The Spy Next Door

America

America POV

I am back. Why am I back? Why did the agency buy this house? Why did he have to live next-door? Why did they have to send me back? Back to that house, to that room, to that window. The fake families, the fake names, and that fake boy. I know what he is, who he is, and who he will be. I told him my name. I shouldn't have told him my name. I was young and stupid and naive when I told him my name. I didn't know who he was then. I know now, and he knows my name, and I'm sure he knows what I am too. Why had I told him my name? I know what he could do with that small bit of information, even more now, now that I know who he truly is. He could blow my whole cover, but then again, he is my mission, so I guess I already blew my cover three years ago when I was fourteen and told him my name. There are so many girls that the agency could pick, why did they pick me for this mission? I left that house, that room, that window behind when I left. 

Every summer I would leave, I would go to a different state or country and train with other girls like me, and when I came back, I was with a different fake family, I had a different name, I had a different hair color, eye color, and clothes, yet he always knew it was me. He would always climb through that window, take me to those woods, and show me something exciting. I didn't know why he knew where that was, I know now, and I shouldn't have gone. 

"We should be there in fifteen minutes, Binti," My driver told me, with his wonderfully thick Italian accent, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"Ok, my motorcycle is five minutes from the house, will you drop me off at it? My stuff is already at the house, I assume." I asked absentmindedly

"I was told to bring you all the way there, with no exceptions." He looked back, giving me that all to familiar look, as if he was telling I should already know why he was told that, "and of course your stuff is at the house, don't insult me, I always treat you right."

"Lorenzo, can't you always drive behind me, or better yet show up twenty minutes later, it's not like I'm going to run off, when have I ever done that?" I asked cautiously, watching the houses I used to pass every summer flash by.

"Do I need to answer that? You ran off every single time you came to this house, even before you even met your new family, that you use to get each year" he answered simply, "I am driving you all the way there, no exceptions, we can pick up your motorcycle later"

"Wait, we? Lorenzo, are you staying?" I had never been so excited or surprised in my life. Lorenzo has always been like my father, watching out for me, and making sure I never did anything too stupid, but he was never allowed to stay the whole year because he is 'just the guard' as they put it. He was always more than that to me.

"Tesoro, of course, I'm staying, you don't have a family this time, you're too old for that, so now I get to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"When did you plan on telling me that?"

"Get ready we will be there in two minutes" he stated, ignoring my question completely.

"Finally, we have been in this car for seventeen hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty-two seconds, and let me tell you, that is much too long, Enzo"

As we pulled onto Auburn Lane, the street I had lived most of my childhood on, every moment I had spent here came back to me, that window, that boy, that old life. We passed each house, it felt almost as if we were driving in slow motion, then we finally passed his house, with its blue paint, and white shudders, its tree lines hiding the backyard from its neighbors. It's gray mailbox. "They got a new mailbox, the last one was white" I commented.

"Binti, remember your job here, remember it, don't get to attached." He reminded me again. I simply nodded in return.

When we pulled up, it took everything I had to not jump out of that car and run. I looked up at that all to familiar house. With its brick walls and blue shutters. Its ugly gray door with paint peeling off and huge treeless backyard, that lead to the woods I spent my whole childhood in. Then at last my eyes drifted to that window. It was on the second floor, the last room on the left, and window lead to a little lip of roof and then a tree that I had climbed down a hundred times. The room the window was in had been my room on and off since I was seven, till I turned fourteen. It was a fine room and would be my room again now. It was big with a nice paint color. The closet was huge, and with the right passcode and retinal scan it opened to an elevator that took you to the guns, knives, and other necessary needs, but all of that was under the house, and as far as the bank and government knew, that part of the house doesn't even exist.

I finally got out of the car, and noticed Him watching, he was wearing gray sweatpants that were covered in what could either be red paint or blood, he had a tight white tank top that showed off his eight pack, that boy had abs. I flipped my hair, putting on my new "America" act, and walked over.

I held out my hand that all too familiar boy "Hello, Sammy, I'm America."