Spy-in-Training

by Jonathan Bernstein

  And then I broke my toe. During my very first lesson. In front of everyone. I tried to impress the teacher and the rest of my class by displaying my prowess en pointe. Did I slip? Did a jealous rival sabotage me? I may never get to the bottom of it. But my future, my ambition, and my dignity all dribbled down the drain that fateful morning. My tutu and shoes were buried in the depths of my closet. Barbie in The Nutcracker got dumped in the trash and, despite entreaties from Mom and Dad, those tickets to the ballet went unused. I hadn’t thought about that in years. But Dad obviously had. Just the idea that he remembered how much ballet once meant to me brings it all back, and I suddenly feel a tremendous burst of regret for walking—limping—away from that one class and not trying again. And now, ironically, I actually am weightless and airborne and graceful. I find myself thinking that maybe Spool could come up with some kind of nanomagic that could make me dance as well as I run and kick. Maybe it’s not too late for me. Misty Copeland didn’t take up ballet till she was thirteen.

  “If it’s not your thing anymore, we can do something else,” Dad says.

  “This is actually unbelievably thoughtful,” I try to say. Except it comes out something like, “This is actually un-un-un-ooo-hoo-hoo,” because of the effort it takes me not to cry.

  “So I did the right thing? You want to go?”

  I start to say, “I can’t wait.” But it comes out, “I can’t woo-woo-woo . . . ,” so I point to the computer and make a gesture intended to suggest that I need to get back to my homework.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he says.

  I don’t go to the computer. I run to my bedroom door and stop Dad before he leaves.

  “Thanks,” I try to say. And then I just give up attempting to form a coherent sentence and hug him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Coup

  I do actually have to get back to my homework. My homework being figuring out how to wiggle my way into Kelly Beach’s life. How do I get her to let down her guard, trust me, confide in me, listen to my wise advice and, most important, allow me to completely manipulate her so that I can successfully carry out my assignment and extract files from her dad’s computer so Section 23 can decide whether or not he’s a national traitor? I click on Facebook. Two friend requests. One from Casey, the other from Nola. From slim, pretty girls who never knew I existed, who I could never imagine wanting to be friends with someone like me. I ignore both requests. Instead, I search for Kelly Beach and friend request her.

  I have a plan. It’s a little bit better thought-out than my spring-Dale-Tookey-from-detention strategy. Here’s how I foresee this one coming together:

  Kelly accepts my request.

  I message her thusly: Boy problems. Help a sista out?

  She responds with a cautious Oh?

  I display no such caution: You got right away that I liked him. I knew you were the perceptive one.

  She doesn’t want to reply too fast. She waits a beat. Then comes back to me: Thank U Bridget! I always knew you were nice. I was the one who told the other 2 we should get to know you. Me.

  Again, I don’t wait: That sounds like you. You’re a really genuine person. She takes a little time to flap her hands at her moistening eyes. Then: Want to Skype?

  We swap Skype addresses. The ringtone chimes over my computer. I click on the green phone and there’s Kelly.

  “Your room’s cute. Are those Christmas lights?”

  I give her the 360-degree spin around my living quarters. She shows me her shoes and her dog. Then she leans in close to the screen. Her blue eyes dart around. She takes a breath, steadies her nerves, and then:

  “So . . . what do you think of Casey and those guys?”

  And that’s when the dancing skills that deserted me in my youth will return. I’ll say nothing but I’ll say it in a way that gives her an opening to let me know how she really feels about Casey Breakbush. She’ll say something like, “Don’t get me wrong, I looove Casey. She’s, like, the other half of my heart. But . . . you know how sometimes you can really love someone and care about them and be there for them, but, at the same time . . .”

  “They drive you crazy?” I’ll say.

