Jonathan Bernstein's Blog: jonathanbernsteinwrites.com, page 7

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

STREETS OF NEW YORK

No one's written a song about Sherman Street in Prospect Park, where I used to live, and which no cab driver ever knew existed, but there are many other songs about New York addresses. Here are a handful.

Bobby Womack's Across 110th Street has the distinction of being the theme song not to only to the blaxploitation film of the same name but also to Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown.

 From the 1933 musical 42nd Street, Ruby Keeler trills the title song.

 From Born To Run-era, Bruce Springsteen, Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out

59 Chrystie Street takes up the first 60 seconds of the 12 minute B-Boy Boulliabasse on Paul's Boutique.

There have been approximately a million versions of Ricahrd Rogers' Slaughter On Tenth Avenue, usually performed by orchestras. This one is by David Bowie's long-time guitarist, Mick Ronson.

 

 

 

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

Last time on Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy, the male students who had previously made life miserable for Bridget and her friends seemed to redeem themselves for their bad behavior. But was that a one-time only deal? Let's find out!!!

6) Life Is Beautiful

”Muffin exchange!” I shout as I see Brendan Chew approach the front entrance to the school. His face

brightens and his pace quickens. He doesn’t even bother to hide his excitement about the type of

muffin I’m going to surprise him with this morning. Yes, Brendan Chew and I have a thing. A fun, goofy

little muffin-centric thing that’s been going on for the past week, and that we’re both enjoying a lot.

    After I got used to the idea that Chew was legit in apologizing to me for the endless insults, I wanted

to show him how much I appreciated the gesture. So I bought him a carrot cake muffin. I didn’t leave it

outside his house, but I made sure to get into A117 earlier than him, and placed it in the middle of his

desk. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, but when he entered the classroom and looked surprised, I

couldn’t keep the smile off my face. And the next day, he presented me with a chocolate pecan pie

muffin, and, from that point on, it’s become this thing between us. Every other day, one of us gives the

other a muffin and it can’t be a flavor either of us has had before. It’s a lot of pressure. Today, I got him

banana oatmeal coconut. Brendan Chew and I forming a muffin-based friendship is an unlikely turn of

events. But it’s nothing next to Joanna walking dogs for single moms. That’s what happening, though.

    One hour before school, and one hour after, Joanna goes to the homes of single moms who have

recently given birth, and she takes their dogs for walks around the neighborhood. Is she stealing them?

Is she teaching them to growl at their owners? No, she’s doing an actual nice thing. Or should I say, she

and All Caps are doing an actual nice thing. After he vowed to use his name and social media presence

for good rather than chair-pulling, walking single moms’ dogs was his big idea. And Joanna was his first

volunteer. Not so long ago, when Joanna demanded I look at the photos on her phone, I had to tense

myself for a gallery of students with food poisoning, terrible hairdos and bee stings on their faces. Now,

she beams proudly as i swipe through endless pictures of pitbulls, spaniels, great danes, beagles and

boxers. “Look at those big boys. Look at their goofy faces.They’ve all got their own personalities,” she

coos. “You can tell the ones that are genuinely pleased to see me, and the ones that are playing it cool.”

I wish I could say that things worked out as well for Emily and Drowsy P as they have for me and

Brendan Chew, and for Joanna and All Caps. But I’d be lying.

    They worked out much much better!

    Those two kids are inseparable after school hours. Emily’s popularity skyrocketed after Drowsy P

serenaded her. Casey keeps trying to lure Emily back to her group, but Ems—she doesn’t mind it when

we call her by that name— is loyal. We held out the hand of friendship first so now we reap the benefits.

