Charlotte Bennardo: Blonde Ops A Novel

Blonde OPS

ALSO BY CHARLOTTE BENNARDO AND NATALIE ZAMAN

Sirenz Back in Fashion

Sirenz

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

BLONDE OPS. Copyright © 2014 by St. Martin’s Press, LLC. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

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Designed by Anna Gorovoy

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (TK)

ISBN 978-1-250-03039-9 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-4988-4 (e-book)

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First Edition: May 2014

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To George Cavuto, my seventh-grade English teacher: You encouraged a shy, awkward girl to write and warned the bullies to leave her alone. Your words freed mine. And to George Grattan, high school English teacher: you showed me the wonderful universe of poets, playwrights, novelists. Your love of words opened my world.

—Charlotte Bennardo

For Kevin Mitnick, Bernie S., and Barnaby Jack.

—Natalie Zaman

Blonde OPS

Prologue

Zip tie handcuffs—not my best accessory.

For one, they didn’t go with the hot-pink dress and crystal-studded heels I was wearing for the interview. Worse, though, was that they’d been used to tether me to a decorative wrought-iron window screen between my coworkers, and at the moment, neither of them made for good company. Sophie looked like she was going to lose it—very bad in a crisis situation—and Kevin swore until he was out of breath.

Boarding school didn’t seem so bad anymore.

We all heard the distant slam of the door that lead into the alley. Our captors had left us.

“This is great. Just great,” Kevin muttered, and banged his head in frustration.

“It could be worse,” I said.

“A lot worse,” added Sophie. “We could be dead.”

She was right, and that meant we could still do something. Kevin wrestled in his ties, shaking the iron screen. I thought I heard the cracking of plaster.

“That’s not helping,” I snapped. “Do you want this thing to come crashing down on us? Every time you move, you make the zip ties tighter. These things are hard enough to get out of.”

Sophie laughed quietly. “What are you, some kind of a ninja? What type of boarding school did you go to?”

“Probably juvie,” Kevin said not so under his breath.

“Well, my education is going to be worth more here than your extensive knowledge of fine Italian leather.”

“Can you really get us out?” Sophie asked, serious and desperate.

I felt a little smug. “I can.” The question was, did I have enough time to free all of us before the First Lady disappeared completely—or worse?

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Little plaid skirts, button-downs, knee socks, and loafers only work in Japanese films or private school. Go for collegiate details rather than a full-blown costume for an A+

1

There are worse things than being yanked from the middle of lunch, dumped onto a plane to fly cross country in a stupid school uniform that made me look like an anime reject, and be told that I really effed up this time.

But I couldn’t think of any at the moment.

I unfolded the crumpled paper Dean Harding gave to me before I was dismissed and read it again. Printed on school letterhead, it was officially scary.

Does not adhere to school dress code.

Violates “No Cell Phones In Class” rule.

Does not perform to expected academic and social standards.

“Hacked” into school computer network and changed third-quarter grades.

Yeah, that last one did it—the infraction that sealed my expulsion from Anaheim’s prestigious St. Xavier’s Academy.

In less than three years, I’d been in and out of four—or was it five?—prep/boarding/private schools. That would make St. X’s number six.

Mom’s going to be pissed.

Correction: was pissed. I hadn’t heard a word from her since I’d gotten called down to the dean’s office: no phone call, no e-mail, no personal messenger with papers putting me up for adoption. Just a car sent to shuttle me to the airport and this flight to New York where she was probably waiting to escort me to the next polo-shirt-wearing / rowing-type school where I would finish my junior year. I didn’t think there were any left I hadn’t been kicked out of—on either coast.

The sudden jarring of the wheels as the plane landed churned up the worry in my empty stomach. Closing my eyes, I tried to think calming thoughts, but all I saw was Mom, her perfect brows arched like sickles, ready to cut down any excuse I had to offer.

I turned on my phone and winced. There was an unread message from her. I decided not to look at it yet. It was only going to be more bad news.

Not wanting to fight the crowds or my mother, I waited until the aisle was empty to grab my carry-on and laptop case, then stumbled off the plane, barely acknowledging the forced brightness of the flight attendants’ good-byes.

I lingered in the airport bathroom, staring at my pathetic reflection in the mirror over the row of sinks: mussed pink braids; wrinkled oxford shirt; the cringe-worthy school-issued brown, beige, and taupe pleated skirt and burgundy tie that wasn’t flattering on anyone. My sudden departure left no time to change into normal clothes. For a second I was tempted to nip into a stall and ditch the uniform and put on my beloved combats and favorite tee, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to spare the time. Curiosity overcame me and I read Mom’s text—it was curt, and not open to interpretation.

Get off the plane. Find the limo. We have places to go.

A knot formed in my stomach. Where? I wondered. To what new sleepaway school hell?

I spotted the driver quickly, a large man in a gray suit holding a sign with my last name and first initial neatly printed in jumbo black Sharpie.

I waved. “B. Jackson, right here.”

He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my neon hair for half a second before sweeping up my bag with a big paw, but he left my laptop to me.

The stench of diesel fumes and rain hit me as the exit doors whooshed open. Of course it would be raining. We headed for the taxi stand where a long line of dark cars and cabs idled. The driver stopped at a long black Mercedes with tinted windows and popped the trunk to load my luggage. This was it. I opened the rear passenger door and let myself in.

“Rebecca.”

My full name. And another layer of scary: the Quiet Voice.

“Hi, Mom!” I chirped and gave her a huge “I miss you” smile. She wasn’t fooled. Everything about her—makeup, silver-gray power suit, black pumps, slicked-back hair—and pursed mouth—told me this was going to be a tough negotiation.

“I’m very disappointed in you. I thought we had an agreement, and you were doing so well—until this hacking episode.” She frowned prettily, a talent I wished I could learn; when she did it, all anyone wanted to do was please her—even me.