Jonathan Bernstein's Blog: jonathanbernsteinwrites.com, page 6

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

BROOKLYN RAP ANTHEMS!

 

 

 

 

 

BRIDGET WILDER: BOYS DON'T SPY. CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Last time on Bridget Wilder:Boys Don't Spy , Bridget confronted sneaker manufacturer Galton Bird about making shoes that brainwashed the boys who wear them. They had a spirited exchange of views and then Bridget fell through a trapdoor in his office.

Now read on...

11) World’s Greatest Dad

“There such a thing as being too clever for your own good,” says Bird.

    He’s standing a few feet away from me. As far as I can tell, I’m in a warehouse filled with endless

aisles of shelves containing Cromato shoeboxes. 

    The last thing I remember was falling through a hole that suddenly appeared in Bird’s floor. Now I’m

sitting on a metal chair in the warehouse with my hands and feet chained.  Something happened in-

between. Something bad.

     “You know too much, B-Dubs,” Bird tells me, as he bounces his basketball off the concrete floor.

“You’d have snitched on me to your friends, or your dads, or the cops.”

    I try to stay calm. “Why do you have a trapdoor in your office, Bird?”

   He spins the ball on his index finger. “Industrial espionage,” he says. “The sportswear world is hella

competitive. Rivals always out to steal ideas and, as you know, I’ve got awesome ideas.”

    “I’m not trying to steal your ideas,” I inform him. “I just wanted you to stop messing with boys’

minds.”

    “And I am,” he smiles. “Now I’m going mess with a girl’s mind.”

    Bird points at an aisle of shelves. He puts a hand to his ear, and a finger to his lips. “You hear that?”

he stage-whispers.

    I hear the faint sound of footsteps. They get increasingly louder.

    “That’s your shoes,” grins Bird.

    “That’s my shoes?” I repeat, confused. “Do you mean there’s a pair of shoes walking on their own?”

    Bird pretends to throw the ball at me. “Your custom-made shoes. During the time you were under

sedation—and don’t worry, I called your parents to let you know you were here and that I’ll be giving

you a ride home—I put the finishing touches to a shoe in your size that will wipe all your theories about

me and about what I do here out of your mind.”

    I start to struggle in the chair. The footsteps get louder. Bird bounces the ball in time to the

footsteps.

    A young man, late teens, I think, tall and athletic, with a thick gold chain around his neck, emerges

from between the aisles carrying a shoebox. He walks towards Bird.

    “No!” I shout. “Don’t do this. I won’t say anything. You can trust me.”

    “I don’t know if I can, is the thing,” he says. “Secrets are hard things to keep, and this is a big secret.”

    I kick and tug at the chains. It does nothing. I rock the chair from side to side.

    “Can you do something about that?” Bird says to Gold Chain. The guy comes up to me and puts his b

ig hands firmly on top of my small hands which are gripping the arms of the chair.

    I am unable to rock.

    But I can whisper.

    I softly mumble mmmnnmmmnnnmmmnn  to the Gold Chain guy. He sees the fear and confusion on

my face. He sees my trembling lips and wide innocent eyes. I whisper mmmnnnmmmnn again, this time

even more tremulously. I see a little sympathy in his face. He leans towards me, putting an ear close to

my mouth to catch my shy girlish whisper.

    I bite his ear. Hard.

   He screams something like AAAAYYYYYYYAAAAARRRRRRGGGHH!

    I lift my chained legs and kick out, catching Gold Chain in the chest. My plan is not to hurt hm—

although that’s an added bonus—I need a hard surface to propel me backwards.

    The chair tips over. I try to lift my head so it doesn’t bang off the concrete floor, but it still hurts.

    Bird yells, “Grab her feet!”

    I feel Gold Chain’s hands pull my sneakers off and pinch the toes of my sock-clad feet with enough

pressure to stop me kicking.

     “You’re a bad influence on Emily,” says Bird.

    I look up and see his face looming over me. He brandishes a Cromato, holding it inches from my

face. It has that new shoe smell.

    “This is going to make you a good influence.”

    He starts to push the sneaker on to my left foot. I wiggle, struggle and kick as much as I can.

    Gold Chain grabs my foot and squeezes it so hard I think he’s going to snap it off at the ankle.

    “Okayokayowstop!” I screech.

    While he holds me still, Bird shoves the shoe on to my foot.

    I feel it immediately. I feel the sensations running across my sole, between my toes and up my ankle.

I feel warm and sleepy.

    Gold Chain grabs my other foot and squeezes but I’m offering no resistance. Bird holds the second

shoe over my face.

    “You gave me the idea for these shoes, Bridget,” he says. “They exist because of you.”

    “So it’s only right that I’m the one who gets rid of them,” I reply.

