Spy to the Rescue (3 page)

“I
t's nothing,” says my mom.

“It's fine,” says my dad.

I do not believe a word my parents are saying. They came home late. They keep shooting shifty little glances at each other. They talk louder than normal. They laugh louder and they laugh a lot. This is especially noticeable in my mom. Nancy Wilder is not what you'd call a chuckler or a chortler. She is not amused by jokes or sitcoms or YouTube clips of people walking into walls. That isn't to say she doesn't have a sense of humor. “I'm just not one of those big laughers,” she has said in the past. She is tonight, though.

“Sorry I'm so late. One of those days when everything just boom-boom-boom . . . one thing after another HAHAHA!” “Your brother upstairs with whatshername? She should just move in. Maybe she already has HAHAHA!”

Mom sounds like an alien from a planet where the concept of laughter is unknown who's attempting to fit in with us Earth folk by impersonating the sounds we make when amused. Dad is also acting like an alien. An alien amazed by the long black plastic object with the buttons that makes pictures appear and disappear on the big flat screen attached to the wall. Jeff Wilder is not a channel flipper. Jeff Wilder likes to settle into his brown leather chair and watch a
Law & Order
marathon or a baseball game that goes into extra innings. Tonight, though, he's jabbing the remote at the TV screen, hurtling through channels, flying past makeover shows, renovation shows, pawnshop shows, dance studio shows, haunted house shows, and cake-baking shows.

“Dad,
Bait Car
,” I say as he zips past one of our old obsessions. He keeps on flipping, but at the same time, he reaches out to the half-empty pizza box and tears off a piece of the buffalo chicken pie. Mom takes the occasional nibble of her tepid slice between bursts of forced laughter. These are the people who told me “It's nothing”
and “It's fine” when I asked them if anything was wrong.

I know something is up. I knew it when Strike sent me those texts designed to send alarm bells clanging in my head. I knew it when he failed to respond to my many, many return texts, calls, and emails. I knew it when Jeff and Nancy Wilder came home from their respective jobs an hour later than usual, he from managing the local Pottery Barn, she from the courier company she runs, Wheel Getit2u.

They came home together. They came bearing pizza. And they requested the pleasure of my company. Not Ryan and Blabby, who, they claimed, they didn't want to disturb (or, more likely, be disturbed by). Not Natalie, whose Cheerminator health regime meant pizza was a no-no. So, just Bridget in the living room with her laughing mother and flipping father. Both of them chomping down morsels of pizza and looking like it was giving them as much pleasure as eating dirty concrete.

“What's wrong?” I ask. Again.

Dad looks at Mom. Mom looks at Dad. She stops laughing. He hits the Power button, turning the screen black. Dad leans forward. Mom sits down on the couch and pats the cushion next to her. They both have these half smiles and wide eyes that say,
Trust us. We love you
.

Uh-oh.

Whatever's coming, I'm not going to enjoy it.

I sit on the end of the couch, leaving two cushions between me and my non-laughing mother. I notice pink foam packing chips at her feet, the kind companies use to fill crates so that the items inside don't get damaged. The floor of my mom's workplace is ankle-deep in them. She must have tracked them into the house and not noticed, which, like the laughing, is out of character for her and evidence that something is on her mind.

“We like Carter Strike,” she says.

I say nothing.

“We were surprised the way you made contact with him. We'd rather you'd talked to us first and let us approach him. But we know what it meant to you to meet your biological father and we're glad you got to know him.”

She looks over at Dad. His turn.

“And we like him. He's a good guy. He's made what could have been an awkward situation comfortable for all of us. He's got your best interests at heart, I really believe that, in spite of . . .”

Clang clang clang!

“In spite of?” I repeat.

Dad finishes his slice. Mom sighs. Ball's back in her court.

“We're home a little bit later than usual tonight because . . . I had a kind of a crisis at work . . .”

“Boom-boom-boom. One thing after another,” I say. I don't try to copy her forced laugh.

She nods. “One of our vans that should have been back in the depot never returned. You know we got that account with the software company I was telling you about?”

I pretend I do.

“This was one of our first big jobs with them. A lot of specs and samples going to clients. The driver made a couple of the deliveries on his schedule and then the van went missing.”

