Dad slept through the movie. Joanna ate three bags of popcorn and then spent the duration of the movie picking kernels out of her teeth. Natalie tried to turn off her phone out of courtesy to other moviegoers but texts from her many, many friends kept flooding in and she felt it would be rude to ignore them. Dad didn’t turn his phone off, either. It woke him twenty minutes before the climactic dance-off, which I never got to see because the call was from Ryan. We had to pick him up from the police station. (He had nothing to do with throwing eggs at a bus filled with nuns. It was the people he was with. Right.) The evening ended with me sitting in the back of the Jeep Compass squished between Natalie and Ryan, who was talking about his regular visits to the holding cell in Reindeer Crescent’s police precinct.
“You’re taking a man’s freedom away, that’s a tough pill to swallow,” reflected Ryan of his forty-seven minutes of incarceration. “But they’re just walls, walls and bars. They can’t cage the kid’s soul.”
Natalie stopped replying to the newest batch of texts. “I’m going to start writing to prisoners,” she announced.
“You’re not,” said Dad.
“They need to know someone cares,” she said.
“What if you started writing to a serial killer who likes wearing little girls’ skins?” Ryan laughed. “What if you invited him over for Thanksgiving?”
“He’s not coming for Thanksgiving,” said Dad. “We’ve already got Grandma Jean to deal with.”
“I’m going to write to prisoners, I don’t care what you think,” said Natalie. “Everyone needs to know there’s someone out there who’s listening to them.”
“Thanks for coming out for my birthday,” I said.
Ryan kept laughing at Natalie, who kept arguing with him and Dad. Joanna kept digging for buried kernels. I don’t think anybody heard me.
Meanwhile, no one took responsibility for the birthday bag. Outside my immediate family, my prime suspect was Joanna. She’s never said or done anything nice for anyone. Not even me and I’m her best-slash-only friend. But what if she had hidden depths? What if there was a sweet, nice, warm, generous person hiding deep inside her, desperate to come out but scared of how she’d be received? So, a couple of days after the Birthday That Never Was, while we were walking to school, I waited for Joanna to take a breath between I-hates and tentatively asked the question.
“Did you . . . leave something outside my front door?”
Joanna responded with one of her What are you, a moron? squints. “Yeah,” she replied, oozing fake sincerity. “I left a baby in a box. I want the Wilders to bring it up as their own. ’Cause they did such a stellar job with you.”
I returned her squint with a stare of disbelief. Splotches of red appeared on Joanna’s face, indicating she was aware she went a step too far. “I mean . . . ,” she started to say. “I wasn’t . . .”
I let her flounder for a moment. “So that’s a no,” I finally said.
After I crossed Joanna off the list, I was left with distant family members. Uncle Leo and Aunt Anne. Doubtful. They still owe Mom and Dad money. Buying me presents instead of paying back the loan would trigger a huge family rift. Of course, there is another option. It could be one of my bio-parents. I mean, wouldn’t that make sense? The bag was dumped anonymously on the doorstep. It’s a gesture but an impersonal one. Thing is, if I go down that road then I have to think about talking to Mom and Dad about the contents of the bag. Which means a discussion about whether I’m ready to meet the people who gave me away. And the contents of the bag suggest that whoever packed it does not know me at all. So I bury that option.
I let four days of maybes and what-ifs go by. More and more, I feel like the victim of a cruel prank. What did I end up with? A phone that doesn’t work. Lip balm I can’t open. Glasses I can’t see with. Tic Tacs I’ve no interest in sucking. And keys. Useless keys. Oh yeah, and the invite to the sale that’s probably a fake. But who would want to mess with me like this? And then it hits me. Brendan Chew. Of course. Obviously. If he gets laughs with Midget Wilder, what’s he going to get with this goody-bag prank? But how far would he really go to embarrass me? I sit down at the computer and Google search IMAGE UNLTD’s Reindeer Crescent store. It has a very fancy-looking site with music and videos and pictures of crazy-expensive dresses and tops. Brendan Chew put in a lot of work to make me look stupid, I think. I call the number on the site. “Hello, Image Unlimited, how may I help you?” breathes a female voice on the other end. I hang up. Weird. It’s a real store. Or it’s an incredibly complex prank. Either way, I need answers.