    Bird’s hand suddenly clutches air. The shoe is now hundreds of fragments. Tiny bits of rubber and

lace which fall in my eyes and mouth.

    I hear Bird stammer, “What…how…but…” I feel Gold Chain lessen his grip on my right foot. I use it to

push the sneaker off my left foot. The sensations fade away. 

    Bird keeps gasping, “Where did…how did… what did…”

   I could answer all these questions. I could tell him, “My biological father’s a spy. When I hugged him

goodbye before I came down here, I stole his laser toothpick. When I pushed the chair backwards, the

toothpick rolled out of my t-shirt pocket up into my mouth. I managed to spit it between my fingers

while you two guys were squeezing my feet, and that’s how I vaporized your evil shoe. And now I’m

going to melt these chains.”

    I don’t tell him any of those things. I squeeze the toothpick and pray I don’t melt a couple of toes in

the process.

    I feel a lightness around my ankles and hear the clank of the chains hitting the concrete.

    “Hold her,” shouts Bird. “I’ll sedate her.”

    I was going to try to free my hands but the words I’ll sedate her  call for immediate action.

    I summon up all the strength at my disposal and flip up onto my feet. My hands are still chained to

the chair which is inconvenient, but now I can run, albeit in my pink, banana-pattern socks. Bird

charges at me with a syringe in his hand. I spin around and reverse into him, driving the legs of the

chair into, what I’m guessing are his stomach and thighs. I hear him groan in pain. I spin again and

jump, shoving the chair legs into his wrists. He drops his syringe and I kick it away.

    “Get her!” he commands Gold Chain.

    “Don’t make me hurt you,” I warn him, and point my hand at him.

    “With what?” snorts Gold Chain.

    Oh. I was hoping there was a laser toothpick in my hand when I pointed it. 

    I look down at the concrete ground. The toothpick lies between me and Gold Chain. He looks at it

and back at me. I make a dive for it. He kicks it out of the way and then, like the athlete he is, swoops

down, snatches it up and fires.

    I run as fast as a girl with a chair dragging  a chair chained to her hands is able to run. Behind me, I

hear a loud scream of shock and horror.

    “My chain!”

     I glance around. Bird’s guy is staring at the huddle of melted gold on the ground. He was holding the

laser the wrong way around!  I could hang around long enough for him to figure this out. Instead, I

watch him drop to the ground and try to scoop up the molten remains of his chain. Then I hurry

towards the nearest aisle.

    “Bridget,” I hear Bird’s voice. “Bridge! B-Dubs! Stop! Things got out of hand. We’re both at fault. Let’s

go back to my office and talk this over, what do you say?”

    Yeah, I can’t wait to go back to your office with its hidden trapdoors. 

    I drag my chair down the length of the aisle. I  can hear Bird coming after me.

    “I misjudged you, B. I see that now.  Let me take you home.”

    I turn to my right and run past a couple of aisles. They’re all the same. Endless shelves of shoeboxes,

with the occasional empty bottom shelf. If I wasn't chained to this chair, I could wedge myself inside one

of the empty shelves. That would buy me some time.

    I creep up an aisle and  I feel a chair leg bang against a shelf. 

    “I used to work down here, B,” I hear him shout. “I know every inch of this warehouse. You’re not

going to hide from me. So why don’t you come out?”

    “Because you’re a psychopath,” I yell back.

    “I’m a good dad. Or, at least, I’m trying to be,” he responds, sounding hurt.

    Halfway up the aisle, I see a mountain. A triangular pile of shoeboxes that have yet to be shelved. I

have an…I hesitate to call it an idea, but it’s something.

    I step on the first shoebox and, carefully, raise my foot and climb up to the next box. I keep climbing

until I’m able to reach out and stand on the top shelf. 

    I hear grunting and creaking beneath me. Someone else is scaling the shoebox mountain.

    “Come down from there, Bridget,” wheezes Bird. “You could fall and break your neck.”

    I look to my left. The next aisle is maybe five feet away. Can I jump from from I’m standing to the

next top shelf? With my chair and my chains? If I fall, I very likely will break a bunch of bones. But if I

just stand here…

    “That’s right,” Bird calls out. “Just wait there. I’m coming to help you.”

    He reaches out a hand. I feel it circle around my ankle.

    I shake my foot loose, and stamp down hard on his hand. 

    And then I jump.

    I land on on the top shelf of the next aisle and feel myself swaying from side to side. 

    Balance, Bridget I tell myself.

    “This is fun,” Bird shouts.

    I glance behind me. He’s perched on the top shelf of the aisle I just left.  “You’re an intruder on

private property,” he says. “If you get injured, it’s your own fault.”

    He sways backwards and then leaps. “And you’re going to get injured!” he roars, as he springs off the

shelf towards me.

    I let out a squeal of fright and jump from my shelf.

