“I was ready to do the right thing.”
“What do you think of the name Bridget? Would you have called me that? It’s not very secret agent-y. Maybe you’d have called me something like Jett? Or Power? Power Strike.”
“I like Bridget. It suits you.”
“Where do you live? What’s your house like? Is there a room for me? I mean, if I wanted to visit and stay over for a night or two. Not move in. You’d have to talk to my mom and dad, but they’re cool. You probably know that. You’ve checked them out. Or Spool’s given you the intel . . .”
I’m aware I’m babbling. I put my free hand over my mouth to let him know the leak is plugged. He takes his hand from mine.
“I wish we had more time, Bridget, but . . .” He brandishes the USB. “You did great work. Now I have to go do my part. We’ll see each other soon, I promise. Maybe the next assignment, we’ll work together.”
“I’d love that.”
He puts his hand on the back of my neck. I let myself lean into his chest.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Wait,” I say.
He stops and turns back. His face is already obscured by shadows.
“What do I call you?”
“Whatever you want,” he says. And fades away into the night.
“Strike,” I repeat to myself about a dozen times. I know I can’t stand in an empty tennis court all night. I return to Kelly’s yard and tiptoe around the side of her house until I’m back on the street. I head toward my car. I hear footsteps behind me, getting closer. I feel myself tense up. What are my options here? The car, obviously. But what if the car decides to mess with me and refuses to unlock? I could run. But my superspeed might draw undue attention. I could double back to Kelly’s house, where I probably wouldn’t be greeted with open arms. Or I could engage, show this pursuer they’re stalking the wrong girl. I spin around. And see Dale Tookey a few feet behind me.
We stare at each other for a second. This is weird. We’re not in school. We’re nowhere near the fro-yo store or the doughnut place. What possible reason could he have to be here? Dale Tookey holds out a hand, and there in his palm is my lip balm. He gives me a kind of half smile.
“Yours, I believe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Crash into Me
“What do you call that flavor?” Dale asks as I take back the lip balm.
“Pear,” I say.
“Just pear?”
“Smoky pear.”
He nods. I’m not sure what game we’re playing here but I don’t like that I’m not the only one with the secrets. I take the direct approach.
“What’s the story, Dale Tookey? Why are you following me?”
“Who says I was following you?”
I hit him with a full-on scornful gaze. “Come on. Why else would you be anywhere near Kelly Beach’s party?”
He’s uncomfortable. The pressure of my interrogation has him off balance and nervous.
“Maybe I like crashing parties. Maybe that’s my thing.”
I’m not sure I buy it but I’ve learned from my Glasses of Truth how to spot deception, lies, and cover-ups. I search his face for signs of fakery. Nope. He seems to be clean as a whistle.
Dale fixes me with a curious look. “I have a question. Where’d you get the lip balm?”
“What makes you think it’s mine?” We both know it’s mine. I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.
He gets close to me. “Your lips are cracked and dry.”
My fingers automatically go to my mouth. He gives me a mocking grin. Jerk.
“One, you were lurking outside detention . . .”
“I was not lurking . . .”
“Two, suddenly there was smoke everywhere. Three, I saw you fumbling around looking for something.”
Dale Tookey seems very pleased with himself as he counts on his fingers.
“Well, I don’t know what you or your fingers are talking about,” I say. “It’s not mine.”
“My mistake.” He goes to take back the lip balm. I close my hand around it, and also his hand. I didn’t mean to do that. But I don’t want to immediately snatch it away and, clearly, neither does he, because he’s not moving his hand. So while I would not define what we’re currently doing as holding hands, there’s no denying that Dale Tookey’s warm hand is in mine.
Finally, I open my palm. He takes his hand away. Slowly. That was weird.
“I will, however, send this tube of defective lip balm back to the manufacturer,” I tell him. “They might send me a lifetime supply. Or, at the very least, a gift card.”
“Keep me posted on how that goes,” he says.
“I’m sure I’ll have forgotten talking to you,” I say. I’m not a rude person but something about this guy is just bringing it out of me.
“I’ll remind you. I was the guy who saved you when Casey Breakbush and her friends were about to annihilate you.”
I laugh out loud. “That’s hilarious. It’s so funny to me that you think that. That you think I needed your help.”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
What’s with this Dale Tookey? He has barely said a word, hardly even a syllable, for years. Now I can’t get him to shut up.
“We’ll never know, will we, because some party crasher blundered in like a bull in a china shop and filled the house with smoke from a defective tube of lip balm.”
“You don’t need those girls’ approval,” he says. “You’re cool like you are.”
I’m not sure how to react. Was that a compliment? Or was it a trap hidden inside a compliment? Once again, I search his face with its well-attended eyebrows and slightly chewed lower lip. No sign of lies hiding just below the surface.
“What are you doing now?” he says.
“Why, do you have some more parties to crash?”
He looks pleased. “You want to? Might be fun.”
I have this feeling that I do want to, that I might like it if tonight didn’t need to end. But then I remember who I am and where I am and where I should be by this time
“I’ve had enough fun for one night,” I say. “My dad’s picking me up. He should be here any minute to get me . . .”
