TRACES SPRING 2016 - Page 42

Amatuer by Lexi Laughner

I had been watching him for three days, two hours, and twenty-nine minutes exactly. He hadn’t done much except buy a new Rolex, watch classic movies, and yelp at his maid, Janet. His name was Damian Richard Romano, bad boy extraordinaire with a life as extravagant as his custom F-Type Convertible Jaguar. He lived at 2300 Amore Avenue Taylor, Michigan 48180. He enjoyed lounging around the house in nothing but a stained tee shirt and Gumby pajama pants. His father was Dom Dean Romano, part of the Italian mafia. Damian had a dark past and it was my job to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.

The spy life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, lemme tell ya. I sit here and watch and watch and watch until I get to go home for a few hours, shove my face, get some shut eye, and come watch this lazy bum all over again. Sure I get days off, but when I do, they are never the days you want. I want to introduce myself, Fran Micelli, amatuer spy. I was born and raised here in Michigan, but enough about me, let’s get down to business.

On the Friday after I began spying on him, something finally happened. He got mail, not just some dinky letters from grandma, but multiple packages in odd shapes and sizes. To get a better view, I used my hot pink binoculars the agency had given me. The packages said on the side in bold letters: Verona, Italy. I couldn’t make out the name on the return address, so I had to find a way to get a better angle. He set the brown boxes on the island’s granite countertops. Walking onto the deck to get a closer view, I tripped over a pot of marigolds. I jumped over the bushes so he wouldn’t catch me, but he craned his neck slightly and continued staring at the screen for hours.

Later in the day, he finally decided to get out of the house. He got into his jet black Jaguar and drove off down the street. I quickly ran to grab my black Acura NSX, which wasn’t even released yet. I caught up with him at a classy Chinese Restaurant named Happy Dragon. He walked inside to kiss a blonde woman on the cheek. She has ice blue eyes, Jimmy Choo heels, and a bag by a designer I hadn’t ever heard of. She looked almost too familiar for my liking. They entered the restaurant to be greeted by a group of friends, all exceedingly happy, grins covering their faces. I went in to go see all the action, ordering some General Tso’s chicken and fried rice to appear normal.

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After waiting for around ten minutes, I heard a distinct voice, one that I wasn’t expecting nor wanting to hear. It was Halle Lane, my grandmother’s best friend. As she came over, my heart began to pound much louder than usual.

She cried, “Frannie, is that you, sweetie? It’s so nice to see you, it’s been far too long! I heard you got assigned to your first---”

At that moment, I spilled my lemonade on her.