    Once again, I land on the next shelf and scramble to maintain my balance.

    There are endless aisles ahead of me. I can’t keep doing this. The chair is weighing me down. I just

barely managed to jump from one shelf to the next without crashing down onto the concrete below. The

next jump, or the one after that, is going to be the one I miss.

    “I can do this all day,” I hear Bird laugh behind me. “It’s a great work-out for me. But you? Dragging

that chair and those chains around your hands? You must be scared to death. If you fall—and you will—

it’s going to leave a mark.”

    Once upon a time, I had nano sneakers that made me fly like the wind and a special track suit that

allowed me to wreak martial arts mayhem. Now, I’m standing in my socks, chained to a chair, with no

means of escape.

    My enemy is smarter and stronger than me. I’m in his territory, playing his game. This kind, caring

father figure who wanted to save girls from being tormented and terrorized by boys is the meanest,

scariest guy of them all!

    I laugh at the irony. Bird echoes my laugh.

    I jump from the shelf.

    I hear Bird jump after me.

    I land precariously on the next shelf.

    But I don’t wait to try and get my balance.

    I lean forward so the legs of the chair are sticking straight out and I hurl myself backwards off the

shelf.

    I hear a loud, panicked gasp of surprise as Bird collides with the legs of the chair, I feel him try to

grab on to me for support. His fingers claw into my arms.

    Too late.

    He hits the ground. 

    My chair, miraculously, falls right side up.

    The impact rattles my teeth and blurs my vision but I am, amazingly, unharmed.

    I feel Bird’s fists pounding on the bottom of the chair. I landed over him. He’s stuck under me.

    I feel him wriggling and struggling beneath the chair.

    “We’re done playing games,” he breathlessly threatens me. “Once I get out of here…”

    “Things are going to get a lot worse,” says a voice I am very happy to hear.

    Strike.

    He walks up the aisle, shaking his head at the ridiculous sight of me chained to my chair, pinning a

furious Bird to the ground.

    “You knew I’d be here,” I smile at him. “You knew I took the laser toothpick.”

    “It’s what I would have done,” he says.

    Strike pulls another toothpick from his jacket pocket and aims it at my wrists. The chains fall away

like pieces of paper in the wind.

    “Let’s make a deal,” he says. “We lie to a lot of people. How about we don’t lie to each other from now

on?”

   He holds out his hand. I take it. He pulls me to my feet.

    Bird sighs with relief. He starts to pull himself out from under the chair.

    Strike sits down. The bottom of the chair sags, almost touching Bird’s face. There’s no way he’s

escaping with that amount of weight pushing down on him.

    “I’m going to have a short but meaningful conversation with Mr. Bird,” Strike tells me. “You should

probably head home.”

    “You’re going to miss me,” I say.

    “I know, “Strike agrees.

    “I was talking to Bird.”

    With that, I walk up the aisle and leave Bird to his fate which I can’t imagine being very pleasant.

    “Hey,” Strike calls after me. “You socked it to him.”

    “Huh?” I turn back to shrug at Strike. ”Don’t get it.”

    “Socked,” he says. “You’re wearing socks and you put him on the ground. It’s a good quip.”

    “Not really,” I argue. “Now, if you were to say, `Hey, Bridget, what did you get out of your visit to

Cromato?’ I would say, `Kicks.’ As in, sneakers, and I kicked Bird a few times. That’s  a good quip.”

    I toss Strike a parting salute and make my way out of the warehouse, happy at the sound of Bird

pleading for mercy.

More Next Week!

    

    

 

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

LATE EIGHTIES FAKE-SOPHISTICATED POP

After Synth-pop, before Acid House, pop music got a little bit polished. Here are a few such  songs with New York as their subject matter.

 

 

 

 

BRIDGET WILDER: BOYS DON'T SPY. CHAPTER NINE.

Last time on Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy, Bridget's suspicion that limited edition footwear was warping the minds of Reindeer Crescent's male student population proved correct, and she set off  to confront her chief suspect.

Now read on...

10) If The Shoe Fits

”Bridgey!” shouts Bird, as I am escorted into his office. It’s hard to believe a grown man works here.

There’s a basketball hoop attached to the door. Signed posters of ball players, rappers, and skinny boys

wearing t-shirts identifying them as L4E line the walls. The Cromato logo flashes on and off in pink and

green neon over Bird’s desk which is made of black glass and has four large vinyl sneakers for legs. Hip

hop blares over the office speakers.

    Bird, who’s dressed for a game of pick-up basketball rather than a day’s work, steps out from behind

his desk. He pulls a Bluetooth from behind his ear and tosses it on his back leather couch. He extends

his hand. I take it and he pulls me into a hug.

    “When they told me a Bridget Wilder was in reception without an appointment, I was like whaat?” Bird

spreads his arms wide to illustrate his confused reaction to my presence. “But then I was like, if my girl

B shows up unannounced, I know she’s got a good reason.”