Her home life seems to have stabilized, too. When we hung out with her at the weekend, the presence

of Bird didn’t seem to make her shudder quite as much as it did on the previous occasion. “He’s not so

bad when you get to know him,” she claims. I’m not going to attempt to make a case for myself as a

relentlessly positive and optimistic person who only sees the good in others. But here’s something I’ve

noticed: When you’re in a happy state of mind, you like it when other people are in a similar state. I’ve

noticed that Reindeer Crescent has become a more pleasant, less stressful school. Where once people—

okay, boys—used to shout abuse, play pranks and cause mayhem, now they seem nicer, quieter, more

caring and compassionate. I feel like we have Brendan Chew, All Caps and Drowsy P to thank for this

change in behavior. Once the other guys saw them being sincere, they realized the error of their ways

and became better people. I mean, it’s obviously not as simple as that: there’s still a significant

percentage of the boy population that’s as loud and mean and stinky as before. But, before last Monday,

that was all we had in the guy department. Now, we’ve got a better class of boy. I’m back home

scrolling through muffin recipe sites when my phone vibrates. Emily’s name appears.

    “Ems!” I hear weeping.

    “Ems?’ I hear swallowing. And nose blowing. And more weeping.

    “Drowsy P,” I hear Emily sob.

    “What about him?” I ask.

    “He was so mean to me!”

   MORE NEXT WEEK!

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

All Punk Everything.

New York: birthplace of rap, of disco, of doo-wop and innumerable other musical genres. But let's not forget, it was also the town where punk rock was born. Here's a few classic examples of New York punk.

 

 

 

 ... and finally, a British punk song with NYC as it's sneering subject matter.

 

 

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

Last time on Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy, Bridget's long-time tormentor, class clown Brendan Chew acted with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, and Joanna's nemesis, the prankster All Caps, seemed to be on the verge of another shocking stunt at her expense.

Now read on:

5) Mysterious Ways

    All Caps approaches Joanna’s chair. I break into a run. This will not happen to her a second

time. Joanna has earned herself several boatloads of bad karma but she does not deserve to be

dumped on her butt in front of a entire cackling cafeteria twice in less than a week.

    The chair- pulling prankster doesn’t repeat his assault on Joanna. Instead, he steps onto an

empty chair next  to her, and then climbs up on to the table. Joanna pushes back her chair and

gets to her feet. Emily does the same. All Caps gestures to them both to stay. That I was not

expecting.

    I’m not  entirely sure what my move is here. Do I jump up on to the table and fell him with a

swift and  vicious kick, something that’s well within my capabilities? Or do I hang back and wait to

see how  this plays out?

    “Hi!” shouts All Caps. “Everybody, can I get your attention? This’ll just take a

minute and then you can go back to your lunch. I just have to say something.”

    Every eye in the  cafeteria is trained on All Caps. The gleeful leer that was on his face as

Reindeer Crescent Middle School went ballistic in it’s approval of his previous epic chair-pull is

entirely absent.

    “I can’t sleep,” he says, his voice hesitant. “Haven’t been able to for the last few days. Can’t eat,

either. Here’s why. I feel guilty.”

    A wave of murmuring spreads across the cafeteria.

    All Caps looks directly at Joanna. “Guilty for a dumb thing I did that hurt someone I don’t even

know. Someone I’ll never get to know now because she won’t ever feel safe around me again.”

    All Caps is addressing these words directly to Joanna who, I swear to God, is blushing. I’ve seen

Joanna Conquest go red with rage, jealousy, and because a morsel of cookie dough got lodged in

her esophagus. I’ve never seen her blush.

    All Caps spreads his arms. His voice echoes throughout the cafeteria. “My mother, Mrs, Caps,

didn’t raise me to be the sort of person who treats others badly. I’ve disappointed my mother, and

for what? Followers? Likes? Reposts? I don’t like what I’ve become, Reindeer Crescent. I’ve let

myself down and I’ve let all you down. I want to take this opportunity to say sorry to all of you

and,especially, to Joanna Conquest.”

    Joanna’s face is burning and her eyes are glowing. I know the feeling; it’s agonizing but you

don’t want it to stop. “I’m done with chair-pulling,” he says. “From now on, I’m using my name

and my powers for good. Thanks for listening.”

    All Caps steps down from the table. When his foot touches the empty chair, a small ripple of

applause has broken out. By the time he reaches the ground, the entire cafeteria, including the

seen-it-all serving staff are on their feet, clapping and cheering. All Caps stands in front of

Joanna and extends a hand. She hesitates at first.

