Liar & Spy Read Free

and “creating static.” Mom made him turn them back. She said that it was too hard to find a book when she couldn’t read the titles. Then she poured herself a big glass of wine.
    “I can handle the basement,” I tell Dad. “You finish the books.”
    Downstairs, I prop the boxes against the wall and glance over at the Spy Club notice.
    Under Dad’s WHAT TIME? something is written in orange marker:
1:30?
    Great. Now Dad has gone and raised the hopes of some kid in the building. I stand there for a minute, then stretch the stubby-pencil string over to the paper the way Dad did.
    OK , I write.
    When I get back upstairs, Dad has a book in each hand and he’s just staring, like his life depends on which one hepicks. He’s surrounded by five boxes, all still full of books. He’ll never be done.
    “The blue one,” I tell him.
    He nods and puts it on the shelf. “I was leaning toward the blue.” He stands back. “What do you think so far?”
    “Looks good. And it’s less echoey in here now.”
    “You want to call Mom at the hospital? We can fill her in, tell her how it’s going.”
    “Maybe later.” I don’t like the way Mom’s voice sounds at the hospital. Tired.
    “I need lunch,” Dad says. “DeMarco’s?”
    I say yes to pizza. “But can we make it quick?” I ask. “I have a meeting downstairs at one-thirty, thanks to you.”
    Dad stares at me for a second and then bursts out laughing. “Seriously? The Spy Club? I was sure that sign was ten years old!”
    But of course he loves that I’m going through with it.
    “What if it’s a seven-year-old or something?” I complain on the way to DeMarco’s.
    “Only one way to find out,” Dad says cheerfully. As if he isn’t to blame for the whole situation.

Spy Club
    I get to the basement at 1:31 p.m. The Spy Club door is open, just a crack, and there’s light coming from inside. I’m holding a little bag of crumpled-up newspaper, for camouflage, in case it is a seven-year-old.
    I carry my bag down to the last trash can—the one closest to the open door. Making as much noise as possible, I open the lid and dump my “garbage” in. But no one comes out of the room.
    I stand in front of the door and listen. There is no sound at all. I push the door with one finger, so that I might have just accidentally bumped it. It swings wide open.
    It’s a tiny little room, almost a closet, with dingy walls, a concrete floor, and one lightbulb dangling from the ceiling in a way that’s slightly creepy. There’s a tiny painted-over window high up on the back wall that lets in some light from outside. But not much.
    The only thing in the room is a folding table with spindly metal legs. Sitting cross-legged on the table is a girl withshort dark hair and bangs that draw a straight line across her forehead. She looks about seven years old.
    “You came!” she says. She’s wearing fuzzy pink slippers. There’s an open book in her lap.
    “Uh, no. I was actually just throwing out some garbage,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. My dad thinks he’s funny, and he was the one who—”
    “Don’t worry,” she interrupts, “it’s not my stupid club.”
    “It isn’t?”
    “No. I’m just here to get paid.”
    “Paid for what?”
    “I’m a scout.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Oh, you know.” She closes the book and dangles her legs off the front of the table. I can now see that her fuzzy pink slippers have little ears. And eyes. I think they might be pigs. “Scouts look for traps, setups, that kind of thing.”
    “How old are you?” I say. “And what kind of traps?”
    “Older than I look. And who knows what kind of traps? I told you, I’m doing this for the money. I make fifty cents every thirty minutes. That’s a dollar an hour. Do you think I’d be doing this for free? For a dollar I can get a pack of Chicks, Ducks, and Bunnies SweeTarts. They only sell them in April and May. That’s what I’m doing later. My mom is taking me to the Chock-Nut.”
    I