    Bird flops down on his couch, puts his legs up on the cushion, leaving no room for me to sit. He 

tosses a basketball from hand to hand and, while doing that, he peers over the top of his thick black

glasses and regards me with interest.

    “So what’s kickin’, B-Wildy? You just happen to be in the hood?”

    “As a matter of fact, I did,” I lie. 

    I took a bus and train to Capitol Street, part of the central business district of downtown Sacramento

and home of Cromato Footwear. I called Joanna to get her to back up my alibi that a stray dog had

stolen my keys right out of my hand and I was following the dog into Reindeer Crescent Park to get

them back. (Sounds far-fetched? Google dog steals keys. It’s an epidemic!). I made my way into the

Cromato building. The reception area is filled with huge video monitors playing the company’s vast

catalog of loud, colorful shoe commercials. I yelled to the receptionist that I was a friend of Galton

Bird’s daughter and he’d said, anytime I wanted a tour of the building, he’d be happy to show me. This,

technically, was true. When Bird gave me a ride home after our first fun night with Emily  dribbled down

the drain, he did extend an invitation to the Cromato headquarters.

    “Remember you said you’d show me where where the magic of Cromato happened?” I remind him.

    He nods as I sit down on the arm of the black leather couch.

    “I also remember you weren’t super-into what we do here.” he replies. “Didn’t know the brand.” He

points to the skinny L4E people. “Or the boys.”

    “That was before,” I tell him.

    A satisfied smile spreads across his unshaven face. “Before you found out I was a little bit cooler than

you thought.”

   “Before I found out you were using your shoes to brainwash boys.”

    The smile stays on Bird’s face as I repeat Strike’s findings about the pump transmitting electronic

impulses. (I don’t mention Strike’s name so it  sounds like I’m passing them off as my findings. Really, it

would just be confusing to introduce another name.)

    “Wow,” breathes Bird as I conclude my—okay, Strike’s—findings. “That’s some imagination you get

there, Bridget.”

    “It’s nothing compared to yours,” I tell him. “You couldn’t win Emily over so you went the weirdest,

creepiest way in the world to buy her love.”

    The smile fades from Bird’s face. He gets up from the couch and goes back behind his desk. From his

position of power, he addresses me. “So you’re here to thank me, I assume?”

    I slide off the arm off the couch and onto the cushion he just vacated. “Not really,” I say.

    “You should be,” he tells me. “You were the one who told me how unhappy that boy was making

Emily, how the boys at school were making you and your friends’ lives miserable. They’re better now,

though, aren’t they?”

     I wasn’t prepared for that.

    “Yes, but…” I begin.

    “You’re happier. Jo-Conks is happier. Emily’s much happier. Which makes me happier. She’s let down

her guard around me. We’ve gone ice skating a couple of times. We’ve talked about colleges. I run

design ideas by her. As a result, her mother and I are even closer. We’re going to be taking our first

vacation as a family pretty soon. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t told me Drowsy P was

making her miserable. So even though you haven’t thanked me for improving your life, I’m going to

thank you for giving me the motivation to improve mine. Thanks, Bridget.”

    I get up from the couch and go over to the chair facing his desk. It’s close to the ground so he can

look down on visitors.

    “Bird,” I say. “I’m glad you and Emily and her mom are all happy. That’s great. But you’re

brainwashing people.”

    Bird swipes the air with his hand as if he’s tossing the word away. “I’m making them better,” he says.

“I know what boys are like.” His eyes drift to the pictures of the L4E dudes. ”Their brains aren’t wired

properly.They can’t control how they act or what they do. I’m helping them get past the bad bits and

become the best versions of themselves.”

    “Yes, but…” I begin.

   Another swipe of the air. “You have a relationship with the kid who bugged and tormented you, right?”

    I am forced to nod in agreement.

    “A relationship you would not have had without my intervention. You have a friend you wouldn’t have

had without me. Joanna has a friend. Emily has a friend…”

    “Yeah,” I jump in. “Except when he took his shoes off and turned mean again.”

    “That’s a problem,” Bird admits. “Maybe the solution is another wearable device. Maybe a watch. Or

maybe it’s a body spray or  shampoo, I don’t know. But problem solving is what I do…”

    Bird gestures around his office. “It’s what got me here.” He turns the music down and leans forward,

his chin sinking into the palms of his hands. “We’re on the ground floor of something that could result

in a better world.  It started with me sending free gifts of limited edition sneakers to three problem

boys, and look what happened. Think of it on a larger scale, B, no more fighting, no more wars. And all

because of a conversation you and I had during a car ride.”

