Going Rogue (8 page)

“Nope,” I said, resting one hand on an enormous atlas so I could peer down the street. “I guess it was a false alarm.” I wasn’t sure if it was or not, but I didn’t want Jesse to think otherwise.

“You sure?”

I turned to him and smiled. “Absolutely. Jumpy girl here, I guess. And you can’t be too careful.”

“Hmm” was all Jesse said, but he picked up my hand off the atlas and ran his thumb over my knuckles. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Spy humor. I get it.” Jesse didn’t exactly look amused as we left the store. “Anyway, my mom’s going to be in the city on Friday night. Do you still want to go to dinner with us?”

I could tell from the apprehension on Jesse’s face that this was a Big Deal. “Sure,” I said. “Of course, I’d love to. Why is she coming back into the city?”

Jesse took a deep breath. “She’s thinking about moving back here.”

“Jesse!” I squealed before I could help it. “That’s amazing! Oh my God, you must be so happy!” I reached up and
flung my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Does your dad know?”

“I’m not sure. They’re not getting back together or anything, but she said last week that she was really missing it here.” Jesse’s eyes were sparkling a little and I knew how happy he must have been. He didn’t talk about his mom very much, but I knew how much her leaving last year had hurt him. It’s the words he didn’t say that always told me how he felt.

“So you’ll come?” he asked. “Seriously?”

“Of course! Even if I’m followed by a thousand creepers, I’ll be there! They can’t stop me!”

Jesse untangled my arms from his neck and held me out to stare at me. “Please, Maggie, don’t bring the creepers with you.”

“Okay, no creepers.”

“You’re sure you’re cool with this? I know you’ve got a lot going on, what with your parents and everything.”

“You,” I said, poking him in the chest, “are important to me. Yeah, things are crazy right now, but I can handle this. This is all going to be solved and wrapped by the time school starts, trust me. And I’m a spy but I have to eat, too, right?”

“Right,” Jesse said, then kissed my nose. “I love you, you know that?”

“Of course you do. I can kick your ass.”

He smiled against my mouth and this time, I didn’t care who was watching us.

My parents were making dinner when I got back to the loft that evening.

“Thanks, Jeeves,” I said to the fingerprint scanner as it let me through the front door.

“Who’s Jeeves?” my dad called from the kitchen, where he was chopping onions and getting ready to probably wreak havoc.

“Dad, it’s still too hot to cook,” I protested. “This is going to be something that you can prepare in the freezer, right?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Who’s Jeeves?”

“Our fingerprint scanner. I decided to make friends with him.”

“Him? How do you know it’s a man?” my mom asked. She was attempting to do the
New York Times
crossword puzzle, which inevitably ended with her crumpling it up and tossing it into the recycling bin while muttering that she doesn’t need a newspaper to make her feel illiterate,
thank you very much
.

“Because it’s cold and impersonal and never asks how I am?”

She grinned. “That’s my girl.”

“Hey!” my dad protested. “Sensitive male standing right here! Look, I’m actually crying while talking with you, that’s how hurt I am.”

“It’s the onions,” my mom and I chorused.

“Perhaps. Hey, don’t toss that crossword puzzle. Save it for me.”

“So,” I said, sitting on a barstool so I could supervise my dad (and possibly get to be a taste tester). “Can I ask you two a question?”

“Of course,” my mom said, leaving the crossword puzzle behind. “Is it about today?”

“Kind of,” I admitted. “I just saw Jesse.”

My parents exchanged a glance that I’m sure they thought I didn’t see. They’re so adorable that way. “Did you tell him about our new developments?” my dad asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. “He needed to know. I can’t lie to him again, you know that.” I drew a heart with my finger on the concrete countertop. “How did you two meet?”

This time, they didn’t even try to hide their shared look. “Well,” my dad started to say.

“It was a long time ago,” my mom interrupted him. “Details are fuzzy.”

“Are you serious?” I scoffed. “C’mon. I remember the very first time I saw Jesse and I’m not even married or pregnant with his baby.”

Major, major tactical error.

