The officer is kind enough to wait for me to gather my emotions. This is a mistake on his part because, as I reached into my pocket, I also pulled out Klee’s vial. I pop the lid and yell, “You’re free, you monster, now attack!”
Nothing happens.
I shake the vial, and a dead fly falls to the ground.
“Klee!” I howl in frustration.
“Get in the car,” growls the officer. He takes a step toward me and then freezes to the spot. His face reddens, and he lets out a scream of pain.
The officer hops up and down on one foot. I stare at him in confusion, and then I realize what just happened. He stood on the dead fly’s transplanted stinger, which, obviously, was long and sharp enough to pierce the leather of his cop shoes. Klee’s reign of terror has claimed its first victim! I’m not sticking around to let him sting anyone else.
“Call nine-one-one,” I yell at Joanna. “That cop’s been stung by a tarantula hawk wasp. He has a one in five chance of survival if treated quickly.”
“One in five?” yells the cop. I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud. He yanks his shoe off and hops to his car to call for assistance.
“What are you going to do?” says Joanna.
“Run!” I shout over my shoulder as I take off toward the school.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VIP
WELCOME FIRST LADY blare the signs and banners decorating the outside of Reindeer Crescent Middle School. A few camera crews, some local news, some national, are lined up outside the front entrance. Breathless from my mad dash to save the day—how fondly I think back to the time I wore nanosneakers and ran like the wind—I slink around behind the school where the food supply truck delivers the fresh slop for the cafeteria. I’m hoping to avoid the black suits, dark glasses, and headphones of the Secret Service agents scoping out the area. After almost getting arrested, I figured I needed to be inconspicuous.
As I make my way toward the kitchen, the door opens and a girl, wearing a white apron and a kitchen worker cap pulled down over her eyes, comes running out. I try to step aside before we collide, but she, of course, steps aside at the exact same moment, and we bang into each other. My forehead makes contact with her cap. I see a pair of panicked eyes.
“Move,” she gasps and shoves past me, pulling the cap back down.
“Rude,” I fire back.
I run into the kitchen and through the empty cafeteria. As I approach the assembly hall, I hear a mass of voices, some shouting, some laughing, some arguing, some yawning. This is a hall filed with bored, impatient middle school kids. The first lady’s visit has not started yet. I’m not too late to save the day.
“She’s here,” crows Brendan Chew, his screechy voice cutting above the drone. “The worst lady!”
Every head in the school auditorium swivels to look my way. I feel my face go red. Grateful for the distraction from the boredom, the student body erupts in cheers. Vice Principal Tom Scattering stomps up to me. “Stop trying to make this about you,” he grumps. “Find a seat and stay out of trouble.”
I exhale loudly to signify my disgust at the unjust way I’m being treated. Then I squeeze past the long, sprawling legs of three sixth-grade guys who don’t even move to let me past, and sit down in the one empty chair in the middle of the second-to-last row.
I look around for signs of T-shirt. Four rows ahead of me, I see the soccer guys sitting with Casey, Kelly, and Nola. I do not see their teammate, Marlon Moats. My phone dings. A text with a photo attached. Please don’t be from Adam Pacific. It’s from Adam Pacific. It reads “Another boring day.” Don’t click on the picture. I click on the picture. Pacific riding a water scooter in what looks like Hawaii with Cadzo and Kecks. I let out a loud groan.
Our principal, Mr. Piedmont, walks onto the auditorium stage. A mass of boos greets him. He is visibly nervous, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his glistening forehead. Gradually, the noise lessens.
“It is my pleasure to introduce to you,” booms Piedmont. “That she made the time in her busy schedule to single out Reindeer Crescent. Not only an honor, but an opportunity to learn and be inspired by a public figure with not only a conscience but also a conscience.”
Laughter fills the auditorium. Piedmont blinks in confusion. There is no connection between his brain and the words that are flopping out of his mouth. I glance at the auditorium exit, where Tom Scattering is doing a poor job at hiding his embarrassment. Piedmont attempts to wind up his incredible introduction. “And so without further ado, let me thank her for her time and dedication, the president of . . . the first lady of the United States of America, Mrs. Jocelyn Brennan.”
