Free Spy in the Alley by Melanie Jackson

their signs about. Pantelli and I were too short to see what was going on.
    â€œGASP for relief!”
    â€œWhy don’t you put health before profits?”
    Slogans like this whipped rapid-fire from the protesters — but at whom? After yelling at Jack in vain, I finally stepped on his foot.
    â€œWhat? Oh.” He bent, listened to my question and explained in my ear, “Some tobacco executives just pulled up in a limo. They’re using the totem poles as the backdrop for publicity shots for one of their events.”
    The protesters began to move forward. Pantelli and I still couldn’t see anything, but we edged forward along with them. Pantelli bellowed in my other ear, “I hope we’re not gonna plunge over the cliff!” Beyond the totem poles, there was quite a drop to the ocean. Our eyes widened at each other.
    Then we both got the giggles. But, at a stern look from Lorraine, we started shouting dutifully with the others.
    â€œStop deceitful advertising!”
    â€œTobacco kills!”
    â€œSmoking schmoking!”
    That last one was mine. A few protesters glanced down, puzzled.
    Okay, so it wasn’t brilliant. The spirit was there, though.
    The kids ahead of us started fanning apart. I saw that they’d reached a yellow cordon rope. Past it, a few moving bodies were just visible; Pantelli and I jostled to see these executives.
    â€œExecutives schmexecutives!” I said scornfully. I plucked at the T-shirt hem of a serious-looking girl with chestnut hair permed into a tight globe.
    â€œI know all about executives,” I told her. “I know how the seven big tobacco executives showed up in Washington and claimed to the US Congress that cigarettes are not addictive.”
    The serious girl was impressed. “Wow,” she said, adjusting her weighty glasses that had been sliding down her nose. “You’ve been doing some intensive research.”
    â€œActually, we rented The Insider the other night,” I responded, feeling important.
    I felt the rope bump against my stomach, and, invigorated with the thought that I was just as well-informed as any GASPer, turned frontward, waved my sign and shouted, “Nerds! Dweebs!”
    Trying to think of a fresh insult, I took a breath. It was then that I looked, really looked, at the people I was defaming, and saw staring back at me in white-faced horror — Madge .
    â€œWhen you said park , I thought you meant the park down the street,” Mother said in surprise.
    Pantelli, Jack and I were in the living room. Mother had already received a full, detail-by-ghastly-detail account of the confrontation between the Galloway sisters, by telephone from an, um, let’s just say, less than delighted Madge.
    â€œI didn’t know you meant Stanley Park,” Mother went on.
    Jack covered his face with his hands. “You Vancouverites,” he moaned. In spite of feeling awful, Pantelli and I bit back smiles.
    â€œOh dear,” Mother said. “If I’d known you were heading to Stanley Park, I would’ve warned you about Madge’s shoot there. She was scheduled to model Bonna Terra’s line of skating outfits in front of the totem poles. And, yes, since Fields Tobacco is sponsoring the Bonna Terra Skate-For-Health-A-Thon in December, its executives were coming along to be in some photos, too.”
    From behind his hands, Jack mumbled miserably, “I didn’t know Bonna Terra was involved. I just heard the Fields people were going to be there promoting one of their phony health-a-thons. Not that a health-a-thon is phony, if you understand what I mean, but promoting tobacco products along with it sure is.”
    â€œHave some tea,” suggested Mother.
    She poured us all rosy-colored tea that sent up delicious wafts of strawberry. Tea, my mother believed, solved everything.
    Jack removed his hands from his face to reveal sad gray eyes. “Madge was so caustic with me,” he