Did your parents talk to you yet?

I didn't do it.

I feel myself flush.

Mom picks up speed. “I called the police. They found the van. It only took about . . .”

“A half hour. Forty minutes tops,” says Dad. “They got on it.”

“They found it in Suntop Hills,” says my mom, looking straight at me. “Outside Carter Strike's condo.”

“But that doesn't mean he's got anything to do with it,” I say. I hear my voice echo around the living room.

“No one's saying it does,” Dad assures me.

“But the van was empty,” says Mom.

“There's seventeen apartments in that building,” I say. “Some of them have four or five people in them.” I try to do the math and figure out how many potentially guilty parties that makes. I'm no good at math.

“The police have been able to make contact with them and they've all been able to account for what they were doing. All except . . .”

I didn't do it.

“The police haven't been able to contact Carter,” says Dad. “He's not answering his phone. If he's in his apartment, he's not opening the door.” He leans forward in his chair, making a gun with his hand. “Remember that
Law & Order
episode where Briscoe decided there were exigent circumstances and he didn't need a warrant to gain access to the perp's house? That could happen here. They could just break in.”

“No one's breaking in,” says Mom. “We're not anywhere near the stage where anyone's considering pressing charges. I just think . . . has Carter made contact with you at any time today?”

I need to be very careful how I respond to this. If I pick a fight with my parents over their lack of faith in Strike, which I sort of want to do, it will create a situation where they feel competitive with him and they'll want to
prove how responsible and protective they are. Which will result in me being watched a lot more closely. If I indulge in a hysterical foot-stamping tantrum, they'll think he's been overindulging me—maybe spoiling me with stolen gifts? I can't be seen to defend him too aggressively. All I can fall back on is the one emotion that I'm honestly feeling right at this moment: confusion.

“I don't understand,” I say. “Why would he . . . I mean, he has that rug business . . . I don't understand . . . This must be a coincidence . . . Will you tell me if the police find out anything?”

Mom bridges the two-cushion gap between us and tries to my ease my distress with a soothing hug.

“Of course we will. And if Carter calls you, you'll let us know immediately?”

Dad hauls himself up from the depths of his leather chair. He sits on the arm of the couch stroking my hair.

“And maybe from now on, when you go over to his place, one of us should come with you.”

Say nothing.

I let my legitimately concerned parents continue to hug and stroke me. Strike's innocent. I know Strike's innocent. I'm pretty sure Strike's innocent. Why would he steal software from one of my mom's vans? He wouldn't. Unless he hadn't moved on. Unless he was still
knee-deep in secret spy business. Why would he send me those texts unless he knew he was going to be accused of something? Unless he really wanted me to believe he had nothing to with it.

Unless, unless, unless . . .

“R
eally, Bridget?
Really?
How much more awesome? How much bigger and better? Do you have a chocolate fountain made of gold?”

Casey Breakbush's face is bright red, her eyes are wild, her hair is perfect. Her two constant companions, Kelly Beach and Nola Milligan, purse their lips, put their hands on their hips, and shake their heads in synchronized disapproval. Casey's face is inches from mine. I hear her breathe. She sounds like she just ran a mile. Except the energy she would have devoted to that, she's using to hate me. And I don't know why.

I've been in school approximately ninety-six seconds. I have not looked at nor spoken to anyone. My thoughts, up until this second, have been exclusively focused on the elusive Carter Strike, who, since yesterday's alarming texts, has remained off the radar.

“Why, Bridget?” Casey is revving up again. “For what? What does it get you?”

A small crowd of onlookers, including several Cheerminators, shoot suspicious glances my way, taking the temperature of this confrontation. Will it be worth filming? Will it turn physical? Will there be hair pulling and face slapping? I hope not, for Casey's sake, because Section 23 may have lied to me and manipulated me, but they also molded me into quite a tough little cookie.

Casey puts her hands together. I brace myself, ready to block a sudden slap. She starts applauding. Kelly and Nola join in. There's a smattering of applause from the onlookers.

“Great performance. Totally bought it. I trusted you. I thought we were friends.”

