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Academy.”

Chapter 8
    “Can I have it now?”
     
    Spencer took a hasty step backward, his shoulder bumping the band room wall. He saw Daisy push herself up, but a nearby Extension Grime had already overpowered her with its distracting breath.
    “I feel like a princess!” Daisy shouted. “I’m lying on a bed of diamonds!” She might have started making snow angels in the shards of glass around her, but the Plugger reached down from the Toxite’s saddle and pulled Daisy away from the mess.
    Penny released a heavy stream of vanilla air freshener into the band room. Spencer felt the Filth fatigue leave him as Daisy suddenly seemed to realize that she’d been captured. As the freshener wafted outward, Dez’s head perked up. The bored and apathetic expression faded from his face, and he turned to look at Director Garcia.
    “Can I have it now?” he mumbled.
    Garcia looked momentarily annoyed. Spencer knew how he felt; Dez was always annoying. “Later, Dezmond,” he said. “I told you I would give it to you later.”
    “No,” Dez said, a stubborn edge to his voice. “You said you’d give it to me once you had them.” He pointed at the cornered Rebels.
    Garcia sighed, his patience clearly worn thin by Dez’s behavior. “Have it your way,” he muttered. Then he snapped a finger at a Plugger whose giant Rubbish had just perched across several music stands.
    “Nicholson!” Garcia called. “Take Dezmond to get his reward.” He paused, then spouted something in Spanish.
    The Plugger on the Rubbish’s back nodded in understanding, and his beast spread its leathery wings toward the doorway.
    “Hey!” Dez grabbed Garcia’s sleeve. “What did you say to him?” Garcia pulled away, shrugging. “What was that Spanish?”
    “It sounded kind of like Dora,” chimed Daisy. “You know, the Explorer.”
    The Plugger leaned back into the room, his bird hopping impatiently in the hallway. “Do you want the vial or not, kid?”
    Without so much as a backward glance at the Rebels, Dez dashed across the band room and out of sight.
    “Vial of what?” Alan asked. “What are you giving him?”
    Director Garcia looked over his shoulder to make sure the band room door had clicked shut. “He’s not getting what he thinks, I can assure you that much.” He smiled.
    “You’d better not hurt him,” Walter threatened. Spencer’s feelings toward Dez were anything but fond. But even Spencer felt a sting of worry for the bully. Dez was mixed up with the wrong people.
    “Relax,” Garcia said, his voice smooth. “He’ll receive little more than a treatment of Rubbish breath. Not that he can be dumbed down much more than he already is . . .” He glanced at his manicured fingernails. “I’m not in the business of harming people. I leave the dirty work to the man who calls the shots.” He glanced up from his nails without lifting his chin.
    “Mr. Clean,” Spencer muttered.
    Garcia grinned, but it seemed forced and unnatural this time. Spencer could almost see a thread of nervousness in the director’s eyes. “Yes, he goes by that name. And a few others.”
    “Reginald McClean,” Walter said.
    Director Garcia nodded. “That’s what we call him at the BEM headquarters. On official business, he’s Reginald McClean, president of the Bureau of Educational Maintenance. But when he’s dealing with Rebel scum, he is the ruthless Mr. Clean.”
    “I call him a coward,” Alan said.
    “A bold statement,” Director Garcia said. “One you might not be so quick to make when he arrives.”
    “Mr. Clean is coming here?” Daisy asked.
    Director Garcia nodded. “After I dispose of Alan Zumbro.” Spencer shuddered when Garcia’s dark eyes locked onto his dad. “Mr. Clean will deal with the rest of you.”
    “You don’t know how dangerous he is,” Spencer blurted. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Clean—he’s transformed.”
    “Yes,” Garcia said. “He’s a Sweeper now.” The director reached inside his