Spy-in-Training (11 page)

M
y dad—the Pottery Barn one, not the secret-agent one—is as good as his word. He gives me the be-all end-all birthday. At eight a.m. on Saturday, Dad bangs on the door. “Get up, get ready, grab something to eat; we need to get going if we're going to beat the traffic.”

“Where are we going? What are we doing? Why do we need to . . .”

Dad pokes his head around the door. He points to his watch and says, “Tick-tock, Bridget.”

When I come downstairs, everybody—and by
everybody, I mean my whole family,
even
Ryan—is there. And they all sing “Happy Birthday.” Even though my actual birthday is long gone, it still meant a lot. I have time for half a bagel and a glass of orange juice and then Dad herds me, literally herds me like I was cattle, into the Jeep Compass.

“Where are we going, Ryan?” I ask.

“We're taking you to jail,” he yawns.

“This is my surprise, not yours. Where are we going, Natalie?”

“I'll never tell,” she whispers, and gives me this conspiratorial little smile.

I look out the window. The sign for the next exit says that Raging Waters is three miles away.

And that's when a bomb goes off in my brain.

“Raging Waters? Are we going to Raging Waters? We are, we're going to Raging Waters, aren't we? Yay, Raging Waters!”

Yes, Bridget Wilder, secret agent for Section 23,
loves
the water park. I don't care that there's a forty-five-minute wait for the slides. I don't care that little kids pee in the water. I don't care that the chlorine smell gets in the back of my throat. All the things I should care about and object to and be grossed out by just melt away as soon as I hear
the splashes and the screams. Even when I was little and had to wear a life jacket and be accompanied by an adult, I still relished the heart-pounding adrenaline of it.

Today when Ryan and Natalie and I are in line for the Honolulu Half-Pipe, the closer we get to that imposing forty-foot water slide, the less I care about my siblings' fake personas. I am with my big brother and my little sister, and we are all about to shriek in terror and delight as our rafts blast off the end of the huge half-pipe.

Ryan doesn't give himself over to the wonder of Raging Waters quite as completely as I do. Ten minutes into our wait for the wave pool, he starts exhaling in boredom and frustration. Then he puts his phone to his ear and yells, “What? That is unacceptable. We're talking about a young girl's life here, dammit.” Ryan rubs at his eyes and then turns to the family behind us. “Sorry you had to hear that,” he says. “That was the hospital. We were hoping for better news. But it doesn't look like they've found a heart for this little angel.” With that, he starts rubbing Natalie's shoulders. Her eyes go wide with panic and her face reddens.

“Ryan, stop,” I say.

He doesn't stop. “It'll all be fine,” he says, patting Natalie's head. “God just wants you to splash around in
His own personal water park. Just don't have too much fun before we get there.”

The family directly in front of us turns around, their faces creased with concern.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” says the concerned mother. “But I couldn't help overhearing . . .”

Ryan drapes an arm around a mortified Natalie's shoulder. “Don't worry about this one. She's having the time of her life, making every minute count. I guess that's what you have to do when you don't know how long you've got left.”

“You shouldn't be waiting in line,” says the mother, fighting tears. “Please take our turn.”

Natalie gives me a
Can you believe this
? look. Then the long line ahead of us parts like the Red Sea.

“Thank you so much,” she says in a weak voice, and then lets herself fall into Ryan's arms so that he and I can prop her upright and carry her to the front of the line. It isn't until we are actually in the water and out of the immediate earshot of the good-hearted citizens of the queue that we scream with laughter.

“Bad karma!” I yell at Ryan. But I am already getting jealous that he hadn't picked me to be the sympathetic dying sister and resolve to take over the role once we get in line for the Hurricane Bay Slide.

Three hours later,
we're wet, tired, happy and snarled up in the midafternoon traffic. Mom finds a satellite station that plays hits from when she and Dad were young. They're singing along with this song called “Here Comes the Hotstepper.” We act like it's embarrassing but a minute into it we're yelling along. After the song ends, I say, “This was a really fun day. Thanks.”

“You say that like it's over,” says Dad. “We're not even halfway done. Soon as we get home, we're changing out of our wet clothes and getting dressed up for our night at the ballet.”

“
Why
can't I come to that,” Ryan pretends to whine. “Why am I being punished?”

“Guess what? I've got a spare ticket. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

“Why am I being punished?” Ryan moans.

I feel like I'm glowing with happiness. I have the best, funniest, and most considerate family in the world.

My phone vibrates. A text from Kelly.
Party tonight. My place @ 8. No Casey. Freedom.