Two Secret Service agents stand on both ends of the stage. At the same moment, a blinding light fills the auditorium, causing the assembled students to utter a collective gasp. That blinding light is the combination of confidence, friendliness, and charisma exuded by Jocelyn Brennan. She has a lot of blond hair, a lot of white teeth, and only two eyes, but they’re big enough to make even the slobby sixth graders who wouldn’t move their legs to let me past feel as if she were gazing straight at them. Even though I can’t look away from her, I am aware of those three slobs sitting up a little straighter in their seats.
She’s casually dressed in a blue denim jacket opened to reveal a white sweatshirt emblazoned with the words Say Hello.
Mrs. Brennan lets us drink her in, then she raises the microphone to her lips and says, “Hello.”
She lets out a laugh like a gurgling stream, as if she’s just said the funniest thing in the world. The three sixth-grade slobs laugh and clap, and not in a mean way. The first lady won them over with just one word.
“First, I want to thank Principal Piedmont for letting me come visit your beautiful school. I only wish my daughter, Jamie, could have been here today, but, poor thing, she’s a little under the weather. I’ll tell her y’all said hello, though.”
Massive applause erupts from the student body. Jocelyn Brennan knows how to stay on message. Addressing us in her Texan twang, she continues. “I guess Jamie’s heard my little talk about a hundred times too many.” She impersonates a sullen teen voice. “‘I get it, Mom. I spend too long on the phone.’ How many times have y’all heard that one? But I’m not talking about the cost of the calls you make. I’m here today to talk about another kind of cost. A human cost. Let me bring out someone you probably all know. A student here at Reindeer Crescent and someone that I’m excited to get to know. Say hello to Natalie Wilder.”
I feel a swell of pride. My little sister, who has maybe never looked prettier, steps out on stage, smiling shyly but clearly relishing every moment.
At this point, I’m not really listening to what’s being said. We all get the idea: stop living your life through apps and Instagram. I’m just watching Natalie interact with the first lady, charming, confident, and completely unfazed. I’m so wrapped up with what’s happening on the stage that I fail to notice Marlon Moats is now sitting with the rest of his soccer teammates.
How did I miss that? When did that happen?
I move my focus from the stage to the back of Moats’s head. He will not make a move that I will not see. I will be ready for him.
Mrs. Brennan talks to Natalie some more and then closes with some stuff about us being the next generation of leaders, and blah-blah-blah. Piedmont gestures needlessly for us to show our appreciation. Every student is up on their feet applauding. I keep my eyes trained on T-shirt, ready for him to make his move.
The applause continues. Mrs. Brennan hugs Natalie and gets my sister to put her number in the first lady’s phone.
I smell flowers and, sure enough, Vice Principal Tom Scattering is walking up the aisle toward the stage, clutching a bouquet of red roses.
I look back at T-shirt. He stops applauding, reaches across his row, and hands Nola Milligan a single red rose. I didn’t see Marlon enter the assembly hall. I didn’t see where Veep Scattering got the bouquet. My spy senses kick in: Klee’s insec
t resistance protects its own. The suggestion he planted in T-shirt’s mind must have included the command to find someone to take the fall for him.
That bouquet that is making its way ever closer to the stage—to the first lady, and to Natalie—contains a wasp with the lethal stinger of a Japanese giant hornet.
I jump to my feet, and once again those slobs will not move their legs to let me past.
“Mr. Scattering!” I yell. “Drop the bouquet. There’s a mutant wasp/hornet thing inside!”
Applause, cheers, and loud declarations of Hello! echo around the assembly hall. No one hears me.
“Get the first lady off the stage!” I scream.
Again, no one pays attention.
I stumble my way out of my row, hold up my palm, and, with a squeeze, demagnetize Red.