    “Shake!” shouts a lunchlady.

    Shake! Shake!  Shake! The refrain is taken up by the entire cafeteria.

    Joanna goes to take his hand. All Caps pulls  her into a hug. They slowly pull apart and All Caps

walks back to his own table, the applause still filling the cafeteria. I join my friend who is still

bright red and visibly shaken.

    “Wow,” I say. “Wow, “ says Emily.

    “ I…” begins Joanna.

    She doesn't finish her sentence. In her haze of blissful confusion, she goes to sit down, forgets

where her chair is and falls on her butt. Emily and I both freeze in horror. But unlike last time,

there’s no laughter. No jeers. No cameras recording the embarrassing incident. Instead, All Caps

gallops over and helps her to her feet. When Joanna is at her most vindictive, I often find myself

in the position of telling her stuff like, ‘People are basically good if you give them the chance’. I’m

not sure I ever really believed that until now.

    We’re in our post-lunch Social Studies class. Joanna’s face is still a fetching shade of pink. I’m

still thinking about the weird turns today has  taken. First, the muffin, then the identity of the

muffin gifter, then the All Caps apology. What’s  next?

    An acoustic guitar starts to play.

    “Stranded  at the drive-in…”

    Did I just hear an amplified  male voice singing from outside our classroom window? All heads

turn to search for the source.

    “Branded a fool…”

    Standing out in the schoolyard, a young guy wearing a black leather jacket is singing into a

radio microphone and strumming his guitar.

    “What will they say Monday at school?”

    “Oh my God,” gasps Emily. “It’s Drowsy P.”

    She jumps to her feet and presses her face to the window.

    Drowsy P throws back his head and lunches into the verse of his song.

    “Emily, can’t you see, I’m in misery?”

    “He…he…he’s singing Sandy from Grease but he’s changed the name to Emily, “ she squeals.

“That’s my name!”

    “We made a start, now we’re apart, there’s nothing left for me…”

    “Emily, sit down,please,” calls out Social Studies teacher, Helena Hartsock. She goes over to the

window, taps it and makes a shoo-ing gesture to Drowsy P. “Go away, please,” she mouths.

“Love has flown, all alone, I sit and wonder why-yi-yi…”

    A stampede of students joins Emily with their faces pressed up against the window.

    “Why you left me, oh Emily.”

    I glance over to check the reaction of Emily’s cool cousin Casey. Cool cousin Casey is not

pleased with the attention Emily is receiving.

    “Is he for real your boyfriend?” asks a girl who has  never before spoken to Emily.

    “I can’t with his sleepy eyes,” swoons another.

    Like the stage school kid he is, Drowsy P drops to one knee and swings his guitar back around

for the emotional climax.

    ‘“Why you left me, oh Emily.”

    I can’t lie, I’m blown away by this impromptu performance. Joanna who, as we know, loathes

and despises musicals, is wide-eyed. Casey is openly envious. Kelly and Nola are wiping tears

from each other’s eyes. Helena Hartsock is still mouthing the words to the song. I go to grab

Emily’s arm. “That was…’ I start to say. But there’s no arm to grasp. There’s no Emily to talk to.

She’s lying on the ground, eyes closed, a rapturous smile on her face.

MORE NEXT WEEK!

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

Here's a bunch of New York-based songs written and/ or performed by one or all of the Bee Gees.

Hard to believe in an era when playlists are filled with self-esteem anthems, but pop music, especially in the late sixties and early seventies, used to be really depressing. The Bee Gees first hit was called New York Mining Diaster 1941.  Thirty-three Chilean miners were trapped underground a while back and no one wrote a song for them.

From just before their disco period kicked into full Saturday Night Live monstrousness, this is Nights On Broadway:

 

 

 That song was also a hit for Candi Staton:

Solo Bee Gee Robin Gibb had a hit with Another Lonely Night In New York:

...and obviously their defining New York song sounded like this:

 

 

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

Last week, Bridget and Joanna went to Emily Barnicle's house. They met her mom's embarrassing boyfriend, Emily saw an Instagram of Drowsy P in Grease and All Caps' video of Joanna being pulled off her chair proved highly popular.