I hop off the bus at Reindeer Crescent’s single-story mall and walk inside the shopping center with as much confidence as I can muster. I see midafternoon shoppers milling around the Gap. Women come out of the brow-shaping salon. A boy and girl walk hand-in-hand into the Pretzel Choice. What I don’t see is IMAGE UNLTD.
Then I spot it. Nestling between Aéropostale and Forever 21. The one shop in the mall that’s not trying to draw attention to itself. The window is all black except for the silver letters I and U. I can already tell this is not the kind of place where I’ll feel comfortable. (I tend to like shops that are drawing attention to themselves.) But I’ve come this far. So I walk up to the tinted-black door and give it a push. Bright white light spills out. I take another cautious step inside. The whiteness seems to stretch out forever. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. There are clothes on display and a few other customers. But the whiteness swallows everything else up. I feel like I’m in heaven. That feeling does not go away as a girl wafts toward me. A very tall girl. A very tall, very, very beautiful girl who might be in her late teens or early twenties and who is smiling at me like I’m a long-lost relative.
“Hi,” she says, sounding genuinely excited. “I’m Xan. With an X.” I would have replied that I’m Bridget with a B but strangely, right at this particular second, I can’t seem to remember my name. It’s a combination of the whiteness and the Xan. Instead, I brandish the invitation that has been folded over many times and still bears the clammy warmth of being clutched in my hand. Xan with an X takes the invitation, glances at it, and then smiles at me. The light radiating from her insane veneers suddenly makes the rest of the store look like the inside of an old shoe. “Oh my God, Bridget,” she says. “I’ve got something that is so right for you. It’ll change your life. Do you trust me?”
I want to say Trust you? I don’t even know you, but once again, close proximity to Xan with an X seems to have robbed me of my power of speech. She slips an arm through mine and guides me across the whiteness. As I trot alongside, taking three steps to her one, she plucks items from the white walls. The deep red of her long sharp fingernails stands out in stark contrast to the surrounding whiteness. I follow her to the far end of the store, where she points me to a changing room. “Let me know when you’re ready,” Xan says, handing me the clothes she’s picked out. “I can’t wait to see how these look on you.”
“Um . . . I’m not sure I can afford all this,” I say as the door begins to close.
“It’s a special promotion,” Xan replies. “And you’re a special customer.”
No one’s ever called me special before. At least not in the positive way she’s saying it.
“So does that mean it’s . . .”
“Our gift to you.”
And then I’m alone in the spacious white changing room. That’s when I see the outfit Xan with an X thinks is so me. It’s a black tracksuit. Black with gold stripes. Much like the ones I wear seven days out of any given week. I’m disappointed. It’s not that I really believed Xan had seen me through different eyes or that she was going to remake me in her own blindingly beautiful image. (Except I did. That’s exactly what I believed. I don’t need Brendan Chew to make me feel stupid. Not when I’m so good at it.) Shut up, I tell myself. You got a free tracksuit. There’s a knock on the door. It opens a crack. “My eyes are closed,” Xan singsongs. “I just wanted you to try these on. They’re so you. If
you like them, consider them part of the gift.” Xan slides a shoe box into the changing room. I open it. Sneakers. Black-and-gold-striped sneakers. Much like the ones I wear seven days out of every given week. Shut up, I tell myself. Free sneakers.
“If you need any help I’m right out here,” Xan calls.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“I can’t wait to see you. I’m so, so excited!”
Now, I know it’s Xan with an X’s job to say things like that and, years from now, I can totally imagine Natalie working in a place like this and saying the exact same sort of thing, but it’s been a long time since anyone said they were excited to see me.
