A Spy Like Me by Laura Pauling

knew he was joking, but still I felt
disappointed that he didn’t have an afternoon of seduction planned.
He unlocked the door and we entered. His apartment was pretty
sterile, a word that usually made me think of hospitals, needles,
and green scrubs.
    “I totally get it.”
    “What?” he said, as he dug around in the
smallest closet in France.
    I ran my finger across an empty bookshelf
hung on the wall. The counter had nothing on it. The couch didn’t
even have a pillow. Not even one candle. “Why you don’t invite
girls up here.”
    He caught my eye and my stomach fluttered.
“Atmosphere has nothing to do with romance.”
    He went back to digging, and in that moment,
I believed him. Boy, did I ever.
    “Aha! Found it.” He pulled an ugly green gym
bag from the depths of the closet.
    “Hmm. That looks suspicious. Are you going to
divulge our afternoon plans?” I’d hoped he had a crystal ball that
would reveal how to find Aimee.
    “Peyton’s on the move.” He unzipped the bag
and pulled out what looked like material from Marie’s scrap
bag.
    “What?” My face heated up.
    Even though I only wanted to play detective
this afternoon, I liked the idea that he’d planned a day of
innocent strolls, laughter, and holding hands. I let myself
daydream. The breeze would make the leaves dance in the trees while
we played cards under their umbrella, and I’d believe, for a just
few moments, that my best friend truly was on vacation. But then I
felt immediately guilty. How could I even think of a romantic
interlude?
    “Haven’t you been paying attention to the
trackers you planted?” He separated the quilting scraps.
    “Yeah, but he’s not moving. And I was kinda
busy yesterday with Spy Games stuff.”
    If I tried, I could find a connection between
chocolate peanut butter ice cream and Spy Games.
    “I’ve been doing a bit of spying myself. He’s
been on the move for a couple of hours. I figured you’d want to be
all business today without your dad knowing.”
    “Of course, duh.” I snorted.
    He pushed the pile of cloth toward me along
with a wig that looked like the end of a mop with silver and gray
hairs wrapped up in a messy bun. “Get dressed.”
    I gave him my dumb blonde look. Yes, even us
black-haired beauties have our moments.
    “Your disguise?”
    I blew air through my lips. “Of course, I
knew that.”
    An hour later, Malcolm and I hobbled, arm in
arm, to the Metro. He wore old man corduroys that were faded and a
plaid flannel shirt, even though it was warm outside. A derby hat
sat on top of his grey head, and he had a long wizard’s beard. I’d
never seen this side of Malcolm, all business and no play. But I
liked that he was helping me.
    “So, Dearie, you up for some square dancing
this week?” I pushed my mop of grey hair out of my eyes then
smoothed down the ugliest dress ever. I swear I was a walking
commercial for patchwork quilts, and not in a cozy cottage kind of
way.
    Malcolm leaned on his cane and shuffled his
feet. He whispered, “Do I look like I could dance?”
    Oh, right. “I guess we’ll have to spend our
days taking care of the grandkids then.”
    He tried to hide a muffled snicker. “You’re
not very good at this, are you?”
    I stopped and pulled my arm away. “I’m fine.
Just so you know, I was the understudy for Aunt Spike from James
and the Giant Peach in a third grade play.”
    He slipped his fingers through mine. “Let’s
go, Hilda.”
    We didn’t say much on the ride underground
per Malcolm’s orders. I guess lots of old married couples don’t
talk when they reach a certain age. Kind of like my mom and dad.
Except they’re not that old yet. Off the Metro we crossed the
street, a bit faster than our age should’ve allowed, and headed
toward a big gate.
    “Parc des buttes.”
    I burst out laughing, but when we entered the
park, my mood shifted. I lost any desire to joke about parking our
derrières on the benches. Aimee and I would have a good time