  And she’ll pour it all out. How everything always has to be about Casey, how they have to ride to school with her mom, how they have to hang out where Casey wants and go to Casey’s house and watch the movies she likes. Which will be my cue to ask her if she’s told Casey how she feels. I’ll let Kelly squirm a little and then I’ll say something like, “If only there was some way you could let her see how much she’d miss you as a friend if you weren’t around.” We’ll both pretend to think of how something like that could be accomplished and finally, after much deliberation, I’ll say, “What if . . . you hung out at your house watching the movies you want to watch, doing whatever you want to do?” Kelly will give this a lot of thought.

  “Bridget?” she’ll finally say. “Would you want to . . . I mean, we don’t know each other super well, but . . . would you want to come to my house some night? We could hang out, watch movies, anything you want . . .” Which will get me into her house. And then I’ll accept Casey’s friend request and tell her that Kelly’s asked me—just me!—to her house, which makes me feel confused and disloyal, and then I’ll suggest that I go so I can act as Casey’s eyes and ears. And I’ll suggest it in a way that makes Casey think it was her idea. So, not only will I gain access to Nick Deck’s secret files, but I’ll save Casey and Kelly’s ailing friendship. I mean, after I’ve torn it to pieces, then I’ll save it. I’ve got it all worked out to the smallest detail. It’s going to be a piece of cake.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Bus Driver

  Kelly never answered my friend request. My brilliant, intricately constructed plan was a piece of cake, after all: a piece of my horrible, inedible carrot cake. Why? Why doesn’t she want to be friends with me? What’s wrong with me? Does she see through me? Is my agenda not as hidden as I thought? She hasn’t just disincluded me from her social universe. Her lack of response is preventing me from successfully carrying out my first legit mission. Which means Spool will be disappointed with me, which means Carter Strike will be doubly disappointed. I haven’t even met my real father and I’ve already let him down.

  “Pull it together, Bridget,” I tell myself. It’s two a.m. I can’t sleep.

  My paranoia level is through the roof. My brain writhes with worst-case scenarios, all of them stemming from Kelly Beach failing to respond to my friend request. What would Carter Strike do? He wouldn’t be moping, whining, and sweating. He wouldn’t be getting himself worked up about the ulterior motives of C, K & N. He would be cool, calm, and collected. One plan went down the toilet. He’d simply regroup and start over with a new plan. So what’s my new plan? I could utilize the valuable resource that is Natalie. She has the little sister network in her pocket. But going down that road involves giving Natalie power over me. I’d owe her. Worse, I’d have to give up possibly incriminating information as to why I needed her help. I cross Natalie off my list. Now the list has no names. Then I think of another name.

  Joanna.

  A new scenario forms in my head. A terrible scenario. A scenario in which I message Kelly a link to the Conquest Report. I think it’s a safe bet she’s unaware of its existence. A Tumblr filled with unflattering opinions about her, her friends, her family, her sense of style, her diet and hygiene. Would that perhaps attract Kelly’s attention? Enough to motivate her to get in contact with me? Maybe then I could form a bond with her and start weaseling my way into her father’s dark secrets. But, in order to get to Kelly’s dad, I need to be able to mess with Kelly’s head, and in order to accomplish that proud feat, I have to throw Joanna under the bus. Delete that: I have to drive the bus over Joanna. Then I have to reverse back over her and, just to make sure there are no remaining signs of life, no involuntary twitches or gasps, I have to squish her one last time. Am I up to driving that bus? I wouldn’t class what Joanna and I have a
s one of the all-time great friendships, but she’s never deliberately put me in harm’s way. If I do this, I can’t say the same. But then in a twisted kind of way, I would be giving her what she’s always wanted and deluded herself that she had. An audience.

  It’s two thirty a.m. and I can’t sleep. I swaddle myself in my comforter and sit at my desk staring at Kelly’s Facebook page. Maybe she didn’t see my friend request. Maybe she was sick. I cut and paste the link to the Conquest Report into Kelly’s message box. I hit send. Then I make a gun shape with my fingers and point it at my forehead.

  What have I done?

  Oh, Katy Perry blaring through my wall, I do feel like a plastic bag, a plastic bag filled with guilt and shame and fear. It’s seven fifteen a.m. The computer sits on my desk like a ticking time bomb. I don’t look at it. I don’t acknowledge its presence. But I know it’s there and it knows I know it’s there. And it knows pretty soon I won’t be able to stop myself from switching it on and checking Facebook for Kelly’s response. Which is going to change everything.