No sooner are those lies out of my mouth than the Smart Car honks its horn.
Dale Tookey, I can’t help but notice, looks disappointed. And not the usual kind of disappointment I tend to bring out in people. He looks like he genuinely didn’t want me to go.
“There he is,” I say. “I gotta run. See you in school.”
I walk away from him and head toward the tiny car, which, amazingly, has an image of my dad at the wheel.
“Hi, car!” I yelp as I clamber inside.
“I can wait if you want to give your boyfriend a good-night kiss,” the car snarks. I’m in too peppy a mood to let the car get to me. I carried out my assignment. I met my real dad, and he told me I did great. And then there was that thing with Dale Tookey, which was a little bit bizarre but not in a completely awful way. All in all, a good night for Bridget Wilder.
“Take me home,” I tell the car.
The car deposits me in the street behind my house. I get out and everything is dark and quiet. One of the streetlights isn’t working properly. It’s bright one second, dark the next. I see shadows behind the closed curtains of the houses around me. I’m the only one out here. Just me and the lost dogs. It’s late and I’m standing out in the street by myself. I feel the sudden urgent need to be in my room again. I sneak into the backyard and head for the ladder. It’s not there. The light is on in my bedroom. Mom and Dad stand in the window watching me. They do not look happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Home
Dad stands halfway up the stairs, his arms folded. I can see how angry he is. Mom is a few steps above him. She looks more disappointed than mad. Ryan is at the top of the stairs. He has an apologetic look on his face. He puts his hands together and rests t
hem on his cheek. “I fell asleep,” he mouths. “Sorry.”
“Well, Bridget?” is all Dad says.
How do I fix this? How do I make it right? What lie should I tell that will stop them looking at me like this?
“I felt better,” I start to say. “There was this party. I sort of promised . . .”
Dad stares at me like he’s never even seen me before.
Ryan gives me a thumbs-down.
“Do you have so little respect for us that you would treat us like this?” says Mom. “Do you know how much Dad wanted to take you to the ballet? How excited he was to make up for missing your birthday?”
“So why didn’t he go then?” I shoot back. “Why did he and Natalie go to the movies instead? I’m not the only liar. . . .”
I see Ryan’s head fall into his hands. Bad response? Natalie joins the circle of accusers, leaning on the top of the stairs, staring sadly down at me.
“The movies was my idea. I wanted you and Dad to have your night at the ballet.”
Well played, perfect little sister. I’ve got some ammunition of my own to unload on her but even in this tense moment I fear I’m no match for her.
Dad walks downstairs, face grim.
“Really, Bridget? You don’t see any difference between me not wanting to go to something I thought we wanted to do together and you lying and sneaking out of the house . . . ?”
“And worrying us to death,” breaks in Mom. “Anything could have happened.”
Except it didn’t, because I had a sarcastic self-driving car and a pair of enhanced sneakers and an infatuated party crasher and Agent Carter Strike all looking out for me. But I can’t tell my family that. I could try tears. But I don’t want to. I know I messed up here and I don’t want to treat Mom and Dad like I treated C, K & N. I hang my head and say nothing.
“I hope the party was worth it,” says Mom.
“It wasn’t,” I mutter.
“Those girls don’t even like you,” says Natalie helpfully. I give her a threatening look. She shuts up.
“Go to your room,” sighs Dad. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore tonight.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re grounded for a week.”
“That’s fair.”
“No computer. No phone.”
He holds out his hand, waiting for me to hand over my Spool-phone. A wave of panic hits me.
What if Spool has another assignment for me? What if Carter Strike wants to get in touch? Didn’t he say we were going to work together next time? I can’t be without my phone. I ought to just go to my room and figure out a contingency plan. But I don’t.
“No,” I say.
“Excuse me?” says Dad.
“Ryan does worse, far worse, far more times than me. You never take his computer or phone away.”
“I’m beyond help,” says Ryan.
“This isn’t a negotiation, Bridget,” says Dad. “Give me your phone now.”
“Just do it,” sighs Mom.
Dad sees my phone sticking out of my pocket. He goes to take it. I grab it back. “Don’t touch that,” I say, clutching the phone.
I see the disbelief in Dad’s face. He stares at me and then peers at the stupid Spool-phone.
“That’s not the phone we bought you. Where did you get that?”
Upstairs, I see Ryan and Natalie trade looks of astonishment. They can get away with anything after this.
My only solution is to attack. “Of course you wouldn’t recognize my phone. You don’t notice anything about me. You didn’t even remember my birthday.”
“That’s not fair,” Mom says.
“You never notice anything. You don’t know if I’m having a bad time at school. You don’t know how tough it is being friends with Joanna. You stopped noticing anything after I quit ballet and the flute because I wasn’t any good at them, but there might be something I’m good at.”
“We’re all tired,” says Dad. “Go upstairs. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
“Where would I like to go on vacation? What food do I like? Am I scared of dragonflies or horseflies?”
“Let it go,” calls Ryan.
