Bridget Wilder #3

by Jonathan Bernstein

  The booing starts with one or two people. Then it spreads across the entire auditorium.

  A Font phone lands on stage and shatters on impact. A second phone is hurled from the audience. It hits the ground near Font’s feet.

  Font stops trying to pull the phone from the president’s hand. He turns his full attention to the auditorium, where a hail of Font phones are crashing onto the stage. The audience are on their feet, throwing phones at him.

  “Stop!” he screeches. “It’s not true. None of what she said is true.”

  A phone hits him in the face.

  “Why are you listening to her?” Font yells, batting away the phones that fly onto the stage. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Here are a few more kids,” shouts a voice from the back of the auditorium. “Listen to them.”

  Font, the president, the first lady, Jamie, the audience, and I all follow the sound of the voice.

  It’s Strike.

  He’s marching down the steps in the center of the auditorium, a handcuff still dangling from his wrist, leading a procession of young Font Force volunteers. Starey Hayley stomps down the steps with a look of blazing fury in her intense eyes. She wears her Font Force T-shirt, but it’s been altered with a few words in Magic Marker. The shirts worn by the former volunteers now read Font Forced Me to Do His Dirty Work.

  I take off my police cap and toss it to Strike, who catches it and puts it on his head.

  The former volunteers take up position at the foot of the stage, their accusatory T-shirts staring Font in the face. Font takes a few steps forward. He has to kick broken Font phones out of his way. I can see him sizing up the situation, working through all the angles, searching for a way to emerge on top. He stops walking. His shoulders slump. He experiences an unfamiliar sensation: defeat.

  And just in case there was the slightest chance of him not grasping who is responsible for ending his presidential hopes, I lean in close to him and say, “I’m the good guy. I’m the one who makes things right and saves the day.”

  Font looks angry for a second, and then he gives me a condescending smile. “This doesn’t change anything, little girl. I’ve still got more money than anyone else. I can still remake the world the way I want it. You’ll still end up working for me, and you won’t even know it.”

  He holds his head high and starts to saunter offstage.

  I stick my foot out and trip him up.

  Yes, that’s correct. Bridget Wilder, the famous spy, just tripped up the bad guy on stage, in front of a live audience. I couldn’t help it.

  Font goes flying. He tries to clutch at air, but he lands face-first. The auditorium erupts.

  The ex-volunteers are howling, even Starey Hayley, who I don’t believe I’ve ever seen smile before. The Brennans are cracking up. Strike is cackling. Up at the top of the auditorium, I see Ryan, Vanessa, Pacific, and Irina. They’re laughing, too.

  “Shut up,” snarls Font. He clambers to his feet, slips on a broken phone, and falls face-first again.

  “I told you phones were bad for you!” the first lady calls out to the audience. They give her a standing ovation.

  My work here is done. I step around Font, give Jamie a high five, and walk off the stage.

  I head into the backstage area, where the first person I encounter is Hayes Oberman. He hands me my squirter.

  “Great job, fake Jamie.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Aftermath

  “Never come back to Washington,” First Lady Brennan tells me as we leave the Oval Office. Her smile lets me know that she’s joking. The steel in her eyes lets me know that she’s really not joking. Immediately after the debate sputtered to a close, there was an emergency meeting in the White House where everybody blamed everybody else for what had happened. But despite all the finger-pointing and accusations, one fact remained true: since Font went down in flames, the president’s second term is all but guaranteed.

  “Four more years,” Jamie sighs.

  “Four more years,” repeats Vanessa enviously.

  “Say good-bye to your friends, Jamie,” instructs the first lady.

  Jamie turns to Vanessa. “I didn’t really get to know you.”

  “You’d have liked me.” Vanessa smiles. “Everybody does.”

  Jamie takes my hand. “I’ll call you.”

  “She won’t,” says the first lady. “Give my best to your family, Bridget.”

  “Can we have a minute, Mom?” Jamie gestures to the first lady to back up and give us some space.

