Double Vision (2 page)

Mom squinted. “There's something going on. . . . Wait—did you get a bad grade?” Her smile dropped.

“No, no.” I had to tell them something. Come up with some story before I lost my chance at chocolate cream pie. “Actually, there's one thing,” I said, thinking maybe I could just wing it. “It's a trip.”

“A field trip?” Dad lowered his fork. My last field trip didn't go so well, so he had reason to be worried.

“No, more like an overnight excursion,” I said. Good spin, even if I do say so myself.

“During a school week?” Mom raised her eyebrow. I swear, she's like a human lie detector. “I thought you had a history test.”

“This is for history, actually. It's a trip to the White House.” Technically, that wasn't even a lie.

Dad lowered his fork. “You're not talking about the Junior Presidents Club, are you?”

Huh?

Mom grinned from ear to ear. “Is that it, Linc?”

Junior Presidents Club—what on earth was that? I stuffed a forkful of pasta in my mouth to cover my confusion.

“What's this Presidents Club?” Grandpa asked. Thank goodness for Grandpa, because I was flying blind here.

“There was a report on the news about it a few weeks ago. It's a short internship for promising young students,” Dad explained to Grandpa, who looked like he thought it was just a load of nonsense. But then that was Grandpa's general expression, even when you told him the sky was blue. “President Griffin hosts a group of middle schoolers for a week so they can watch the government at work. The kids get to shadow staff members, tour the White House—it's a really great opportunity. On completion of the program, they get a certificate personally signed by the president.”

Suddenly, I had six eyes on me as I swallowed my pasta.

Let's face it: I couldn't have come up with a better story myself. So I went right along and nodded—this Junior Presidents Club sounded like just the ticket.

Mom smiled wide. “Why didn't you say something sooner?”

“I guess I was waiting for dessert,” I fibbed.

Mom gave me the last meatball. For dessert, I had two extra-large slices of chocolate cream pie. After a really long and boring story from Dad about how he once made it to the spelling bee quarter-finals, we cleared the table. And I was back to feeling life was perfect.

But things were about to go downhill—fast.

THE NEXT DAY, I GRABBED MY BACKPACK
with Dad's compass clipped to the side, my skateboard, and enough clothes to last me for a week in Washington, DC.

“Now who are we meeting at the airport?” Dad asked from the driver's seat. Grandpa was riding shotgun, and I was crammed in the backseat surrounded by boxes of car parts.

“Her name is Agent Stark.” I pushed a box of spark plugs aside to buckle my seat belt.

“
Agent
Stark? As in government agent?”

“Extra security,” I said, hoping that sounded believable. “You know, since I'm going to the White House and all.”

“Huh,” Grandpa muttered from the passenger seat. “White House, President Griffin, my foot.”

Dad shook his head. “How 'bout you just trust your grandson for a change?”

“Yeah,” I said. Grandpa was messing with my mojo here. Big time.

Dad got all quiet as he exited Highway 101. “It
is
a little strange, Linc,” he said after a few minutes. “Why the short notice?”

“A spot opened up. Last minute, you know,” I said. Just a few more miles and we'd be at the airport.

But Dad was beginning to sound like Mom. “Shouldn't there be some sort of permission slip to sign? It all seems . . . fishy.” He turned left at the airport sign.

A box of oil filters banged against my elbow. “You know, I don't have to go if you don't want me to,” I said. Sometimes you have to pull the old reverse psychology trick. Only as a last resort, because this one can backfire if you're not careful. “I'm sure they have a waiting list of kids who want to be in the Junior Presidents Club.”

“No, no,” Dad said quickly. He parked and we all got out. “I just want to talk to someone in charge. That Agent Stark—I'm sure she can explain things.”

“Nonsense,” Grandpa muttered as we walked inside the building. Shut up, Grandpa!

Agent Stark stood near the reception desk. Her face tensed up when I introduced her to my dad and Grandpa.

Dad shook her hand. “Linc told us all about you and your program.”

“He did?” Agent Stark looked confused, but only for a
millisecond. The lady was used to lying, so I hoped she'd just roll with it.

“The Junior Presidents Club,” I said quickly.

“
The Junior Presidents Club
,” she said slowly. “Of course. We're delighted that Linc could join us at the White House on such short notice.”

Grandpa squinted, studying Stark. He's really into crime shows, History Channel stuff on mobsters and the FBI. If it involves crime, Grandpa is all over it. “She's bona fide,” he said, pointing at Agent Stark's feet. “Look at the shoes.”

We all looked at Agent Stark's boring lace-ups, which I took as a good diversion to move stuff along.

“Well, I guess we need to catch our flight, Dad.”

“Sure, yeah.” Dad seemed convinced by the shoe business, and Stark got him to sign some paperwork, and blah blah. A few minutes later, they were on their way.

Stark and I checked in (me under Benjamin Green's passport, which was weird), flew the wobbly little plane to Los Angeles, and after an hour layover with a quick greasy burger for lunch, at one thirty we were off to Washington, DC.