He’s right. I’m not doing myself any good, but now that I’ve started I find that I can’t stop.
“Why did you even want me?”
I see Mom’s hand fly to her open mouth. Dad says nothing.
“I know how hard it is to adopt a child. You put all that effort into it and then you treat me like I’m invisible.”
“You want to be grounded for another week?” says Dad. “Keep talking.”
“My real dad would never treat me like this,” I fire back.
“Shut up, Bridget,” yells Natalie.
Mom walks upstairs without a word.
“Do what you want,” says Dad, and heads into the living room.
I want to run after them. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to walk out the front door and find Carter Strike. But I don’t do anything. I stay standing in the middle of the hallway, wondering how I let that happen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Dentist
I have become a person who plays many roles. I am a secret agent (pretty good). I am a student (average). I am a daughter (disappointing). And today, I am a dentist.
It appears that I have unwittingly turned my home into a dentist’s waiting room. Everyone’s on edge. No one meets anyone else’s eyes. Everyone fears the worst. And it’s my presence, my dentist-like presence, that is the cause. It’s been this way since I got up this morning. Now I am sitting through the longest, quietest breakfast ever. Natalie is last to come into the kitchen. She has her happy morning face on. Then she reads the room. No one needs her brand of positivity right now. She walks up to me and gives me a big hug.
“You suck,” she whispers, voice cold as ice.
Much of the time I spent not sleeping last night I devoted to thinking about what I would say this morning. What kind of apology or explanation would be sufficient to release me from Disappointment Jail where I currently reside? But from the way Mom and Dad are doing their very best to avoid looking at or talking to me, it doesn’t seem as if I’m going to be able to deliver any kind of apology or explanation. Maybe more time needs to elapse before they’re ready to let me redeem myself. I know they’ll come around. In the meantime, the best thing I can do for them, and for myself, is to go underground and stay out of sight.
I head for my room and, for the first time since last night, start to worry about what people who aren’t actually related to me are saying.
I check my phone.
A new Conquest Report group text.
Bridget Wilder: The shoplifting phase. The bed-wetting years. The lizard she killed.
I gasp in shock. I can’t believe she’d bring that up. (Yes, okay, it happened. But it was a chameleon. They get stressed out if you handle them a lot. Or forget to feed them because you can’t find them because they’re so good at blending into their environment. So it wasn’t technically just my fault.)
I’m not freaking out, though. Here’s how I see it: my name became mud on Saturday night. There’s a whole Sunday to go. By Monday morning, Reindeer Crescent will be whirring with a million fresh shocks and scandals. I’m nothing by comparison.
I drag myself out of bed Monday morning feeling optimistic. I’m yesterday’s mess. Today’s a fresh start. I don’t see my black-and-gold tracksuit. I grab the pile of clothes on the floor. It doesn’t seem to be there but I sort through the pile a few times in case it magically appears. I check my dresser. I check the closet. Not there.
“Mom?”
I hear her voice outside my door. “What?”
“I can’t find my tracksuit. My black-and-gold tracksuit.”
“I know. The one you wear every day. The one that’s never been washed.”
I groan. Spool. Millions of dollars’ worth of nanotechnology. In the washing machine with Dad’s socks and Ryan’s T-shirts with
the mysterious stains that are impossible to remove.
I throw the door open. “You washed it? Why did you wash it? I didn’t ask you to wash it.”
Mom is unmoved by my obvious distress. “It asked me to wash it. It wanted to feel fresh. It was surprised you didn’t want to feel fresh.”
“Stop trying to be funny,” I snap at her. “It’s not you.”
Mom’s face grows hard. “Don’t talk to me like that, Bridget.”
Great. This is the first time we’ve talked since Saturday night and time has not healed any of the wounds I caused. And keep causing.
Dad ventures out of the bathroom. He sees the expression on Mom’s face.
“Remember what you said when we signed the adoption papers?” he asks her.
Mom flinches slightly, like she’s angry at Dad for putting her on the spot.
“You said, Bridget’s coming home.” He looks at me. “You were part of this family before you even got here. We waited so long for you . . .”
“How you can think we don’t want you . . .” Mom can’t finish her sentence. Her eyes start to well up. I see Dad caught between trying to console her and trying to talk to me. This is too much. I want to rush into their arms and tell them I’m sorry. I want to tell them everything. But it’s too big a risk. What if they won’t let me be a spy anymore? What if they want me to stay away from Carter Strike? I don’t trust myself right now. Even though I know I’m coming across as horrible, selfish, and ungrateful, I hurry back to my room and then head straight for school.
I spend the long, solo journey to school replaying this morning’s events in my head. I know I’m not this awful. Then I hear Joanna’s voice behind me. “That’s right,” she cackles. “That was just the beginning. I’ve got a million more Bridget Wilder stories. She’s like a malignant growth on the face of Reindeer Crescent.”
I stop and wait for Joanna to catch up. If she wants a confrontation, I’m ready for it. Joanna walks straight past me, still barking malicious rumors about me into her phone. There’s probably no one on the other end. It’s just her way of letting me know she’s still mad at me.
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