Bridget Wilder #3

by Jonathan Bernstein

  The friend in me freezes. This is too far over the line. You shouldn’t look inside. You wouldn’t like it if someone invaded your privacy like this.

  The spy in me ignores the friend. If you were missing, you would want someone you trusted, someone you knew was amazing, to do anything she could do to find clues that could bring you home. So shut up!

  I open the journal and see a page filled with scratches. I stare for a second before I realize what I’m looking at. Four vertical slashes with a fifth diagonal slash through them. Repeated over and over. I turn the page. More vertical scratches with inky slashes through them. And the next page. And the next. This is how prisoners marked the passing days of their incarceration. I continue flipping through the pages, looking at the same slashes, and feeling just how unhappy Jamie must have been for these past four years.

  I hear a knock on the door. I throw the journal back in the top drawer of the dresser.

  “Hey, lady,” said FLB. “Let’s talk about what we’re going to wear.”

  Wear? Wear where? I need time alone to look for clues.

  “Just a minute,” I call out.

  Jocelyn Brennan opens the door and enters with her smile on full blast. “Remember, we’re celebrating America’s families so we’ve got to make everyone feel comfortable and welcome. No showing off our fancy stuff.” She opens Jamie’s closet door and begins looking through the racks and shelves of clothes.

  “Yeah, um, about that,” I mumble. “I don’t feel so good. My head hurts. Maybe I’ll just stay in my room.”

  I see Jocelyn Brennan deflate in front of my eyes. She regards me with huge sad eyes.

  “Jamie.” She sighs. “I thought we were past this. I thought I had my daughter back. The last few days you were so happy and confident.”

  FLB comes up close to me and takes my hand. “I know having Bridget around took the pressure off you, but let me tell you something. I’ve spent time with Bridget Wilder, and she doesn’t hold a candle to you. That mask she wore may have fooled the masses, but I always knew they were getting a second-rate version of Jamie Brennan.”

  What is it with moms and their amazing ability to make me feel bad about myself?

  She reaches out to touch my wig. “You can’t fake class,” she said.

  You’d know, I think but do not say.

  I push her hand away, partly because I don’t want her touching the wig, and partly because, even though I know she’s only trying to boost her daughter’s fragile ego, being around her is making me annoyed and uncomfortable.

  The first lady takes a step back and raises her palms in surrender. “Sorry I tried to get close to you. I’ll know better in the future. Wear the green dress, it brings out your eyes. I’ll expect you to be ready at seven tonight.”

  So, three hours later, having discovered exactly zero clues as to Jamie’s location, here I am in the beautiful Rose Garden, smiling, shaking hands, trying to be normal, approachable, and not say anything horribly inappropriate. During a quick interlude between greeting guests, my personal phone vibrates. It’s a text asking me if I need help with my math homework. I know I shouldn’t click on it, but, of course, I do. Adam Pacific’s smug face fills the screen. Behind him, L4E stand on a stage, gathered around a couple of microphones, rehearsing their harmonies. I let out a moan of pain.

  “Jamie, I won’t ask you again,” says the first lady. “Put your phone away. Every time one of the press people sees you staring at it, there’s another story undermining the Say Hello campaign.”

  With an effort, I pull my eyes away from the screen. Where was that filmed? The boys are supposed to be playing an arena in São Paulo today.

  “Jamie, pay attention. The Meehan family from Covington County are approaching. They lost their home in a tornado.”

  “They should move in here,” I say. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “Keep your voice down,” FLB retorts, her smile wide, but her eyes panicked. “That’s exactly the sort of thing the press seizes onto.”

  Jocelyn stops berating me and greets the unfortunate Meehan family with warmth and sympathy.

  “We’re so pleased that you could come,” she says. “You’re what Celebrate America’s Families is all about.”

