by Katherine Grace Bond

“You know that guy, Charlie Johnson?” Brigitta took a french fry off Amy’s plate.

“Yeah. He’s new. What about him?”

“Doesn’t he look exactly like Trent Yves?”

Jamaica and Kimberly swiveled in their seats to stare at Charlie across the lunchroom.

Celeb magazine had voted Trent Yves the Shooting Star of 2004, even though he was only 11. He’d had six major films since he was 9. Brigitta had loved his performance in Escape from Swallow Hill. She had two posters of him on her wall, one from Escape and the other from his comedy sci-fi flick, Laser Boy.

“Trent Yves has blond hair,” Jamaica said.

“What if he dyed it?” Brigitta replied.

Amy rolled her eyes. “Trent Yves talks with an English accent.”

“He can also speak French,” Brigitta protested. “He’s a movie star. He could talk American, too!”

“What kind of accent would Bigfoot use?” Kimberly asked, sending Jamaica into a fit of giggles.

All right, so Brigitta had thought Bigfoot was stalking Camp Gilead last summer: strange hair on the hiking trail, huge unexplained footprints. How was she to know Pastor Fred wore size 18 shoes?

“Face it, Brigitta,” Amy said, “you don’t have much of a track record as an investigator.”

Brigitta stuffed her empty juice box into her lunch sack. “This time I’m right. You’ll see.”

“What would Trent Yves be doing in Duvall, Washington?” Jamaica picked up her tray.

“I don’t know — taking a break from Hollywood?” Kimberly snorted.

“Look!” Brigitta pointed. “He’s dumping his green beans! I saw a TV interview where Trent said he hates green beans.”

“Everybody hates school green beans,” Jamaica laughed.

On the Case

The problem, Brigitta thought, is my detective skills. I need better notes. More proof.

Nobody had proven that last year’s substitute gym teacher wasn’t an international spy. Brigitta just hadn’t gathered enough evidence. Fortunately, Charlie lived right next to the vacant lot where she dirt biked. Trent Yves was an expert BMX biker. In Swallow Hill he’d done backflips, flares, cliff-hangers. He was amazing.

Brigitta climbed her bike and hoisted herself into a plum tree.

“Red brick house,” she scribbled in her notepad. Trent Yves’ favorite color was red.

She adjusted her binoculars. Charlie sat in a swing, dangling his feet. She scooted out for a closer look.

“Wears jeans,” she scribbled. Trent Yves always wore jeans.

The front door opened. A little gray terrier darted out. Charlie (aka Trent) stood up. The dog made straight for Brigitta’s tree and started yapping. Brigitta tried to shush the dog, but lost her grip on the branch, fell out of the tree, caught her foot on her bike handlebar and landed in the leaves. The dog stood over her, growling triumphantly.

“Give it a rest, Chou-Chou,” Charlie said, walking up. He peered down at Brigitta. “Who are you?”

“I’m, um, Brigitta. I was just, uh, taking a break from bike riding in this tree. Love trees.” She stuffed the binoculars and notebook hastily into her pack.

A smile played at the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “Trees?”

Argh. Why had she said that? “Sure. They’re so, um, leafy.”

Charlie laughed so hard he had to sit down. He pulled the still-growling terrier into his lap.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Charlie. Do you ever do jumps with that bike?”

“Yeah,” Brigitta answered.

She hopped on her bike and did a few kickouts, but she felt like she was showing off.

“Now show me what you can do,” she said, handing the bike to Charlie.

Charlie wiped out five times before he managed a no- footer, one of the simplest beginner tricks. What happened to Trent Yves, BMX sensation?

“You’re good,” Charlie said, examining a scrape on his shin. “I need a lot more practice.”

“But you used to do toboggans and supermans.”

Charlie looked puzzled. “Not me.”

Plot Twist

Brigitta dumped a pile of Celeb magazines on the library table. Amy looked up from her novel. “Still at it?”

“We’ve been hanging out every day.”

“Have you been in his house yet?”

“No, but I’ve got tons of clues,” Brigitta said.

Amy blew a strand of hair off her nose. “Such as?”

“He has a dog named Chou-Chou. Doesn’t that sound French? He likes BMX biking, just like in Escape from Swallow Hill.”

“You said he wasn’t any good.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Brigitta started flipping through Celebs.

“Here it is!” Brigitta turned to page 42 of the July issue.< P>

Trent Yves: British Brat
What happens when you combine indulgent parents with an 11-year-old monster ego? “A miniature tyrant” says an anonymous source from the set of Trent Yves’ current film, Wenny Has Wings. “He sends sandwiches back if they’re not on the right bread. He eats only red M&M’s. He’s mouthy to the director. I don’t know who’s worse, him or his pushy English mother.”

