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Loften asked me.
    â€œYeah, well, no,” I stammered nervously, trying my best to sound like a normal kid who was face-to-face with an NSB agent. “I mean, I was in Mr. Gomez’s office this morning when . . . you know, when you arrested him, or whatever.”
    â€œThat’s right,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. “We meet again.”
    I shrugged just as Mr. Kittson rounded the corner. He was about to start yelling at me when the scene before him diverted his attention. He looked at the school cafeteria worker in handcuffs and the presence of several NSB agents and then locked eyes with me.
    â€œWhat . . . ?” is all he managed to say aloud, even though it looked like he wanted to say so much more.
    â€œAnd you are?” Agent Loften asked him.
    â€œI’m Mr. Kittson. A teacher.” He pointed at me. “His teacher. He just ran from my classroom.”
    â€œDid he?” Agent Loften said, squinting at me. “Well, we’ll escort him back to your room after we’re finished asking him a few questions. If you don’t mind?”
    Mr. Kittson blinked. It was pretty obvious that Agent Loften wasn’t really asking his permission.
    â€œUmm . . . sure,” Mr. Kittson finally managed. “Room two fourteen.”
    â€œThank you,” Agent Loften said, placing his hand on my shoulder and steering me down the hall away from the action. He stopped halfway down, once we were out of earshot of the other agents and Chum Bucket.
    â€œWhat did he say to you?” Agent Loften asked, nodding back down the hallway.
    â€œMr. Kittson?” I said. “Nothing . . . you were right there.”
    â€œNo, the cafeteria employee.”
    â€œI don’t know . . . something about lettuce, I think,” I said. “He’s always seemed a little crazy. Loves lettuce. Is he, like, a terrorist or something?”
    Agent Loften smiled. It didn’t seem to properly fit his face. Like sunglasses that were too small or a black toupee on a guy with a red beard.
    The smile faded a second later.
    â€œHe didn’t give you anything?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo you would allow us to search your person to verify that?” he asked.
    I nodded again. I was too busy working on an answer to a question I knew was coming eventually. Coming up with that answer was hard work—I hadn’t had much to eat or drink that day.
    â€œHow can you explain your sudden departure from class?” Agent Loften asked, as he gestured for me to empty my pockets.
    I pointed down at my pants, having finally gotten my answer ready.
    He looked down and then took a quick step back.
    â€œI didn’t make it,” I said, probably looking as uncomfortable as I felt in my freshly peed pants.
    â€œGo get yourself cleaned up,” Agent Loften said, trying to hide his disgust. “And then get back to class, okay? Here, take my card, call me anytime day or night if you remember anything more, okay?”
    I nodded and then headed toward the locker room.This was now the second time I’d peed my pants on purpose to get out of a jam as a secret agent. Who knew that peeing your pants and fainting goats were such great secret weapons for a spy?

CHAPTER 8
THE SECRET SAUCE
    O NCE I WAS SAFELY INSIDE THE BOYS’ LOCKER ROOM AND HAD changed into the spare pair of jeans I always kept in my gym locker, I sat on the bench and tried to wrap my head around what I’d just witnessed.
    For one thing, the mission had been an utter failure. The NSB now had the hard drive. Whatever was on it was probably already on its way to Washington, DC.
    Secondly, Agent Chum Bucket was now officially compromised. Or maybe he’d keep his cover and instead get pegged as a terrorist and sent to some secret prisonon a deserted island out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. After all, rule number one as a secret agent was never, ever