“I understand.” I remind myself there are probably lots more people I can ask about Quinton.
Mr. Ware reaches behind him and pulls a briefcase out of thin air. “An InvisiTote,” he says with a wink. “Never leave home without it.” Inside the briefcase is a stack of books. He tosses one onto my lap. I try to read the long title on the cover, but the words are some other language. French maybe? But then the letters f licker and fade, reappearing as One Thousand and One Careers.
Mr. Ware reaches over and starts flipping through the pages. “You’ll train in the summers until you’re eighteen, at which point you’ll become a full adult member of the Bureau. So long as you pass the tryouts, you’ll receive a scholarship to any school in the country, no matter how exclusive, and no matter the cost. If you wish, you can change your specialty at the start of next summer’s session, but you’ll have to go through the tryout process again to keep the scholarship.” He finally settles on a page. “This is my job during nomination season. This publication lists every job classification the Bureau has to offer. What positions you are allowed to pursue depends on both your potential and your ability.”
I nod and look down at the page he’s selected.
DEPARTMENT OF SUPERNATURAL LICENSES AND RECORDS
Recruiter
Minimum badge allowed to perform this job: Wooden
Chief Responsibilities: Meets with nominated children to offer a spot in the summer training sessions in preparation for a career at the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs.
“What’s it mean by ‘minimum badge’?” I ask.
“That would be our next order of business—badge testing. Badges, you see, represent your current potential—intelligence, bravery, curiosity, all those kinds of things. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re a cardboard badge. There’s a chart on the very first page.”
Cardboard? I frown and flip back to the opening page.
Badges
Gold
Silver
Bronze
Iron
Copper
Stone
Glass
Wood
Plastic
Cardboard
Aluminum Foil
Notebook Paper
My shoulders sag. Cardboard is all the way at the bottom, just above aluminum foil and notebook paper. Of course the Black girl from the projects would have an awful badge. Why would I think the supernatural world is any different from my own?
“I suppose you know how to use one of these?” Mr. Ware hands me a long, very thin plastic tube. “Works like a thermometer.”
Except I notice there aren’t any numbers. Welp, here goes nothing. . . . I blow off a piece of lint and stick the thing into my mouth. It’s only under my tongue for a second before Mr. Ware asks for it back.
He holds it up for me to see. The red liquid rises all the way to the top, so fast it shatters in his hands. We lock eyes and he frowns. “Interesting . . .”
“Good interesting or bad?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he pulls a small metal box with the words Starter Kit scribbled across the top from his InvisiTote and pushes it into my stomach. “Be at this address at six p.m. tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But—”
He practically shoves me out of his office.
7
MAMA WORKS EVEN LONGER HOURS ON THE WEEKEND, so she won’t be home until really late. That means I’ve got no choice but to call her at work about going to camp this summer. The phone call goes something like this:
Mama: What’s happened? Are you hurt? Is everything okay?
Me: I’m fine, Mama—
Mama: Amari. Renee. Peters. You know not to call me at work unless it’s an emergency.
Me: It kind of is, though. I have to be somewhere tomorrow and I need your permission.
Mama: You do remember that you’re still very much grounded?
Me: I know but . . .
Mama: But what exactly?
Me: It’s Quinton’s old summer camp. He must’ve nominated me before everything happened.
Mama: (A long pause) Is that so. You got the number to the program?
Me: (Reads number listed in the “How to Deal with NonBureau Parents” pamphlet.)
Mama: I’ll give them a call and let you know what I decide.
While I wait for Mama to call back, I go through the rest of the Starter Kit. Inside is my own personal copy of One Thousand and One Careers, Protected Edition. It’s so protected that I can’t even read it. All the pages are blank.
There’s also a list of items I’ll need to bring.
Items Needed
—Yourself, everything else will be provided
Last is a tiny vial of blue liquid. The attached tag reads:
TRUE SIGHT
BY VOILÀ PHARMACEUTICALS
One drop in each eye. Take immediately.
On the rare occasion that you find yourself
with X-ray vision, please consult a doctor.
It takes me a few tries but eventually I get the drops in my eyes. Nothing happens, though. Not even the Xray vision. But I’m still so proud of myself I do a little dance in the mirror.
A knock sounds in the living room.
I dash to the front door, wondering if it’s something to do with the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs. But one look through the peephole and I can see it’s Mrs. Walters. Her permanent frown brings down my good mood even from outside. She’s one of those people you can’t ever imagine smiling. The type of person who looks annoyed even when they’re on TV accepting a check for winning the lottery. I open the door and say in my most polite voice, “Hello, Mrs. Walters. How can I help you?”
“Don’t you Hello, Mrs. Walters me! Your mama told me to keep an eye on you in case you tried to sneak out. And I caught you! Saw you at that bus stop, and I saw who you were talking to. Wait till your mama hears about . . .”
I’m right in the middle of coming up with a really sorry excuse when I blink, and Mrs. Walters’s facial features begin to swell and shrink. And that’s not even the biggest change. “Um, Mrs. Walters? How long has your face been green?”
Mrs. Walters stops midsentence, reaching up to touch the end of her suddenly long, pointed nose. Her beady eyes bulge in surprise. “You can see me? Really see me?”
I nod. “You look like the Wicked Witch of the West from that really old movie . . .”
Mrs. Walters shrieks and steps back away from my door. “That’s what I get for buying that discount concealer!” She throws down some powder and disappears into a cloud of smoke.
No way. I step out into the hallway and wave my hand through the fading haze. Mrs. Walters is really gone. I guess Mr. Ware knew what he was talking about—there really are supernatural beings in the world. In my neighborhood!
Not that I didn’t believe him—but seeing it is way different from just hearing about it. And I guess I know why those eye drops are called True Sight. I’ve seen Mrs. Walters a hundred times and never knew she was a witch.
What have I gotten myself into?
It’s Sunday afternoon and Mama is late. When she finally called me back last night we agreed that she’d leave work today at 3:00 p.m. in order to make sure we had plenty of time to get across town.
Instead, it’s after four when she comes stumbling through the front door with shopping bags in both hands. She drops the bags when she sees me and wraps me up in a great big hug. “This is so wonderful,” she says. “Just what you need. When Quinton came back that first summer he was different. More mature.”