They looked like the bad guy from that new Keanu Reeves movie: dark suits, sunglasses, those squiggly phone cords in their right ears. They stood on either side of the soda machine, guarding it, like it was a king or something. One girl, who had finally remembered to bring a dollar bill to school that day, walked up to them and tried to buy a drink. The two guys held out their arms and pushed her back, probably too forcefully, but without malice. Later on, on her way to math, that same girl saw them covering the soda machine with some sort of tarp and wheeling it out the door on a dolly. By sixth period, she had heard the news, just like everyone else: someone had tried to use fake money on that soda machine. Those guys were real agents, like from the government.
Rumors floated about who it could have been. Some kids were taking credit, but that didn’t seem like a good idea to Faizan. Personally, he would have liked to have nothing to do with those spooky dudes and their investigation. The problem with this was that it had been Faizan who had tried to use the fake money in the soda machine. Couldn’t blame him, really. His mom only ever gave him one dollar a week for sodas, and he had already used it on Monday. But before he spent it, he snuck into the teachers’ lounge and made a couple copies.
He wondered why no one had ever done this before. Money was made out of paper, after all, so there didn’t seem to be that big of a leap in logic. He even remembered to copy it twice, once for each side. He would never have to ask his mom for money again.
At first, the machine didn’t seem to want to take his dollar. It spit it back, as if to ask Faizan if he was sure he wanted to go forward with his plan. Of course, he was sure, so he tried again. This time, the machine kept the dollar just like it was supposed to. But when he pressed the button for root beer, nothing happened except that a tiny red light on the front of the machine lit up and made a little noise.
Faizan was upset. He didn’t want to have to drink out of the water fountain in the hall. The water tasted like when you went swimming with your mouth open, and the faucet was way too low, causing you to have to squat down all weird, shooting your butt out way too far behind you. It looked stupid. Checking both ways to make sure no teacher was watching, Faizan banged the side of the soda machine with his fist. Nothing. He wanted to rock the machine back and forth, like he had seen on a TV show, but it was too heavy. Finally, he was forced to admit defeat. It was the water fountain again.
But by sixth period, having to crouch all funny to get a drink seemed like a problem from a more innocent time, before guys who probably had guns had come to the school and taken away evidence of his crime.
It was especially hard to focus in social studies, even though he probably wasn’t going to get in trouble. He had made sure that no one was looking when he tried to use the fake dollar. How would they know it was him? His heart spiked when he remembered that cops can get fingerprints off of things. Why hadn’t he worn gloves? Rookie mistake. But no, that didn’t matter, because the school didn’t have his fingerprints on file. Or did they? He remembered taking a field trip to the police station in fourth grade, where they let him put black ink all over his fingers and stick them to a piece of paper. Did that sort of thing stay with you? Did his elementary school hand his fingerprints over to the junior high when he started going there? Oh, no. This was bad.
It went back and forth like this for a while, but he finally convinced himself he was being stupid. It was just a fake dollar. No one saw him. What were they going to do, look at every kid’s fingers? He was in the clear, as long as he kept his head down.
The bell ending sixth period rang, and Faizan allowed himself a little hope. One more class, and he could go home and forget this whole thing ever happened. But that hope died the second he saw the two sunglasses guys walking towards him in the hallway. One of them was pointing right at him, and the other one was holding his finger up to the squiggly phone cord and mouthing words that looked, to Faizan, like, “We got him.”
They used Mrs. Dunleavy’s office. Mrs. Dunleavy was a counselor, and she had always seemed to like Faizan. He couldn’t help but notice the look of disappointment on her face as the two government agents sat down behind her desk. She stood in the corner, not letting Faizan make eye contact. After Faizan sat down, one of the agents took off his sunglasses.
“Do you know who we are, son?” he asked.
“Um...,” Faizan said. “Well, Birhat said-”
“Birhat? What’s that?”
“It’s one of his friends,” Mrs. Dunleavy told him. “Faizan, did Birhat tell you to make that dollar?”
“No.”
“Then what did Birhat say?”
Faizan wanted to say that if they would let him talk, he would tell them, but instead he said, “Birhat said you were those bad dudes. He said that you were actually, like, computer programs, and that you could change your face, and, like, that you could fight real good.”
