Liar & Spy (5 page)

I call him on his cell, and then I quick call Mom because Dad says I have to. Her number at the hospital is stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. She sounds tired. I tell her school was good, lunch was good, coming home was good, I don’t have a lot of homework, and yes, I will make myself a snack. I don’t tell her about Carter Dixon’s incredibly stupid new “gay test,” which has something to do with what finger is longer than some other finger.

I run up the three flights to 6A. I ring the bell. A thumping sound comes closer and closer, and then the door flings open. It’s Candy. There’s a long hallway stretching behind her.

“Grand tour!” she announces, pumping one fist into the air. She pivots and marches away from me, leading me down the hall with her hand up in the air as if I might otherwise lose her.

She points as we pass a series of doors. “My room, Safer’s room, bathroom, Pigeon’s room, bathroom, Mom and Dad’s room, Mom’s photography studio—quiet, she’s in there working—kitchen, dining room, and here’s the living room.”

It’s a big apartment. I wonder if Safer and Candy go to private school.

In one corner of the living room, I see Safer, sunk into a beanbag chair, reading. He doesn’t look up. I can see only the top of his head and his legs from the knees down.

“Safer!” Candy shouts at him. “Your friend is here!”

She turns to me. “You have to talk loud when he’s reading. Otherwise he just ignores you.” Then she marches away, down the hallway.

“Welcome to Uncle,” Safer says.

“Uh, thanks.”

“You know what
Uncle
means, right? It’s spy slang for the headquarters of an espionage organization.”

“Oh. But I thought your office was in the basement.”

He makes a face. “It’s nicer up here, don’t you think?”

I look around at the couches, the rugs, and the beanbag chairs. “It’s definitely nicer up here,” I say.

“So. Have you been practicing?”

“Yeah. At school, a little.”

“What was Candy wearing? Start with the feet.”

“Um, shoes?”

“Bare feet,” he says. “What else?”

“Jeans?”

“Carpenter pants.”

“What are carpenter pants?”

“Let’s switch subjects. I’m going to train you on the lobbycam.”

He walks over to the intercom, which is attached to the wall near the kitchen. It matches the one in our apartment: a white plastic square with what looks like a tiny little television screen set into it, and three buttons underneath, labeled
VIEW, TALK
, and
DOOR
.

“I already know how to use it,” I say. “My dad showed me. You push View to get the picture on the screen. You push Talk to talk to whoever is down in the lobby. You push Door to buzz them in.”

“You know how to use it as an intercom. But do you know how to use it as an observation tool?”

He pushes the View button. The screen flickers, and then the lobby comes into focus. “What do you see?”

“The door in the lobby.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. The floor.”

“Very good.” He nods and continues to gaze at the screen. “Now what?” I say.

He takes a spiral notebook from his back pocket, flips it open, and pulls a pen from behind his ear. “Now we wait.”

“Just standing here, you mean?”

“Of course not. We can bring stools from the kitchen.”

“Ewwww! There’s stool in the kitchen? Gross!” Candy runs into the hallway from her bedroom. I make a mental note that she is now wearing a sundress and her fuzzy pig slippers.

She stops in front of me. “Do you know what
stool
means? What it
really
means?”

“Cut it out, Candy!” Safer tells her.

“
Stool
means ‘poop,’ ” Candy tells me. “It’s the
real
word for it, the one that doctors use.”

“CANDY!” a woman’s voice says from somewhere. “Enough!”

Candy rolls her eyes and disappears into her room.

“Is that true?” I ask Safer while we carry two wooden stools from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says, “it is, actually.” We push the stools together in front of the little intercom screen. Safer goes back into the kitchen and reappears thirty seconds later with his flask.

“Coffee?” he asks, holding it out.

I tell him no thanks. We watch the lobby door.

We watch the lobby door some more.

Then we watch the lobby door a little more.

“Does this ever get boring?” I ask.

He looks like he can’t believe me. “No,” he says. “It doesn’t get boring. Boredom is what happens to people who have no control over their minds.”

“Oh.”

I tell myself that no matter what, I will not speak for the
next ten minutes. I will not take my eyes off the lobbycam. I will not even look at my watch.

We stare at the screen. Every once in a while it goes dark because there’s an automatic timer that shuts it off, and Safer has to push the button to make the picture come back. When I am positively, absolutely, one hundred percent sure ten minutes have passed, I check my watch.

Six minutes.

Safer is completely intent upon the screen, his pen hovering over his spiral notebook.

At first I try to stifle my yawns, but it’s hopeless. I’m yawning and yawning. Safer doesn’t catch a single yawn. Maybe the coffee helps.

I think I’m falling asleep when Safer says “Look!” He elbows me in the ribs and I almost fall off my stool, knocking his pen on the floor. I bend over to pick it up and smack my head against the wall. I stand up with one hand on my forehead.

“You missed it!” Safer says. He snatches his pen from my hand and scribbles in his notebook. He grabs my wrist, looks at my watch and mumbles, “Four-fifty-one.”

“What?” I say. “What happened? Four-fifty-one
what
?”

“It was him. Mr. X.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“What was he doing?”

“Coming into the building. With his key.”

“Oh. Right. What was he wearing? Was he wearing black? Did he have any suitcases?”

“Of course he was wearing black. I told you, he
only
wears black. No suitcases this time. But he looked …”

I wait. “He looked like what?”

Safer clicks his pen a few times. “He looked furtive.”

“Furtive,” I repeat.

“It means ‘secretive.’ ”

“I know what it means.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Safer says. “You’re still in training, remember?”