“Why are you thinking about
pregnancy
?” my dad cried.

“Is
that
what you want to talk about?” my mom screeched.

“Oh my God, no!” I screamed, putting my hands over my eyes. “I was just talking about how you two are married and had me and, ugh, can we please not talk about sex? I think I’m having an aneurysm.”

“You think
you
’re having an aneurysm?” my dad muttered. “Am I going to need a drink for this conversation? Just tell me now.”

“I just wanted to know how you two met!” I said. “That’s all! Wow, this went
so
wrong,
so
fast.”

I had never heard two sighs of relief as loud as my parents’.

“Much better topic,” my mom said, smiling.

“Cancel my martini,” my dad added with a weary grin.

“And, like, how did you know you were in love? And how did you know you wanted to be together forever and have me and still be spies and not sacrifice your careers for love, and I guess I’m just confused how you do all this and still love someone.”

My parents stared at me before my dad finally spoke. “Is it too late to reorder that martini?”

“I take it Jesse’s not exactly thrilled by ‘all this,’” my mom said gently while getting a beer out of the refrigerator for my dad.

“Not really,” I admitted. “But I have to do it. Was this what it was like when you first met? Were you both spies way back then?”

“Way back then?” my dad repeated. “How old do you think we are?”

“You didn’t even have DVRs back then. Or cell phones.”

My dad took a swig of his beer in response.

“Your dad and I,” my mom said, shooting him a look, “met in Paris. In high school.”

“In high school?” I cried. “You were my age?”

They both nodded.

“We were both at boarding school,” my dad said. “We were juniors, and your mother did a science project about this thing called the Internet, and I was smitten.” He winked at her. “I still am.”

She grinned and reached across the table to clasp his hand. “And your dad asked me out in Swahili. I thought it was so romantic.”

“Wait, wait,
waaaaait
a minute. Let’s back it up a continent. You met in school?”

“Boarding school,” my dad clarified. “We were both on merit-based scholarships. I saw your mother in the computer lab, and that was it.” He pretended to flutter his eyelashes at her. “It was love at first byte. Get it? B-Y-T-E?”

“That is so cheesy,” my mother said, but she was blushing and there is nothing more weird than watching your parents flirt, ugh.

“So then what happened? Did you both want to be spies?”

“We were recruited,” my mom said. “Angelo was teaching a course in New World architecture, and he noticed both of our records, and he introduced us to the Collective.”

“Angelo knew you as teenagers? Hold on, my brain is exploding.”

“Why do you think he’s always taking you all over the
city?” my dad asked. “Everywhere you go is an architectural landmark. He loves it.”

“So what did you do in Paris?”

My parents looked at each other again. “Watched movies.” My mom shrugged. “We watched movies all the time. Explored the city. Went in some of the underground tunnels. Studied hard in school. Maybe kissed a few times.”

My dad wiggled his eyebrows.

“Stop, stop, stop!” I said. “Innocent child present here.”

“And then after we graduated from high school, we just joined the Collective and that was that,” my dad said, adding the chopped onions to the hot oil already in his pot. “Our life was set.”

“That was that?” I repeated. “I feel like you just skipped a bunch of stuff.”

“We joined the Collective and then had
you
,” my dad added. “Exciting times. Sleepless times. It’s all a blur.”

I thought for a few seconds. “Is that why you never mentioned Dominic Arment?”

My parents both stopped what they were doing and looked at me. “Angelo?” my dad guessed, and I nodded.

“I just think it’s weird you knew someone from so long ago and you never mentioned them to me.” I wasn’t looking at either parent now, choosing instead to trace patterns onto the countertop with my finger. “Why?”

“Dominic wasn’t—well, he isn’t, I guess I should say, someone who works like us. He’s always been a little shady.” My dad stirred at the onions before they started to burn. “He was always trying to figure out how to monetize the Collective, how we could make money by doing our jobs.”

“I feel like you’re not telling me everything,” I said. “Like there’s more I should know.”

“Do you tell Jesse and Roux everything?” my mom asked.

“No,” I admitted.

“And why is that?”