The second agent (who had not removed his sunglasses) snorted. “Computer programs? How is that supposed to work?”
“Well,” Faizan continued, “he said that the real world isn’t actually the real world, but, like, this computer world, or something, and that you could do this karate if you knew about it.”
“We’re getting off track here,” the first agent said. “I think Birhat was talking about a movie. We’re real. We work for the United States Secret Service. Have you heard of that?”
“Yeah. We were talking about that one President who got killed, President Kenley-”
“Kennedy, Faizan. You know that,” Mrs. Dunleavy interjected.
“Oh, yeah. Kennedy. The Secret Service is the guys who are supposed to help the President, but that one time he, like, got shot in the head, and-”
“Well, that’s true, but we’re actually from a different part of the Secret Service,” the first agent said. “We track down counterfiet money operations. We were actually created by President Abraham Lincoln. You ever heard of him?”
“Didn’t he get shot in the head, too?” Faizan asked.
The agent sighed. “Yes. He did. But we’re not gonna talk about assassinations any more, okay?”
“Okay.” Faizan didn’t know why they were so angry. What else was he supposed to know about the Secret Service?
“We catch bad guys, Faizan. Guys who want to make fake money. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Okay, I didn’t know it was a big deal. No one ever told me I couldn’t do it. I actually thought it was a good idea.”
“Well, Faizan,” Mrs. Dunleavy said, “it did sort of show some critical thinking.”
The agent turned around. “Thank you, Mrs. Dunleavy, but I don’t think that’s helping.”
“Sorry,” Mrs. Dunleavy said, looking down, dejected.
Faizan was as scared as he had ever been. What was going to happen to him? He didn’t know how long he would last in prison. He saw this one show on HBO, after his parents had gone to bed, in which one guy got stabbed and another guy had something weird done to his weiner. Faizan didn’t want anything like that to happen, to him or his weiner, but what choice did he have? Go on the run, become a fugitive from justice? How would he do that, with no money? Before he could formulate a plan, the first agent started talking again.
“Don’t worry, Faizan. You’re not in trouble.”
“Okay,” Faizan said.
“Yet,” the second agent said.
“Yet?” Mrs. Dunleavy said.
“That’s right, Mrs. Dunleavy. Faizan here will be free to walk away, just as soon as he does a little something for us.”
“W-What do you want me to do?” Faizan asked.
“For some time now, the Cartels have been using Dallas as a distribution hub for narcotics and weapons. Recent intel has suggested that they have added counterfeiting to their little bag of tricks. We want you to infiltrate the organization, and let us know their plans, where they get their plates, and who inside the government is helping them out with their cotton supply and serial numbers.”
“Cartels?” Mrs. Dunleavy said.
“That’s right.”
“But,” Faizan said, “I can’t do something like that. I’m just a kid. I’m just a little boy.”
The second agent finally took off his sunglasses. He looked Faizan straight in the eyes. “So, now you’re a little boy, is that right?” he asked. “Now, when it becomes convienient? You were man enough to fuck with the United States government, but now you’re a little boy? You weren’t such a kid when you were pissing in Uncle Sam’s face, were you?”
“I must say, this is a bit of an over-reaction, don’t you think?” Mrs. Dunleavy said.
“Mrs. Dunleavy, we don’t come to your work and tell you how to play puberty videos and make lunch schedules, so don’t you dare tell us how to protect this country. Faizan had a choice. He chose to play around with the economic stability of this great nation. And so, he has a choice now. He can either help us out with this little problem, or face up to two weeks in alternative school.”
“I’ll take the alternative school,” Faizan said.
“Very funny,” the agent said.
“I…I wasn’t joking.”
“Now, this operation will have to be strictly off the books, you being twelve years old and all. That means you won’t be getting any field support. You’ll be free to proceed as you see fit. Recruit your own team, develop your own plan. Should you have to kill anybody, make sure it can’t get back to you. And if you yourself are killed, understand that the Secret Service will disavow any connection to you or your associates. You have one month to bring us the desired intel, or you will face serious repercussions. Any questions?”
“Yeah, I have lots of-”
“Good. You are dismissed. I suggest you use the rest of the day wisely.”
Before Faizan could say anything else, the two agents got up and left Mrs. Dunleavy’s office. Faizan remained in his chair, on the verge of tears, looking up desperately at the school counselor, who, at a loss for words, simply shook her head and left the office, too, leaving Faizan in there alone, scared and confused.
