Maybell Takes a Call

This is an early version of Maybell. She since been aged-up and de-trilled.

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Agent-in-training Maybell Mayhew sat at her desk, chin in hand, daydreaming. She was alone in the office and it was quiet. Ethereally quiet.

Abruptly, the thumping beat of electropop synth-drums shattered the tranquility, filling the cathedral-like space.

Maybell gasped, hand to chest.

What the flipping heck?

Then she realized. It was her phone’s ringtone. No. No. No. No.

She looked around frantically. Where was the darned thing? Just last week Agent Strider had had a “talk” with Maybell about answering the phone promptly. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Maybell rifled through the clutter on her desk. Graphic novels, anime action-figures and half-filled notepads went flying. Spotting the phone’s iridescent case, Maybell snatched it up.

“Oh my,” Maybell squeaked, seeing the caller’s name.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed the green “Accept” button.

“Hello,” Maybell chirped. “This is Agent-in-training Maybell Mayhew.”

Maybell listened for a moment, lavender eyes widening.

“Yes, ma’am…er, sir…er your supreme worshipfulness,” she stammered.

Since Maybell was alone in her office, there was no one to overhear her conversation. However, if someone had been standing next to Maybell, that person would have heard the muffled voice on the other end of the line give a chuckling response.

“Sorry, H.A.,” Maybell trilled. “I won’t use that title again.”

The caller then asked the trainee a question.

“Yes, being an agent-trainee at the Angel Investigation Bureau is a dream come true,” Maybell gushed, platform sneakers squeaking as she swiveled back and forth in her chair.   

Another question.

“Um…yes,” Maybell said. “Agent Strider is a storehouse of information and I’m super lucky she’s agreed to take me on.”

The voice laughed, then spoke again.

“Thank you, H.A.,” Maybell grimaced. “Erm, I’m not usually known for diplomacy, but that’s nice of you to say.”

Intent on the conversation, the trainee absently watched dust motes dancing in a dazzling shaft of light spilling from a high-set window.

“Yes, I’m 18-years-old,” Maybell confirmed. “And yes, I briefly went to Westmount Academy in Seattle before transferring to Heaven High. I graduated early and joined the AIB last year.”

Another query.

“Yes, I knew Trixie D’Vita at Westmount,” Maybell said, twirling a piece of unicorn-colored hair around a finger. “We weren’t tight or anything, but she was in my class.”

A brief inquiry.

“Sure, I knew Zuzi Gonzales too,” Maybell said. “She’s Trixie’s best friend.”

The caller then spoke for several minutes, sounding grave.

Maybell listened, occasionally injecting “uh-huh” and “oh no!” and “that’s horrible” and “totes cray”.

And then, the solemn voice asked the young trainee a final question.

Maybell, cheeks flushed, sat straighter in her chair.

“Anything I can do to assist you and the AIB.”

Hearing the next comment, Maybell wilted.

“Um, are you sure it’s alright to keep it from her?”

The voice on the other end of the line was firm.

“Right, right, you’re the boss,” Maybell replied, fidgeting with an eyebrow ring. “As you say, we’ll keep it between us.”

A few parting pleasantries were exchanged, a final “you can count on me”, and the call ended.

Maybell, dazed, lowered the phone to her desk and slumped into her chair.

“Holy heck,” she said, awestruck. “I’m going to the show.”