Now I'm really confused. There was a brief moment, back when I was Brian Spool's unquestioning puppet, when I cunningly infiltrated Casey, Kelly, and Nola's airtight friendship. For a moment, I breathed the same rarefied peach-scented air as these slim, pretty girls. But
they were smarter than I thought and they saw through me. They smelled a rat where Bridget Wilder was concerned. They never fully froze me out, though. They nod hello at me from time to time. But friends, Casey?

She thrusts her phone in my face. Like, right in my face. Screen against nose. The same way Big Bow Valkyrie confronted me yesterday.

I step back a few inches. The phone continues to hover close.

“What?” I finally say. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Kelly's applause grows more vigorous. “Stop!” she cries. “Enough! There's no more awards.”

“How about a Phony?” says Nola. “Like a Tony, but for someone who's completely fake.”

Not bad. I give her an impressed look and return my attention to the phone held tightly in Casey's hand. I see an Instagram party invitation. A party invitation for an awesome event three nights from now. A party that's going to be so stellar and packed with excitement and magic it will ruin the lives of anyone who does not attend. A party that will make the parties of anyone unlucky enough to be throwing similar events on the same night look shameful and embarrassing. A party thrown by . . . wait a minute . . . unless there's another Bridget
Wilder attending Reindeer Crescent Middle School, this insanely opulent and extravagant party seems like it's being thrown by me.

“But . . . I'm not having a party.” I gulp. “I didn't write this.”

Kelly starts applauding again.

“Stop clapping,” I yell. “This wasn't me. I'm not . . .”

“Not trying to get attention by having a pathetic excuse for a party on the same night as Casey's birthday?” says Kelly.

“No!” I yelp. Oh my God, this is just like the Cheerminator accusation.

“It's fine, Bridget,” says Casey, her voice suddenly calm and serene. “Have your party. I hope it's a big success. I hope it is packed with excitement and magic. But why do you have to be mean? Why would you put me down to make yourself look good?”

“But . . . but . . . but,” I splutter. I hear the onlookers immediately start imitating me. Is Brendan Chew in the crowd? Yup. Camera phone capturing every second of my discomfort. Already working up his “butt butt butt” impression.

“Casey.” I sort of want to take her hand to emphasize my sincerity. But I also fear she'd pull it away and demand the nurse sterilize it.

“Casey,” I say again. “I'm not having a party. I've never had a party. I probably will never have a party.”

“You're having a pity party right now,” smirks Nola. Zing.

I ignore her and stay focused on Casey. “And even if, for some reason, I was having a party, why would I for a second consider having it on the same night as yours? Think about it. For one, I would be spending the weeks running up to your birthday hoping that maybe I'd get an invitation.”

“Don't hold your breath. Or do,” sneers Nola.

“Two. I'm mildly liked.”

Casey stares at me, unsure of what I just said.

“You don't throw a party, especially not one with that kind of hype, if you're only mildly liked. You're either a total mystery and are going all out to make a name for yourself or you're deluded about your level of popularity. I'm neither of these things. Some people think I'm okay. Some people find me sort of annoying. Nobody has strong feelings about me either way. I'm mildly liked.”

Casey blinks a few times and jiggles her phone at me. “You didn't do this?”

“Do you really think I did? I mean, really?”

“Then who?” says Casey. She turns to Kelly and Nola. They walk away, deep in fast, whispery, paranoid
conversation. I am forgotten.

Except by the person who's having fun messing with me. Who has the time and malice to weasel their way into my Instagram account? Who wants to see me in a constant state of squirming embarrassment? I glance at the onlookers as they melt away. One of you, perhaps? I watch Brendan Chew mouthing “butt butt butt” to a grinning fellow student. You?

If only I had my Glasses of Truth rather than my normal Glasses of Vision, or my Tic Tac cameras, or my beloved laser lip balm, but Section 23 confiscated most of the gadgets that made me such a powerhouse spy. Am I capable of hunting down my clever tormentor armed with just the power of my own instincts? Maybe. But right now I feel a little bit fragile. That mildly liked thing struck too close to home. (Would it hurt Dale Tookey to send me a single text?) I bet Strike has a souvenir or two from his days as a Section 23 agent. I bet he's got a little stock of gadgets hidden away in that condo of his.

I decide that's as good an excuse as any to head out to Suntop Hills and pay my biological father, the retired spy, a visit.