And all of a sudden, my glow has gone. The ballet's tonight at eight. I know taking me means a lot to Dad and it means the world to me. I can't not go. But the ballet's over at nine thirty. Maybe I could see the ballet and
then sneak out to the party? Assuming it's still going. Assuming another, cooler party didn't siphon away all Kelly's guests. Assuming people didn't get sick from bad shrimp. (A good spy has to take every possible outcome into consideration.) And if it's not still going, when will I get my next opportunity to go to Kelly's house and sneak into her stepfather's office? In the front seats, Mom and Dad are singing along to another song on the radio. Ryan and Natalie join in. I stay silent. I don't know what to do. I'm torn between the dad who wants to make me happy and the dad who, indirectly, needs my help. There's no real choice here. My family has done everything for me. They gave me today.

I cough. It's a quiet one at first. The next few coughs get louder. Loud enough that Mom can hear me over the radio.

“I don't like the sound of that,” she says.

“That's what I said, but you keep singing,” says Ryan.

Mom ignores him and glances at me in the mirror.

“How do you feel, Bridget?”

“A-OK,” I say, and give her a thumbs-up. Then I cough again. Another loud one.

“She's sick,” Mom determines. “She caught something at Raging Waters.”

“I'm fine,” I insist. Another battery of coughs, each
louder and more racking than the last.

“Jeff, I don't think she should go out tonight.”

“Little drop of cough syrup, she'll be good,” says my dad. He does not want anything getting in the way of us going out tonight. I don't, either. But I've made my choice.

I arrange my features into an expression of abject misery and wrap my arms around myself. Ryan and Natalie both look at me with concern.

“I'm fine,” I croak.

“I'm sure you can get tickets for the next performance,” says Mom.

“Yeah, probably,” says Dad. I can hear the disappointment in his voice and see it in the way his shoulders slump.

“Or maybe you and Natalie could go,” I tell Dad.

“Nat?” says Dad, glancing back at her.

I see the rapid-fire calculation in Natalie's eyes. How will this benefit her? What seeds can she plant in Dad's mind? What will she be able to get away with in the future because of tonight?

“I'd love to!” she gasps, and leans forward to give Dad's neck a quick hug. “Thank you so much!” He seems pleased at the reaction. Even when Natalie's faking it, she's still a better daughter than me.

When we get home, I swallow a spoonful of cough medicine and reluctantly agree to an early night. Once I'm alone, I grab my phone and I send three texts.

One to Kelly:

I'll be there.

One to Spool:

The Nick Deck Assignment is on tonight.

One to Ryan:

I never told Mom and Dad what I know about you. Help me tonight and I never will.

“T
hat ladder you use to sneak up here when you're out being weird, go get it. Put it against my window. Then hang out here. Tell Mom you're teaching me to play poker or walking me through
Call of Duty
. Whatever. Something she's got no interest in. She'll buy that we bonded 'cause she saw us having fun today. If she wants to come in, tell her I just dozed off or I'm on level three. Make something up, you're a genius at that.”

Ryan puts a hand inside his mouth and picks at a tooth. “And where are you going to be?”

“Out,” I say. The less he knows the better.

“Do I get to ask who you're going to be with and what time you'll be back?”

“You get to ask,” I say. And then I say nothing else. But I hold out a hand.

“Deal?” I say.

He takes my hand. “Deal.”

I go to pull away but Ryan tightens his grip. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“When you see my sister, Bridget, tell her I said hi. 'Cause I have no idea who you are.”

I give Ryan a big smile. He totally just validated my spyhood.

“Thanks,” I say. “I won't be late.”

While Ryan is getting the ladder, I select appropriate party wear. Kelly's asserting her independence from Casey and Nola so she's dressing to be noticed, talked, and tweeted about. I'm there to offer support and blend into the background. But it'll reflect badly on Kelly if I show up in my extra-thick glasses and tracksuit. I don't want to make her seem like she traded down her friendships and got stuck with me. I find a party-worthy top and my one pair of jeans with a designer label (Diaper Trash—that's a cool brand, right?). I look at my tracksuit with regret. Leaving the house without it feels like
leaving a part of me behind. The sneakers, however, I take off for no one. I hear a thud outside the window. The ladder. Thanks, Ryan. There's a knock on my bedroom door. I almost jump out of my skin.

“How you feeling?” says Mom.

I adopt a drowsy tone of voice. “Uhhh, I'm almost asleep.”

“Okay, sleepyhead, I'll let you rest,” she says. “I'll check in with you later.”

I wait until I'm sure Mom is nowhere near my room. Then, as quietly as I can—Mom has ears like a bat!—I open the window so I can sneak out. To go to a party. And steal information. Three firsts in one night.

I've got one foot out the window when my phone vibrates. It's Spool.

“The assignment officially begins,” he says, looking more excited than I've ever seen him.

