The Summer I Went Undercover

The first rule of being a fourteen-year-old undercover agent in your own life: never let them see you care. But somewhere between fourth period science and the disastrous lunch attempt, I'd already broken that rule like, twelve times.

My new friend Quinn — who I'd met behind the bleachers while we were both avoiding human interaction — had this theory. She said high school was basically a training ground for future spies. We had to learn to read people, blend in, fake confidence. The fact that she said this while eating an orange that she'd peeled into one continuous strip like some kind of citrus magician made it simultaneously deep and ridiculous.

"You're overthinking again," she said, tossing an orange segment at me. I caught it reflexively. "You're not a spy, Maya. You're just new."

Easy for her to say. Quinn had lived here forever. She knew everyone's drama, who was dating whom, whose parents were divorcing, who'd posted something problematic in seventh grade and would never live it down. I was still trying to figure out the cafeteria hierarchy without making social suicide look like my goal.

The dog situation started as a joke. Quinn's neighbor had this golden retriever puppy who'd gotten into some kind of food coloring — story was vague — and now looked permanently orange. We called him Agent Mango. We'd spy on him from her bedroom window, making up elaborate backstories about his secret mission to destroy the neighborhood's lawn ornaments one plastic flamingo at a time.

"What's the mission today?" I asked, watching Mango zigzag across someone's yard.

"Reconnaissance," Quinn said dramatically. "He's gathering intel on the squirrel population. Those squirrels are up to something, I can feel it."

I laughed. Like, actually laughed, not the fake one I'd been using all week. Quinn had that effect.

The real spy mission happened by accident. We were walking Agent Mango — who was, in fact, just a very good boy with questionable coloring — when Quinn grabbed my arm.

"Did you hear that?"

I heard it too. Something moving in the woods behind the old Miller property.

"Bear," she whispered, eyes wide. "Actual bear."

"Bears live in the woods, Quinn. This is Massachusetts."

"Not in these woods. Something's wrong." She pulled out her phone, already typing. "I'm contacting headquarters."

I stared at her. "You're texting your mom, aren't you?"

"Game recognizes game." She grinned. "Your turn, spy girl. What's our extraction plan?"

We backed away slowly, Agent Mango mercifully silent for once. Later, we'd learn it had been a cub — some momma bear had been spotted near town, everyone was freaking out, the local police department was putting out warnings like it was Shark Week. But in that moment, walking backward through someone's backyard while Quinn narrated our escape like we were in an action movie, I realized something.

I wasn't undercover anymore. Or maybe I was, but I had a partner now. And that made all the difference.