  I am now officially freaked out. I am walking to school alone because Joanna is still mad at me, and I have heard not a single word from Kelly. What if the shock of reading Joanna’s Tumblr was too much for her? Oh my God, what if reading the Conquest Report killed her? And I sent her the link. Her blood is on my hands!

  I’m so consumed by my possible culpability in the shocking demise of Kelly Beach, I don’t immediately see her sitting in the backseat of Mrs. Breakbush’s white SUV. The car comes to a halt a few feet ahead of me. The door opens. I climb cautiously inside.

  “You did the right thing, Bridget,” says Mrs. Breakbush.

  “Mom, zip it!” snarls Casey. She takes my hands in hers. “You’re a good friend, Bridget.”

  “How could someone who doesn’t even know us say stuff like that about us?” shudders Nola. She looks genuinely perplexed.

  “Thanks for sending me the link, Bridget,” says Kelly. “Pretty crazy. Do you know the girl behind it?”

  “She’s been taken care of,” Mrs. Breakbush says quickly, before Casey can shut her up. Casey contents herself with rolling her eyes in disgust at her mom.

  “We sent the Tumblr to the principal,” says Casey. “Action’s being taken.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. I am the bus driver. I rolled right over Joanna and now action’s being taken. What kind of action? How much power can Casey Breakbush’s mom seriously wield?

  “Are you okay?” says Nola. “You look like you’re gonna barf.”

  C, K & N regard me with a degree of sympathy but, at the same time, they inch away from me in case whatever’s causing this reaction might in some way infect them.

  “Should I pull over?” asks Mrs. Breakbush. A text appears on my Spool-phone. It’s from Joanna. Won’t be in school today. Told to stay home. Trouble.

  “Can you pull over?” I ask Mrs. Breakbush. Then I jump out and I actually physically throw up.

  Mrs. Breakbush, clearly relishing the chance to act like a concerned mother to someone, insists I sit up front with her and attempts to console with me with tales of her many experiences in the world of uncontrollable vomiting. Even without the benefit of a special Spool gadget, I can almost hear Casey, Kelly, and Nola’s eyes rolling up into the backs of their skulls. When we reach the school, I have some trepidation that C, K & N will administer a puke-related shunning. But it doesn’t happen. In the hallway, Kelly takes my arm. “You’re a mess,” she says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She guides me into the girls’ bathroom and points at a sink. Obediently, I turn on the cold water, take off my glasses, and wash my still-burning face. I could wash for a week and I wouldn’t wipe away the guilt I’m feeling right now. As I keep washing, Kelly says, “You were smart to send me that link first. Casey couldn’t have handled it. She’d have been devastated. At least I was able to break it to her gently and spare her feelings.”

  I fumble for a paper towel, wipe my face, and blow my nose. And then I say, “I knew you’d be able to handle it. I knew you were the perceptive one.”

  When I put my glasses on, I see Kelly gazing at me. “Thank you, Bridget. I always knew you were nice. I was the one who told the other two we should get to know you. That was me.”

  No green scrolling in my glasses. But that doesn’t mean she’s not lying. It means she believes every word she says. She leans in close to me. Her blue eyes dart around. She takes a breath and then says, “So . . . what do you think of Casey and those guys?” Not to blow my own trumpet, but BA BAAA BAAA BA! (Feel free to substitute your own trumpet noises.) My plan was a good plan. My reading of Kelly Beach was accurate. Resenting Casey fills her every waking moment. She’s been waiting for the right time to assert her freedom. She just hasn’t had the opportunity or the right accomplice. Until now. Until me. By the time we leave the bathroom and make our way to A117, I’m sure Kelly’s already thinking about herself as an ex-member of C, K & N. And she’s thinking about me as a smart and trusted friend and confidante. Which causes me to think of the last girl who thought of me that way. I break away from Kelly and drive my bus of shame straight back to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Meet the New Boss