Now read on...

 

4) The Unexpected Muffin

”You’re not eating that,” says my mother. “It’s been on the ground.”

    “It’s in a box that was on the ground,” points out my father.

    “How do we know where it was before it was in the box?” demands Mom.

    “It could have been eaten, thrown back up, painstakingly reassembled, and then placed into the box,” 

    Thanks Ryan. Thanks for putting that image into our heads first thing on a Monday morning, immediately ruining the rest of the week for the entire Wilder family.

    “You’re all missing the point,” shouts my little sister Natalie. “Bridget has a muffin.”

    “Are you in a muffin club?” asks Dad.

    Natalie gives him a despairing look. “Bridget’s not a joiner. She doesn’t engage with the world.”

    “I do, too,” I say. “I’m selective.”

    “The point you’re all continuing to miss,” Natalie continues. “Is that someone went to the trouble of getting up early in the morning  to leave a muffin in a white box with the name Bridget Wilder written on the top outside our front door. Who would do do that? And why?”

    Mom, Dad, Ryan and myself stare down into at the open lid of the box, and at the blueberry muffin sitting—innocently, but at the same time, suspiciously— inside.

    “Maybe it’s from a new bakery trying to promote their products around the neighborhood?” Mom suggests.

     Natalie walks around the kitchen, sipping at her strawberry, orange and banana smoothie, her face tense with concentration. “They're going to go out of business fast if they’re targeting Bridget. She’s not an influencer. Maybe it was meant for me.”

    “Or maybe your sister has a secret admirer,” says Dad.

    Ryan and Natalie start laughing. Not just laughing— howling, like this is the most hysterical, most outlandish thing they’ve ever heard. Of course, they are unaware I do, in fact, have a secret admirer, one I’ve kissed twice. I should feel smug and superior that I’m able to keep this to myself but, right now, I kind of wish i could hire a blimp to fly over Reindeer Crescent and flash out the message that liking Bridget Wilder is no laughing matter.

    “What if it only looks like a muffin?” Mom suddenly says. “What if it's some kind of, I don’t know, surveillance device?”

    I feel my palms tingle and my throat tighten. I’m a spy. I should have been the the one to think of that.

    I grab the muffin and flee the kitchen. I flail my way upstairs and barricade myself in my room.

    Then I jump on the muffin, Both feet stamp down hard on the box squashing it flat. Fragments of blueberry fall out of the broken box. 

    Slowly, cautiously, I kick the box. I don’t hear any foreign objects rolling or rattling around inside.

     I open the flattened lid of the box. I don’t see any cameras, listening devices or smoke bombs.

    Could the unexpected muffin be nothing more than an unexpected muffin? 

    Even the smartest spies rely on backup. In my case, I text Carter Strike and ask him if he can access secret hidden surveillance footage and find any evidence of a mysterious figure leaving a white  box on the Wilder doorstep before any of us were awake.

    I’m not going to lie, a big part of me hopes the muffin’s from Dale Tookey. A small edible message, assuring me that, even though he’s not around and there’s no communication between us, he hasn’t forgotten me.  If it was from Dale, I feel bad about stomping on his thoughtful gift, but he swims in the same spy-infested waters  I do. He would understand.

    My phone pings. Strike just sent me an attachment. I open it. Grainy footage probably lifted from one of the spy satellites orbiting the earth and recording our every movements. Very sinister and intrusive and, right at this moment, I am very grateful because I am able to see that, at six-oh-five this morning, a figure carrying a paper bag, opened our gate, walked up our driveway, pulled the white box out of the bag and placed it on our doormat. The figure then glanced up.

    And that’s when I saw the face of my mysterious muffin benefactor.

    I slam the flattened box down on  Brendan Chew’s desk. More bits of blueberry ooze out of the corners. The previously chatty population of Room A117 falls silent.

