A Spy Like Me (2 page)

“Doctor! Doctor!” I called out to tourists
and couples walking past, but they ignored me.

Some pulled out their phones and snapped
pictures. Others saw what looked like a questionable scene and
hurried by, not wanting to get involved. And I had no idea how to
say in French, “Help! A boy might possibly be bleeding to death!”
Or, “I tied him up but I didn’t shoot him!”

I knew exactly how this would look to the
police. Terrible. Like I was some crazy, gun-happy, screwed-up
American teen. Or like I belonged to some secret, ancient society
that murdered people for no apparent reason. Right.

I struggled not to pass out. Who would hurt
Malcolm? And what if they were still watching? With a gun aimed at
us? Or me?
Crap.
I dropped to the ground next to him,
huddling close.

“Please, please be okay,” I whispered.

“Oh,
now
you want me to be okay,”
Malcolm mumbled. “After tying me up.”

I shook with relief that he was talking and
still breathing. I kept pressing the quilt against his arm. “Do you
know who might’ve shot you?”

“Do you have a jealous ex-boyfriend?” he
asked. A bit of drool clung to the corner of his mouth.

“This is nothing to joke about,” I snapped.
“We need to get you to a doctor.”

“It’s not that bad.” His eyes blinked open
briefly. He felt his arm, wincing. “It’s just a grazing, I
think.”

“Not that bad? You’ve been shot!”

I felt past the quilt to the cloth napkin
tied around his wrists. The ties had to come off, and I couldn’t
hide in his shadow forever like a coward. I had to act. And it had
to be soon. Before this situation got any worse.

My legs trembled and panic set my skin on
fire as I scooted around his body. The barrel of a gun could be
pointed right at me, the shooter focused and aiming, waiting for
the right moment to pull the trigger. I tugged at the binds, but
they weren’t called my specialty knots for nothing. Only one thing
to do.

“This might hurt but I need to pull you to
safety while I go for help.” I hooked my arms under his shoulders
and pulled.

I heard the ping first and felt the pricks of
shattered tree bark against my back. I dropped to the ground. Sobs
ripped from my throat, and I curled into a ball. That was why I
never heard the gun shot. The gun had a silencer on it, which meant
professionals.

“Savvy?”

“What?” I said in a tiny, scared voice.

“Come close and listen.”

I inched over to his side so I could see his
face. Pain flecked his expression from the set of his jaw to the
way his eyelids fluttered shut every few seconds.

“What?” I whispered. I couldn’t even hold his
hands because they were tied up.

“I like you.” A twisted laugh escaped his
lips. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”

“Let me get help.” I wanted to reach out and
touch his cheek, to comfort him, but I curled my fingers into the
grass.

“We need to run,” he said. “Help me up.”

“What if they shoot again? Or what if you
pass out from blood loss?”

He glanced to the right and left as if hoping
to spot the shooter. “If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead.”

I let his words soak in. This was a warning?
For what? Eating too many
chocolat au pains
?

His words puffed out with each breath. “I
try. To bring my dates. Home alive. Their dads like that.” He held
his breath and grimaced with pain. “You run one way. I’ll run the
other. Eiffel. Thirty minutes.”

“Shh. Okay. I get it. Don’t talk anymore.”
This time I did run my fingers across his cheek, then I smoothed
his hair.

“I’m serious. Go,” he barked.

The back of my neck tensed at the urgency in
his voice, and I glanced around. The light from the Eiffel Tower
and the street lamps still cast a romantic glow but this night had
become anything but romantic. Most people rushed past us. We could
both stay here all night like sitting ducks, just hoping the
shooter would leave us alone. Or I could do as Malcolm wanted and
run away.

“Fine.” But I didn’t move. I was rooted to
his side, too scared to go, too scared to stay. I fumbled with the
ties. “Let me get you untied.”

Then I heard another ping and the grass tore
up next to me. I smothered a scream, grabbed my bag, and got to my
knees.

“Go! Now!” His voice hitched. “I’ll slip out
of these knots in two seconds.”

I choked back a sob. “Thirty minutes.”

Then I ran. I didn’t look back, but flew
across the grass toward the main road. The thought that a bullet
could be shooting toward my back made me run faster than I’d ever
run before.