I rolled my eyes, knowing what she was getting at. “Because I want to protect them in case someone wants to get information from them,” I sing-songed.

“Exactly.”

“So you and Dad are trying to protect me?”

“Your interrogation skills are really weak,” my dad said, tossing a dishrag at me. “You get information when you need it. Here, dry these dishes.”

“Were you and Mom drug smugglers or arms dealers with Dominic or something?” I shot back, ignoring the dish towel. “You’re both orphans. Do you have a secret past?”

My parents looked at each other, but I could tell they were amused, not concerned. “
You
’re our secret past,” my mom pointed out. “Our little safecracker that could.”

I rested my chin on my fists, thinking about that. “You’re so lucky,” I said. “You were both spies from the beginning. You didn’t have to compromise anything.”

“There’s always compromise,” my mom said. “We compromise all the time. For example, I don’t like onions.”

“And I don’t like hearing about how much your mother doesn’t like onions.” My dad winked at both of us.

“But did you ever want to leave the Collective?” I asked them, now drawing figure eights on the countertop. “Ever?”

There was a pause before my mom spoke up. “We were going to leave after we had you,” my mom said. “We didn’t think it was the best way to raise a child.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, now sitting up straight. “Because of me?”

My dad nodded. “But when you were three, you opened that Master Lock that had been lying on the floor. We were amazed. I mean, our jaws dropped. You had this gift from the very beginning, and you were so talented. You
are
so talented,” he amended. “If you were a gifted ballerina or sculptress or mathematician, we would’ve done everything we could have to foster your talent. It just so happened that your gift is in locks and safes. So we decided to stay.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So if it wasn’t for me, you would have left?”

“No. We stayed for you.” My mom covered my hand with hers. “Would you really have been happy living a normal life? Going to school, to playdates, living in the same place?”

I squirmed on my barstool. It was like she knew how I had been feeling for the past year, living as a normal teenager instead of a spy. It was hard to admit even to myself, but I felt an itch that I couldn’t scratch, a need that wouldn’t go away.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m glad I don’t know. I like our life, if that makes sense. It’s been fun.”

“Except for when Colton tried to kill you,” my dad muttered.

“Well, yeah, that wasn’t fun, but we won,” I told him.
“Everything always works out, right? I mean, if you two could meet in Paris as teenagers, anything’s possible, right?”

My parents both paused before bursting out in laughter.

“Thank you so much, Maggie,” my mom said. “Really, thank you.”

“You are so young,” my dad added. “So very,
very
young.”

“I’m seventeen!” I protested. “I’m practically an old woman!”

My parents fell over in further hysterics.

“Well, this has been illuminating,” I huffed, hopping off my stool and going toward my bedroom. “Your onions are burning, by the way.”

But when I looked back, I saw my parents kissing over the countertop as the onions smoked around them.

The next morning was Tuesday, which meant yet another day of SAT prep class with Roux. I half considered blowing it off, but then I remembered it was the last one of the session. And also, if I didn’t go, my parents would ask why I wasn’t going, and I’d have to explain that things were weird between me and Roux, then they’d want to
talk
and I didn’t really feel like
talking
.

I wish there was a way for my parents to know what was wrong without me having to tell them. That would make my life
so
much easier.

I dragged myself over to the Main Building at NYU, where the classes were being held, and settled myself toward the back of the classroom, a few minutes late and cranky with lack of sleep. I had spent yet another night holed up in my room, working on the lock that Angelo had given me, still no closer to solving it, while I waited for Roux to call me so we could talk.

The phone never rang. The lock never opened. I went to bed and never slept.

Roux was in the middle of the room, a few rows in front of me, her head bent over her travel chess set. Her cheeks were flushed, and I could tell she was actively not looking at me, her hands balled into fists in her lap.

The teacher (some teacher’s assistant that was clearly in it for the summer cash) blathered on at the front of the room about analogies. “Up is to down as light is to … ?” he droned. No one responded, even though it was one of the easiest questions imaginable: half of us were surreptitiously tapping away on our phones under the desks and the other half was too shy to answer.