Before settling in for a nap, Stark gave me another blue folder with CLASSIFIED stamps all over it. I opened it and saw it was full of stuff I was supposed to study during the flight. There was a picture of the president and one of Amy. The first daughter had shoulder-length curly blond hair, and smiled at the camera with a twinkle in her eye. She looked nice.

Behind the pictures there was a map of the White House, a list of staff names, the president's schedule, and blah blah.
The papers had me nodding off after less than ten minutes.

So I watched the in-flight movie instead—it was a PG-13 action one Mom wouldn't let me see. Then I played some basic video game on the system. By the time I won for the eighth time, the plane was descending.

Once we taxied, I rubbed my face, stretched. And realized:

The folder was gone.

This was bad. I looked to see if maybe it had slipped off my lap, checked under the seats and around the empty spot next to me. But no blue folder.

“You okay?” Stark asked. She was going to kill me.

“Um, yeah,” I lied.

The pilot turned off the seat belt sign, and there was the rush for the overhead bins around us. Guys in business suits were getting their carry-on luggage, and other passengers had their duty-free bags; one even had a ridiculously big teddy bear. I grabbed my backpack from under the seat in front of me.

Then I saw something that made me freeze. A lady with long brown hair stood in the aisle with her back to me, a red bag slung over her shoulder. Peeking out the top of the bag was something blue.

My
blue folder—I was sure of it. She stole my file!

“Hey, lady!” I yelled, but she was already headed toward the plane's exit.

Stark pulled my arm. “What's going on?”

I pointed to the lady just as she got off the plane and
disappeared from sight. “That lady stole my folder!” I tried to push past the people in the aisle but just managed to get clocked by some guy's oversized carry-on suitcase.

Stark popped up behind me. “The case file?” she hissed in my ear.

“Yes,” I hissed back. Finally, the line of people moved, and I tried to resist the urge to push other people aside to catch up with the lady. I got off the plane and ran into the arrival hall.

“Wait!” Stark called behind me.

But I wasn't about to stop. I rushed past the clusters of passengers, guys in business suits checking their phones. And I saw the lady up ahead. She was run-walking toward the escalator at the far end of the arrival hall.

One of those golf cart things zoomed toward me, and I had to jump aside. The guy driving gave me the stink eye. When he'd passed, I looked up—no brown-haired lady.

But then I saw something blue on the floor.

My folder
. I rushed to pick it up and riffled through the pages.

Stark came up behind me.

“It's all there,” I mumbled.

Stark brushed some loose strands of hair away from her face. “Where'd she go?”

I pointed to the escalators. “She's gone. I'll bet she's a spy or something,” I added in a whisper.

“Welcome to Washington, DC, city of spies and lies.” Stark glanced around, looking for other spies, probably. Then she pushed me in the back. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

I tucked the folder into my backpack. “What did that lady want?” I asked Stark as we walked toward baggage claim. “Why did she steal my folder? And how did she even know we were on the plane?”

“I don't know,” Stark snapped as we walked to our baggage claim spot. “All I know is that we're calling attention to ourselves, and that's not good. So just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” I mumbled. Still, I glanced around to see if the spy lady was getting her luggage. But she wasn't around.

Stark got our suitcases, and by the time we walked outside, I'd decided to forget about the lady thief.

But I shouldn't have. Because I'd meet her again, and she'd mess with a lot more than just a blue folder.

IT TURNS OUT THAT THE WHOLE
presidential assignment wasn't that fancy after all. The motel room was small with a cheesy painting on the wall, and the place smelled like someone bathed it in bleach. But after our long travel day, I honestly didn't care about anything. After my head hit the flat pillow, I was asleep in less than a minute.

And I didn't set the alarm. So when the phone rang that Tuesday morning, I was kind of confused at first, since I was sleeping so hard. “Huh?” was all I managed to croak.

“It's Agent Stark.”

I looked at the alarm and saw it was exactly eight o'clock.

“Get up,” Stark said, “and meet me in the lobby at eight twenty-five sharp. I want to be at the White House by nine.”

I blinked, but my eyes felt like someone had tossed a handful of beach sand in my face. “Linc!”

“The White House.” I cleared my throat. “Sure. No need to yell at me, you know.”

“I'll see you in twenty-five minutes.”

The lobby of the motel felt like a cold shower, with the harsh lighting and the outside air blowing from the revolving door that didn't stop turning. The place smelled of burnt coffee and cheap pastries.

Agent Stark was eating a sticky roll when I got to the lobby. “You're late.”

It was eight thirty. “Only by five minutes. And it's three hours earlier back home, you know.” I yawned.

Agent Stark handed me a couple of plastic-wrapped cinnamon rolls. “Eat in the car.”

I took the rolls, thinking Mom would be disgusted if she saw this sad excuse for food. She'd have a twenty-minute lecture on how bad preservatives are for kids, and a brochure to go with it.

Stark was all business. I wondered if she'd even slept, since she was wearing the same dark suit as yesterday, and her hair was still in a bun. The lady was a machine. Me, I hurried to catch up with her through the motel's revolving door, buttoning my coat.

“Where's our ride?” I asked Stark's back.