I flew across the grass, feet pounding, arms
pumping. I wove in and out of the trees, cutting zigzag lines to
throw off the invisible shooter. A cramp gripped my side, but I
kept pushing. What if Malcolm was wrong? What if the gunman had bad
aim or sneezed as he pulled the trigger? I zigzagged again.

Benches and tourists were a blur as I zipped
past. I wanted to reach out and grab the darkness like a cloak and
wrap it around me, but the blazing lights from the Eiffel ruined
any chances of melting into the night.

Hide. That’s what I needed to do. I pushed
harder, almost to the tower. I ducked behind a group of older men
out for a stroll, and then after a glance behind my shoulder, I
slid behind a cart and a man selling roses. Immediately I slumped
to the ground, my chest heaving. Sweat streamed off me and dripped
into my mouth. I tasted salt. Tears too?

I breathed in and out. What the hell just
happened?

Someone touched my shoulder with a soft hand.
I scrambled back. A man with corn silk hair offered me a rose. The
owner of the cart. I reached out to grab the stem, trying to miss
the thorns. He spoke in French, and I nodded.

“
Merci
,” I said.

“Trouble?” he asked, his brow crinkling with
concern. Light danced in his eyes. He seemed perfectly content to
sell roses all day. Just a kind man with probably a simple life,
maybe some grandchildren an hour away. I couldn’t get him
involved.

“No. I just need to rest.” I assured him,
shaking my head.

He didn’t seem to understand and went back to
selling roses. I lifted the bloom to my nose and let the soft
petals brush against my skin, the sweet smell giving me a false
sense of security. Was I safe? Had the mad man with a license to
kill gone home? Or was he after Malcolm? Damn it. When would thirty
minutes be up? I let my head fall against my knees and tried to
ignore the guilt. If I hadn’t been all cute and flirty and tied
Malcolm up, he’d be much better off. He might not have gotten shot.
Wait a second. Why did he get shot? I wasn’t sure I wanted to
know.

With each painful minute, I pictured Malcolm,
running, falling, getting shot. And then the silent movie would
start again and the scene would play over and over. After what
seemed like an extremely long time, I pushed up and peeked around
the cart. My legs cramped and my shoulders felt tight and sore. I
had to be safe, right? I hadn’t heard any gunshot pings since I ran
away, since Malcolm got shot, since our date got ruined.

With a slight limp, I walked the perimeter of
the Eiffel, searching for Malcolm. It would be hard to miss a guy
in his underwear. With every flash of brown hair, my heart leaped.
But it was never him. I rubbed my shoulders, ignoring the fear
squeezing the breath out of my chest.

Finally, I leaned against a tree, letting the
crowds of people blur in and out. The boisterous sounds of the
late-night crowd faded into white noise, and the nice man closed up
his cart and left for home. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed or if I
even nodded off here and there, but he never came.

Malcolm never showed.

I convinced myself he decided to seek medical
help, or that he found the shooter and wrestled him to the ground
and turned him over to the police. Or that it was too much for him
to make it to the Eiffel, and he was safe at home, wherever that
was. Why hadn’t I gotten his phone number?

Clouds passed over the moon, casting a shadow
over the city of lights. Shivers racked my body. The crowds
thinned. Thirty minutes had passed several times, and I had to go
home.

The next morning, I woke up in a haze. My
head pounded and my heart ached. Somehow I’d made it home last
night, past Dad who’d fallen asleep reading a Dan Brown novel, and
into the shower. But no matter how hard I’d scrubbed, I couldn’t
wash away the memory of what happened. I’d stayed up late into the
night, worrying.

Throwing aside any dirty clothes, I dug
around in my closet and found the box. The one full of different
spy gadgets—gifts from Dad, of course. A beginner’s code-breaker
book that I hadn’t even cracked the spine on yet, an obnoxious
flower pin that doubled as an audio recorder, and I couldn’t
possibly forget about the black ski cap Dad wanted me to wear as a
Spy Games’ staffer. I was hoping to find a bulletproof vest or
weapon of some sort. Not that we needed weapons for Spy Games. The
wannabe spies were placed in groups and traipsed across Paris
together. I handed out coded clues at the Louvre and later tortured
the hostage. Pretty boring, actually. But people seemed to love
it.