  She keeps holding my hand. “You were right about everything. You were right about Font. You were right that I was selfish.”

  “I was wrong about Cadzo,” I say sadly. “But you came through when it counted. You could have done what Font wanted. Instead, you did the right thing.”

  Jamie smiles. “I didn’t want to make Bridget Wilder mad at me. Last time I got a shoe in the face.”

  “This time, you get a friend,” I tell her.

  Jocelyn Brennan pulls Jamie’s hand from mine. “Minute’s up,” she snaps. “We have an election to win. We’re building a dynasty, Jamie. It won’t be long before you’re the one we’ll be campaigning for.”

  And with that, FLB hauls her daughter off into the heart of the White House. Jamie looks back at me with anguish on her face.

  “Awww,” mocks the snooty blonde standing next to me.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask Vanessa.

  “Well, since your name and face are trending worldwide, there’s a gap in the market for a young lady spy. I’m already entertaining offers.” She gives me a quick air-kiss on both cheeks. “See, peanut, we’re always looking out for each other.”

  I watch her walk away as if she’s on the red carpet. “I don’t trust her,” Irina says. “But there’s something about her I like.”

  Strike exits the Oval Office and joins us. “The shocking news is the CIA wants us back. The even more shocking news is that we’ve finally learned from our mistakes and we’re not going back.”

  “You’re out of the spy game?” I ask.

  “No one’s ever really out,” says Irina. “But it’s time for me to stop paying lip service to the idea that I can do something else, and actually see if there’s anything I can do. Your mother said she’d help me look for career options.”

  She notes my expression of extreme surprise. “You bond quickly when you’re waiting for your daughter save the country,” she tells me. “We tried hating each other. Now we’re trying the other thing.” Irina touches my cheek. “I’ll be around.”

  Strike and I watch her go.

  “What about you?’ I ask. “What’s the plan?”

  At that moment, Pacific comes out of the Oval Office.

  “I’ll let him tell you,” says Strike.

  Pacific smiles when he sees me. He immediately catches himself, and reverts to his above-it-all smirk, and then he wipes the smirk away and goes back to the original smile. Which I like.

  “Not bad, Wilder,” he says. “You destroyed Font and L4E, and ensured the president a second term. All in under two hours.”

  “We did that,” I remind him. “We are a hot team. Pacific and Wilder.”

  “Wilder and Pacific,” he corrects me.

  I get a little flush when he says that. The little flush makes me say something I didn’t know I was going to say.

  “I know my name and face are out there,” I tell him. “But people just think I’m this crazy random chick; they don’t connect me to spy action. Once the hubbub dies down, maybe we can connect on another mission. We make a good team.”

  “Agree.” He nods. “But right now, I want to do what you did. I want to find my dad. Strike’s going to help me.”

  Oh. His dad. Charlie Pacific, who may be dead, or may be in North Korea. Which means this may be the last time I ever see Adam Pacific.

  “But I’ll be back,” he tells me, and holds out a fist to be bumped.

  I pull him c
lose to me and hug him tight.

  “Stay in touch, Adam,” I whisper. “Be safe, and if you need me for anything. Anything . . .”

  I let the sentence trail off. We hold each other for another moment, and then Pacific pulls away. He rubs at his eyes, and then touches a fist to his heart and holds the fist back out to me. This time, I bump it.

  Pacific leaves. Strike returns.

  “I’ll watch his back,” he assures me.

  “Who’s going to watch mine?” I ask him. “You’re going off the grid. Irina claims she’s pursuing new career opportunities. I don’t even know if I’m going to see you again.”

  “You can’t get rid of us that easily,” says Strike. “But right now, you’ve got to concentrate on protecting your family. They know about you. That makes them vulnerable. It makes them targets.”

  “I’ll fix it,” I tell him.

  He pulls me in a for a quick hug, and then I watch him hurry after Pacific.

  A lot of emotional good-byes there, but I’d gladly endure a hundred more if it meant putting off the next item in my to-do list.

  “Tick-tock, peanut,” I say under my breath, and then I hurry away from the Oval Office and go in search of my family.

  I find them outside the East Wing waiting to board the stretch limousine provided by the first lady to ensure the Wilder family make their flight to Sacramento.

  Dad and Ryan look pleased to see me. Mom and Natalie less so.

  “Your secret spy meeting over?” says Mom. “Can we go now?”

  “So I heard you and Irina talked?” I say, trying to make cheery conversation.

  “You could learn a lot from her,” Mom replies. “She knows there’s no future in the spy business.”

  “You’re trending worldwide, Bridget,” Natalie tells me, holding up her phone. “They’re calling you #weirdphonegirl. So embarrassing.”

  What a proud and supportive family.

  She goes back to thumbing through the texts on her screen. Without looking back up, Natalie says, “Thanks. For giving me the chance to teach Jamie Brennan how to dance. She was kind of stiff and uncoordinated at first, but she surprised me. There’s a lot more to her than I thought. I . . . think maybe I admire her.”

  I blink in surprise. The limousine driver opens the passenger door. Natalie hurries in, then Dad, then Mom.

  “Hang back for a minute,” I tell Ryan.

  He gives me a worried look. “Trust me,” I tell him. Then I climb into the back of the limo.

  Dad is busy opening a bag of white-cheese popcorn from the free food tray when I shoot him with my amnesia squirter.

  Natalie sees Dad slump down onto the long, black leather couch. She gasps once, and then I squirt her, and she loses consciousness.

  Mom whirls around to see me with my squirter pointed straight at her.

  “Bridget,” she gasps.

  “Mom, this is my thing,” I say. And then I shoot her.

  Nothing happens. I squirt again. Nothing.

  The atomizer is empty.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Mommy and Me

  This is awkward. The journey from the White House to Dulles Airport is about half an hour. We’re maybe five minutes in. Ryan sits up front with the driver. I sit in the back with my comatose father and sister. Mom is fully conscious, but even though I’ve explained about the amnesia gun—thanks, by the way, Vanessa Dominion, for dumping your cheap, shoddy, malfuntioning spy gadget on me: I was supposed to get ten squirts and it expired on seven!—and how Dad and Natalie will wake up feeling fine, with only the previous hour wiped from their minds, she still looks like she’s in a state of shock.

  I want to call Strike, or Irina, or Vanessa, or one of the weirdos from the Forties’ Research and Development department. Anyone who can airlift me more amnesia spray, because this is an intolerable situation.

  I like Ryan knowing my secret. Dad may not have fully understood what was going on, but he was on my side. Natalie needs to remain the star of the family because that takes the spotlight off me, and I’ve found I work better in the shadows. But Mom. Mom is the last person I wanted to ever find out about my secret life. Not only did she find out, but she discovered in the worst possible way. Do not point a weapon, even an empty amnesia squirter, at your mother, unless you want the image of her horrified face tattooed on your mind for the rest of your life.

  Dad and Natalie are going to wake up in a few minutes. They’re going to wonder how they went from being in the Trezekhastan Embassy to the back of a limo. I’m going to try to convince them that the banquet laid on by the embassy staff was so excessive that they fell asleep. But before they wake up and I send some more lies into the atmosphere, I have to talk to my mother.

  “Mom?” I say.

  Nothing. Not a word.

  Fine. I’ll do the talking. “This was too big. Me in the White House, pretending to be the president’s daughter. I know that now. I shouldn’t have taken it on. It’s not what I normally do, and the minute I found out you were caught up in it, I should have walked away. But I became friends with Jamie, and then I found out who Morgan Font really is and that the whole country was in danger, just like Dad said! I had to finish the mission, Mom. But I’ll never say yes to something on that scale again. Not that anyone’s going to ask me. You should have seen the first lady’s face when she said good-bye—”

  “I remember when we first brought you home,” Mom suddenly says. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to sleep, that you’d have nightmares from being in unfamiliar surroundings. I remember worrying that you wouldn’t be able to eat anything I made for you. I remember worrying you’d be scared of Ryan. I worried you’d trip over your shoes and crack your head open. I worried you’d catch cold. I was going to get a kitten for you, but I worried it would suffocate you in your sleep. I worried you would be scared of the dark. That you’d choke on a button. There were a hundred more things. And that was the first day we brought you home.”

  “Mom.” I don’t know what else to say. There is no persuasive argument, no winning her over.

  “I can’t, Bridget. Knowing this about you paralyzes me.”

  “That’s why I lied all those times!” I blurt out.

  Mom’s eyes and mouth grow wide in shock and anger.

  I try a desperate save. “But, Mom, one day I’ll take driving lessons, and then I’ll go to college, and then get my own place, maybe start my own family. These are all huge, traumatic things for you, but you’re not going to stop me from doing any of them.”

  She gives me an exasperated look. “Really? Those are your examples? Yes, I will continue to worry through every stage of your life, but I get to share those worries with your father, and every other parent I know. Who do I talk to about this other thing?”

  I point to the front of the limo. “Ryan?” I suggest.

  Mom makes a snorting noise.

  “Irina? You’re sort of friends now.”

  She ignores this suggestion and glares at me. “Who do I go to when you’re . . .” Mom claws the air, frustrated at being lost for words.

  “Climbing the rope ladder of a helicopter as the assassin I’m chasing tries to cut me loose?”

  “Thanks.” Mom scowls at me. “Thanks for putting that picture in my head.”

  Dad starts to stir. Natalie yawns.

  Mom leans in close to me and grabs my hand. “No more, Bridget,” she says. “Promise me.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Final Chapter

  I returned to Reindeer Crescent a massive celebrity. And then, four days later, Cadzo dropped his debut solo song, “How Many Ways Can I Say I’m Sorry? (I’m Really Sorry),” and the world moved on.

  And now, two weeks removed from my time in Washington, it feels like none of it ever happened. I’m back to being an adequate student, an unexceptional daughter, and a not-bad friend. The secret I share with my mother has created an uncomfortable tension between us. Her eyes glimmer with suspicion every time I leave a
room. But it’s also weirdly made us closer.

  “What’s the intel on that?” she’s taken to asking me every time there’s a political scandal on the news.

  This morning I wake up to find I have a new Instagram follower. Ruth Etting is her name. I click on the screen and discover that Miss Ruth Etting is an English exchange student, staying in Westlake, Texas, with Molly Costigan-Cohen and her family. The pictures of Ruth make her look like a brunette Vanessa Dominion, but far less smug, far more approachable. Her favorite quote is “Shut up and suck it up.”

  Hmm.

  “So, if Jamie’s in Texas wearing a nanomask, who’s in the White House?” asks Joanna as we walk to school.

  I think back to the offer Jamie made me: “Do you have a backup mask? We could swap. You could stay on as me. I could go back to your life and pretend to be you.” I couldn’t say yes. Apparently Vanessa couldn’t say no.

  “Take a guess, peanut,” I drawl in an accurate approximation of Vanessa’s voice.

  “Everyone gets what they want,” marvels Joanna. “Except you.”

  I have no reply to that.

  “And another guy dumped you and left,” she points out.

  “There was no dumping,” I inform her. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “But you wanted it to be,” Joanna prods.

  “We might have caught each other’s cold a little bit” is as far as I will go.

  “Are you done as a spy?” she asks. “Like done, done?”

  “I promised my mom,” I reply. “Sort of.” (I didn’t exactly promise. I said the word “okay.” Which could be interpreted in a variety of ways.)

  “You know that sounds lame, right?” Joanna says, poking me in the arm to make her point. “What if the pilgrim fathers had said, ‘I promised my mom’? Would America even exist? Would any of us even be here?”

  “What do you actually do in school?” I ask.

  “I hope the next spy Seven handles doesn’t have a mom,” she grumbles.

  “Where did Seven come from?” I ask. “Is it your shoe size?”

  Joanna ignores my question and screeches, “What is that about?”