Tuesday, July 11
The last thing you want to see after a prolonged patrol in the housing development is someone from the Enclave on your front porch.
Especially when that someone is Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle.
He’s sitting on the porch swing, his back to me. He’s in full regalia today: charcoal gray suit, a hint of white dress shirt at the collar and cuffs. Although that ridiculous hat rests not on his head but on the seat next to him. A black SUV, rather than a sedan, is parked in the driveway.
With a foot, he sets the swing in motion. From where I stand, I can hear the gentle creak, the sound relaxed and soothing. It’s a patient sort of move, as if he’s been waiting here for a while and has the fortitude to keep on waiting.
This is Henry Darnelle, after all. He absolutely does have the fortitude.
And I do not. I don’t need this. Not today. The Screamers were extra gleeful this morning. I’m starting to wonder if the sudden reappearance of Agent Darnelle is the reason why. His being here can’t be anything but bad. I’m not sure I want to know just how bad.
A voice in the back of my mind whispers that—actually—I do want to know.
Already my thoughts are racing as if they can outrun the Sight, which, in turn, is knock-knock-knocking against my consciousness. It’s too close and far too insistent. I’ve been flirting with it more than I should have these past few days. My upper lip feels damp, but my fingers come away with only the barest hint of blood.
Good. I can do this. Because what I plan to do is crawl through my neighbor’s overgrown lilac bushes and sneak into the house through the kitchen door. Then I will hole up in the pantry and wait him out. He can’t sit on my front porch forever.
At least, I hope he can’t.
Granted, the neighborhood watch might notice. Still, I can deal with anything that pops up on Hey Neighbor later. But before I can step off the sidewalk and cut across my neighbor’s lawn, my umbrella slips through my fingers.
I say slipped. Really? She flings herself forward, escaping my grasp. For a mere second, she balances on her tip. Then, she succumbs to an all-out swoon. She plummets to the ground like a damsel in distress.
My umbrella? She is shameless.
Henry Darnelle doesn’t notice this bit of theatrics, but his umbrella certainly does. That’s all it takes. Agent Darnelle swivels around in the porch swing just as I’m scooping my umbrella from the ground. I give her a shake for all the good that will do me. She is so self-satisfied and smug that no amount of scolding will penetrate.
He stands, umbrella barely restrained on his arm. At least this reunion will be joyful for them, if not for us. I consider strolling past my house as if I haven’t seen him. But really, what’s the point? So I steel myself and head up the walkway.
“Agent Darnelle?” I say, deciding to play offense. “Can I help you? Couldn’t you get a flight back to Seattle?”
That’s a reasonable assumption, but his expression tells me it isn’t, that the reason he’s here has to do with me, and I’m not going to like what he has to say.
Possibilities fill my head. Perhaps he was wrong and couldn’t score my exam, and now I have to do the whole thing over again. Or perhaps it’s worse. As in, I failed my exam, and he’s here to revoke my umbrella.
In that case, I should’ve gone on defense, kept my status as a full-fledged field agent for a few more hours at least. I tighten my grip on my umbrella and pull her close. I will run. He will have to track me down and forcibly take her from me.
Instead, he stands there on the porch, waiting on me. A cold sweat has sprouted along my spine, and there’s little the late morning sun can do to warm me.
When he doesn’t speak, I’m compelled to ask, “Did I fail?”
“Fail what, Agent Little?”
“My exam?” I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate how much passing my exam with flying colors means to me. I hate having to wait for his answer.
“What?” Comprehension chases the sober expression from his features. His smile comes with a hint of a dimple. “No, no, nothing like that. I meant what I said yesterday. You are an accomplished field agent and have been for some time, if I’m not mistaken.”
He’s not, of course.
“I was hoping we could speak, perhaps inside?” He shoulders his messenger bag and secures his hat. His gaze scans the neighborhood as if spies lurk behind the ornamentals and the oaks. Considering that curtains flutter in the living room across the street, that’s not an entirely wrong assumption.
“Yes, of course.” Inside is better. Honestly, inside is always better. We do not need to star in yet another thread on Hey Neighbor.
Unfailingly polite, he holds the screen door while I open the main one. My umbrella—the shameless thing—is all a-tremble, no doubt anticipating some canoodling with Agent Darnelle’s. I’m about to grant her wish, tell him to drop his umbrella in the stand, when the sight there freezes me in place.
My mother’s umbrella. In the stand. Where I left it last night. Her essence is nothing but full-on disapproval.