Malcolm. Thoughts of him hovered in the room,
not letting go, not leaving me alone. I liked Malcolm. I liked the
lopsided grin he wore when he took my order every morning, already
knowing what I wanted. I liked his polite and kind words when he
waited for Aimee and me to finish chatting before he presented us
the bill. And I especially liked that he was a cute boy who could
speak English.

Leaning against the wall, I breathed deep and
tried to calm my beating heart. Why did I act so impulsively last
night? I could’ve at least asked him some questions first or talked
about my hurt feelings in a rational way. Not put him on trial.
What had I said? Punishable by death?

I had to tell Dad. He might wrap me in bubble
wrap and metal armor to keep me safe, but he’d know what to do
about Malcolm. I entered the kitchen. Dad was buried in the morning
newspaper, his legs sprawled out to the side of the table. He had
no idea I’d almost died last night. I peeled a banana, took one
bite, then threw it away. Instead, I poured coffee and drew comfort
from three extra sugars.

Finally, he peered over the top of the paper
for a second, his wave of dark hair slicked to the side. “Morning,
Savvy.”

I had to get his nose out of the newspaper.
“We need to talk.”

“Sure thing, what’s up?” But he kept reading,
as usual.

“It’s serious.” More serious than whatever
drama he was reading about.

He folded the newspaper and looked at me with
scared eyes, scared in the way that he might have to buy tampons or
something. My mouth went dry and I struggled to find the right
words.

“Savvy?” He put the newspaper down, his full
attention on me.

“Right. Something kinda happened last
night.”

“With Malcolm?” Dad sat straighter and his
voice became sharp. “If he so much as touched a hair on your
head—”

“Whoa! Calm down.” I held up my hands.
“Malcolm didn’t do anything.”

Warmth spread through my chest. Dad hadn’t
shown he cared this much since I lost my luggage on our flight to
France. I’d freaked out because it had the scrapbook my friends
made me as a good-bye gift, and he’d been so concerned. I looked at
a clump of dried gel hanging from a hair above Dad’s ear, anywhere
but at his eyes. I didn’t want to see his reaction to me getting
shot at.

“We were walking near the Eiffel Tower. He
had this wonderful picnic—”

Dad lowered his eyebrows until they
practically touched his nose. “Did you say the Eiffel Tower?”

“Yeah, um.” I searched for the right words
but they wouldn’t come.

“There was a shooting last night by the
Eiffel. Did you see or hear anything?”

“Pff, No.” Crap. That was my chance to tell
all. Why did I blow it? Maybe Dad knew something. “Did anyone get
hurt? Were any bodies found?”

“The news didn’t say, but I’m glad you’re
safe. Maybe you should stay home today and skip Spy Games.” Dad
picked up the paper again like the decision was made.

I knew right then I couldn’t say a word about
what happened. Not if I ever wanted any kind of social life again.
I’d have to take care of Malcolm myself. Somehow.

“Oh, man, but I was so excited for Spy Games
today!”

“Really?” Dad perked up. He’d been trying to
get me excited about his new line of work since we’d arrived. He
must have recognized my less than enthusiastic interactions with
the wannabe spies, I mean clients.

“Definitely.”

“Well, okay. But I want you to be careful.”
His eyes narrowed as if suddenly deciding to be interested in my
life, my real life, not just what he saw on the outside. “So what
happened on your date?”

“You could say it was an adventure.” More
like a horror movie. But I didn’t even care anymore why Malcolm
asked me on the date. I cared if I’d accidentally had a hand in
killing him.

Dad straightened the paper. “Ah, here it is.
The shooting. Right next to the stories about some big pastry
extravaganza contest, a missing monk, and a dog show. Oh your mom
would’ve loved the dog show, all the fluffy dogs prancing
around....”

His voice trailed off and the white elephant
(a.k.a. Mom) that had wedged itself permanently between Dad and me
made its appearance. He gazed off, memories of past times flashing
across his face, times when she was around. My legs jiggled up and
down, fighting off the dread. I missed Mom too, but I had to know
Malcolm made it.

“Dad? The shooting?”

“Oh, right. The paper says the police found
evidence of a shooting and lots of blood. But nothing else. No sign
of anything. They’re combing the Seine for a body.”