  “Blown away to meet you” is how I greet the Meehan family patriarch. He gives me a did I just hear right? look. I can’t believe I just said that. I don’t know where it came from—maybe there was a file marked Worst Possible Things to Say to Someone Who Lost Their Home in a Tornado buried deep in my subconscious? I can feel the first lady’s eyes boring holes of disbelief and horror into my skull.

  I look out at the sea of tables with their exquisitely arranged centerpieces, and the families sitting around them pecking at their chicken dinners. White families, black families, Asian families, Latino families, gay families, single-parent families, blended families, all sorts of families mingle under the crabapple trees, their presence in the White House Rose Garden meant to prove to the nation that the Brennans are a normal, everyday family just like you or your neighbors. Except the Brennans have a spy masquerading as their daughter.

  Just get through this, I tell myself. Jamie will show up soon.

  “Do your dance,” demands a middle-aged woman who has appeared in front of me and is brandishing her phone inches from my nose. “Thank you so much for coming,” I say robotically, “and celebrating America’s families with my family.”

  A Secret Service agent swiftly escorts the woman out of the garden. Jamie’s prediction was right: my viral success has turned her into a dancing monkey, but I still wish she were here suffering rather than me.

  The president, who had been occupied in the Oval Office rehearsing for his televised debate later tonight, joins us in line greeting the families selected to attend this event.

  “You know you’re doing great, right?” he whispers in my ear. “Picture perfect. America’s favorite daughter.”

  I tell him my tornado blunder.

  He lets out a hoot of laughter. “One time? I was introduced to the crown prince of Denmark. He asked me what I thought of his country.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Great, Dane!” He grins. “It just popped out.”

  “How did you get elected?” I laugh.

  “Not a day goes by I don’t ask myself that,” says the president.

  I feel a hand touch my arm. “Jamie,” the first lady says. “There are some people here I think you’ll want to meet.”

  I give the president a little wink. “Watch me make this next bunch fall in love with me,” I tell him. I plaster on a smile every bit as wide and dazzling as Jocelyn Brennan’s. I widen my eyes the way she does, and I turn to find myself looking at my mother.

  “This is Nancy Wilder,” says Mrs. Brennan. “From Reindeer Crescent. She’s . . .”

  “I’m Natalie’s mom,” she says. “We spoke on the phone.”

  I’m too surprised to form words. FLB beams at my distress. “I have my secret little ways. Surprised?”

  All I can do is nod. The president takes my mother’s hand and says, “We’re happy to be sharing this celebration with you,” as my father walks toward me. He gives me a quick, shy smile.

  “Nice to meet you,” he mumbles. Dad looks awkward and out of place. I know how he feels.

  “They tell me you’re the best manager in Pottery Barn,” I say, trying to make him feel included.

  He looks stunned. “Really?”

  I hear a burst of mocking laughter. Ryan. “No, not really, Dad,” cackles my brother. “She has to say something.”

  “I hear awesome things about you.” I smile sweetly at Ryan, who has shown up for his big night at the White House wearing a Lucha Underground T-shirt, and has a half-eaten burrito shoved in his jacket pocket. (Good God, Mom, you let him out the house looking like that?) “They say you’re the funniest guy in Reindeer Crescent.”

  “Really?” marvels Ryan.

  “No, not really.” I smirk. (Ha.)<
br />
  Ryan examines me through narrowed eyes. He knows something’s not quite right here. I want to send him some kind of signal that it’s me. I want to get him alone and find out what my entire family is doing here. Pretending to be Jamie, looking for clues about her disappearance, and now finding the Wilders in the White House is freaking me out.

  Natalie pushes him away and takes both my hands. “I can’t believe we get to meet again. It’s so great of the first lady to do this. The worldwide views on YouTube? Bananas! I’ve been on TV! If your dad gets elected, we should come up with a victory dance.”

  “That’ll be my motivation,” laughs the president, who greets Natalie with a warm hug.

  “And this is Natalie’s sister,” I think I hear Mrs. Brennan say. But that can’t be right. I’m Natalie’s sister. Did I just say I was freaking out? That was before someone very familiar reached out to shake my hand.