    “Thanks,” I say. “But you can take your box back. And I hope you choke on it.”

    Chew blinks up at me from his chair. His face reddens slightly and he looks disappointed.

    “Yes, I figured out it was you. If I cared enough, I could probably find out what you put in it. Probably something designed to turn my teeth black, or sentence me to an extended stay in the bathroom. But I don’t care enough. Wasted effort, Chew. You got up early for nothing.”

    I glance at Joanna and Emily. Follow my lead, girls, stand up to the enemy. I notice Casey, Kelly, and Nola are also closely observing me. Even you slim, pretty, popular specimens can learn a thing or two about self-reliance from Bridget Wilder.

    “Think about the kind of person you’ve become, Chew,” I go on. “You define yourself by making other people feel bad.”

    “I know,” he says. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

    I feel flushed with triumph. What an incredible victory. What a great example I’m setting the ladies of A117.

    “That’s why I brought you the muffin,” says Chew.

    Huh?

    “I felt bad about what I said in the cafeteria. About you being smelly?”

    “Yeah, I remember,” I assure him.

    “I didn’t need to say that. You’ve done nothing to me. I know that I’ve given you reason not to trust me and I don’t want anyone feeling that way about me. So I  brought the muffin to your house as a way of saying sorry.”

    A collective Awww falls across A117.

  Casey, Kelly and Nola have sympathetic smiles on their faces. Casey is clutching her heart. Emily is dabbing her eyes. Joanna…Joanna’s lips are trembling!

    What kind of brilliantly-plotted chess game is Chew playing here? What’s his strategy?

    He stands up. “I’d really like it if we could be friends.” He extends a hand. Here it comes. Here come the electric shock. Or worse. I fold my arms. 

    “Don’t be a jerk, Bridget,” Nola calls out.

    Murmurs of assent fill A117.

    Wait, I’m the bad guy now?

    Chew’s hand remains outstretched. Reluctantly, I take it. He squeezes it very slightly and shakes it twice. He gives me a grateful smile.

    “Cool,” he says and sits back down.

    What just happened?

 

   I’m still thinking about the morning’s events at lunchtime as I wander into the cafeteria.

    “Bridget, I kept you a place!” calls out Chew.

    I’m starting to understand his devious plan. First, he was unexpectedly nice to me in front of  A117. That’s called putting the victim’s suspicions at ease. Lulling her into a false sense of security. Now, when I’m in front of the entire school with my guard down- that’s when he strikes. I’m intrigued to see how this is going to play out.

    I take my spicy chicken wrap and walk up near the head of the line where Chew waits with a welcoming smile on his face.

    “Nice choice,” he says, nodding at my chicken wrap.

    Chew pays for his cheeseburger and then says, “I got hers as well.”

    “No,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to do that.”

    “Let me,” insists Chew. “You didn’t get to eat the muffin. Have this instead.”

    I study his face. His wide open, seemingly sincere face.

    “Move!” growl the hungry students in line behind me.

    My spy senses kick in. Brendan Chew isn’t playing a sick and twisted game designed to hoodwink and then destroy me. He wants to pay for my spicy chicken wrap because he’s sorry about being a jerk, and he wants to be my friend. He has no other motive.

    “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

    “Enjoy your lunch,” he says, and walks off to  the table filled with his dork friends.

    I watch him wander away and then then I look for my own table of friends. I see Joanna and Emily sitting by themselves and hurry to tell them the extraordinary story of  Brendan Chew paying for my lunch.

    Someone else gets to the table before me. Someone with a gold tooth and wild, sticky-uppy hair. The chair-puller himself. All Caps.

MORE NEXT WEEK!

   

    

    

    

    

    

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

Jay-Z and Alicia Keys were both past their best when they took a shot at collaborating. Somehow, they both had enough gas in the tank to make an anthem out of this tribute to their home state.

 Back in his Illmatic days, Nas was the first to modify Billy Joel's title for his own ends.