    He’s good. And he’s right. Life was better when Chew and I were friends, when Joanna was

enthusiastic about working with All Caps, when Emily and Drowsy P were hanging out. All the

exhausting things that take up so much space in our heads—why are boys mean to us, what do they

really think of us, do they like us when they act like they don’t—none of that mattered. And it was all

Bird’s doing. Yes, he wanted to buy Emily’s love because he couldn’t get her to do it any other way. But

is that so terrible? Is wanting to be happy and to make other people happy the worst thing in the world?

    “What if it was Emily?” I find myself asking.

    Bird looks confused.

    “What if she was the mean one?” I go on. “What if  she was picking on people,spreading gossip and

lies, posting mean stuff  online. What if she was making other kids, boys or girls, miserable?”

    Bird stares at me. “She’s never do that.”

    I shake my head, impatiently. “Obviously not. She’s great. No one nicer. But… what if?

    “I don’t follow,” says Bird.

    “You’d need to make her better,” I tell him. “You’d need to get her to wear your shoes or watch or

shampoo. You’d need to brainwash her.”

    I see Bird struggle for a comeback.  I don’t give him the chance.

    “You don’t get to choose,” I say, rising from the seat and placing my palms at the edges of his black

glass desk. “You don’t get to make her better. It’s not your call. Is Brendan Chew a colossal pain? Yes!

But if his horrible personality is going to change, you’re not the one to change it. You think Emily would

thank you if she knew you’d manipulated Drowsy P into liking her? She’d hate you! Imagine finding out

that the boy she obsessed over had to be brainwashed by you into liking her back!”

   Bird pushes his chair back and stands up. “What was I supposed to do?” he shouts. “She acted like I

didn’t exist. The harder I tried, all I ever got was eye-rolling and one-word answers. If I asked her to do

anything, like clean her room or put the cap back on the toothpaste, she’d look at me like she wanted

me dead. And she loved telling me, `You’re not my father.” 

    Bird’s face get reddens. He pounds a fist down on his glass desk.

    “Oh, I know.” he snarls “I’m not cool like her real dad. You’ve been in Emily’s room. You've seen all

the pictures of him. Let me tell you something about Captan Ben Barnicle. You know why he flies for a

tinpot Russian airline? Because no one else will hire him. And you know why not?”

    I shrug in ignorance.

    “He stole a plane and took it for a joyride,” says Bird, looking incredulous. “That’s cool, right? That’s a

fun guy. Someone you’d feel safe around.”

    I get it. He’s jealous. I can talk him down.

    “I’m going to tell you something about me.” I gesture to him to sit. He flops back down behind his

desk.”I’m adopted. I only recently got to meet my biological father. The relationship I have with him is

different from the one I have with my real dad, the one who raised me. But I don’t expect it to be the

same. I expect it to be it’s own thing. It’s going to change and grow the more we get to know each

other. That’s going to happen with you and Emily, too. You just need to be patient.”

    He leans forward and looks at me. I could be wrong but he seems a little teary-eyed.

    “Are you, like, secretly twenty-seven?” he asks me.

    “Dads and daughters,” I tell him. “One of my specialty subjects.”

    “Your dad should be proud of his smart, sensitive daughter,” says Bird. “Both of them should be.”

    I feel a warm glow spreading over me. I handled this crazy situation with wisdom and delicacy.

Bridget Wilder: not just an awesome spy, a world-class problem-solver.

     I get up to leave. “Thanks for giving me so much of your time, “ I tell Bird. “I’ll let you get back to

work.”

    Bird reaches out and we shake hands.

    I head for the door.

    “Bridget!” he calls out.

    I look around.

    “Think fast!” he shouts.

    He’s throwing me a basketball! I grin at him. I know this is his way of saying he accepts me as a

friend and equal. 

    I jump off the ground and extend both arms. I grab the ball and go to hurl it through the hoop on the

door.

    I throw and miss. Is the hoop rising into the air? Is the door rising into the air.

    No, I’m…oh my God, I’m  falling through the floor!

    As I plunge downwards, I hear Bird’s voice high above me.

    “Thanks for dropping by.”

    

    

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

OBVIOUSLY.

 

BRIDGET WILDER: BOYS DON'T SPY. CHAPTER NINE.

Last Time on Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Cry, Bridget's biological father, the legendary spy, Carter Strike, made a last-second appearance. Now read on...

9) Spy To Spy

There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the two people sitting together at the far end of the diner.

Okay, the man seems to be eating his way through two breakfasts, and the girl stealing french fries

from one of his plates should probably be in school. But maybe they’re talking about grades or

parenting issues or vacation plans . Nobody would suspect she’s asking him about the laser toothpick

he used to vaporize Brendan Chew’s muffin before it hit her in the face. Nobody would guess they’re

both spies.

    “We’re not both spies,” says Strike, through a mouthful of heuvos rancheros. “I’m done. I’m out. My

only mission right now is finding a place to live in the vicinity of the Reindeer Crescent area where I can

live a nice normal life and make sure that you do, too. So, no, I’m not going to give you the laser

toothpick.”

    “But I lost my laser lip-balm after I sliced the boss of Section 23’s Mercedes in half,” I whine. “I feel

lost without a laser.”

    “Good,” he replies, spooning up a segment of corned beef hash from his other breakfast plate. “Don’t

give your parents any cause to worry about you or to suspect me of disrupting your normal uneventful

life. I feel bad enough that you bamboozled me into allowing you to miss a morning of school.”

    “This is more important than school,” I proclaim and I slam Brendan Chew’s Cromatos onto the table.

    Our table gets a few suspicious glances. I begin to regret the dramatic moment and start to remove

the shoes. Strike curls a hand around the heel of a sneaker. His eyes narrow. I feel a tingle of

excitement. His mouth may say “I’m done. I’m out”, but his body language states otherwise. He puts

down his fork and reaches for his phone. I lean across the table, my voice low but quivering with

enthusiasm.

    “You know. I didn’t even have to say anything. You just automatically, instinctively know. I’m getting

like that, too. There’s something not normal about these shoes.”

    Strike touches an app on his phone. The screen glows white. He runs the phone over the shoe.

    I scoot around the table and squeeze in next to him so I can see the screen turn from white to green.

An exoskeleton of the shoe appears. Scrolling text—it looks to me like indecipherable technical jargon—

starts to crawl down the screen.

    “The pump in the upper tongue of the shoe transmits electronic impulses through the nerve endings

starting at the ankles and moving all the way up to the brain,” Strike says. “That’s new.”

    I punch my bio-father on the upper arm. “That’s why Brendan Chew bought me muffins. That’s why

All Caps walked dogs. That’s why Drowsy P sang the Emily song but turned mean when he put the

skates on.”

    Strike gestures to the text still crawling down his screen. “That is easier for me to follow than

whatever you just said.”

    I hold up the Cromato. “These shoes make mean boys nice.”

    Strike stops eating. 

    “Tell me everything,” he says.

     I didn’t tell Strike everything. Here’s why: if I’d connected the dots leading from Emily to Drowsy P to

Bird to Cromato and back to me, Strike would have taken over and I’d be left on the sidelines instead of

in the thick of the spy action where I deserve to be. That thing about him relocating to Reindeer

Crescent to live a normal life and  make sure I do, too? Not what I wanted to hear. When I told Strike a

highly edited version of how I came to be in the possession of Chew’s shoes, and why I suspected the

sneakers of being abnormal, he immediately started checking his phone for trustworthy former CIA

operatives to investigate further. “You’ve stumbled onto something here,” he told me. “Let’s put it in the

hands of people who get paid to be suspicious and take crazy risks.”

    So that’s where we leave it. Strike finishes his breakfasts and gives me a ride back to school. He tells

me that my mom has volunteered to help him hunt for the perfect home. We make plans to meet up in

the near future. He assures me he’ll let me know what happens with the shoe investigations, and he

congratulates me on being so smart and perceptive. We hug goodbye.

    I head back to school and then, the moment Strike has disappeared from view, I turn around and

head for the headquarters of Cromato Footwear.

MORE NEXT WEEK!

    

    

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

BANDS WHO TAKE THEIR NAMES FROM NEW YORK

Before Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards formed Chic, they were in a group called New York City and this was their hit:

A bunch of actors pretended to be the New York Dolls on HBO's not-very-good Vinyl. This is what they should have sounded like:




When a song starts with the words, "This has got to be the saddest day of my life," you know you're going to be made to to feel feelings. This is The Manhattans' famed weepie Kiss And say Goodbye:

 Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. No further comment required.

 Fountains Of Wayne, named after a lawn furniture store in Wayne, New Jersey. Adam Schlesinger, from this band, now does the music for the TV show, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Hackensack, one of their best and saddest songs is also part of Katy Perry's live repertoire.

 

 

 

BRIDGET WILDER: BOYS DON'T SPY. CHAPTER EIGHT.

Last time on Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy, the behavior of the boys of Reindeer Crescent Middle School got weirder. What's going on?

8) Happy Feet

 “Muffin exchange!” Brendan Chew shouts as he sees me walking towards the school steps. “Vanilla bean

blackberry! Boom!”

    My mouth involuntarily waters. I hold up a plastic bag and say, “My brother’s sneakers.”

    Brendan looks baffled. I don’t blame him. After Joanna fled the scene of the All Caps confrontation, I

returned Tank to his owner and then hurried home. The thing that was nagging at me  after Emily’s ice

rink incident with Drowsy P was nagging at me even more. So I waited for Ryan to barricade himself in

the bathroom and do whatever it is he does that leaves such a brutal odor. Them I snuck into his room,

and ventured into his closet. I felt around in the dark and extracted an old pair of Nike sneakers with

holes in both soles. I threw them into a plastic bag which I am now presenting to Brendan Chew.

    “I think mine tastes better,” he says.

    “Right,” I agree. How do I approach this? Honesty? Probably not. Maybe semi-honesty.

    “We’re friends, right?” I ask him.

    “I thought so,” he says, staring at the plastic bag.

    “So if I ask you to do something which, on the surface, sounds weird and inexplicable, would you

trust me that I actually have a reason to ask you which I can’t tell you right now?”

    Brendan gives me a suspicious squint. “Are you in trouble? Are you in some sort of cult?

    “No no no,” I assure him. “Nothing like that. I just want to…”

     I inhale sharply. I have faced evil men with guns. I have clung to the roofs of speeding vehicles. This

shouldn’t be as hard as it is. “I just want to borrow your sneakers and, in return, give you my brother’s

shoes.”

    I thrust the plastic bag at him. Brendan takes it and peers inside. He does not look thrilled at what he

sees. Once again, I do not blame him.

    “Let me understand,” he says. “You want my shoes, my new shoes? For…”  Brendan screws up his face

in distaste. “Those.”

    “Yup,” I nod. “Can’t tell you why. I’m just asking you to trust me.”

    He raises both eyebrows, shrugs, and then he squeezes  out of his sneakers.

    “Thankyouthankyythankyou,” I gasp and thrust Ryan’s old, holey Nikes at him.

    “There’s that Wilder smell,” he says. “Like sweaty socks and and sour milk on a hot day.”

    The nice, kind, generous Brendan Chew with whom I happily exchanged muffins over the past week

has vanished. In his place, the fool who can’t shut up, the clown who endlessly tries to make his name

by mocking me.

    He holds Ryan’s shoes up over his head for the school’s arriving student population to see. “Hard

times in the Wilder household. Midget Wilder’s trying to sell the most valuable thing she owns.”

    That nagging suspicion? Chew just confirmed it. I wish he hadn’t.

    “I’m going to miss you,” I tell him, and mean it.

    “Why? Are you going back to your own planet? Your own tiny, smelly planet?” he cackles.

    There was a time when I would have happily snatched the vanilla bean blackberry muffin from his

hand and mashed it into his face. But this is not that time.

    Chew makes a grab for his sneakers. I sidestep him and he’s left clutching air.

    “Give me back my Cromatos, you sneaker-stealing freak. What are you going to do, live in them?

`Cause you’re a midget.”

    “Why did you give me them to me?” I ask him.

    Chew sneers at my stupidity. But I can see he’s having a hard time coming up with an answer.

    “Why did you bring me a muffin?”

    I press him harder. “Think. What do you remember?”

    Chew stares at me and the shoes in my hand. He looks at the muffin.  I feel bad for him. None of this

makes any sense.

    His face reddens. He throws the muffin at me. I raise my hand to catch it.

    The muffin explodes into a shower of tiny crumbs that float briefly in the air before coating the

ground.

    Chew and I lock eyes. Both of us wonder if the other was responsible for the destruction of the

muffin.

    “Hey,” a voice rings out. “There’s that fat substitute teacher.”

    I spin around.

    Strike.

     MORE NEXT WEEK

    

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

BRITS SING ABOUT NEW YORK

How well I remember the dark rainy days of my Scottish upbringing. Is there another kind of life out there, I wondered? Is there a city where dreams come true and every outsider is accepted with open arms? The answer, obviously, was no. But I was not alone among my British compatriots in fantasizing about living a New York lifestyle. Here's a few such songs.

 

 

 

 

 

BRIDGET WILDER: BOYS DON'T SPY. CHAPTER SEVEN.

Last Time On Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy, the boys of Reindeer Crescent Middle School were behaving with courtesy and kindness. Which was very out of character for them. But is the picture as erfect as it seems? Read on...

7) Cold As Ice

“Bridget, I am down on my knees, picking up chunks of dog poop, in case you didn’t notice,” says

Joanna. ”I don’t need to hear you babbling on and on and on about Emily Barnicle's amazing lutz

jump.”

    “You begged me to get up at an inhumanly early hour and come on All Caps’ single mom dog

walk with you,” I tell her as she fills a white plastic bag with the chunky remnants of the volcanic

eruption that shot out of her tiny schnauzer a moment earlier.  “So shut up and listen to my story

which you should love because it’s about someone being unhappy."

    Tank, the floppy-eared Doberman I’m walking around six blocks of Reindeer Crescent, barks as

if to echo his approval of my retort.

    “Thank you, Tank,” I tell him.

    While Joanna continues her poop-retrieval, I return to the strange tale of Emily Barnicle’s

emotional phone call. Once she’d blown her nose and collected herself to the extent she was able

to get out actual complete sentences, Emily started sending me attachments. I clicked them open

to see her spinning and jumping her way around downtown Reindeer Crescent’s postage stamp-

sized skating rink.

    “Toe loop,” she shouts out and then turns the camera on Drowsy P, who leans on the metal

railing surrounding the rink and watches her with open admiration. In the next clip, Emily turns

the camera back on herself and executes another impressive move.

    “Double axel!” she shouts.

    Drowsy P puts a hand to his heart and affects a bad, loud English accent. “She walks in beauty

like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meets in

her aspect and her eyes.”

    “I have a bag of poop in my hand,” warns Joanna, as I recite Drowsy P’s words from memory.

“I’m painting the picture that they’re totally into each other,” I explain."

    And then, I open the next attachment. Emily’s turned the camera back on Drowsy P and she

shouts out, "Your turn!”

    Drowsy P pretended to be bashful and worried he wouldn’t live up to her high standard, but he

had a pair of skates hanging from the railing so he was obviously just putting on a performance.

    “You’re amazing at everything you do,“ Emily assured him. “And I’ll be right here to hold your hand.”

    Emily skated closer to help Drowsy P with his skates.

    “I got this,” he said, a little curtly. He took a couple of faltering steps towards the ice. His left

ankle buckled. Emily reached out to steady him…

    “…and he pulled his arm away from her like she was infected,” I tell a now-fascinated Joanna.

“I…I…I thought he was just embarrassed,” gulped Emily over the phone last night. “But the way he

looked at me…”

    I can verify this. The stage school kid who was yelling poetry and applauding Emily’s figure-

skating prowess was nowhere to be seen. Drowsy P looked like he had no idea what he was doing

at the rink, and he couldn’t get away fast enough. He clomped back behind the rail and pulled his

skates off.

    “What’s wrong?” Emily wailed. “Where are you going?”

    “It looked like he was about to say, Away from you,” I say to Joanna. “Because his face was all

contorted and ragey. But that’s where the attachments ended.”

    Joanna, as predicted, is uplifted by  this sad story. She swings her plastic bag of poop and

smiles down at her schnauzer. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s mommy’s little poop machine? Is it you?

Yes it is!” she gushes.

    “Emily skated away from him and then fled the rink,” I continue. “But then she tells me she got

all these texts and emails and songs filled with him saying sorry, sorry, sorry, over and over and

over.” 

    "Does he have a split personality? Is she unbearable to be around for more than a few minutes?

The Conquest Report will get to the bottom of this breaking story,” proclaims Joanna.

    I feel a little guilty about spilling Emily’s secrets to the least sympathetic source in the world,

but s omething has been nagging at me about her story. I’m not entirely sure what it is, and I

thought talking about it might help me put my finger on it. But now, I just feel like I betrayed a

friend.

    We walk Joanna’s schnauzer back to his grateful owner and begin the trek to return Tank

to the home of his single mom. I’m still thinking about Emily when my friendly, floppy-eared

doberman buddy starts barking like crazy.

    “Hey hey hey!” I say, trying to calm him down. “Easy Tank, easy boy.”

    I see the reason for the doberman’s frenzy. A rottweiler is charging down the street straight

towards us. Tank is yapping louder than a hundred car alarms. I see the curtains of bedroom

windows open and the faces of angry residents peer out. I mouth sorry and try to quiet the insane

dog.

    “I got you, Tank, don’t worry about that dog,” I try to tell him. The rottweiler thunders past us.

    “ Look, it’s All Caps!” Joanna shouts out.

    Sure enough, All Caps is the next figure to run down the street. His crazy hair looks particularly

untamable today.

    “What a conicid…” Joanna begins.

    She stops talking when she sees the furious look on his face.

    “I had to take my sneakers, my new Cromatos, off in the stupid single mom’s house and her

stupid dog chewed them to bits.”

    We look down at his sneakers. We see dirty, ragged toenails sticking out of holes where the fronts of his shoes should be.

    “I don’t know why I ever said I’d walk stupid single moms’ stupid dogs in the first place,”

growls All Caps.

    “You said you wanted to use your name and your powers for good,” says Joanna, looking

confused.

    All Caps squints at her. “Do I know you? Why are you even talking to me? If I lose the stupid

dog and that stupid single mom tries to make me pay for it, I’m coming after you and your chair.”

    With that, All Caps pounds away after the Rottweiler. My Doberman keeps barking. Aggrieved

Reindeer Crescent neighbors are tapping on their windows.

    “We should get out of here, “ I tell Joanna. She gives me an agonized glance. I see her eyes

turning red. I kneel down to pat Tank and calm him down. We both watch Joanna as she runs up

the street as fast as she can go.

More Next Week!