Agents of the Glass (8 page)

“Give him a chance, Jensen. Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling you two will work well together. One story. If it doesn't work, I won't push it.”

Jensen looked Andy up and down. “I guess it's your lucky day, Sandy.”

“Andy.”

“That's what I said.”

“No, you said Sandy.”

“What if I like Sandy better? You look like a Sandy to me.”

“At least I'm not named after a
car,
” said Andy. “My uncle used to have one. Stupid thing was always breaking down.”

“That was a Jensen-
Healey,
you imbecile. I'm Jensen
Huntley.
What's that scar on your forehead from, anyway? Did you bump into a coffee table? You're too short to run into anything else.”

Ms. Albemarle grinned broadly. “My work here is done. I can see that you two are going to get along just fine.”

Andy struggled to keep up with Jensen as she raced through the halls and up the stairs to the library, located on the second floor.

“Are you coming, Sandy? You have to keep up with me if you want to be a reporter. So, what's with you and that Winter chick? You were with her at the first meeting, and today you came to the studio to watch her audition. You have a crush on her?”

“She's my SA!”

“There. You see, you didn't answer my question. In my experience, people who don't answer questions are usually trying to hide something.”

“I'm not hiding anything. I don't have a crush on her. For one thing, she's about a foot taller than me. We would look ridiculous.”

“Ah, so you
have
thought about what it would be like to be her boyfriend. Interesting.”

They arrived at the library—and the end of the interrogation, much to Andy's relief. As Jensen reached for the doorknob, the door swung open. The librarian, Mr. Brookings, with keys in one hand and a worn leather briefcase in the other, was on his way home.

“Sorry, folks, closing up for the day.” He closed the door and stuck his key in the lock.

“Just one minute, pleeeaaase?” begged Jensen. “I'm working on a story about the new library.”

“Oh?”

“I'm Jensen—”

“I know who you are, Miss Huntley. Everyone knows who you are.”

Jensen grinned at him. “Wow. That's good. Means I'm making a difference.”

“Yes, aren't we all?” said Mr. Brookings as he opened the door and ushered Jensen and Andy inside. “Welcome to the new library.”

“So…it's actually happening. Everly is really going to go through with it. I thought she was bluffing.”

“What the…Where are all the books?” asked Andy, twirling around the room as he took in the miles of empty shelves. “What's going on?”

“Progress,” said Mr. Brookings, practically spitting the word out. He pointed at a stack of boxes—hundreds of them—against the back wall. “There are your books.”

“Wait…back up a second.
Where
are they going? Why?”

Mr. Brookings shook his head. “All I can tell you is what I know. A week before school started, I got a call from Dr. Everly, who very matter-of-factly told me that the library was, to use her words, out of date. All this paper and ink is just taking up valuable space, she said. Without the shelves, she can get more tables in here. Like it or not, we're going all-digital. I tried to argue with her—there are many, many studies showing that people who read traditional paper books and magazines read faster, more accurately, and with better comprehension. She didn't want to listen. The board had already decided, she said. They made a deal with some new Internet company.”

“It's a company called 233dotcom,” said Jensen. “They're replacing every real book that we pack up and send off with an electronic version. According to Dr. Everly, we're going to be the first school in town to go one hundred percent digital—as if that's a
good
thing. No more shelves to browse, no more library. Instead of a library card, you get a password.”

Andy glanced at the mountain of boxed-up books. “What's going to happen to these?”

“Supposedly, they're going to libraries in poor places around the world,” said Jensen, “although I don't know what a bunch of kids who speak Swahili are going to do with them.”

Mr. Brookings scoffed in agreement and headed for the door. “Lock up when you're done.”

Winter Neale stuck her head in the door as the librarian exited. “Hey, Andy—what are you doing in here?”

“He's with me,” said Jensen, stepping in front of Andy.

Winter was momentarily surprised to see Jensen but didn't seem at all intimidated by her. “Oh…hi. I was just leaving school and saw that the door was open….Wow, this is going to be so cool. A real twenty-first-century library. I can't wait to see it when it's all done.”

“It's a travesty,” said Jensen. “They're always bragging about the tradition of Wellbourne, how everything here is tried and true. And then they do this, without really even talking about it.”

“But it's going to be
better,
” said Winter. “You'll be able to download any book you could possibly want.”

Jensen glared at her. “I don't want to…Oh, never mind. Why am I arguing with you? Your daddy probably
owns
233dotcom.”

Winter smiled at Andy. “Oh, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Uh, yeah. See you,” he said.

