Meg Cabot - Code Name Cassandra

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe when you admit that you made a big mistake marrying Mrs. Johnson and that your heart really belongs to Jill here."

Special Agent Smith choked on a mouthful of cheeseburger. Special Agent Johnson had to ram her on the back a couple of times before she could breathe again.

"Oh," I said. "That go down the wrong pipe? I hate when that happens."

"Jessica." Special Agent Johnson spun around in his seat—well, as much as he could with the steering wheel in the way—and eyed me wrathfully. Really. Wrathful is about the only way I can describe it. Hey, I took the PSATs. I know what I'm talking about.

"You may think you got away with something last spring," he growled, "with that whole going-to-the-press thing. But I am warning you, missy. We are on to you. We know what you've been up to. And it's just a matter of time—"

Over Special Agent Johnson's shoulder, I saw a Passat come barreling through the intersection. Brakes squealing, it pulled into the McDonald's parking lot and came to a stop a few spaces down from the van. Jonathan Herzberg popped out from the driver's seat, so anxious to see his daughter he forgot to take off his seat belt. It strangled him, and he had to sit back down and unsnap it before he could get up again.

"—before Jill or I or someone catches you at it, and—"

"And what?" I asked. "What are you going to do to me, Allan? Put me in jail? For what? I haven't done anything illegal. Just because I won't help you find your little murderers and your drug lords and your escaped convicts, you think I'm doing something wrong? Well, excuse me for not wanting to do your job for you."

Special Agent Smith laid a hand on her partner's shoulder. "Allan," she said, in a warning voice.

Special Agent Johnson just kept glaring at me. He'd been so upset, he'd knocked over his fries, and now they lay all over the floor beneath his feet. He had already squashed one into the blue carpeting beneath the gas pedal. Behind him, Jonathan Herzberg was hurrying into the restaurant, having already spotted his daughter through the window.

"One thing you can do for me, though," I said, amiably enough. "You can tell me who tipped you off that I'd left the campgrounds."

I saw them exchange glances.

"Tipped us off?" Special Agent Smith ran her fingertips through her light brown hair, which was cut into a stylish—but not too stylish—bob. "What are you talking about, Jess?"

"Oh, what?" I rolled my eyes. "You expect me to believe the two of you have been sitting in this van outside of Camp Wawasee for the past nine days, waiting to see when I'd leave? I don't think so. For one thing, there aren't nearly enough food wrappers on the floor."

"Jessica," Special Agent Smith said, "we haven't been spying on you."

"No," I said. "You've just been paying somebody else to do it."

"Jess—"

"Don't bother to deny it. How else would you have known I was leaving the camp?" I shook my head. "Who is it, anyway? Pamela? That secretary who looks like John Wayne? Oh, wait, I know." I snapped my fingers. "It's Karen Sue Hanky, isn't it? No, wait, she's too much of a crybaby to be a narc."

"You," Special Agent Johnson said, "are being ridiculous."

Ridiculous. Yeah. That's right.

I watched through the plate glass window as Jonathan Herzberg snatched up his daughter and gave her a hug that came close to strangling her. She didn't seem to mind, though. Her grin was broader than I'd ever seen it—way bigger than it had been over the Happy Meal.

Another joyous reunion, brought about by me.

And I was missing it.

Ridiculous. They were the ones going around spying on a sixteen-year-old girl. And they said I was being ridiculous.

"Well," I said. "It's been fun, you guys, but I gotta motor. Bye."

I got out of the van. Behind me, I heard Special Agent Johnson call my name.

But I didn't bother turning around.

I don't like being called missy any more than I liked being called girlie. I was proud that I'd at least managed to restrain myself from slamming my foot into Special Agent Johnson's face.

Mr. Goodhart was really going to be pleased by the progress I'd made so far this summer.

C H A P T E R

12

"So Rob said. "Was it worth it?"

"I don't know," I said with a shrug. "I mean, her mom didn't seem that bad. She might have gotten out on her own, eventually."

"Yeah," Rob said. "After enough stitches."

I didn't say anything. Rob was the one who came from the broken home, not me. I figured he knew what he was talking about.

"She claims her favorite TV show is Masterpiece Theater ," Rob informed me.

"Well," I said. "That doesn't prove anything. Except, you know, that she wanted to impress us."

"Impress Ginger and Nate," he said, with one raised eyebrow, "from Chicago Central High? Yeah, that's important."

"Well," I said. I rested my elbows on my knees. We were sitting on a picnic table, gazing out over Lake Wawasee. Well, the edge of Lake Wawasee, anyway. We were about two miles from the actual camp. Somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to go back there. Maybe it was the fact that when I set foot through those gates, I was going to be fired.

Then again, maybe it was because when I set foot through those gates, I'd have to say good-bye to Rob.

Look, I'll admit it: I'm warm for the guy's form. Anybody here have a problem with that?

And it was really nice, sitting there in the shade with him, listening to the shrill whirr of the cicadas and the birdsong from the treetops. It seemed as if there wasn't another human being for miles and miles. Above the trees, clouds were gathering. Soon it was going to rain, but it looked as if it would hold off for a little while longer—besides, we were somewhat protected by the canopy of leaves over our heads.

If it had been dark enough, it would have been a perfect make-out spot.

Well, if Rob didn't have this total prejudice against making out with girls sixteen and under.

It was as I was sadly counting the months until I turned seventeen—all eight and a half of them; Douglas could have told me exactly how many days, and even minutes, I had left—that Rob reached out and put his arm around me.

And unlike when Pamela had done the exact same thing, I did not mind. I did not mind at all.

"Hey," Rob said. I could feel his heart thudding against my side, where his chest pressed against me. "Stop beating yourself up. You did the right thing. You always do."

For a minute, I couldn't figure out what he was talking about. Then I remembered. Oh, yeah. Keely Herzberg. Rob thought I'd been mulling over her, when really, I'd just been trying to figure out a way to get him to make a pass at me.

Oh, well. I figured what I was doing was working so far, if the arm around me was any indication. I sighed and tried to look sad … which was difficult, because I was sort of having another one of those epiphanies, what with the breeze off the lake and the birds and Rob's Coast deodorant soap smell and the nice, heavy weight of his arm and everything.

"I guess," I said, managing to sound uncertain even to my own ears.

"Are you kidding?" Rob gave me a friendly squeeze. "That woman told her kid that her father was dead. Dead ! You think she was playing with a full deck?"

"I know," I said. Maybe if I looked sad enough, he'd stick his tongue in my mouth.

"And look how happy Keely was. And Mr. Herzberg. My God, did you see how stoked he was to have his kid back? I think if you'd have let him, he'd have written you a check for five grand, right there and then."

Jonathan Herzberg had been somewhat eager to offer me compensation for the trouble I'd taken, returning his daughter to him … a substantial monetary reward I had politely turned down, telling him that if he absolutely had to fork his money over to somebody, he should donate it to 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU.