Spy-in-Training (19 page)

L
ast night ended with us going to get Ryan out of the holding cell. Again. But I don't care, because this morning I'm having a normal family breakfast with my normal family. With one difference. I'm part of it.

“Bridget, do you think Carter would like Lisa?” Lisa is Mom's always-single, no-luck-with-men friend.

“Don't answer that, Bridget,” says Dad. “Carter still has a good opinion about us. We don't want that to change just yet.”

“Do you think he'd want to come to Raging Waters with us?” Mom asks.

“Mom, he's a busy guy.”

“But we can still go, right? It's not too soon since the last time?” says Dad.

Look, I know they're overcompensating because they think they might lose me. The truth is, they won't. Ever. But I also know this be-nice-to-Bridget campaign isn't going to last forever, so I'm going to get what I can out of it.

“Hmmm,” I say. “Let me check my schedule. Perhaps I can fit in another trip to this Raging Waters of which you speak.”

“Raging Waters,” squeals Natalie. “Are we going back? I can't wait. Isn't that the best news ever, Bridget?”

She rushes up and hugs me. I tense for the inevitable Whisper of Doom. It does not come. Instead, she pulls away and gives me a big, beaming smile, her eyes shining.

“Can we walk to school together? We never do that.”

“Let her check her schedule,” says Dad, cracking himself up.

I'm being made fun of in a nice way. I said something and it was remembered enough to become a joke. Maybe this whole be-nice-to-Bridget thing will last. Maybe I'm making it easier to be nice to me.

“So,” says Natalie as we stroll to school. “That guy . . .”

Uh-oh.

“The one who waited with me at the fake audition. He goes to Reindeer Crescent, right?”

Again, uh-oh.

“I can't remember his name. Which is weird because we spent all that time together.”

“Well, what did you talk about? Did he tell you anything about himself?”

Natalie looks confused. I know why and it kills me. But I've got to move her away from this subject. “I can't remember. It's making me mental. I remember everything, but this guy . . . it's like there's nothing.”

She taps a finger off her forehead for emphasis.

“So what does that tell you?” I say carefully. “He made no impression. He had a chance to dazzle the soon-to-be-famous Natalie Wilder and he blew it.”

Natalie giggles.

“Listen, Nat, you're going to meet a lot of boys. The ones that matter, you remember
everything
about them. What they say, what they do, what they wear, how they kiss . . .”

“Bridget, oh my God, you said kiss!” screeches Natalie. “Are you speaking from
kiss
perience? Do you have
kiss
tory?”

I go red and stammer, “I . . . I . . . I . . .” I'm half playing up my discomfort to get her mind off the subject
of the boy she thinks she met at the fake audition and I'm half acutely embarrassed because I totally lost myself thinking about Dale, who is, of course, the boy she thinks she met at the fake audition.

“Today on the Conquest Report. The Wilder sisters seen plotting and conspiring. Watch your backs, Reindeer Crescent.”

Joanna walks along with us. “Ladies,” she says, and gives me a knowing look.

I don't know what to think about her knowing look. The bruise on her forehead where Xan whacked her is fading, but it must be a constant reminder to Joanna. Strike told me she was gone once he made it out of the grille so presumably her memory is intact. But what she knows and what she's storing up to use against me is a big scary question mark. Maybe we share a secret and it's finally given us a reason to continue our friendship.

“What's the latest juice on the little sister network, young Wilder?” Joanna asks Natalie. “I'll keep your name out of it.”

Natalie looks back over her shoulder, then leans in close to Joanna. “Well,” she breathes.

I don't even listen. I'm walking to school with my
friend and my sister. It's never happened before, but I hope it happens again.

A white SUV comes to a stop at the light up ahead. As we draw close, Mrs. Breakbush gives me a faint smile. I glance at the backseat. Casey, Kelly, and Nola are all staring at their phones, ignoring one another.

“Keep running,” I mouth at Mrs. Breakbush. “You look good.”

She seems surprised but smiles back and mouths, “Thank you.”

“The light's not getting any greener,
Mom
,” says Casey. I give Mrs. Breakbush a sympathetic wave as she drives away.

“Midget Wilder goes to the doctor,” says Brendan Chew as I walk into A117. “Says, Doctor, I've got a problem. He says, I can't see you right now.” Chew glances at his disinterested audience. “'Cause she's so small,” he explains.

I stroll up to Chew and pull back my arm. He flinches. I run a hand through my hair. Ha!

“Nice flinch,” I say. “This midget just made you pee your big-boy pants.”

“The midget made him pee his big-boy pants!” echoes around A117. Fingers tap furiously on phones.

Chew shrivels in his seat. It wasn't even that funny but the timing was everything.

C, K & N walk into A117 looking at their phones. They glance up, take the temperature of the room. Chew's cold. I'm hot.

“Hi, Bridget,” they chorus.

I nod back. Just enough to acknowledge their presence. Not enough to show I care. I bet I get an invitation to eat lunch with them today. But I'm not going unless Joanna comes, too. And they're serving corn on the cob.

Today is just one day. I'm not going to be as cool, confident, and in control every day. But I'm not going back to what I was, either. I've seen too much. I've done too much. I know too much. I'm somebody now. Somebody special.

I
would like to thank my agent, Tina Wexler; my editor, Maria Barbo; and also Lori Majewski, James Greer, Tad Floridis, Jordanna Fraiberg, and everyone at Katherine Tegen Books.

“I
am not a spy,” I say with what I hope is the right mixture of innocence, irritation, and confusion.

The six cheerleaders who kidnapped me regard me with cold, hostile, disbelieving eyes.

If I was any sort of spy, I would not have been so easily bamboozled by the tall, willowy blond girl who sidled up to me as I was heading home from Reindeer Crescent Middle School and held a tiny, big-eyed kitten out to me.

“Isn't he beautiful?” the willowy blonde said in a baby voice. “Isn't he the most adorable ball of fluff you've ever seen?”

As if on cue, the little gray kitten reached out a paw to me.

“He
loves
you,” the blond girl almost sang. “He wants to go home with you. Here. Nuzzle him.”

My gurgly-voiced new friend thrust the kitten into my hands. Feeling him squirm and adjust himself in my grip made me melt a little inside.

“Take him home,” urged the blonde. “Be good to him. Give him the love he needs. He'll give it back to you a hundred times over.”

There were a million reasons to say no. My mom hates cats. My dad is allergic. My brother can't be trusted not to sit on them. It would immediately fall in love with my little sister and ignore me. I'd have to feed him and clean up after him but . . . those big eyes . . . the way he smooshes up against me. The thought hit me:
Am I a cat person? I think I am!

I nodded at the blonde. She let out a sigh of contentment, hooked her arm through mine, and guided me toward a school bus parked a few yards away from the others.

“Jump in here and I'll give you his collar and his toys, and then this wonderful kitten will be all yours.”

“In there?” I should have said. “Why is a cat's collar and toys in a school bus?” I should have said. “By
the way, who are you, tall, willowy, blond girl?” I should have said. But I was fully focused on the little gentleman squirming in my arms as I climbed the steps into the bus.

The second I was inside, my spy senses clicked into gear. This bus was no refuge for abandoned cats. It was filled with cheerleaders. There were six of them, including the willowy blonde who had lured me onto the bus, all dressed in little pleated skirts and tight blue crop tops bearing the Bronze Canyon Valkyries logo, all displaying enviable abs, all looking like they wanted to rip my head off.

The bus door closed behind me.

“Hit it!” snarled the blonde.

The occupant of the driver's seat, a horse-faced woman somewhere in her late twenties, pulled the bus away from the school.

“Give me that,” said the blonde as she yanked the kitten from my hands.

I sized up the situation. The no-longer-baby-voiced blonde stroked the mewling kitten and barred the door. The other five cheerleaders stood in what I would later discover to be bowling-pin formation in the aisle, making escape impossible.

“Where are we going?”

“Santa Clarita,” growled the driver. “To Bronze Canyon Academy. The school you tried to blackmail.”

“I what?” I said, nonplussed.

The girl at the tip of the bowling pin, the one with blinding white teeth and hair tied up in a huge polka-dotted bow, thrust her phone in my face. I saw cheerleaders flipping and tumbling. To be more specific, I saw Reindeer Crescent's own Cheerminator squad filmed, in somewhat shaky fashion, mid-practice.

I darted a glance out the window nearest me. The bus was traveling in the opposite direction of my route home.

A finger snapped in my face. “Hey!” barked Big Bow. “Eyes on the screen.” I felt a thin wire of anger begin to pulse in me. I looked back at the phone which now displayed an email. I had to lean in so close to read it my glasses almost touched the screen. But I managed to make out the text:
Pay me $1200 & you'll get the rest of the choreography b4 the Cheerminators premiere it at Classic Cheer.

The bus juddered around a corner. I stumbled forward, almost falling into Big Bow. She took a step back. The two rows of Valkyries behind her stepped back at the same time. I grabbed onto a seat to get my balance.

“Ladies,” I said, trying to remain calm. “I think there's been a mistake. I think what's going on here is Cheer Business, and, even if being an awesome judge of character isn't a required Valkyrie skill, if you spend a
quarter of a second looking at me, it ought to be blindingly clear I don't care about Cheer Business.”

“Your name does,” said one of the Mid-Pin girls.

Once again, I was forced to squint at the screen. The email was sent by someone known as
Bird Tweet Girl
.

“Don't cheereotype us,” said Big Bow. “Being an awesome judge of character is a required Valkyrie skill. In fact, we look for a whole range of talents. One of which is the ability to rearrange letters to form other words.”

“Anagrams,” I said.

“Cheerleaders love anagrams,” she declared. “For instance, if you rearrange the letters of Bird Tweet Girl, you get . . .”

“Bridget Wilder.” I nodded. “You also get Driblet Red Wig, Bed Dig Twirler, Bridled Wet Rig, and Brr Weed Dig Lit.” I used to be very into making anagrams of my name before I was cool like I am now. (My record was two hundred. I know there's a
lot
more.)

“But mainly you get Bridget Wilder,” scowled Big Bow. She folded her arms in triumph. Behind her, the two rows of Valkyries folded their arms in unison.

“You think
I
sent you an email demanding money for footage of the new Cheerminator choreography?”

The Valkyries nodded in unison.

“Motive!” shouted the willowy blonde. “Your sister's
a new Cheerminator.”

This was true. My younger sister Natalie had, on a whim, tried out for the Cheerminators a month earlier, and like the effortless overachiever and automatic center of attention she is, instantly became the high-flying jewel in its crown.

“You conspired with her to cut out the competition,” accused Big Bow.

“You're a spy for the Cheerminators,” said the driver. “You're trying to get us to buy the footage and then you'll report us to the Cheer Classic competition committee and get us disqualified for contravening the rules.”

“I am not a spy,” I say. Which is where we came in.

“Only someone who is a spy would say something like that,” yells the willowy blonde. She takes the kitten's paw and claws the air with it. “This cat hates you.”

“I'm being set up,” I tell the Valkyries. “I didn't send the email. I didn't film the practice. I don't want your money.”

“What do you think, Coach?” Big Bow calls over to the driver. “She made a pretty convincing case. Should we turn around and take her back to her school?”

The driver taps her fingers off her chin. “Mmmmm . . . ,” she ponders. “No.”

Big Bow puts a hand on my shoulder and goes
to shove me down in the nearest seat. “Relax, Bridget Wilder. You're going to be here for a while. We're taking you back to our school. You're going to confess in front of the entire faculty and student body so that they know our cheer-tegrity is intact!”

“Shouldn't that be cheer-tact?” I ask. Big Bow acts like she didn't hear me.

I make a quick scan of the bus. Blonde and kitty still block the front door. Bowling-pin formation stands between me and the rear exit. That leaves windows to my right and left. Am I fast and limber enough to jump toward them, open the locks, and slide out?

You never know if you don't try.