So I change into my new black-and-gold tracksuit. It feels fantastic, warm and luxurious. I get actual tingles running up and down my arms and legs as I put it on. Zipping the jacket, I get the strangest sensation, as if the whole suit is molding itself to my body. Which is to say, it feels nothing like the slobby suits I generally slob around in. I squeeze out of my old beat-up Pumas and into the fresh pair. I feel like I’m walking on a cloud. I look at myself in the changing room mirror. Ordinary-looking girl. Five foot four. Little on the pale side. Dark eyes, almost black. Due a haircut. You could park an SUV in the gap between her teeth. But black and gold might be her colors. That girl in the mirror is smiling.
“Knock knock,” sings out Xan.
I open the changing room door. Xan’s smile almost gives me sunstroke.
“Oh, Bridget,” she breathes. “You look so . . .” She can’t complete the sentence. She flaps her hands at her eyes.
“That bad, huh?” I joke. But even though I know she’s exaggerating for effect, I feel like I look okay.
“Don’t change,” she says. “Wear them home. Get used to them. Get used to the new you.”
As with every other command she’s given me during my time in IMAGE UNLTD, I do exactly what she says.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Young Gazelle
As I walk away from the mall and head toward the bus stop, I look at my black-and-gold-clad self in every store window I pass. I like what I see. I like it so much I wish there was someone here to confirm that I look as good as I think I do. And then there’s Dale Tookey! Literally at the exact moment I thought that, he came skittering out of a doughnut store a few yards away from me, clutching a paper bag. Things are turning around for Bridget Wilder. Should I act like I don’t see him? Because that’s worked so well for me in the past. No. Not this time. Not this so-called Midget. I smile straight at him. That’s right, Dale Tookey, this black-and-gold girl is smiling back at you. So what are you gonna do? Are you gonna step up or are you . . . ?
No! He’s turning away! He’s looking over his shoulder. Like he’s deliberately trying to ignore me.
And now he’s running straight past me! Without even looking in my direction. I stare after him, stunned.
I’m so stupid! I knew he never smiled at me. But I’m at my least grotesque ever right now. Why would he run right past me? What would make him do that?
“Doom Patrol!”
I whip around and see why Dale ran. The four guys who hassled him outside the fro-yo place are hot on his trail. For a second, I’m happy and relieved. It wasn’t me he was running from. Then I remember his face after the Doom Patrol got through with him. I don’t want him to suffer through that again. But, by the evil grins on the stubbly faces of the four thugs who charge past me, I’ve got a sinking feeling they’ve singled him out for special attention. They’re not putting any effort in their pursuit, either. They’re not running. Just shadowing him, staying close enough to intimidate him with their continued presence so they can extract maximum amusement from his misery. They’re doing that “Doom Patrol!” chant over and over, getting louder and louder. I need to do something this time. But what? I take a hesitant step in their direction and . . .
I’m running!
I mean, I’m not running. But I am. It’s like I’m not in control. I look down and my legs are flying with the speed and grace of a young gazelle. (Young Gazelle could be my alter-ego name!) My black-and-gold sneakers are moving so fast they’re a blur beneath me. My arms slice back and forward, propelling me ever faster. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like I’m in the passenger seat of a car and I don’t know who’s driving. I just know they like to go really, really fast. Within seconds, I’m bearing down on a Doom Patrol member. Something’s happening. I’m on the balls of my feet. My hips start to sink toward the ground. And then . . . I jump!
I’ve gone out of my way to never be in a position where I have to do things like jump in front of people. But no one’s told whatever has control of me because my feet have definitely left the ground.
Two things happen as I soar through the air.
1.I make a noise that sounds like Eeeeeeee.
2.I land smoothly and accurately with one foot on either shoulder of the shortest Doom Patrol member.
