A/N: I came up with this story idea a couple of days ago. I mentioned it on the FB site in response to a David Carner post. The more I thought about it, the more it intrigued me.

Chuck and Sarah vs. The Kat

Call me Kat.

My name's Katie. But call me Kat. Everyone does. Partly 'cause I don't like that ee-sound at the end of Katie. I don't like that sound. I'm too big and way too smart for that sound. So, Kat, if you please. Just Kat. No ee.

Everyone says I'm advanced for my age. Precocious. And, you have to admit, that's a pretty precocious word.

I'm thirteen. At least, that's what my birth certificate and the calendar together say. Thirteen. Between you and me, that's one seriously sucky age. Old enough to understand the facts, like, you know, the facts of life — Mom told me, and so did my friend Dru at school, I'm in the know on babies and sex and stuff — and lots of other facts, but young enough for everyone to still treat you like a kid. Like you're ignorant.

But I'm not a kid. Not really. Not anymore.

You see, my mom died. No, that's not right. She got killed and no one can explain it to me. No one seems to know why. She worked at a bank and one day, out of the clear blue, someone shot her and two men who worked in her office. They came for me at school, the police did, and this cat-pee-stinking lady from Social Services — and they explained it all to me over and over but I knew they were lying. Mom wasn't dead. I knew they were lying.

Until I knew they weren't. Until I cried.

You see, between us, just between us, 'cause this is my worst secret, I slammed the door in my mom's face that morning. I told her I hoped she died. I didn't. I did say that, but it's what thirteen-year-old girls tell their moms 'cause they know it won't happen. I didn't hope she'd die. Moms don't get shot on the twelfth floor of big downtown banks.

But mine did. I slammed that door and in my mind, that door slam and the rifle blast sound the same, are the same, identical. I killed her. Slammed the door. She's dead. I got my wish except I didn't wish it. Not even a little. Sometimes I say stupid, hurtful stuff. I wanted to hurt her feelings, get her to stop smothering me. I wish I had that day to live over again like Bill Murray did in that movie. I'd live it over and over until I got it right. Just right. I mess up a lot, so I'd probably wake up to the same lousy radio show every morning for a lot of mornings. But that'd be okay. My mom'd be there. I could fix it all, not slam that door, not say those awful words. Tell her I love her. Hug her. But there's never a truck-driving groundhog around when you need one.

— Phil? Wasn't that his name?

I got shuffled around for a while, Social Services, the cat-pee lady. Different places. I stayed with a couple of families who were nice to me but I couldn't stop crying.

Finally, they got me dressed up and took me to a lawyer's office, or a judge's, I can never figure that stuff out, — the office of some pudgy old whiskered guy who talked to me while he looked at the other people in the room. Or who talked about me as if I wasn't there at all. Old guys do that to thirteen-year-old girls— that, or they give them creepy looks, 'cause, you know, the facts of life — and that's just gross. Way gross.

But this guy didn't give me any creepy looks, he just droned on like a recording of a law book or a boring episode of Perry Mason on repeat. — I like old movies and TV shows, even though Dru says it's part of the reason I seem old-fashioned. I don't know: I like the world better in black and white; it just looks more real. Besides, my mom got shot in the colorized world. So much for the glories of color! — Anyway, the old guy didn't give me creepy looks. And there was this other guy there, older than my mom, but not as old as the old guy. After the old guy talked, this guy got up and walked to me and sat down. He told me his name was Roan Montgomery. He was handsome, oldish but handsome, and he was dressed nice and smelled good. We chatted for a moment.

"So", I said, "is your name really Roan? 'Cause I thought roan was like the color of a horse, right?" You see, I also really like horses, even though I've only ridden one once. But I was supposed to go to a riding camp this summer before Mom...you know.

He gave me a funny smile, like he was proud of me, and laughed. "Yes, it's the color of an animal's coat, probably most commonly used for a horse." He sounded smart but he didn't talk down to me and I like that. For some reason, the longer we chatted, the more I thought of James Bond.

I don't like those movies, but a boy I liked last year, Duane, really liked them. He even read the books by that Fleming guy. I got one from the library hoping I could make Duane like me by talking Bond to him, but the book sucked. I think that Fleming guy must've been one of those old guys who give thirteen-year-old girls creepy looks. Octopussy! You tell me that's not creepy! The facts of life, right? Yeah, in the story it really is an octopus, but, God! I decided Duane wasn't worth it. I went back to reading Dickens. Duane's the one who told Dru I'm old-fashioned. You see, I also really like Charles Dickens.

I guess I like lots of old stuff. Maybe I am sorta old-fashioned for a teenager. My Mom once told me I had an old soul.