“You’re gonna have to learn how to hotwire a car,” Birhat said, walking home with Faizan after school. “And how to ride a motorcycle. You should probably become a master of disguise, too, so they can’t remember your face after you bust them. I have a fake mustache you can use, and I think my sister has some wigs for her theater classes in high school.”
“I don’t think I can do any of that stuff,” Faizan said. “And I probably can’t learn it in a month.”
“That’s just the basics,” Birhat replied. “You’re gonna have to hone your hands into brutal killing machines. You ever kill anyone before?”
“What? Of course not!”
“I have.”
“No, you haven’t!”
“Yuh-huh. His name was Bennet. I fought him in this hallway with all these pipes in it. I beat him by kicking him in the chest, and he flew backwards, and he got stabbed through his body with a pipe. All this smoke came out, like, through him, and I said, ‘let out some steam, Bennet.’ It was awesome.”
“That was Arnold Schwarzeneggar in Commando, stupid. We watched it together at your aunt’s house over the summer.”
“Whatever.”
“Come on, man. This is serious. Once those cartel dudes realize that I’m just in the seventh grade, they’re gonna kill me. I shoulda known not to make that fake dollar. It was a stupid idea.”
“Don’t say that!” Birhat bellowed. “It was an awesome idea. I wish I’d’ve thought of it.”
“No, you don’t. I’m in big trouble, Birhat. I don’t know what to do. I can’t take on a whole gang of adults alone.”
“You’re not alone, man. You’re my best friend. I’m gonna help you.”
Despite his understanding that there was not really anything Birhat could do to help, Faizan felt a little better, knowing his friend was there for him. “Thanks, bro. But what are we gonna do?”
“It’s Friday. Sleep over at my house this weekend, and we’ll make a plan.”
They spent the next two and a half days doing research. They watched “Donnie Brasco,” “Point Break,” “Face/Off,” and “New Jack City.” Birhat’s cousin, who worked at the movie theater, also helped them sneak in to that new Keanu Reeves movie, so they could learn more about the two government agents who had commandeered the soda machine. It was Birhat’s third time seeing it, but for Faizan, it felt like the first day of the rest of his life. He had never seen anything like it before. The way you could see all around that one lady when she jumped in the air, that bald weirdo turning out to be a bad guy, the dude from “Point Break” jumping into the agent’s chest and flexing his way out, it was the most badass series of events imaginable. But he couldn’t see how any of it was going to help him with his mission. No matter how much he wanted it to be, he knew that his world was not like the world in that movie. His world was real, and there were certain harsh truths that were unavoidable, no matter how much you believed in yourself. He woke up for school on Monday more sure of his imminent failure than when he had been left alone in Mrs. Dunleavy’s office.
There was a substitute in his math class. He said his name was Mr. Penniston, which was pretty funny, but something about his demeanor (not to mention his intimidating cowboy mustache) made it clear that it would not be wise to laugh at him. He wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt and a tie, like that fat cop on that show Faizan’s dad liked, but he himself was pretty buff. He had a tattoo poking out the bottom of one of his sleeves. He didn’t seem to know anything whatsoever about math.
One of the nerds in the front row raised her hand. “Where’s Miss Percival?” she asked.
“She’s sick,” Mr. Penniston said, quickly, like he had practiced his answer beforehand.
“Sick with what?” the girl asked.
“How the heck should I know? Bubonic plague. Now, stop asking questions and read about-” he consulted Miss Percivals’s lesson plan, “the order of operations.”
“Please excuse my dear aunt Sally,” the girl said.
“Why? What did she do?” Mr. Penniston asked.
A few people in the class giggled, but Faizan didn’t know why. He had other things to worry about besides Courtney’s aunt Sally, and whatever she had done that required an apology from her neice. He wanted to talk to Birhat about their plan to infiltrate the Cartel, but they didn’t see each other again until lunch. He thought back to the movie they had snuck into over the weekend. Maybe there was something in there he could use, after all. Of course, they couldn’t download cool haircuts or duffel bags full of Uzis, but that wasn’t all Keanu Reeves was good for. Faizan decided that he would talk to his tech teacher after fifth period, to see what he knew about computer hacking.