I gasp for breath but the Eeeee continues. It’s not me. It’s the boy beneath my black-and-gold sneakers. He’s screaming in shock and fear. I feel him sway beneath me. His knees start to buckle.
“Sorry,” I start to say. Then it’s Eeeee again and this time it’s definitely me because I feel my hips sinking. Just as the Doom Patrol dude crumples, whimpering, to the ground, I shoot off his shoulders and . . . Eeeee . . . I somersault straight over the heads of the other three.
I’m now midway through a three-hundred-and-sixty degree flip and, as I rotate through the air, I think, I am the girl who doesn’t get picked for teams. I stay on the bench. I’ve used the same please-excuse-Bridget-from-gym-class note for eight months. The gym teacher always looks at it like it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. Or me.
And yet . . .
I land perfectly in front of the three Doom Patrol guys. Wow, they’re ugly, I think. Wow, they’re big. Wow, my stomach is churning. One of them is wearing dark glasses. I sneak a peek at my reflection. As I feared. Hair wild. Face scarlet. Glasses all over the place. So much for my big moment of looking good. While I’m checking myself out in the guy’s lenses, I see Dale standing behind me. The three Doom Guys recover from their surprise. They go to shove past me but I stop them. When I say I stop them, that is not accurate. My arms spread. I do not spread them. The Doom Guys start laughing.
“Your bodyguard’s a beast,” one of them jeers over my shoulder.
“How much you pay her?” mocks another.
“I don’t even know her,” I hear Dale shout back. Not really what I want to hear.
The three Doom Guys stop laughing and give me cold hard stares designed to strike fear into my heart. It works.
“Move. Now,” one of them growls.
I move. Or rather my foot does. My right foot. It spins me halfway around and then yanks me back and as I’m being yanked back, it does this wide, sweeping one-hundred-and-eighty-degree kick. The three Doom Guys rear back. They look at me in shock. Then they look at the ground. Where their baseball hats sit faceup. Yep, please excuse Bridget Wilder from gym class just flew through the air. Again.
The most vocal Doom Guy fixes me with his meanest stare. “You don’t want to get into this with us, little girl,” he says.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I don’t.”
“I don’t even know her,” repeats Dale Tookey from behind me.
“You know a few cute tricks,” growls the lead Doom Guy. “But you push us one more time and we push back. You won’t be so cute once we’re done with you.”
I’m tempted to thank the Doom Guy for calling me cute but my arms have other ideas. They have decided to spread out again. My right knee raises in the air, higher than I’m comfortable with. I feel like I’m going to topple over. But I don’t. My right foot extends slightly. It circles the air. The three Doom Guys stare at my right foot like it’s a snake waiting to strike. Wait, is this my fighting stance? I’ve seen enough of Ryan’s rip-their-heads-off video games to recognize an unbeatable fighting stance and appa
rently this is mine. I might call it Gazelle Stance. The Doom Guys try to maintain their mean, intimidating looks but they also begin to back away. Slowly. One inch at a time. They point threatening fingers both directly at me and over my shoulder. Forced into a humiliating retreat by the Young Gazelle.
Once they’ve gone, I turn around to face Dale Tookey.
“You dropped your doughnuts” is the first thing I say. It’s true. His paper bag is on the ground by his feet.
“I don’t even know . . . ,” he begins to say.
“You do so,” I snap back at him. It’s like he’d rather have been beaten to a bloody pulp than admit knowing me. “You might not know my name. But you’ve seen me. We have a bunch of classes together. You’ve seen me hundreds of times. You smiled at me.”
That last bit slipped out by accident.
He looks annoyed. At me! “Well,” he says, “I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t ask you to help me.”
Of all the unbelievable things that just happened, this boy’s ingratitude is maybe the most unbelievable.
“It’ll never happen again,” I assure him.
“I don’t care,” he says.
He starts to walk away.
“You’re just going to leave your doughnuts lying there?” I call after him.
Spy-in-Training Page 3
