Free Zeke Bartholomew by Jason Pinter Page A

between each car. We tried to hitchhike, but since it wasn’t the 1960s nobody stopped for us.
    â€œThis is useless,” I said. “We’d be better off walking back.”
    â€œWe’re about twenty miles from your neighborhood. If we walk, by the time we get back, Operation Songbird will already have gone into effect. Don’t be stupid.”
    â€œYeah, SNURP didn’t bother to make your oh-so-important, crummy spy bracelet waterproof. And you call me stupid.”
    â€œCar!” Sparrow yelled. Approaching us was a beat-up blue station wagon, the kind of car that was worth more as scrap than as a vehicle. It sputtered and shook. I laughed.
    â€œFeel bad for the poor schmo who… oof .”
    Before I could get the next word out, Sparrow had pushed me into the middle of the road. The car screeched and stopped, smoke billowing from the exhaust. The driver’s eyes went wide, and he screamed so loud I could see his tonsils vibrating.
    The car came to a stop four feet from my nose.
    Sparrow immediately ran over to the driver’s side door. The man got out. He was wearing a mesh trucker cap. Ironic since his car had as much in common with a truck as I did. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was ripe with black stubble.
    â€œI…I didn’t see you there, kid. You okay?”
    â€œGive me your address,” Sparrow said.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYour address. Give it to me.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œBecause we’re stealing your car and I need to make sure you get reimbursed. I’d say this car is worth about five hundred dollars. We’ll send you a thousand.”
    â€œThis was a setup? You ain’t taking Bessie nowhere, you crazy bandits!”
    â€œYour car has a name? So cliché. Fine. Two thousand. You complain any more, and I’ll dislocate every finger on your right hand and then insult your mother.”
    The driver looked at Sparrow as if she’d sprouted two heads.
    â€œShe’ll do it,” I said. “She pushed me in front of your car.”
    â€œYeah. Right.” He took out his wallet and handed Sparrow a business card. “You’ll really pay me for Bessie?”
    â€œDarn right. We may be spies, but we’re not thieves.”
    She took the key from Bessie’s owner, waited until he moved to the side of the road, then slipped behind the wheel.
    â€œCome on, Zeke.”
    â€œAre you crazy? You’re, what, eleven?”
    â€œTwelve. And you’re a nerd, and here we are. Come on.”
    Cautiously I opened the passenger door and got in. I buckled the seat belt, then looked around for Velcro, Krazy Glue, or anything else that could keep me attached to the seat.
    â€œHang on,” she said.
    â€œTo what?” I replied.
    Sparrow didn’t wait for an answer.
    Within seconds, we were speeding down the road at approximately the same speed as the average space shuttle launch. Around the time we crossed into Mach 4 I realized Sparrow was hugging every curve, rounding every turn fluidly.
    â€œHave you done this before?” I said.
    â€œNo. First time.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou know, you don’t always need to make fun of me.”
    â€œWhere’s the fun in that?”
    â€œYou’re a…jerkface.”
    â€œNice one.”
    We made the twenty-mile drive in about ten minutes. Or thirty seconds. Either way, it was about ten times faster than we would have made it if my dad (aka Slowpoke McBadDriver) had been behind the wheel.
    Soon I began to recognize my neighborhood. And just as soon as I did, I also began to recognize the thick plumes of black smoke gushing from under the car’s hood.
    â€œUh, Sparrow. I think you pushed Bessie too hard.”
    â€œShe can take it.”
    One minute later the smoke was followed by a bright, loud spark. And then Bessie caught on fire.
    Sparrow slammed on the brakes. Thankfully my seat belt kept me