted by the NHL and make millions of dollars and be a part of something much bigger than anything happening around here. Who could feel bad for a guy who was going to travel the country and play a game for a living? He’d be living the dream, after all.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, standing up.

They all waved good-bye.

As I walked away, I heard Dillon resume his chicken poisoning rant, followed by the sound of four sets of rolling eyes.