“Well, Faizan,” Mr. Michaels said after class, “it’s not really like it is in the movies.”
“It’s not?” Faizan asked.
“Nope. Actual computer hacking is really kinda boring. You need to know all these commands and stuff, and if you put them in the wrong order, or if you put too many spaces or something, nothing happens. And even if you do it right, you might not be able to tell. Why do you ask?”
Faizan wanted to say, “It’s classified,” but instead decided to tell Mr. Michaels that he had recently seen a movie about hackers.
“Yeah, I thought you might say that,” Mr. Michaels said. “Tell you what: after school, why don’t you come back here, and I’ll show you something that is almost like hacking.”
“Really? Can I bring Birhat?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Mr. Michaels.”
“No problem, Faizan.”
Two hours later, as they were walking down the hall to Mr. Michaels’s class, Birhat shared his opinion of Miss Percival’s sub. “He’s kinda stupid. He didn’t know about cross multiplication.”
“Yeah,” Faizan said.
“And you know what his name is? Mr. Penniston. You know what that sounds like? Penis Town. Like that’s where he’s from, this city where everything is a weiner.” They laughed.
A voice crept from around the corner: “Actually, I’m from San Antonio.”
Faizan and Birhat froze in their tracks. Mr. Penniston turned the corner and approached them slowly, a look of knowing menace on his face.
“We’re s-sorry, Mr. Pennis-- uh-- sir,” Faizan mumbled.
Mr. Penniston knelt down to the students’ level. His eyes, Faizan noted, were somehow empty of life and full of hate at the same time. His voice was equally paradoxical: incredibly forceful, while never reaching above a harsh whisper. “You think I’ve never heard that before? Do you think there’s anything I haven’t heard? Huh? I have heard things, I have seen things your tiny little baby brains couldn’t process. Look at me. Look at me, boys. Do I look like a man who is lacking in the necessary knowledge of things?”
“Um…what?” Birhat managed.
“I know who you are,” Penniston continued. “I know all about you two, how you’re working with them. You probably think that the fact that you’re only twelve will save you, but I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. If you stand in my way, I’ll take you down, right next to those-”
“Is everything okay here?” Mr. Michaels asked, peering out his classroom door at the two students, and the crouching man whispering at them.
Penniston stood up and smiled at Mr. Michaels. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine, Mr., uh, Lewis, is it?”
“No,” Mr. Michaels said.
“Yeah, right, of course not, I knew that.” And, without so much as a backward glance at anybody, Mr. Penniston walked away.
Mr. Michaels beckoned Faizan and Birhat into his class. “That was weird. Boys, what did the math sub say to you, just now?”
“He said that he knows lots of stuff,” Birhat said.
Mr. Michaels stifled a laugh. “Yeah, he might, just not about fractions. Uh, forget I said that. Come on in, and I’ll show you how to run dos commands.”
What Mr. Michaels showed them was lame and boring, but it was okay because it gave them time to think about what Mr. Penniston had said. Faizan wasn’t very good at deciphering the attitudes of adults, but he couldn’t help but think that Mr. Penniston had been threatening them. Why? What had they ever done to him, except make the blatantly obvious observation that his name sounded like “Penis Town?” And what had he meant when he said that Birhat and Faizan were “working with them?”
The next day, at lunch, Birhat vocalized his theory. “I bet he’s in the Cartel.”
“Who?” Faizan asked.
“Penis Town.”
“No way.”
“Yes way, dude. Think about it. He’s super creepy, he has a bushy mustache, and he’s an idiot.”
“Why does that mean he’s in the Cartel?”
“I dunno, but he is. I just know it, bro. We should follow him, after school.”
“How? We can’t drive.”
“Yesterday, when Mr. Michaels was showing us whatever that was, I saw Penis Town outside. He was riding a bike. I took my bike to school today, so when we get out, you can hop on the pegs, and we can see where he lives.”
If Faizan was telling the truth, he would have to admit that he didn’t think that Mr. Penniston had anything to do with his Cartel investigation. But, he couldn’t deny that there was something fishy about the substitute, and it wasn’t like he and Birhat had any other solid leads. Penniston had ignored Faizan during math class today, and Faizan didn’t do anything to bring attention to himself. The teacher probably thought he had scared Faizan and Birhat off with that little display the afternoon before, which was okay with the student.
