“Lisa—I mean, Ms. Holiday—says it’s sort of a nervous reaction some girls do when they are out on the floor. They start ‘wooing.’”

“That’s silly. I can promise you that I will not ‘woo’!”

“See that you don’t. She says it’s very annoying.”

The door opened and a pretty red-haired girl poked her head out into the hall. Her face was one big smile and her eyes were bright with excitement. She reminded Matilda of Flinch the time he ate three Cookiepuss ice cream cakes in one sitting. They couldn’t get him off the ceiling for an hour. “Matilda Choi? Are you ready to BRING IT?”

Matilda nodded and stood up. She turned to Agent Brand. “Well, I guess I have to go ‘bring it’ now.”

“How about one more attempt at a smile?” the spy said.

Matilda forced one on to her face. “How is this?”

“You look like you’ve just been stung by a wasp,” Mr. Brand said. “It looked better when you were daydreaming about braining someone. Think steel chairs!”

Matilda walked through the door into the darkly lit gymnasium. In the center of the room was a spotlight and beyond that a stage where seven shadowy figures sat at a table. When she stepped into the spotlight, she was unable to see her judges at all. It was probably just as well. If she had to look at seven more grinning idiots, she might never get through her audition. The only drawback was that she couldn’t start searching for Gerdie Baker. If she caught Mathlete right away, she could avoid the whole mission entirely. It had only been a couple days, but she was growing weary of exfoliating her pores.

“Name!” a girl shouted.

“Matilda Choi.”

“Matilda is not a good name for a cheerleader. We’ll call you Maddie.”

The rest of the girls murmured in agreement, then turned their attention back to Matilda.

“OK, Maddie, cheer for us. And try not to waste our time,” a voice demanded.

Matilda nodded and took a quick shot of her medicinal inhaler.

“Today!” another judge snapped.

Ironically, it was her judges who provided Matilda with a smile, courtesy of a daydream in which she kicked them all in the face. “Ready? OK!” she shouted, and then she clapped her hands, imagining slamming a judge’s head. “We’ve got spirit. Yes we do! We’ve got spirit. How about you?”

She did three backflips and a back handspring before running forward into a one-handed cartwheel. She then flipped end over end three times before landing perfectly on her feet. Each time she jumped she used her new inhalers for an extra couple of feet of lift. On her next run, two more super front-end handsprings became a complete one-hundred-and-eighty-degree flip, a jump she could never have done on her own. She ended her routine in a perfect split.

She sat with her hands on her hips, grinning as best she could and staring up at her seven shadowed judges. Were they impressed? They just sat there without a word. They could probably tell she was a fake—the cheers, makeup, and clothes weren’t fooling anyone! She had failed the mission.

Then her mouth opened and she did something she thought she would never do.

“Wooooooooooooooo!”

“You’re in, Choi,” one of the judges said. “Welcome to Team Strikeforce.”

“What? Really?” Matilda couldn’t believe how happy she felt. In fact, it made her angry that she could get so much pleasure from being accepted by these strangers. If she hadn’t been on a mission, she would have been more than thrilled to tell them where they could shove their acceptance. But she nodded, thanked the judges, and left the gymnasium without punching a single person.

Mr. Brand was waiting outside the door where she had left him. He looked fidgety, cracking his knuckles and tapping his foot. “What happened? I heard wooing!”

OK, AT THE ADVICE OF LAW ENFORCEMENT, I WILL BE IN ANOTHER ROOM WHILE YOU TAKE THE REST OF THIS TEST. YOU’VE GOT AN INK PEN IN YOUR HAND, WHICH COULD EASILY BE USED AS A WEAPON, SO …

ON A SCALE FROM 1 TO 10, RATE YOUR FEELINGS ABOUT THE FOLLOWING LIST OF CRIMES—1 BEING “A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY” AND 10 BEING “A TINY CRIME.” WRITE DOWN YOUR ANSWERS ON A PIECE OF PAPER.

1. DRIVING A CAR INTO AN ORPHANAGE

___

2. TAKING THE WORLD HOSTAGE

___

3. KIDNAPPING SOMEONE’S PET

___

4. TOPPLING A GOVERNMENT

___

5. CREATING HUMAN/ANIMAL HYBRIDS BENT ON WORLD DOMINATION

___

6. BETRAYING THE HUMAN RACE TO ALIEN OVERLORDS

___

7. TRYING TO OPEN A DIMENSIONAL DOOR TO A DEMON DIMENSION

___

8. BUILDING A GIANT ROBOT TO CRUSH THE CITY

___

9. BLOWING UP THE MOON

___

10. MAKING YOUR MOTHER CRY

___

11. LAUGHING WHILE YOUR MOTHER CRIES

___

OK, LET’S TALLY THOSE NUMBERS.

IT’S TROUBLING HOW HIGH THIS NUMBER IS. ALL OF THESE CRIMES ARE REALLY, REALLY BAD.

YOU ARE A SICK LITTLE MONKEY.

Heathcliff—or rather, Choppers, I mean, Simon … no, Screwball, or whatever his name was—hated the Arlington Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He hated the doctors and the nurses. He hated the security guards. He hated the dull gray paint on every wall and the bland meals served with plastic utensils. He hated the dingy fluorescent lights and the patch of dying grass they called the yard. He swore to himself that when he ruled the world the first thing he would do was destroy the hospital—with a big wrecking ball, or maybe explosives—no, a rocket! In fact, imagining the building in flames helped him pass the endless hours with a smile on his face.

But there was one thing he thoroughly enjoyed about being locked up in the loony bin: arts and crafts class. Twice a week the patients were herded into the art room and encouraged to explore their feelings using clay, paint, papier-mâché, and ribbons. On this day, Screwball was working with glue, dried corn, peas, and other vegetables. It was then that he discovered a new passion. If the whole “taking over the world” thing didn’t pan out, he might have a lucrative career as a street artist.

“OK, everyone,” Dr. Sontag said. “I’m happy to see so many of you working on your projects with so much focus. It’s time to share what you have created. Why don’t we start with Bob?”

Heathcliff sneered. Bob was a serial kidnapper. He also had no eye for color or line. When the stumbling fool raised his canvas, it took all of Screwball’s self-control not to rip it into shreds and laugh in the stupid man’s face. A rowboat on a little river? That’s what Bob called art?

“A lovely day on the water,” Dr. Sontag said. “Why don’t you tell us how this makes you feel?”

“My dad used to take me to this river when I was little—before I started to hear the voices,” Bob blubbered.

Screwball rolled his eyes.

“It looks like it meant a lot to you, Bob. Let’s move on to Chucky,” the doctor said. “Let’s see your masterpiece.”

Chucky Swiller was a slack-jawed idiot with a face like an orangutan. He also had the artistic talent of one. Paint was everywhere—and mostly on his dopey freckled face.

“I made a house,” Chucky said.

“And it’s on fire,” Dr. Sontag said with a little worried frown on her face. Chucky was in the hospital because he liked to play with matches and gasoline.

“Oh, is that what you made?” Screwball said. “’Cause what it looks like is you drank your paints then barfed them all over the canvas!”

Dr. Sontag frowned. “Heathcliff! This is not a place of judgment. However Chucky chooses to create his art is valid. Apologize to him!”