  Ryan’s taken to dropping into my bedroom unannounced under the pretense of wanting to hang out but really to make sure I haven’t blabbed any incriminating evidence in the vicinity of Mom and Dad. Until Natalie opened my eyes I wasn’t even aware of the whole out-stunting Alec McGrory controversy, but now that I am, he clearly lives in fear that I’m searching his sock-strewn room for his hidden glue gun and fake diseased thumb. I can’t risk a sudden Ryan appearance, let alone an interruption from any other member of the Wilder family. So I’m hiding in the one place no member of my family will ever show their face. The smelly shed. My dad hasn’t been in here in years, and it’s highly unlikely either Ryan or Natalie will ever venture anywhere near it since I busted the school graffiti scam wide open. So I call Spool from the smelly shed.

  “Do we have an update on the Nick Deck assignment?” These are his first words to me.

  “It’s going great. Spool, I want to talk to my dad.”

  “Call Pottery Barn.”

  “Not that dad. The other one. The secret agent.”

  “He’s deep under cover. The balance of global power depends on him right now.”

  “He doesn’t even have a minute to talk to me? It’s about spying.”

  “I can pass on a message.”

  “How do spies . . . how does he . . . doesn’t he ever feel guilty doing what he does? How does he deal with it when innocent people get hurt while he’s carrying out his assignments?”

  Spool nods and gives me his version of an understanding look. “When you’re a spy, concepts like guilty and innocent don’t apply. You’ve got a job to do and you do it. Anyone or anything preventing you from achieving your objective is a problem that has to be solved. Emotion is not going to help you in those situations . . .”

  Spool burbles on. He is of no help to me. He wasn’t there in assembly hall earlier today when Vice Principal Scattering called a special school meeting. He wasn’t there when Scattering brandished a printout of the Conquest Report (it was the Casey Breakbush fat-ankle-reduction-surgery entry) and launched into an impassioned lecture about Reindeer Crescent and its zero tolerance policy toward any forms of bullying. He wasn’t there when I felt myself sinking into my seat as he basically apologized to the student body and their horrified parents for allowing my friend to pollute their innocent young lives.

  “It’s too easy to call her a bully,” I found myself muttering.

  “What?” the boy sitting next me said.

  “You have to look deeper,” I said. “She has no power in her life. No one notices her. It’s just Joanna and Big Log.”

  “Who?”

  I turned to the boy next to me. It was Dale Tookey. I felt myself flush a little. I hadn’t known he was there. If I had, I would have been p
repared to get into an argument or stand my ground if he tried to mock me. But he looked genuinely interested in what I was saying, so I kept talking.

  “Her grandmother. See, you don’t even know that. Joanna’s just doing what she needs to do to feel like she has a place in the world. She never hurt anyone. I mean, not really.”

  “She called me uncoordinated, asthmatic, and untrustworthy,” Dale pointed out.

  “You didn’t even know about that before today and you’ll get over it,” I said. “She won’t. This will go on her record. She might not be allowed to come back to school.”

  Dale looked at me for a moment. A long moment.

  “You’re a really good friend,” he said.

  Am I going to cry in front of this guy? I’m not going to cry in front of this guy. (Unless he keeps saying things like that. Which he’d better not.)

  I’m making my way to Joanna’s house on the pretext that I took copious notes from all the classes that she missed. I carry a plastic bag from the local bakery containing a triple chocolate mousse and a fruit puff-pastry square. My hope is that they might help to ease the pain of this traumatic day. The pain that I caused. I ring the doorbell and wait the expected ninety minutes for Big Log to shuffle her way into the hallway. The door finally opens.

  “Hi, Jeanette. How is she?” I say.

  Big Log shakes her head. “I never knew what she was doing up there. I took away her computer so she doesn’t make things worse for herself.”

  My heart sinks. Now Joanna’s got nothing. I trudge toward her room, dreading the tragic scene I anticipate awaiting me on the other side of the big black GO AWAY sign on her door.