But now, sitting in the cafeteria, strategizing, Faizan couldn’t help but get a little excited. Maybe Penniston wasn’t involved with the Cartels, but he was definitely up to something; Faizan was sure of that. If he and Birhat could prove it, maybe the two agents would let him off the hook with his other mission. He agreed to meet Birhat by the bike racks no more than five minutes after school was out.
Flannagan wanted to keep the joke going, but Bakersfield figured the kid had sweat enough. He wasn’t the first kid to try making his own money, and he surely wouldn’t be the last. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time that Bakersfield knew of that someone had used a copied dollar on that specific soda machine. But their job was, most of the time, insufferably boring, and they had to do something to liven things up.
The best thing about having Flannagan as a partner was his inventiveness when it came to the tricks they played on the children. Sometimes they had to save the President’s kidnapped daughter. A couple of their stories involved space aliens, and, the time before this, Flannagan had somehow managed to factor in the local roller derby. Kids automatically assume you’re telling them the truth, so it had become a little game to see how far they could push it. So far, no student had ever displayed any skepticism at all when told of their new mission, and they generally accepted the responsibility with commendable fortitude. Bakersfield would let them stew for a few days, and then come back to the school and tell them it was all made up. It was sadistic, but ultimately harmless, and he liked to think that he helped spark the kids’ imaginations from time to time. At least he could be sure they would never counterfeit money again, and, at the end of the day, that was his real job.
Birhat was right. Mr. Penniston had in fact ridden his bike to work that day. He had this crappy old Schwinn with a banana seat and a rusty chain, and it made a nasty grinding/squeeking noise, like a haunted swing set in a Freddie Krueger dream sequence. Faizan and Birhat held back, in the throng of leaving students, until they saw the substitute ride off. Making a note of which street he turned on, the two kids rushed to the bike rack to unlock Birhat’s BMX machine. It was undoubtedly faster than Penniston’s dinosaur, so they had a little time to spare. They knew, from all of their research the weekend before, that you can’t follow someone too closely, or they’ll get wise to what you’re doing and make a run for it. But, at the same time, they couldn’t allow Penniston to get away. It was a delicate balance. Birhat unlocked his bike from the rack, and they got ready.
Before they could kick off, however, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses stepped in front of them. It was one of the agents who had given Faizan his assignment.
“Faizan,” he said. “How are you doing? And I assume you’re Birhat?”
Birhat, petrified, remained silent.
“Excuse us, sir,” Faizan said. “We’re working on that problem you told me about. Actually, we were on our way right now….”
Bakersfield chuckled. “Actually, Faizan, that’s what I want to talk to you about. Do you have a minute?”
“Um, not really.” Mr. Penniston was already nothing more than a speck on the concrete horizon.
“Well, I’ll be fast. I came to tell you that that stuff that my partner and I told you about, about the Cartels and everything, well, that was kinda like a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yeah. We were just messing with you. You’re not in any real trouble. Just don’t go copying dollar bills anymore.”
Mr. Penniston turned left, but where he went from there was anybody’s guess. “Okay, great. Can we go now?” Faizan asked.
“Sure. Oh, just one more thing. Mrs. Dunleavy said not to tell you this, but that if you had really thought your plan through, you would have opened the fridge while you were in the teachers’ lounge, using the copier. The thing’s apparently full of sodas, and nobody counts them at the end of the day. Oh, well. Keep that one to yourselves, huh, boys? Take it easy.” Bakersfield walked away.
It was pretty cool of Agent Smith to tell them about the fridge full of sodas, but right now Faizan had other things on his mind. They would have to hoof it pretty hard to catch up with Mr. Penniston, and that was assuming that they guessed correctly about where he had gone after he turned left. Without being told, Birhat took off like a sprinter from the blocks, Faizan riding on the pegs behind him, holding on for dear life. When they got to the end of the street, they turned and slowed down a little, looking everywhere for Mr. Penniston.
It was here that Faizan realized that they no longer had any reason to be following the substitute. Agent Smith had just told them that the whole Cartel thing was made up, so they didn’t need the collateral information concerning Penniston’s possible crimes. They were in the clear.