The unleashed nanomarble hurtles toward the vice principal, striking him on the ankle.
Scattering’s leg gives way. He falls to the ground, and, as his arms flail in the air, the bouquet flies from his open hand.
The assembly hall erupts with laughter.
Up on the stage, the Secret Service agents attempt to hustle the first lady out of the nearest exit. I see her gesture for them to step back. With a concerned look on her face, she starts to climb down from the stage. “How could I leave without saying hello to my beautiful bouquet?” she asks us.
Mrs. Brennan’s graciousness sends the students into an even louder frenzy of applause.
Her life is literally in my hands at this moment.
I run to the back of the assembly hall, detach the fire extinguisher, and charge toward the stage.
“Stop right there,” snarls a Secret Service agent, putting himself in front of me. I lower the fire extinguisher and raise my hand. I squeeze my ring, and Red bounces off his forehead, knocking him on his back. I grab the fire extinguisher, hop over the Secret Service agent’s body, and head for the stage.
As I run, I discharge the extinguisher, and a huge white jet of foam sprays out in front of me.
Just as the first lady reaches to pick up the fallen bouquet, the foam hits her full in the face.
Mission accomplished! It’s only when I try to switch off the fire extinguisher that I realize two things:
1.Everyone is staring at me in shock, disbelief, and, in some cases, open hatred.
2.I do not know how to shut the fire extinguisher off.
White jets of foam splatter onto the dark suits of the Secret Service agents, who charge off the stage toward me. Principal Piedmont slips on the foam and flaps around on the floor like a goldfish dumped out of its bowl.
I let the fire extinguisher fall to the ground. I glance at the enraged faces of my fellow students. For a second, I catch a glimpse of Brendan Chew. He is seething with jealousy. Just before the Secret Service agents reach me, I look back at the stage. Natalie stands alone, staring straight at me. She is furious.
I feel the hands of the Secret Service around my arms. They walk me out of the assembly hall. I stare straight ahead, ignoring the glares of my fellow students. A breathless Joanna enters the hall as I am being led out. Our eyes meet.
“Did I miss anything?” she asks.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Consequences
I got suspended from school for a week. Mom and Dad had to come to Principal Piedmont’s office and collect me. It wasn’t a great meeting. The principal read out the list of my alleged crimes. “Assaulting a dentist, wounding a police officer’s foot and avoiding arrest, knocking over a Secret Service agent, and dousing the first lady of the United States in foam.”
“Yeah, okay, when you put it like that, it sounds bad,” I said.
I heard my dad laugh and, for a second, felt a burst of optimism. Then I saw his face. It wasn’t the right kind of laugh. It was the “I have to laugh because otherwise I might punch a hole in the wall” kind of laugh.
“Is it true, Bridget?” asked Mom, her face pale. “Everything he said?”
I shifted in my seat. “Yes, but . . . there were reasons . . .”
And that’s when I trailed off and fixated on the floor.
“I thought we talked about your lying,” Mom said.
I obviously wasn’t that good of a liar because there was no way for me to lie my way out of this.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Piedmont,” I heard Mom say. “I’ve always known Bridget was a little bit envious of Natalie. She’s such an accomplished girl. She’s popular, and she gets a lot of attention. The things that come easy to her are harder for Bridget. I understand she gets jealous. But for her to act out like this . . .”
I felt my face burn. “I’m not jealous,” I snapped. “I was trying to save her.”
I heard Dad’s non-laugh again.
“Is that what Carter Strike told you to say?” Mom responded. “Or did that come from Irina?”
“God, Mom,” I said. “Stop saying her name like that. If anyone’s jealous, you are.”
And the meeting went downhill from there.
Neither of them said a word to me on the way home. Natalie hasn’t spoken to me. She won’t even look at me. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. How could I tell her why I ruined her big day? I’d rather she think I was crippled with jealousy than have her find out she was in danger of being paralyzed by the sting of a mutant insect. Ryan actually had my back. “She’s following in my footsteps,” he told our grim-faced parents. “But I wear big shoes. Give her a break.” There was no break to be given. My after-school grounding now became an all-day grounding. No phone. No computer. No contact with the outside world. Not even Joanna. How could I argue with that?
