Spy-in-Training (2 page)

I've seen these fridge door pictures a thousand times but today might be the first time I've ever
really
looked at them. I seem like some passerby who blundered in front of the camera. I don't belong at all. Ryan's a devil. Natalie's an angel. And me, I'm just staring off to the side. All of a sudden, I find myself thinking about my birth parents. I was ten when Mom and Dad told me I was adopted. They asked me if I wanted them to try and find my real parents. The usual daydreams about being
the heir to the throne of Luxembourg or the secret love child of Stephen Colbert whirled around my head. But I declined. My biologicals chose not to participate in the wonder of me. I don't entertain fantasies about them realizing the error of their ways and begging me to let them back into my life. But I'm wondering if they're thinking about me today.

Okay, ease up on the self-pity
, I tell myself.
Have the Wilders ever missed a birthday before? No. They're planning something special. And this? This is fun. This is them working hard to make you think they've forgotten. So play along and act surprised when they break into “Happy Birthday.”

I hear a peal of delighted girlie laughter from the living room. Ha! Lovely little Natalie couldn't keep up the facade. She's been aching to hug me and tell me I'm the best sister anyone's ever had. I decide to let her off the hook.

I hurry into the living room. Lovely little Natalie is shaking with delighted laughter as she shows Ryan her hip-hop moves and he tries clumsily to copy them. Mom and Dad are gazing rapt at the TV as the guy onscreen hangs upside down chained to a table. Mom turns to Dad and shakes her head. “It's a miracle,” he protests. “It's a deathtrap,” she replies. Dad argues back. Ryan grabs Natalie and throws her over his shoulder. She shrieks in
giggling horror as he dances her around the room.

No one notices me. I stand and watch my mom, my dad, my brother and sister arguing and shrieking and giggling and dancing for a moment. I suddenly feel like the kitchen ghost, the dead fridge light, the dripping faucet, and the rattling stove might be more a part of the family than I am.

Okay, stop easing up on the self-pity
, I tell myself.
They've forgotten your birthday.

D
espite Natalie's implication, I do, in fact, have a friend. Her name is Joanna Conquest. She lives two blocks from me. Her block differs from mine in the number of xeroxed missing-dog posters stapled to trees and telephone poles. My block has fewer lost pets but more sidewalk space devoted to abandoned cardboard boxes filled with unsellable trinkets left over from weekly yard sales. Other than that, they're identical. Houses that could do with a fresh coat of paint. Lawns that could use more frequent trims. Family cars that could use a wash.

I meet Joanna on this warm spring day, like I do
every weekday morning, as she walks down her driveway. She wears a shapeless blue smock. I complement her in a shapeless blue tracksuit. She greets me, like she does every weekday morning, by starting a monologue that requires no response or participation from me.

“Earthquake alert,” she bellows, as she falls into step with me and we begin the trudge to school. “People are trembling. They're shivering in fear. And why? Because I've revised and updated the Conquest Report.”

The Conquest Report is Joanna's Tumblr. It has one follower. Guess who?

“Big changes. If you were happy you didn't make the cut last time, sorry to burst your bubble. If I didn't mention you by name, it probably only means I didn't notice you. But I've got big eyes . . .”

This is actually untrue. Joanna has tiny little eyes, like Raisinets. And chubby scarlet cheeks. Which might lead you to the initial impression that she's fun. Fun and jolly and generous and bighearted. But your initial impression would be incorrect.

“. . . and whatever you hid from me before, your loud screechy voice, your nervous laugh, your toxic breath, I've noticed it. I've noticed it and it irritates me. It irritates me enough to add you to my ever-expanding list of people I hate. Kelly Beach. Keep bragging about your
stepdaddy's software empire, Kel.
Don't
stop just because he's seconds away from bankruptcy . . .”

Joanna continues to rant in this fashion. I continue to stay silent. Our friendship remains now as it was seven years ago when my mother and her grandmother saw us sitting sullen and alone at a neighborhood Christmas party.

“Bridget,” smiled my mother. “Why don't you and Joanna play together?”

“Joanna,” said her grandmother. “Why don't you and that girl play together?”