I think about what Candy said, that it took me and Dad forty-three minutes to get pizza. A tiny little kid can sit still in front of this thing without falling asleep, but I can’t.

Something occurs to me: “How did Candy know we went for pizza yesterday?” I ask Safer. “We didn’t bring it home. We ate at DeMarco’s.”

He looks at me thoughtfully. “Good question. Let’s ask her.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t need to—”

“Candy!”

In two seconds, Candy is in front of us. In case Safer decides to quiz me, I take note that she’s changed again, into overalls (denim, with front and back pockets) and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. She’s still wearing the pig slippers.

“How did you know that Georges and his dad went for pizza yesterday?” Safer asks her.

“Cup,” she answers.

He nods.

“What?” I say.

“It was a cup,” Safer says. “Were you or your dad carrying one?”

Then I remember that Dad had a lemonade from the fountain at DeMarco’s, and he finished it on the way home. The cup must have been in his hand when we came in.

“You memorized what the cups look like at DeMarco’s?”

She shrugs. “Everyone goes to DeMarco’s. I’ve been going there my whole life.”

“Well, so have I,” I tell her.

“Then close your eyes,” Safer says. “Don’t you know what their cups look like?”

I close my eyes. “White,” I say, “and there’s writing … 
Have a Nice Day
or something like that.…”

“Thank You for Coming,”
Candy says.

“Yeah—
Thank You for Coming
! Written over and over, in a spiral. And the letters are green and red?”

Candy claps for me and then heads back to her room. To change clothes again, I’m guessing.

Safer nods at me. “Now you’re beginning to think like one of us.”

I guess I am.

I have to go downstairs to start homework. Safer walks me down the hallway toward his front door.

“Safer?”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Pigeon?”

“My brother.”

“Is he here?”

“No. He’s never here. See you at the next meeting.”

“When’s that?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Which reminds me. “Safer?”

“Yes?”

“How did you get into my room yesterday?”

“Oh, I come and go,” he says.

I don’t say anything.

“Wait—did it bother you?”

“Kind of.”

“Say no more. It won’t happen again.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

Downstairs, I can’t find my protractor, which I need for geometry. I go into Dad’s bedroom closet, where he crammed all the drawing supplies that used to be in his home office, behind our old kitchen. As soon as I pull the light cord, I see a stack of Mom’s nursing uniforms on a shelf, perfectly folded into neat Dad-squares, with one of her plastic name-tag pins resting on top. I decide to forget about homework. I chill out with Sir Ott on the couch and watch some
America’s Funniest Home Videos
instead. When Dad gets home, he looks worn out. We order from the bad pizza place with the yellowy cheese. I tell him I met a kid in the building, because I know it will make his day, and it does.

The phone rings a few times, and Dad goes into his room to talk with the door closed. Maybe it’s another potential client.

I leave Mom a note with the Scrabble tiles:

WISH DEMARCOS DELIVERED
LOVE ME

Bittersweet

Mom’s morning Scrabble note says:

BEATS HOSPITAL FOOD

The only good thing about when Mom works a double is that, along with the extra pay, she gets a two-hour card. A two-hour card is worth two hours of work—mostly she uses it to sleep in and start her morning shift two hours late, but sometimes she uses a two-hour card to leave work early and surprise me after school. She’ll be waiting right by the front doors, smiling away, and we’ll head over to Bennie’s before walking home. Bennie always makes a big deal out of Mom, pretending he’s in love with her. She reminds him of someone back in Egypt, he says, but he never tells who.

First period. Science.

We file in, Dallas and Carter walking close behind me.

“Beep, beep, beep, beep,” Dallas says. “Beep-beep-beep-beep.”

“What’s that noise?” Carter asks. “Dallas, is your freak alarm going off?”

“Yeah, it’s going crazy. I wonder why. Oh, look, it’s just Georges.”

They shove past me, laughing.

Mr. Landau writes on the board:

Sweet

Salty

Sour

Bitter

Then he turns around to face us. “There’s one more,” he says. “Does anyone know what it is?”

No one does.

Underneath
Bitter
, he writes:

Umami

“You
mama
,” Gabe says.

Everyone cracks up. Especially Mandy.

Mr. Landau looks at Gabe. “You know, someone makes that same comment almost every single year.” He sighs, like he’s really bored. “I just never know who it’ll be.”

The class laughs even harder. Score one for Mr. Landau. He could teach Ms. Warner a thing or two. I wonder if they ever go out for coffee or anything.

“Umami,” Mr. Landau says, “is often referred to as the fifth taste. Has anyone ever heard of it?”

No one has.

“Umami is a savory taste. Think of excellent Chinese food, a steak, or a perfectly ripe tomato.”

At which point Mandy has to tell everyone for the hundredth time that ever since she saw her little brother throw up at DeMarco’s last summer, she can’t even think about eating anything with tomatoes.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Mr. Landau tells her. He turns back to the board and numbers the tastes, one through five:

1. Sweet

2. Salty

3. Sour

4. Bitter

5. Umami

“Everyone take out a clean piece of paper!”

We get out paper and look at him. He makes us wait a few beats, and then he says, “What is the taste of human experience?”

Oh, boy. The room is quiet.

“Can a moment in time be sweet? Can a memory be bitter? I want each of you to spend the next twenty minutes writing about a memory that can be described using the metaphor of taste. Table One, you will write about a sweet memory. Table Two, a salty memory. And so on.”

Every hand at Table Five immediately shoots into the air. Mr. Landau calls on Natasha.

“An
umami
memory?” she asks.

Mr. Landau tells her to think of umami as meaning “delicious.”

Natasha nods and starts writing immediately.