So here I am, lying in bed on the first full day of my week-long banishment from Reindeer Crescent Middle School and my ostracism from the Wilder family. Normally at this time, I would be trying to get into the bathroom after Natalie but before Ryan. (It smells nice after her, less so after him.) Today, there’s no reason to get out of bed.
“Get out of bed,” says Mom. She walks into my room with a tense look on her face.
“Why?” I yawn. “What’s the point?”
“The point is, the director of the Secret Service is downstairs in our living room, and she wants to see you. So get out of bed, get dressed, and get downstairs now.”
Mom hasn’t had her first cup of coffee of the day. She hasn’t washed her face or brushed her hair. She’s flustered, nervous, and mad at me.
“Why?” Am I going to get in trouble for using Red to knock that agent out?
“Do I look like I know why?” Mom barks. “Who knows what other disasters you’ve been responsible for.”
“Mom . . . ,” I start. I want to say something about how this isn’t in any way my fault, but because of the huge teetering mountain of lies I’ve told her to successfully maintain my secret spy life, I’m lost for words.
“Don’t keep the Secret Service waiting,” she says.
A tall woman wearing a tailored gray suit with closely cropped silver hair and thick black glasses stands in the middle of the Wilder living room.
“Adina Roots,” she says as Mom and Dad lead me into the room. The director of the Secret Service gives me a quick up-and-down look, as I’m sure she’s done to many suspects over the years.
“She’s always been a good girl,” says Mom, who looks increasingly nervous. “She’s never been in any trouble.”
“We used to wish she would get in some trouble,” Dad chuckles. Mom shoots him an enraged shut up death-glare.
“She recently came into contact with her biological mother,” says Mom. “I think she might be a bad influence.”
“Mom!” I moan.
“Bridget’s not in any trouble,” says Adina Roots of the Secret Service. “But we need to get a more complete picture of why the events leading to yesterday’s incident occurred. I’d like, with your permission, to interview Bridget about the events leading up to her attack on the first lady. . . .”
“It was so not an attack,” I interrupt
.
“Bridget!” cautions Mom.
“I’d like to evaluate your daughter’s psychological state so we can get a better understanding of what drove her to do what she did, and so we can prevent anything similar occurring in the future.”
I start to get nervous. “What’s happening here?”
“Director Roots,” Dad starts to say. “This seems like an overreaction.”
“We all want what’s best for Bridget, don’t we?” says Roots. “Nobody wants to see her get into any more trouble.”
Mom and Dad look at each other. “What will the evaluation entail?” asks Mom.
“I’d like to bring Bridget into our local office for questioning,” replies Roots.
“Wait, the Secret Service has an office in Reindeer Crescent?” says Dad.
“We’re everywhere,” replies Roots. “I have a car outside. I will take Bridget to the office. One or both of you need to follow in your own vehicle and pick up your daughter at the end of the session, which I do not expect to exceed ninety minutes. Any questions?”
“I’ve got a question,” I pipe up. “How’s the agent I hit in the head? I’d like to apologize to him, if that’s possible.”
“Of course,” says Roots. “Maybe the sound of your voice will wake him from his coma.”
Mom, Dad, and I all gasp in unison.
“He’s quite fine,” the director tells us. “That was Secret Service humor. We’re known for it.”
A Secret Service agent stands by the back passenger door of a black SUV parked outside our house. The agent opens the door as Adina Roots and I approach. I look over my shoulder at Mom, who is climbing into our Jeep Compass.
“It’s okay,” she calls to me. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I give her a half-smile that I hope gets across that I’m scared and I’m sorry she got dragged into my mess, but I’ll be okay. Then I slide into the vehicle.
“Why would your mother throw me under the bus like that?” demands Irina, who is sitting in the back of the car with Strike, pointing to the listening device in her ear.
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