After several moments of awkward, tiny-eyed, chubby-cheeked silence, Joanna started talking about the other kids at the party. The ones who annoyed her because they were too clingy. The ones who smelled weird. The ones who were covered in cat hair. But, as Joanna continued heaping ever-higher spoonfuls of disdain, I looked around the party and I couldn't really see anyone who fit her description. All the kids she labeled losers seemed like they were having fun. I found myself wishing I was hanging out with those other kids, even if they had speech defects or couldn't control their bladders. At one point, I remember catching my mother's eye. She gave me a little wink, which, due to our intuitive mother-daughter bond, I knew meant she was glad I'd
made the effort and any minute now we were going to make an exit from the party and head home. And a half hour later, we did. Which was when Mom said, “Looks like you made yourself a BFF.” For a second, I had no clue what she was talking about. Then I did. I don't know what was more shattering: discovering there was no such thing as our intuitive mother-daughter bond, or realizing I was about to get stuck with a whole lot of Joanna. Our relationship, such as it is, may be one bad playdate that never ended. But on days like today when I feel horribly let down, when I feel like no one in the world gets me, I'm glad I know her.

“So,” I say as she takes a breath between listing all the new targets of her scorn. “They forgot my birthday.”

Joanna squints her tiny eyes at me. Her lips part. And then any further expression of surprise vanishes from her face. She shrugs the backpack straps off her shoulder and reaches inside her red L.L. Bean bag. A moment later, she thrusts a book at me.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

I'm touched. I'm taken aback. I'm surprised. I look at the book.
The Diary of a Young Girl
by Anne Frank. A dog-eared, second—maybe-even-third—hand copy. The name
Sarah B
is scrawled on the top left-hand corner. I'm disappointed. But not
hideously.
I've got a good
idea of the sort of stuff Joanna keeps in that bag. I could have been stuck with the black banana or her half-empty, crusted-over bottle of hair dye.

“Thanks, Joanna,” I say. “I always wanted to read Anne Frank's diary.” I mean it, too. I would have liked a new copy, one that didn't have all its page corners folded by Sarah B and wasn't defaced with scrawls of
I am bored x 1000
. “She was so brave.”

Joanna clicks her tongue. “She was annoying. And you know who else is annoying . . . ?” My birthday celebration is apparently over.

When I reach Reindeer Crescent Middle School, jewel in the crown of Southern California's education system, I'm greeted by the marching band who break into a stirring rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” And what's this? The whole school is joining in. The Cheerminators are flipping and bouncing in my honor. The lunch ladies wheel my cake toward me. It takes four of them to move it. That's a big cake.

JK! J totally K. I can K because, in this instance, I expect nothing. As far as Reindeer Crescent is concerned, I might as well be invisible. As far as Reindeer Crescent is concerned, Joanna might as well be invisible, too. But she deals with that reality in a different way.

“Look at Casey Breakbush—look at the way she's
cowering away from me. I see you, girl, I see you wondering whether I showed mercy and left you off the Conquest Report. But guess what, Casey? Today, just like the day you decided all your problems would be over after your parents splashed out on ankle-fat reduction surgery, is not your lucky day.” Slim, pretty, Casey Breakbush is neither cowering nor showing any indication she is aware of Joanna's existence. But the second I walk into Room A117 for my first class, someone is aware of mine.

“Making her way into the arena, give it up for Midget Wilder!”

Don't go red
, I tell myself. I fail to follow my own orders and feel the tingle spread across my face and neck.

“Watch out! Don't accidentally step on the midget!”

I do what I always do when Brendan Chew launches into his stand-up routine. I shake my head in disgust, roll my eyes, and invite the rest of the class to share my contempt. I don't actually say the words but I think my expression makes my feelings plain:
You're going to sit there and endure this dork, this skinny, buck-toothed, acne-spattered clown, as he makes the same pathetic, unimaginative, embarrassing joke day after day? The same joke that isn't even factually accurate. I'm far from a midget. Dwarfism is defined as an adult height of four foot ten inches. I'm considerably taller than that. So basically Chew was able to find a
word that rhymes with my name. And you're going to validate his tragic existence by laughing?

They are. They do. They all laugh. Apparently calling me Midget Wilder is one of those jokes that
just keeps getting funnier.
I shoot a
Help me!
look at Joanna. She's laughing! That tiny-eyed traitor is chuckling to herself. Her extra chin is wobbling with the hilarity of it all.

“He's in the report, right?” I hiss at her.

She shrugs. “He's funny.”