But if Birhat realized this, he showed no signs of it. He kept riding at his same steady pace, his keen eyes darting around like a gecko. For a brief moment, Faizan considered telling him to stop, that they didn’t have to do this anymore, but he hesitated. Children have a rare ability which is often lost once an individual reaches maturity, and that is the ability to understand that you’re having fun, while you’re having it. Grown ups will do something, and then, hours later, as if just coming to this conclusion, declare, “Man! That was fun!” But kids don’t have that waiting period. They can recognize fun instantaneously, and have instinctual safeguards in place to protect it. Faizan had no reason to tell Birhat to slow down, because he still had the childish predisposition to enjoyment, and he was having fun following this creep with his best friend. In fact, the knowledge that his Cartel mission was off was like a heavy blanket that had just been pulled off his shoulders. He was now free to devote his entire mind to the Penniston investigation. They would catch that pervert for sure, now.
There was something off about that kid’s reaction, Bakersfield decided. He seemed like a good kid, one who would have really been worrying about the fake mission he had been given. But, when he learned that he was off the hook, it didn’t seem to register. He obviously had something more pressing on his mind. But what could be more pressing than what Bakersfield had told him? And now, thinking back, didn’t Faizan say that he and his little friend were working on the Cartel mission, at that very moment? Actually, they had taken off the second Bakersfield had stopped talking, like they were chasing something. Or someone. This didn’t feel right. A joke is one thing, but if those kids had put themselves in actual danger because of what he and his partner had told them, Bakersfield would never be able to forgive himself. And, even though he wouldn’t admit it, Flannagan woud be just as troubled. Bakersfield resolved to follow Faizan and Birhat, at least until he was convinced that whatever they were preoccupied with had nothing to do with him.
Agent Smith had talked to them for too long. They had lost track of Mr. Penniston, and had no way of knowing where he was now. They couldn’t even hear his squeaky bike chain anymore, so they decided to check one more side street, and call it a day.
A couple blocks down, the neighborhood started to transition, from nice houses with big yards, to scary apartment complexes with broken gates. Faizan thought now would be a good time to turn back, but Birhat was once again unaffected. He had lived in one of these apartments when his family had first come over here, and he knew that it looked a lot worse than it actually was. He decided to ride by his old place before completing their search. Faizan was a little nervous, but he had to act brave in front of his friend.
“There it is,” Birhat said, pointing up at his old apartment. “I lived there from when I was three to when I was nine. That was when my mom got her job at the computer place, and we moved to my house. I used to play right there, in that nasty little field there.”
Faizan liked to think he was a pretty tough kid, but the idea of playing in that cracked expanse, more of an empty lot than a field, got his heart racing even more. He saw that there were other kids there, but he recognized most of them from school, and they had pretty hardcore reputations which preceded them. “Let’s go,” he said, trying and failing to hide his trembling voice.
“Yeah, alright,” Birhat replied. “Penis Town’s not around here anyw--wait!”
“What?”
“Look! There’s his bike.”
Faizan looked to where Birhat was pointing, and sure enough, there was Mr. Penniston’s old, dirty bike, leaning against a tree. It wasn’t locked up, because it was so worthless that not even anybody around here would steal it.
They were searching the area in front of them so intently that they didn’t notice Penniston sneak up behind them. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that they turned around and saw him, that same cocky smile on his face as from their confrontation outside Mr. Michaels’s classroom. Birhat tried to pedal away, but Mr. Penniston grabbed ahold of his handlebars.
“I gave you a chance to drop it,” he said, focusing more on Faizan than Birhat. “But you had to push the matter, didn’t you? Well, now you’re gonna pay. I didn’t work on this plan for four years, just to have two little brats who don’t even know what’s going on mess it up.”
“What are you gonna do?” Faizan asked.
“He’s not gonna do nothing, bro,” Birhat said, suddenly defiant. “He’s a teacher. He can’t hurt us.”
“Funny you should say that,” Mr. Penniston said, “because I just tendered my resignation.”
Faizan, not knowing what those words meant, simply stood there, marinating in his own fear, waiting for something to happen.
Something happened. A few things at once, actually. First, a car sped in to the apartment complex, its horn blaring, narrowly missing the few people who were around. It pulled up close, stopping with its driver-side door only a few feet away. The door flew open, and Agent Smith crouched behind it, his gun drawn. From the other direction, the other Agent Smith ran up and pointed his own gun at Mr. Penniston. “Back up, asshole!” he yelled. Despite their fear, Faizan and Birhat smiled. It’s always funny when adults cuss.
