Dial Read Free Page B

door opened, and Theresa tottered into the bathroom, wearing a pair of five-inch stiletto heels. “I don’t know how much help I’m going to be tracking down our mystery informant if I trip and break my ankle on these things,” she moaned. “Don’t debs ever wear, like, high-tops?”
    Caylin perched on the edge of the sunken marblebathtub and regarded her own rhinestone-covered high heels. “I’ve worn some tootsie tighteners in my day, but these are ridiculous. Is Uncle Sam trying to torture us or something?”
    Jo turned from the mirror. “Hey, you guys are supposed to be wearing happy faces to prevent me from sinking into some kind of posttraumatic stress syndrome attack. Remember?”
    â€œOh yeah,” Theresa said, readjusting the strap of her shoe. “I guess I’m just feeling a little bit nervous about pulling this whole thing off.”
    â€œIf anyone guesses that we’re not who we claim to be, we’ll end up with our throats slashed faster than you can say ‘Spy Girl to the rescue,’ ” Caylin agreed.
    â€œGee, thanks for the news flash.” Jo headed out of the bathroom, Theresa and Caylin trailing behind.
    â€œSeriously, Jo, how are you holding up?” Theresa asked as they entered the large master bedroom, where Jo had set up camp. “You look a little . . .”
    â€œPale,” Caylin finished. “Do you feel all right?”
    â€œPhysically, I’m fine. Mentally . . . I’ve had bettermoments.” Jo pulled a tiny sequined handbag out of her enormous closet.
    She was usually totally pumped at times like this. The adrenaline would flow through her veins as she prepared for a mission, always expecting the unexpected. But tonight she was aware only of a vague sense of dread and the fact that a clump of mascara had wedged itself in the corner of her left eyelid.
    Theresa paced back and forth across the lush green wall-to-wall carpeting that covered Jo’s bedroom. “It’s imperative that we all put aside our doubts,” she said, stopping midstride. “We have to face tonight like it’s any other night.”
    â€œRight,” Caylin agreed. “If we don’t force ourselves to rev up, this night is going to be a disaster.”
    There was no arguing the wisdom of Theresa and ­Caylin’s words. Jo knew that her job allowed little room for excess emotional baggage. “I’ll come through, Spy Chicks,” she promised.
    â€œWe know you will,” Caylin said. “You never have to doubt our faith in you.”
    â€œOn that note, I think we need to get in a bit moredance practice before we descend upon El Centro,” ­Theresa exclaimed. “Let’s get ready to sambaaaa!”
    Theresa turned on the stereo and tuned the radio in to a Brazilian salsa station. As the fast-paced music played, Jo demonstrated the groove for Theresa and Caylin. The heaviness she had felt earlier evaporated as Jo watched her friends struggling with the new dance steps.
    â€œYour hips should move naturally ,” Jo explained. “You two look like you’re being jerked around by a sadistic puppeteer.” Losing herself in the music of her childhood, Jo continued to dance.
    â€œI think I’m getting it!” Caylin yelled after a few minutes. “Samba, samba, samba.” She moved across the carpet, swaying her hips as if she were in a music video.
    â€œGreat!” Jo laughed as she watched Caylin get into the Latin groove.
    â€œHow am I doing?” Theresa asked. She still looked as if she were dancing with a straitjacket on.
    â€œUh . . . more hips.” Theresa was never going to be able to put the samba on her dance resume, but Jo admired her effort.
    â€œLike this?” Theresa thrust out her left hip. Too much. Her feet flew out from beneath her, and she landed on the carpet face first.
    â€œUm, no, not