 

 

 

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

Last Week: Bridget bonded with weepy new student Emily Barnicle and agreed to spend a fun night at her house.

Now Read On:

3) Birdhouse

 

“You must be Bridget which, by a process of elimination, makes you Joanna.” The man with the close

cropped silver hair, thick black plastic glasses, skinny jeans, and the baggy retro basketball jersey

featuring the logo of the New Orleans Pelicans extends two fists for us to bump. “I’m Galton Bird. I’m Emily’s…”

    Galton Bird is suddenly dragged away. He is replaced in the doorway of his enormous house situated

in Reindeer Crescent’s desirable South side by Emily Barnicle who pushes past him and gives us a look

that is at once welcoming and agonized.

   “Hi,” she breathes. “Thanks so much for coming, I didn’t know if you would. I’m sorry about…”

    Her eyes dance to the left of the doorway.

    “It’s okay to bring your friends in, Ems,” Galton Bird call out. “We’re not contagious.”

    Emily’s face contorts in a series of flinches. The sound of Galton Bird’s voice produces the first flinch.

The name Ems produces a more violent flinch plus a reddening of the cheeks. The final attempt at a

joke produces a flinch, an eyeroll and a flush that spreads across Emily’s neck. She gestures for us to

enter the house. The hallway is huge, white, gleamingly spotless, and filled with framed graffiti art.

    “Your house is amazing, Mr. Bird,” gushes Joanna. Now it’s my turn to flinch. Joanna does not think

Mr. Bird’s house is amazing. Joanna has trained herself, possibly since birth, to not think anything is

amazing. But she can see  the longer we spend with Emily’s stepfather-to-be, the less comfortable

Emily gets.

    “It’s just Bird,” he says.

    “Just Bird,” Joanna repeats, savoring the words and the obvious distress they’re causing Emily. 

    “Let’s give Bridge and JC the grand tour, what do you say?” calls out Bird, his voice echoing around

the cavernous hallway. 

    “I don’t care,” Emily says, sullenly, her eyes fixed to the ground.

    I grab the wrist of my friend, the misery vampire, and haul her towards the staircase. Emily shoots me

a grateful look.

    “I’ll let you guys do your thing,” Bird calls after us. “Ems, I’m blasting the pizza app in a half hour or

so. You guys in?  I’ll check back with you, see who wants what…”

    “That’s so great of you, Bird,” beams Joanna. “Thanks so much, and thanks for having us in your

lovely home.”

    “Hey, any friends of Ems are welcome here anytime.”

    Emily gestures for us to hurry into her room which is double the size of mine. She slams the door

shut and slumps down on the ground.

    “God,” she shudders. “He’s such a…”

    Joanna soaks up Emily’s misery and discomfort. Being less horrible, I pretend to devote my attention

to Emily’s room with it’s large framed poster of the movie, Grease, it's shelves filled with figure-skating

trophies (mostly bronze) and photographs. A man who looks like he’s somewhere in his thirties is in

most of the photos.  He wears an airline pilot uniform in many of the pictures.

    “That’s my dad,” says Emily. “My real dad. Not that…”

    Again, her distaste prevents her from finishing the sentence. I notice Emily’s real father seems to

have been employed by several different airlines.

    Emily joins me by the photo display on her wall. “He flies for PBW,” she says, pointing at the most

recent photograph of her father, Captain Ben Barnicle. “Proud Baltic Wings. The Russian airline. That’s

the only reason I’m not living with him. But once he’s saved enough money, he’ll move out here and get

me away from this…”

    “…gleaming white palace of luxury and the nice man who can’t wait to bring you pizza,” breaks in Joanna.

    Emily’s buttons are easy to push. She turns to Joanna with trembling lips. “If he’s so great, why’s my

mom spending the weekend at another stupid yoga retreat? Why isn’t she here? `Cause she knows she

made a mistake. She should have tried to make it work with Dad. Just because he made a few bad

choices…”

    I don’t know if we’ve even been here a full five minutes and we’re already way too deep into Emily

Barnicle’s turbulent family history. I can see from the way Joanna’s tiny eyes are shining that this might

be the most fun she’s ever had. 