  “Hello, I’m Bridget Wilder,” says a girl who has my face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Me Two

  “I know you met my little sister and talked to my mother, but we’ve never had a chance to meet,” says the girl with my face, wearing my clothes and my glasses, standing in line with my family, in my voice. “Imagine how shocked I was when I heard your mother was going to fly my whole family out here? On a private plane! What an amazing surprise!”

  Reporters are everywhere. There are TV crews filming the Celebrate America’s Families event. Actual American families are lined up in the Rose Garden waiting for their turn to meet the first family. I cannot cause a scene or act like anything out of the ordinary is happening.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I say in a mild, polite voice. “And celebrating America’s families with my family.”

  “Thank you,” I see my face reply. “I’m very close with my family, so I love that we all get to share this amazing experience together. And then we all get to go home together.”

  Did I just see the corner of my mouth turn up? Did I see a mocking glint in my eyes? Whoever I’m looking at is sending me a message. I’m a bomb planted inside your family, and you don’t know when I’m going to go off.

  To my left, Mrs. Brennan is making polite conversation with a family who are all wearing gigantic Stetson hats. To my right, the president is actually talking to Ryan about his favorite luchadores. At this particular second, no one is paying any attention to me.

  If I’m going to deal with this threat, I have to act now.

  “You’re hungry?” I say. “I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that.”

  The girl with my face looks confused.

  “I didn’t . . . ,” she starts to say.

  Moving like lightning, I snatch the burrito out of Ryan’s jacket pocket and jam it straight into my clone’s open mouth.

  I see my face go red. I see myself double up. I spin the girl around, wrap my arms around her waist, and give her a sharp squeeze. The half-eaten burrito shoots out of her mouth. The girl gasps for breath. I turn to the shocked Brennans.

  “She wolfed it down,” I explain. “It was like she’d never seen food before.”

  My parents look shocked. Natalie looks embarrassed. Ryan chews on his lower lip as if he has a vague idea something in this scenario is not quite as it should be.

  “Oh, Bridget,” sighs my mother. She starts to make her way to the still-gasping girl.

  “Please, Mrs. Wilder,” I sing out. “Stay where you are. Enjoy the party. Let me help get Bridget cleaned up.”

  Mom looks at me like I’m an angel newly descended from heaven, and the girl with my face is something that should be kept in a cage.

  “Come on, Bridget Wilder,” I say brightly. “We can get to know each other better.”

  Two Secret Service agents follow behind me as I drag the coughing, spluttering girl up some steps and into the West Wing.

  I keep an arm tight around her waist and hold on to her hand as I guide her toward the nearest restroom. She tries to pull away from me.

  “Make a move and those Secret Service dudes will rip you up into little pieces,” I warn her.

  “They can try,” coughs the girl with my face. “But if anyone knows what a formidable opponent I can be, it’s you, peanut.”

  Vanessa?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Face 2 Face

  Vanessa Dominion. My nemesis. My mortal enemy. My nightmare. The daughter of the evil ex-leader of the Forties. The cold-blooded chameleon who pretended to be Ryan’s weird girlfriend, Abby. The snobby, English-accented brat who messed with my middle school reputation, hung me from a meat locker hook, and, on more than one occasion, shoved a gun in my face with intent to kill. That Vanessa Dominion. Back nestling like a viper inside my family and wearing my face!

  I kick open the restroom door and shove her inside. She goes flailing across the black-and-white tiled floor, but manages to steady herself before hitting the nearest sink. I see the superior smirk forming across my face. I see my hand on my hip. That girl may look like me, but that is not Bridget Wilder.

  The sight of her incenses me. I feel my phone vibrate again. I can’t decide who I hate more at this moment, Vanessa Dominion or Adam Pacific. No, wait, I can. It’s Vanessa. I raise my hands, ready for a fight.

  “Fists down, First Daughter,” says Vanessa as she leans back against the sink. “Nanomasks don’t grow on trees.”

