Tuesday, May 7

  Location: Jamal’s House

  Mission: Operation No Privacy

  Time: 14:25

  “You’re crazy for this,” I whispered, half buried in the scratchy leaves of a hedge that absolutely did not exist two minutes ago. Malachi had conjured it out from the ground, and now we were crouched behind it like two cartoon spies hoping the laugh track would be kind.

  Jamal’s cul-de-sac looked like every suburban postcard ever printed: identical roofs, the squeak of a tricycle somewhere down the block, sprinklers clicking in lazy arcs across manicured lawns. If you judged by the neighborhood, you’d think Jamal wore cardigans and apologized to mailboxes. His wardrobe, however, told a different story—loud colors, blunt edges, and a confidence that got pulled over for speeding.

  “You think he’s just going to do devious things inside the YMPA?” Malachi replied, not taking his eyes off the driveway.

  “Uh, yeah. That is kind of where you go,” I whispered back. “School—for school crimes. That’s the brand.”

  “You have to trace them beforehand,” he said, tone edging toward lecture. “That’s how you get information. It may not even be in the school. And plus—who do you think you are questioning me? The one who got MVS of the year?”

  “You could be the Most Valuable Spy of the Year and still not have—”

  “Don’t.” The look he sent me should have been a warning label.

  I narrowed my eyes but shut my mouth, mostly to avoid being folded into a toss pillow by his ego. He snapped his fingers—twice. The sound was soft, but my flinch was not; for a split second I prepared for a fist instead of a snap.

  He pointed toward the house. Jamal stepped out, locked the front door, and brought his phone up to his ear in one smooth motion. Malachi reached into his utility belt and pulled out a pair of yellow earbuds I’d never seen before. He studied me, sighed like he was regretting generosity, and handed me the left bud.

  “Press twice,” he said.

  “When did you get this?” I asked, brow knitting.

  “MP,” he said. “Figured it’d be useful. In fact, that’s why I wanted to do this most.”

  I nodded despite myself. I hadn’t even checked my MP upgrades since Maddie had kicked off that foot chase at the library. Meanwhile, Malachi had apparently been shopping like a kid with gift cards. I slotted the earbud in.

  “Follow me,” he ordered.

  The hedge vanished—no rustle, no crumble, just gone—and we glided out from the cover, trailing Jamal at a safe oblique from across the street. He walked with purpose, heading toward the neighborhood exit, his stride long and unbothered. At the crosswalk an elderly couple reached the curb, linking arms and forming a perfect moving screen between us and our quarry.

  I tapped the earbud twice. The world sharpened. Street hiss. Pigeon flaps. Distant lawnmower complaint. And Jamal’s voice—suddenly nearer, as if I were tucked into his jacket pocket.

  “The park has got to be the worst place,” Jamal muttered.

  From his phone—faint but clear—Elf’s voice replied, put-upon and nasal. “What do you want? An alleyway?”

  “Use your brain for a moment, Elf. There’s an abandoned building right by N. Walton Ave. Just go there. Simple.”

  "Oh, right..."

  I glanced at Malachi. He was already looking at me, eyes wide with the same electric understanding. This was golden. An actual plan. An actual place. For once, we weren’t guessing the weather by tasting the air.

  The walk signal flashed. We fell in behind the elderly couple, letting their shuffle serve as cover. Unfortunately, they also began a spirited debate about pickled beets, and their voices rose exactly into the frequency range of Jamal’s. Interference. I sighed. I am not a bad person, but the temptation to teleport them to a community garden three blocks away bloomed bright and brief.

  Malachi snapped quietly and gestured us around their flank. We slid past them and—straight into Jamal’s line of sight if he bothered to look back.

  He bothered.

  His head twitched, checking, predator-fast.

  Malachi reacted even faster, shoving me into the shadow of a prickly hedge as if we’d rehearsed it. My shoulder scraped bark; my breath caught; Jamal’s gaze skimmed over, then forward again. He resumed talking, annoyed but unworried.

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  Malachi pinched a leaf between his fingers. The hedge shivered. Then it softened and loosened like a zipper being undone, its fibers swallowing our silhouettes until we blended with the green.

  “Is this also—” I began.

  “Yep,” he said.

  I needed those abilities. The urge was a physical ache. If I didn’t shop my MP soon, I’d walk into the next practice and the “first game… sort of” Coach promised with the magical equivalent of duct tape and crossed fingers.

  “You better do this quick before Principal Renner notices we didn’t press the button,” Jamal said into his phone, his voice taking on that harsh, anxious rhythm he reserved for things that weren’t going his way.

  FUN FACT: Pressing the button means you’re ready to teleport to school. It’s not optional. You have until the end of lunch, and then the system gets… persuasive.

  “You have a whole bunch of time, Jamal,” Elf scolded. “I’d expect you to be calm about this.”

  “Bro,” Jamal said, “tell me why I saw three security guards suddenly stationed in my room, or why there’s suddenly a camera in my room. I think Principal Renner is suspicious of me.”

  Elf sighed the longest, most theatrical sigh I’d ever heard. “Jamal, Jamal, Jamal, Jamal. We’re spies. Why in the world would they make it so obvious they’re spying on you? Clearly someone is trying to hurt you. Probably Connor.”