“Not a great time, Spool. I'm trying to sneak out of the house.”

“And how are you planning to get to the location of the assignment?”

“With my feet. My crazy-fast feet.”

“A thirteen-year-old girl running thirty blocks at almost superhuman speeds on a Saturday night is going to attract unwanted attention.”

“I run all over the place. No one ever notices.”

“This assignment is too big to leave anything to chance,” he says, deadly serious. “Do you still have your keys?”

It takes me a second to understand what he's talking about. “By keys, do you mean car keys?”

He nods. “The model passed inspection.”

I gasp in shock. “I have a car. I have my own car!”

“Section 23 has a car. You have it on loan. I'll text you its location.”

“But won't it look weird? A thirteen-year-old girl driving a spy car on a Saturday night?”

“No one will see you. The windshield has been modified to project an image of a more mature driver.”

I'm thrilled by the prospect of my car but also a little disappointed that this brilliant innovative technology means that no one will be able to see me.

Okay, now I'm a little less disappointed that no one will be able to see me at the wheel of my brilliantly innovative, technologically advanced spy Smart Car. It's red and white and approximately the size of a thimble.

I clamber inside. I am not a large person. Brendan Chew's Midget Wilder insult, while hideously annoying, is not a wild exaggeration. My skull touches the ceiling of this super high-tech espionage vehicle. I push the front
seat back as far as it will go. My knees are still up around my chin. Out of nowhere, the car is filled with the sound of a high-pitched screechy voice.

“Hello, Bridget,” the voice says.

“Uh . . . hello?” I say.

“Where do you want to go?” The voice isn't just high-pitched and screechy, it's annoyingly familiar.

“Kelly's house.”

“That narrows it down. Can you be a bit more specific?”

Is this car talking down to me? “I assumed you already had the relevant information.”

“Oh, did you?” snarks the car in a voice I feel like I've heard a hundred times. Where do I know it from?

“Kelly Beach. Her stepfather is Nick Deck. They live at 1078 . . .”

“I know where they live,” snaps the car.

The engine starts. The car makes a left-turn signal and starts to pull away from the curb.

“So that's what you're wearing,” says the car.

“What's wrong with it?” I say defensively.

“Well, if you have to ask,” says the car, sounding smug. And then I recognize the voice.

“Shut up!” I yell.

“You shut up,” the car responds.

“Is that supposed to be me? I don't sound anything like that.”

“Mr. Spool sampled a few of your sentences to create my voice.”

“I don't like it.”

“Now you know how Mr. Spool feels when he has to talk to you.”

I shake my head at the irritating voice. “Mr. Spool. Butt-kisser. Butt-kissing car.”

The egg-size Smart Car waits at a red light. The car opposite is a bright blue Jeep Compass.

Our car. The Wilder family car. Dad sits behind the wheel. Natalie is beside him. I yelp with fright and try to squeeze down in my seat.

“They can't see you, dummy,” says the car.

That's right. They can't. They see the lucky driver of a car scarcely bigger than a shoe.

I watch them for a moment.

They're all dressed up for their night at the ballet. But they're both eating Carl's Jr. burgers. A little junk food before the culture. Except they're nowhere near the theater. My spy senses kick in. The light turns green. Dad drives away.

“Follow that car,” I command.

“What?” says the car.

“That Jeep Compass, the blue one. Follow it.”

“Why?” says the car. God, that voice is annoying. Do I really sound like that?

“Because I'm telling you to,” I say, in what I hope is a lower, less grating tone.

“Okay. But it's not part of the assignment.”

“I decide what is and isn't part of the assignment,” I say firmly.

“‘I decide what is and isn't part of the assignment,'” says the car, mocking me with a squeaky imitation.

I turn on the radio to drown out the annoying voice of the car. I skip a few stations before I come across “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen, aka the first song I ever learned to play on the flute. It immediately vanishes to be replaced by some booty club thump music.

“Hey!” I say, annoyed.

“I hate that song,” says the car.

I change the station back. The car changes it again. I lapse into sullen silence and watch the Jeep Compass as it makes its way to . . . the multiplex.

Dad and Natalie are not going to the American Contemporary Ballet. They're going to a movie! They totally lied. I'm not sure what to think about this.

The car yawns. “Okay. Seen everything you want to see? Can we go now?”

I'd like to stay and monitor my father and my sister. I'd like to know what movie they're seeing. I'd like to know what story they're coordinating between them. I think about all the ballet questions I'm going to ask them later tonight. But I'm ready for the assignment.

“Let's party,” I tell the car.

The car doesn't move.

“Kelly Beach's house. 1078 . . .”

The car judders to life. “I know,” it says. “I just like messing with you.”