So, this Roan guy, he reminds me of James Bond but without so much of the creepy, at least he's not creepy to me, and after we chat, he tells me he's my dad. I must've looked like a dummy because he told me a second time. I still didn't know what to say. But I guess it didn't matter because the non-thirteen-year-olds in the room had decided the thirteen-year-old would go home with the guy named for a horse's coat. My dad. At least he turned out not to be a horse's ass. — Do you see what I did there?

I've been with him for a couple of months. It's been okay. I guess I kinda like him. But now we are on a plane to Burbank. I'm not sure I understand what's going on. My dad keeps trying to hide it, but it turns out I was right. He is sorta like James Bond. My dad's a spy. He doesn't know that I know. His girlfriend — she's kinda old for that word, but I think it's the right one — is some kind of spy boss. Her name is Diane and I like her but I also sorta feel sorry for her. She's completely in love with my Dad but she won't admit it. Grown-ups are so weird about love. Do we get dumber as we get older? Or maybe it's just spy grown-ups, 'cause my Dad loves her too but he won't let on. They're kinda pathetic. Me and Dru could straighten them out in just about five minutes if they'd listen. 'Love' is a four-letter word but it isn't a dirty word: I know the dirty words, Dru taught me, and the Internet, and it's not one. Roan and Diane both act like it is. Why do grown-ups choose to be miserable?

So, we're on a plane to Burbank. Just me and Roan. And the pilots, of course, in the cockpit. — And he thinks I don't know he's a spy! I'm pretty sure he works for the CIA, at this place they call The Farm. What a name! He's a teacher there or something like that, but I can't quite figure out what he teaches. Roan's no farmer.

He used to drink a lot before I came to live with him — that's what I think — and he keeps a whole bunch of bottles locked in a cabinet. I'm glad he stopped.

Living with him's been okay, like I said. I like him. He's nice to me. He likes me.

You probably wonder if I wonder about him and my Mom. Sure, I do. And he told me that they were together for a while years ago, but that they broke up and he did not know about me. He's not lying but I am sure he's not telling me everything. I can tell from the way he talks about Mom that he cared about her. Diane, the spy-boss girlfriend, is very nice to me, but I'm pretty sure she was jealous of my Mom. I'm still trying to figure all that out.

I'm not a kid, even if I look like one. I watch old TV and movies. I read Charles Dickens. I know the facts of life. I'm a pretty sophisticated thirteen-year-old.

You see, that word, 'sophisticated', proves I'm sophisticated.

Roan says he has to go someplace but he won't tell me where. I'm sure it's some spy mission. Everyone seems really serious and worried. Diane especially. He's heading out of the country and he's going to leave me with a friend of his, some woman named Sarah Walker. I'm supposed to stay with her in Burbank. I can tell Roan's not happy about leaving me but he keeps telling me that I will like Sarah. She has a boyfriend, Chuck, who he says likes lots of the same things I do. I'm guessing they are both spies too. Lately, my life is full of spies. It's kinda cool — and kinda not.

Roan doesn't know I know he's a spy. I haven't let on. I won't let on to this Sarah or Chuck.

I'm only supposed to stay for a few days.

Luckily, it's summer vacation, so I don't have to worry about school and I've never been to California. I'm kinda excited about seeing it. I keep hearing that silly Beverly Hillbillies song in my head: "Swimming pools, movie stars…" Maybe I will see somebody famous.

After getting up and telling me he'll be right back, Roan gets up and moves to another part of the plane. It's some kinda room with a big screen. I saw it when we boarded. He goes in and shuts the door. No one is with me, so I put down my copy of Bleak House and unbuckle my seat belt. Standing near the door, I can hear Diane's voice. It's just barely louder than the jet engines.

"So, Roan, do you still insist that Sarah and Chuck should watch Kat?" Diane must be on the screen. She's not on the plane.

I hear Roan answer. "Yes, you said there's been a lull in Team Bartowski's missions with nothing new on the horizon. It's just a few days. Besides, although Kat will stay with Sarah, she'll be spending most of her time with Chuck, I'm sure. And I think they'll hit it off, Kat and Chuck."

I hear Diane sigh. "Well, they are practically the same age…But Walker...she's not exactly the motherly type, Roan. She's willing but she's reluctant."

Roan pauses for a second before he answers. "Diane, trust me. I don't have anyone else to leave her with. This will work out just fine…"

I wonder what it's all about. I know Roan — Dad — well enough now to know that something's going on. He has this kinda jokey tone he does when he's plotting, but Diane never seems to hear it. Grown-ups! Deaf, dumb, and blind. But especially dumb. Roan and Diane end their conversation and they both want to say something more than goodbye but they don't.

Spies are dumb.

I wonder about Sarah Walker and Chuck Bartowski and Team Bartowski. I grin to myself. For some reason, this seems like it might be fun. Roan is my dad, and my voice in my head right now has that same jokey tone as his voice does. Summer vacation with spies. I haven't had much fun in the last year...but maybe I'm about to have some. That'd be nice.

I miss my Mom.

Thoughts?