It's lunchtime.
I'm eating a white peach frozen yogurt and flipping through my defaced birthday book in the fro-yo store around the corner from the school. Yes, that is correct. I'm sitting in a booth by myself eating yogurt and reading Anne Frank's diary.
On my birthday.
Stood up by my one friend. (She texted me she was meeting an anonymous tipster who had some molten-hot scoop for the Report. Which I took to mean she feared she would be expected to buy me lunch.) Nothing remotely pathetic about that.

I was going to purchase a protein bar from the Big Green Machine, the new and widely despised healthy-food vending machine recently installed outside the gym by Vice Principal Scattering, who loves it like a newborn child. But, just like every day, I decided against
it—although I did not decide to kick the machine as I passed it, which is how the majority of my fellow students express their feelings toward our Big Green friend—and chose to take my birthday lunch outside school property. Actually, white peach is my favorite flavor and the parts of the book Sarah B has left unfolded and un-scribbled-over are drawing me in.

I look up from the book and glance out the window. Dale Tookey approaches. That's “uncoordinated, asthmatic, untrustworthy Dale Tookey,” according to the Conquest Report. I do not agree with Joanna's assessment. He seems all right to me. Maybe more than all right. He has a nice smile. I know because he smiled at me once. It might not have been
at
me. But I saw it so I choose to believe it was intended for me. Anyway, that doesn't matter. What matters is, I don't particularly want someone, even someone with a nice smile, to catch me alone with my yogurt and my defaced classic. What if he tried to talk to me? Unlikely, I admit. But I feel myself getting flustered again just thinking about it. What if he totally ignored me? Then my fragile illusion that he'd smiled at me would crumble to dust. I don't make things easy for myself, do I? As I see it, my only option is to flee to the restroom and hide out until he purchases his fro-yo and departs.

Excellent plan, Bridget. Nothing remotely pathetic about that.

I start to slide out of the booth. That's when I hear the raised voices and the metal clanking on the sidewalk. I peer out the window. Four guys. Big guys. Older. Fifteen, sixteen. Wearing basketball jerseys, baseball caps, and hoodies with the letters D and P graffitied on the sleeves. They're kicking cans in the street, shouting something in unison. I can't make it out at first. But as they keep up the chant, it starts to get clearer. It sounds like they're yelling
Doom Patrol
over and over. Their voices go up on the
Doom
; they come down on the
Patrol.
It's nice that they rehearse.

They come to a halt a few feet outside the entrance of the fro-yo store. I don't see what happens next. But I hear loud, harsh laughter. And I see Dale go staggering backward. I see him trying not to look scared. The four guys surround him. They're up in his face, crowding him, shoving him, yelling, “Doom Patrol!” His face is getting redder. He's trying to hold it together. To show them they're not getting to him. I feel sick just watching this. I can't imagine how Dale Tookey must feel. Finally, he thrusts a hand in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled wad of dollar bills. One of them snatches it from his hand. While he does this, another grabs Dale's backpack, opens
it, and empties it in the street. Then they walk away, laughing loudly, shouting “Doom Patrol!” over and over.

I watch Dale as he squats down and tries to gather up all his stuff. I want to go and help. But even from this distance, I can see the look on his face. He's embarrassed and angry and close to tears. I slump back down in the booth. I feel awful for him and I feel stupid. I should have done something. I don't know what: yelled at them to leave him alone, taken pictures of them to send to the cops, thrown my yogurt at them? Would it have made any difference? Would the outcome have been any less humiliating for Dale? I doubt it. But I should have done
something.
Maybe I deserve to be alone on my birthday.

I wish
I had an extracurricular activity or a group of friends to hang out with, or even a job. But I don't currently have any of these things. So I go home. Where no one will be there to greet me. Where FedEx will have delivered no packages with my name on them. Where no birthday cards will wait for me. Where no HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRIDGET banners will stretch out to greet me. Mom and Dad are at work. Mom's in charge of a courier company, Wheel GetIt2u. (Think about it.) Dad manages the local Pottery Barn. (They were looking for someone who owned a messy house where nothing
works.) Natalie's got soccer practice, then she's rehearsing for her role in the school musical she helped write, and after that she volunteers with Sacramento Animal Rescue. And Ryan? Who knows. Hostage situation. High-speed car chase. Aircraft hijack. But at least he's got a life.
What do I have?
I ask myself as I trudge up the driveway to the house. “Oh,” I say out loud when I see the unexpected object with my name on it sitting on the doormat. “I've got a bag.”