Ms. Holiday rushed to Brand’s side. She looked worried.

“Agent Brand, the team has something to say,” she said.

Brand cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“We’ve taken a vote,” Ruby said, and she jumped to her feet.

“A vote?” the spy asked.

“Yes. We have decided that this punk is not right for our team. He has no training. He is a show-off and I doubt he’ll take orders. We have decided to pass.”

Agent Brand’s face tightened like he had just bitten into a very sour pickle.

“Pufferfish,” the spy said. “I’m sure that once the six of you get to know one another—”

“We know everything we need to know about him,” Heathcliff said.

“Hggggaalfhal amldyad aaaal,” Flinch sputtered.

“What did he say?” the spy asked.

The hyper boy turned the knob on this harness and spoke again. “He’s a jerk.”

Suddenly, all the children were shouting angry words at Brand.

“Children!” Ms. Holiday cried over the chaos. “Let’s be professional. Jackson has a lot to offer the team.”

Matilda laughed. “He’ll draw attention to himself and us. He can’t help it. All he cares about is being popular.”

Brand’s face was hot and red. He looked as if he had a million things to say, but he gritted his teeth and said, “Train him.” Then he turned and walked out of the room.

The team was quiet for a moment. It was clear to Jackson they were unused to hearing someone tell them what to do. It was also clear they were very accustomed to getting their way.

Ms. Holiday forced a smile onto her face. “Welcome to the team, Braceface.”

“Uh, can we talk about my code name?” Jackson said.

Ms. Holiday laughed, trying to break the mood. “I suppose we should get your training started. Matilda, why don’t we start with you? Take Jackson down to the Playground and give him some hand-to-hand combat instruction.”

“I refuse,” Matilda wheezed.

She reminded Jackson of a small, squeaky toy that Butch the dog liked to chew. Jackson laughed. “Good, because Ms. Holiday, you should really have someone strong and fast teach me, not this little girl.”

“On second thought …” Matilda smiled slyly then turned to the librarian. “What’s the rule on broken bones?”

Ms. Holiday frowned. “The rule is there can’t be any broken bones,” she scolded.

Matilda frowned. “You’re no fun.”

Matilda led Jackson back through the Playground and into one of the many rooms that lined the main room. She pulled the door closed, and a series of heavy locks turned and sealed them inside. Suddenly, the walls flipped over, revealing a variety of weapons.

“We call this the supply closet. We come here to learn to fight and defend ourselves. I spend at least four hours a day here honing my combat skills.”

Matilda took a hit of her inhaler.

“Honing your combat skills?” Jackson chuckled. “You look like you need help getting out of bed.”

“That’s exactly what makes me a great secret agent. No one suspects I can kick butt. I’ll show you. Pick a weapon and attack me with it.”

“Forget that. I’m not going to hit a girl.”

Matilda’s inhalers blasted hot flames and she rose several feet off the ground. “Good, then this will be a lot easier for me.” The littlest of the spies shot forward and clotheslined Jackson across the chest. He crashed onto his back and cried out in agony.

Once his head cleared, he turned to Matilda. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.”

Matilda soared across the room, reached down with one arm, and bodyslammed him back to the floor. Jackson’s lungs burned. He slowly got to his feet. This time his fists were clenched.

“Are you nuts?”

“Are you?” Matilda asked as she spun around like a ballerina in the air and landed on his shoulders. She slammed the flats of her hands against his ears, sending a shock of pain into his brain. “I’m beating you senseless and you’re just taking it.”

Jackson staggered about and waited for the ringing in his skull to subside. While he was recovering, Matilda floated back down to the floor.

“Grab a weapon and fight back.”

“I’m not going to hit a girl!” Jackson repeated.

Matilda twisted his arm around his back and held it there. The agony in his shoulder felt like a bonfire and, worse, he was helpless.

“So, if you come face-to-face with a major-league bad guy who happens to be a girl, you’re going to let her kill you?”

She wrapped her arm around his neck, pushed forward, and slammed him face-first into the hard floor. “I call that a bulldog,” she said proudly as she rose back into the air. She flew around him, circling like a hungry hawk.

“That’s your problem, Braceface. You judge others by what they look like. You’ve spent your life putting people into little categories—nerd, geek, athlete, cheerleader, weakling—and you can’t imagine they might be more than what you think. People are always more than what they appear. You have a lazy mind, kid, and it’s going to get you killed one of these days.”

She turned one of her inhalers on him and a blast of energy hit him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him.

“Fine, you want to fight? Let’s do this!” Jackson cried when he could breathe again. Without looking, Jackson reached behind him and snatched a weapon off the wall. When he saw what it was, he frowned—a bamboo back scratcher. He turned for a new weapon, but the walls flipped over and the weapons were gone.

“Hey!”

“One weapon at a time, chump,” Matilda said, landing in front of him.

“That’s not fair! Let me pick again!”

Matilda shook her head. “Now you’re putting the weapons in categories. A good secret agent can use anything as a weapon. A back scratcher can be just as deadly as a chain saw. It shouldn’t matter what you choose. I once took out a dozen terrorists with a jelly donut and a cup of cocoa.”

She spun around like a top, then kicked him in the arm. In anger, he lashed out with the back scratcher, but Matilda pressed the plungers on her inhalers and soared out of his reach, easily dodging the blow. Startled, Jackson left his defenses wide open, and Matilda kicked him in the ribs. Enraged, Jackson slashed at the flying girl. Unfortunately, he only managed to hit himself in the ear.

Matilda landed again. She studied Jackson with pity. “Fine. I’ll take the back scratcher. You take another weapon,” she said, then clapped her hands twice. The walls flipped over and the weapons reappeared.

Jackson raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Really?”

Matilda held out her hand. Jackson passed her the back scratcher and eagerly scanned the walls for something, anything, that would get Matilda to stop kicking his butt. There were pitchforks, nunchakus, sabers, throwing stars, bazookas, spears, and crossbows. Finally he spotted what he needed—a Louisville Slugger! He yanked it off the wall, knowing he’d never hit Matilda with it, but he thought perhaps she’d be intimidated enough to back off.

He turned to Matilda. She was spinning the back scratcher in her hands like a baton. “I’ll even let you go first.”

“Your funeral,” Jackson said as he stomped toward her. He tried to swing the bat but never got the chance. Matilda brought the scratcher down on his nose so hard tears welled in his eyes and blinded him. Helpless to her assault, Jackson cowered as Matilda slapped him in the lips, on top of his head, and then on his Adam’s apple. Next she went to work on his chest, his elbows, his belly, his rump, and finally his knees. As he gasped for breath, he saw the small girl fly into the air, spin around in a circle like a cyclone, and then plant her foot on his jaw. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Matilda standing over him with a proud smile. “I love this job,” she said.