  That spun my mind into a small maze with mirrored walls. If Jamal was right and they were suspicious of him, that could be because we’d finally made him a suspect. But why would they do it bluntly—guards posted, camera planted—like a dog trainer shaking a can of coins? To scare him straight? To bait him? If he really was dangerous, why not just remove the problem?

  The questions looped, then slid off a mental shelf. I shelved them. One mission at a time.

  Elf muttered something—half to himself, half to Jamal. “Besides, we already have Maddie being anxious, and now you?”

  I froze. “That’s what this is about?” I whispered.

  Apparently, we weren’t the only ones startled. “That’s what this is about?” Malachi and—loudest—Jamal said, all at once.

  Jamal stopped dead. The sidewalk swallowed the sound. He turned slowly, breath harsh in the earbud, eyes scanning. The elderly couple had peeled off down a side street. It was just us and the shrubbery—and Jamal knows how shrubbery works around spies.

  He stared directly at our bush. Malachi’s hand flattened against my shoulder, fingers pressing a command: stillness. My lungs held onto air like it was contraband. My calves twitched, ready to run.

  Jamal’s fingers flicked. A blue bolt snapped from his hand—fast as a snake—and burst against the sidewalk inches from our cover, splashing water in a cold fan. I nearly squealed. Malachi’s hand climbed from my shoulder to my throat—not choking, but firm, a reminder stamp: silent.

  Jamal scanned once more, nostrils flaring, then nodded to himself like he’d bullied his fear into a box. He turned and kept walking.

  We trailed him two blocks further until the neighborhood thinned into a grayer grid. N. Walton Ave cut north-south, the afternoon traffic a simmering hum. The abandoned building squatted where a car wash might have lived once—a long cinderblock box with busted windows, graffitied ribs, and a doorway missing its door. Inside, shadow ruled. Outside, trash bins baked in the sun.

  Maddie and Elf waited near the entrance.

  Maddie wore the YMPA jacket, school shirt tucked in, jeans so tight they looked like they’d been painted on, and black boots that could either be fashion or felony. She had the energy of someone who would not loan you a pencil even if you were actively bleeding out.

  Elf had gone all-in on retro. A baggy, rainbow-splattered tee draped over criminally loose light-blue jeans, Vans chewing at the concrete. His YMPA utility belt bulged under the hem when he reached back to scratch. The overall effect was: emergency sparkle dad.

  “Good area,” Elf said, flashing an ugly grin. “Lots of shade.”

  “That’s how a building works,” Maddie shot back, perfectly flat.

  “Yeah, come on,” Jamal scoffed, sliding into the triangle. “Anyways, I saw Connor and this other guy—”

  “We see that rat every single day—other guy?” Elf cut in, interested. I felt Malachi’s sideways look land on me. I didn’t look back. The anger crawling my veins didn’t outweigh the common sense telling me to keep my face inside the leaves.

  “Yeah, they were on this bike—”

  I finally looked at Malachi. He let out a tiny chuckle, but I was suddenly sprinting through older memories. The hill. The chase. The men. The bike. Jamal’s phrasing made it sound like he’d witnessed it by accident, not orchestrated it. The more he talked, the more the timeline might rearrange.

  And also, by the way—did they say they live in California? Then again, with enough power, state lines are just mood swings.

  “Who’s the other guy, though?” Maddie asked.

  Jamal sighed. The exhale fogged the air. “What makes you think I know? If I did know, I’d say his name. Anyway—I was driving. Learning. My new car? I painted it yellow. I was headed to Malachi’s house when I saw them getting chased by these randoms.”

  Malachi and I both furrowed our brows—him in tactical analysis; me in spiraling doubt.

  “I followed,” Jamal continued. “You know, paralleling someone so they don’t notice. I’d go a little ahead, then watch. These two people—like, they’re holding a cannon—were holding a bike—” He mimed a dramatic two-person push. “They launched it—not tossed it—rolled it hard toward them, and boom. Bowling pins. Down they went.”

  I’ll say this for Jamal: if the spy thing ever flops, he can publish audio dramas. His storytelling has rhythm and enough jazz hands to pack a theater.

  “Then there’s this whole fight,” he went on, “but I can’t wrap my head around who’d want to do it to him. And I kinda want to find out.”

  Confusion dizzied me. Was he saying it wasn’t him? Was he pretending for the benefit of any listening ears? Did he somehow know we were here and wanted to rewrite the record with us present? The blue bolt at the bush said he had an idea. The precision of it said more than idea.

  Not just the bush. The exact hedge. He knew.

  “I think we’ve got enough,” I breathed into the mic for Malachi alone. “Let’s not get greedy.”

  “Agreed,” he mouthed.

  We edged away, timing our steps with passing cars, noise swallowing noise. When we had enough distance to avoid a direct line of sight, we tapped our buttons.

  Portals tear reality open with the worst soundboard the universe ever installed—like every error chime you’ve ever heard blended with a rushed zipper and a dropped tray. The air at our feet bit cold, warped upward, and gulped us through.

  We hit the landing pad in front of YMPA and staggered a half step. The academy’s front lawn stretched like always—clean lines, order, students crisscrossing like carefully scripted extras. I looked at Malachi for, no exaggeration, the five-hundredth time today. He was already looking at me. If Jamal hadn’t known before, our exit had tripped every hint. Now he knew for sure.