When Winter was gone, Jensen pushed Andy against the empty shelves, holding him by the front of his shirt. “This is a
huge
story, Sandy, but we're going to have to get our hands a little dirty to do it justice. You're not afraid to do that, are you?”

Poor Andy. Starting from the moment he pushed that pickle to the side, his life had been turned upside down and inside out. He looked Jensen right in the eye. “I'm not afraid. And it's
Andy.
”

Checking to see that no one was watching, Andy reached past the root beer, his hand landing on an icy bottle of cream soda. He hesitated, then released it and picked up his usual root beer.

“Excellent choice,” Silas said.

Andy almost jumped out of his sneakers when he saw him less than five feet away. “How did you do that? I
just
looked—there was nobody here.”

“I've had a lot of practice. Everything still okay?”

“Yeah, fine, I guess. So, you're back. Does that mean I'm going to find out who I'm—”

“Saturday, I promise. Trust me, at this point, it's best if you don't know—you'll be more natural. Just keep doing what you've been doing. I see you're going to be working on the library story with Jensen Huntley.”

“You already know about that?”

“I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't. Anything else? Classes okay? Making friends?”

“Yeah, I guess. A few. Winter brought me breakfast the other day, from that French bakery over on Third.”

“Oh? That was nice. What was it?”

“An almond croissant. My favorite. I had one once before.”

Silas's ears pricked when he heard that, remembering his golden rule:
There are no coincidences.

“Oh, and there was something strange. She left it in my locker for me.”

“Why is that strange?”

“I'm positive that I locked my locker. I never leave it unlocked. Winter said it wasn't locked when she got there, but…I don't know. I guess it's
possible
that I forgot.”

“Hmm. Nothing missing?”

“No, I checked. It's not like I keep anything valuable in there, but it was just weird.”

“Listen, if anything strange happens—anything out of the ordinary at
all
—use that email address I gave you. In the meantime, don't do anything crazy, and don't forget about Saturday. And lock your locker.”

A few minutes before the start of homeroom on Friday, Jensen pulled Andy aside in the seventh-floor hallway. His classmates gave him funny looks as they passed, no doubt wondering what the new kid, a seventh grader, could possibly have to do with Jensen Huntley, a junior—and a notorious one, at that.

After Jensen snarled (“What are
you
looking at?”) at Parker Elmsford, a sweet, quiet girl in Andy's homeroom, the others gave her a wide berth.

“I've got something to tell you. Guess who bought 233dotcom last year.”

Andy shrugged. “I—I don't know. Who?”

“NTRP. The same company that's suddenly so interested in helping out our Broadcasting Club. Something is going on. It's like they're taking over the school. Dr. Everly must be involved with them. I'm going to get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, don't talk to
anybody
about this story, unless you talk to me first.” She stormed off, running directly into Patricia Elmsford, Parker's twin sister, sending books and paper flying in all directions.

As Andy kneeled down to help her, the elevator door opened and Winter stepped out.

“What happened here?” she asked. “Looks like a tornado went through the hall.”

“Something like that,” said Andy. “Hurricane Jensen.”

“Jensen Huntley? What was she doing on the seventh floor? Upper school kids
never
come up this far.”

“She wanted to tell me something about the story that she's—I mean,
we're
—working on.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Winter said. “She is
such
a bully. What's the story? Is it interesting, at least?”

Remembering Jensen's parting words, Andy played dumb. “About the changes in the library.”

“Yeah, she
is
in a tizzy about that, isn't she? Well, she probably won't let you do anything, anyway; she's such a control freak. Do you want me to talk to Ms. Albemarle for you? I can't promise, but I can probably get you assigned to somebody—
anybody—
else.”

But Andy was already too intrigued by Jensen and the library story to let it go. “Nah, that's okay. I'll stick it out. She's not that bad.” When Winter eyed him skeptically, he added, “Okay, she's a little intense.”

“A
little
? That's like saying Einstein was a little bit intelligent. You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Well, if I don't see you, have a great weekend. If you have any questions, call me.” She handed him a business card that read
Winter Isabella Neale, Wellbourne Academy Broadcast Club,
followed by two phone numbers, an email address, her personal website, and her Twitter handle. The girl was connected.

“Wow, this is
nice,
” said Andy. “Does everybody get these?”

“No, I had them made up special.”

“Oh, right! I almost forgot—you're the new anchor. Congratulations! I was in the control room for your audition, and as soon as you started, everyone was like, ‘Well, we can stop looking for an anchor right now.' Even the janitor stopped working to watch. You looked like a real newsperson, and sounded like one, too. Where did you learn how to do that?”

“I guess I'm just lucky,” said Winter. “I was born with it.”