The article went on for two pages. Trent’s mother bought him anything he wanted, including a remote control airplane with a lunch tray. He insisted all his meals be flown to him.

This did not sound like Charlie Johnson. Not even a little.

“Wow,” Amy said. “Seems like Charlie’s got an evil twin.”

Brigitta felt like a flattened balloon. She piled up the magazines and shoved them on the shelf. “Just don’t say it.”

Amy swung her backpack over her shoulder. “What was I going to say?”

“Don’t say Bigfoot,” Brigitta mumbled.

Landing the Part

Brigitta handed Charlie a piece of wood for their fort. She was glad he wasn’t Trent Yves. She was mad at Trent. She’d taken all of his posters off her wall.

“You’re quiet today,” Charlie said. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Brigitta grumbled. “Only that Trent Yves is a total brat.”

“Trent Yves?” Charlie shook the nail can. “No more nails. Hey, is that my mom calling?”

Why is he acting so freaky all of a sudden? Brigitta wondered. She followed him into his yard. “Charlie, wait.”

Charlie stopped at his house. He put the hammer in the nail can.

“Do you want to come in for a while?” he asked, opening the door.

“Charlie?” The woman who greeted him was blond. She pronounced his name “Chah-lie” like Queen Elizabeth.

“Hullo, Mum. This is Brigitta.”

Charlie’s voice sounded different. More like his mom’s.

“Brigitta! I wondered when I’d finally meet you.”

Brigitta’s head swam. She looked at the walls. Pictures of Charlie with Frankie Muniz and Hillary Duff. Charlie holding a Golden Globe award and shaking hands with Sean Connery.

“You’re him!” she blurted. “You really are Trent Yves!”< P> “Yeah.”

Charlie’s mother melted discreetly into the kitchen.

“This is so cool! Wait ‘til everyone at school finds out! They’ll all want to sit with you at lunch! They’ll want you for student body president! They’ll stop talking about Bigfoot!”

“Bigfoot?”

“Hey!” Brigitta felt in her pack for her notebook. “Could you sign this for me?”

Charlie sank into a chair. “Not you, too, Brigitta,” he sighed.

Rewriting the Script

Brigitta couldn’t sleep.

“We’re so sorry we teased you, Brigitta,” her friends would say. “You were right all along. How could we have doubted you?”

Charlie’s mother had shown her around. Brigitta had seen Charlie’s cape from Laser Boy, his tarantula from Wenny Has Wings. She’d seen pictures of his BMX stunt double.

“The celebrity life isn’t what you think, Brigitta,” Charlie’s mother had said. “People can be cruel. It’s hard to be a normal family with all the pressures and lies in the media. That’s why we moved so far from L.A.”

People won’t be cruel to Charlie here, Brigitta thought. They’ll love him. And maybe I’ll be famous, too.

She pictured herself going on “Oprah” with Charlie. Brigitta sighed. Finally, she was right.

Charlie smiled when Brigitta sat down next to him at lunch the next day, but it was a funny smile.

“Don’t you usually sit with Amy and those guys?” he said. His voice was back to American.

“Yeah, usually.”

“Brigitta —” he started, but stopped when Jamaica sashayed over, followed by Kimberly and Amy. “How’s Laser Boy?” Kimberly twittered.

Charlie stopped chewing his apple.

“That’s who she thinks you are,” Jamaica sang. “She thinks you’re Trent Yves. Last summer it was Bigfoot.”< P> Brigitta’s reached for her notebook — the clues, the autograph.

Charlie attempted a laugh. “She thought I was Bigfoot?”

Kimberly giggled herself to a squeak.

“Brigitta’s a tireless investigator,” Jamaica said.

Charlie fiddled nervously with his lunch sack.

Will it really bother him if I tell? Brigitta thought. < I>He’s used to a lot of attention. At least he was used to it in Hollywood.

Charlie crumpled his milk carton. He looked deflated. Like he’d lost his only friend. Like he was being treated as merchandise instead of a person?

Brigitta paused, then tucked away her notebook. “You do look a lot like him. But maybe you’re really an international spy.”

Amy laughed. “You’re such a goof, Brigitta.”

Charlie grinned a secret smile at her. Brigitta could see the thank-you in his eyes.

	Q: How do bees telephone one another? A: They just give each other a buzz. Zephan S., 9, Kentucky Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe