Spy to the Rescue Read Online Free

we’re not nice. To the untrained eye, Natalie in her Cheerminator gear and me with what I like to think is my understated coolness might seem like the mean clique of oppressors, and Abby might seem like the poor innocent outcast who got hit with a door and then insulted, but . . . actually, at this moment, it’s hard to make a convincing case for me and Natalie.
    â€œYou’re jerks, you know that?” says Ryan. He leavesthe kitchen with Blabby clinging to him.
    As he passes me, he mutters, “You better be nicer to her. I kept your secrets.”
    During the time Brian Spool had me convinced I was a fully functioning spy, Ryan saw me in action. He saw me kick butt (including his) and he covered for me when I snuck out at night. There isn’t much he could do with that information. Certainly nothing that could damage me. But just the fact that he knows something gives him a smidgen of power over me. I meet his eye and give him the faintest acknowledgment that I understand what he’s saying.
    Natalie and I wait in silence until we hear Ryan’s bedroom door close.
    â€œYou called her Blabby! To her face!” I yell.
    Natalie waves away my accusation. She goes to the fridge—the scene of the crime!—removes a carton of almond milk, and pours herself a glass.
    â€œWhat was it, like six, eight weeks ago, every word out of his mouth was a lie? He broke stuff and stole things and stayed out all night?” I marvel. “Now: whole different Ryan.”
    â€œI liked the old one better,” says Natalie, wiping her mouth. “If he has to date anyone, it shouldn’t be that drip. It reflects badly on us. Doesn’t someone in your class havea big sister with partial vision or a life-threatening illness? Someone better than Blabby he could go out with?” Natalie leaves the kitchen. “That’s a nice little project for you. I know you can handle it. Don’t let me down.”
    â€œHow is it my project?” I call after her. But she skips happily upstairs, leaving the Blabby Project in my hands.
    So now I’ve got to find out who set me up to take the fall for the Cheerminator choreography scam and then I need to disentangle Ryan from Blabby.
    My phone vibrates. I look at the screen. Two texts. Both from Carter Strike.
    Did your parents talk to you yet?
    I didn’t do it.

CHAPTER FOUR
Strike Out
    â€œI t’s nothing,” says my mom.
    â€œIt’s fine,” says my dad.
    I do not believe a word my parents are saying. They came home late. They keep shooting shifty little glances at each other. They talk louder than normal. They laugh louder and they laugh a lot. This is especially noticeable in my mom. Nancy Wilder is not what you’d call a chuckler or a chortler. She is not amused by jokes or sitcoms or YouTube clips of people walking into walls. That isn’t to say she doesn’t have a sense of humor. “I’m just not one of those big laughers,” she has said in the past. She is tonight, though.
    â€œSorry I’m so late. One of those days when everything just boom-boom-boom . . . one thing after another HAHAHA!” “Your brother upstairs with whatshername? She should just move in. Maybe she already has HAHAHA!”
    Mom sounds like an alien from a planet where the concept of laughter is unknown who’s attempting to fit in with us Earth folk by impersonating the sounds we make when amused. Dad is also acting like an alien. An alien amazed by the long black plastic object with the buttons that makes pictures appear and disappear on the big flat screen attached to the wall. Jeff Wilder is not a channel flipper. Jeff Wilder likes to settle into his brown leather chair and watch a Law & Order marathon or a baseball game that goes into extra innings. Tonight, though, he’s jabbing the remote at the TV screen, hurtling through channels, flying past makeover shows, renovation shows, pawnshop shows, dance studio