  “Take yours off,” I command her. “I can’t bear to look at it a second more.”

  “Imagine how I feel.” She shudders. “Talk about a face only a mother could love. Except she’s not that hot on you right now.”

  “Take it off!” I yell. My voice echoes around the restroom.

  “Everything okay in there?” says a Secret Service agent from outside.

  “Shh,” whispers Vanessa. She makes a beckoning motion. I walk toward her. Do I trust her? Not a fake hair on her fake head, but I beat her before and I’ll do it again.

  “Count of three, we both de-mask and de-wig,” she says.

  We touch fingers under our chins. Both our faces vanish and turn to static. Both plastic circles fall away, revealing our true faces underneath. I breathe a sigh of relief to be free of Jamie’s face, but my relief vanishes at the sight of Vanessa’s porcelain complexion and shiny blond hair.

  “You shouldn’t have assaulted me with that burrito,” she says, her annoyingly perfect English intonation replacing my somewhat high-pitched voice. “But I am also guilty of relishing the element of surprise a few moments too long. I underreacted and you overreacted. Call it even.”

  Why is this would-be assassin chatting casually to me like we’re old friends?

  “Who are you working for?” I demand. “If you’ve done anything to my family, if you’ve hurt Ryan . . .”

  Vanessa shushes me again. “Stop barking like a demented seal and I’ll endeavor to explain. My being here and wearing that Halloween mask you call a face was almost as much of a surprise to me as you. I didn’t think I was ready, but when the first lady decided to fly the whole Wilder clan to DC, Mr. Strike had no option but to . . .”

  “Wait, stop. Shut up.” My head is spinning. “Mr. Strike? As in . . .”

  Vanessa luxuriates in my ignorance. She could not look more smug or more satisfied.

  I actually stamp my foot in frustration.

  “Calm down.” She laughs, which infuriates me further. “After my capture, Agent Strike came to see me at the CIA facility where I was being held and offered me the chance to redeem myself.”

  “He what?” I’ve talked to him ten, twenty, hundreds of times since we defeated the Dominions in New York. Not a word about redeeming Vanessa Dominion. Not. A. Word.

  “He told me there may be a future in the Forties for someone with my skills. But he needed to believe that I could be capable of change. He wanted to be sure I was trustworthy. He suggested I make amends to those I hurt.”

  I feel my phone vibrate again. Adam Pacific. Another lost soul saved by the kindhearted
Carter Strike.

  “So that’s what I’m doing here,” Vanessa goes on. “Being nice to the Wilders. Being friendly to Ryan. Being of use. I don’t know why Agent Strike wouldn’t have given you advance warning, though.”

  I don’t buy it. Not for a second. Nobody changes that much. My phone vibrates AGAIN! I decide to take out my mounting anger on Adam Pacific. I pull out my phone.

  The caller is my not-ever-really-a-boyfriend, D——— T————.

  The previous seventeen missed calls were also from him.

  I click accept.

  “Hello?” I breathe.

  “Bridget?” says Dale Tookey. He sounds breathless and scared. “I think you’re being set up for the kidnapping of Jamie Brennan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Desperate Measures

  The connection is terrible. Dale’s voice fades in and out. “The CIA shut down the Forties,” I think I hear him say. “Strike and Irina are in the box. They’re sharing intel with the Secret Service and . . .”

  “Stop, stop,” I beg him. “Slow down. Back up. What’s this about? Where are you? And . . . what sort of box?”

  “They’re being interrogated. They’ll overpower their interrogators and escape, which will mean a nationwide manhunt.”

  “Why? What did they do? I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  Vanessa leans toward me, shooting me a quizzical look. I turn my back on her, which, I immediately realize, is a dumb thing to do. I turn back around. She goes to the mirror and pats her perfect hair into place.

  Through the crackling line, I hear Dale’s voice. “I don’t have a ton of time. I’m bouncing this line off a disguised satellite, but the longer I talk to you, the more chance there is of someone hearing me.”