“Aw, fuck!” Penniston said, raising his arms. “You little bastards!”
Agent Smith bolted from behind the car door and kicked the back of Mr. Penniston’s legs until he fell down. The other Agent Smith pulled Faizan and Birhat away from the tussle, while his partner cuffed Penniston’s arms behind his back. A few minutes later, a police car came and took Penniston away. Agent Smith, no longer preoccupied, walked over the Faizan, who had been watching the whole thing as if it were a movie.
“Congratulations, boys. You just caught one of the FBI’s most wanted.”
“Wait, what?” Faizan asked.
“That’s right. I can’t believe it, but you just caught the one and only Dickland.”
“It’s Penis Town,” Birhat corrected.
“No, it’s Penniston,” Faizan said.
“Actually, you’re both wrong,” Agent Smith (who was actually named Agent Bakersfield) said. “That was Lawrence Dickland, notorious bank robber and counterfeiter. Flannagan and I took down most of his crew, a couple years ago, in our more badass days, but we had never been able to catch him.”
“Why was he teaching at our school?” Faizan asked.
“Revenge,” the other Agent Smith (who was actually named Agent Flannagan) said. “He swore he would kill us for locking up his buddies. It took him so long because he didn’t know that we had been transferred to the minor leagues of scaring school kids who try to get free sodas. Once he learned our whereabouts, he changed his identity, got his alternate teaching certification, and waited for a chance to infiltrate one of the schools we visited.”
Faizan was confused. “But where’s Miss Percival?”
“I’m right here, boys.” Miss Percival stepped out from behind a tree, smiling, not looking sick at all. “And, I must say, you two did remarkable work.”
“Um, thanks?” Birhat said. “What’s happening, right now?”
“You see, boys,” MIss Percival continued. “I’ve been deep undercover at your junior high school for four years, just waiting for Dickland to pop up. I knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to assassinate Bakersfield and Flannagan, and the most logical way was through the substitute teacher network. I faked an illness, knowing Dickland would put in a request to be my sub. From there, I trusted Bakersfield and Flannagan to catch him. What I didn’t count on, what no one counted on, was you two taking matters into your own hands. We’re all very proud of you.”
Faizan was even more confused than before. The most logical way? How was any of this logical? “Okay, but, like, why, though? How did you know he would do that? I mean, it’s a pretty stupid plan. And it’s really complicated.”
“Not complicated,” Miss Percival (who was actually named Agent Jennings) said. “Elaborate.”
“No, not that,” Faizan said. “It’s…it’s….” The word Faizan wanted, but didn’t know, was “convoluted.” It was a very convoluted plan, and it seemed like the least likely thing to have ever happened. Somehow, his life made more sense when he thought he had to take down the Cartel.
“Well, I’m beat,” Agent Bakersfield said. “Who wants to go grab a drink?”
“Oh, yeah,” Agent Flannagan said.
“Count me in,” the former Miss Percival said. “I’m so tired of seventh grade math I could use killing a few thousand brain cells. You two can make it home from here, right?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, Miss Perci--uh, Agent Jenson,” Birhat said.
“Jennings.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.”
The three agents got in Bakersfield’s car and drove off, leaving Faizan and Birhat alone in the apartment complex parking lot. The sun was setting, and they both knew that their parents would be wondering where they were. No one would believe their story. They didn’t even know if they believed it. But, one thing was for sure: they would never forget it. And they had a feeling Keanu Reeves would be proud.
Tuesday night happy hour at Lou’s was the best. Dollar pints, and half off appetizers. Bakersfield, Flannagan, and Jennings had managed to grab a table, and they were waiting on their nachos when the door opened. Everything got quiet, as the man they had just arrested walked up to them. “You didn’t think they could keep me, did you?” Mr. Penniston, AKA Lawrence Dickland (who was actually named Agent Thompson) said. His three friends laughed and beckoned him to his chair. They had already ordered him a Bud Light and some fried pickles.
“Sit your ass down, Penis Town!” Agent Bakersfield said. They had done it. This would surely go down in department legend as the best trick they had ever pulled off.