    “I’m just happy that you asked us here,” I tell her with as much sincerity as I can manage. “This is big

for us. Joanna spends most Saturday nights cutting her grandma’s toenails.”

    “That’s right,’ nods Joanna. “I live with my grandmother, having lost both my parents at an early age,

and Bridget’s an orphan. Mr. and Mrs. Wilder adopted her from the pound when they thought they

weren’t going to be able to have another child. But guess what, immediately after they brought little

Bridget came home, they got pregnant and had a baby of their own who’s much better than her.”

    “So you see,” I say to Emily. “We’ve all got our things. Divorce, adoption, old lady toenails. We’re like

a little dysfunction club.”

    “Broken homegirls,” says Emily, unexpectedly.

    Joanna and I share a quick impressed glance.

    “Life and boys try to bring us down but we stand strong,” she proclaims

    “Preach!” I exclaim. We’re actually having a bonding moment.

    “Which of Casey’s friends do you hate most?” Joanna demands.

    “That Nola girl,” Emily replies without a second’s thought.

    She beckons to us to join her on her huge bed. It’s like lying on a vast marshmallow. I never want to

leave.

    Dropping her voice to a whisper, Emily says, “She said Drowsy P just needed an audience and I

happened to be there. She said I could have been anyone. If a fly was in the attic, he’d have been nice to

it. But I’m not a fly. We hung out two times. He wouldn’t have hung out two times with a fly.” She gives

us a beseeching look. “Right?”

    “Flies aren’t great company,” I assure her.

    “Nola’s the worst,” says Joanna. “What about Kelly? What dirt do you have on her?”

    “Why do you care about Casey’s friend-bots?” asks Emily. “Shouldn’t you be looking to find out

incriminating stuff about that guy who yanked your seat out from under you?”

    Joanna pulls herself upright and moves to the edge of the bed. “Obviously,” she tells Emily. “Goes

without saying. He’s already dead, he just doesn’t know it yet.”

    All Emily and I can see is the back of Joanna’s ironic I’m A Hugger sweatshirt. But I can tell there’s an

uncomfortable expression on her face. Joanna’s  all about declaring imaginary war on enemies  who

don’t know she exists. This All Caps character is on everybody’s radar. She will never tell me this, or

even admit it to herself, but I know she fears that if one of her targets actually found out who she was

and what she was saying about them, she’d be squashed like a bug.

     A voice says “Knock knock.”

    “Go away,” growls Emily.

    Bird walks in. Emily glowers at him. He seems oblivious to the effect he has on her.

    “Bridgey. Jo-C, I took the liberty of texting your parents and legal guardians to let them know that if

you wanted to sleep over, we’ve got hella room, and I’d be only to happy to drive you home in the A.M.”

    I don’t even have to look at Emily’s face. The heat radiating off her skin is enough to tell me what she

thinks of Bird’s generous offer.

    “That wasn’t your…” she starts to say. “If I wanted them to stay… do you not see how wrong it is for

you to… what’s the matter with you?”

    Emily’s voice is shaking. She gives up trying to finish her sentence and rolls against the wall,

grabbing a pillow and pushing her face deep into it.

    “Beaty dubs, ladies, if you or your friends and fam want shoes, all you gots to do is hit me up with the

appropriate sizes and I’ll be happy to get you the swagola.”

    Joanna and I swap confused glances. “Why would we want shoes?” asks Joanna. “Do you think we’re

poor and underprivileged?”

    “My dad manages a Pottery Barn,” I’m quick to tell him. “And my mom runs her own courier

business.”

    Bird blinks a few times in rapid succession. “I didn’t mean to suggest, I think some wires got crossed

somewhere.” He looks at Emily’s back. She’s still pressed up against the wall, her face buried in a pillow.

    “Ems,” he says.

    She does not respond.

    “Emily,” he says, his voice getting a little sharper. “I thought you might have told the girls what I do

for a living.”

    Her face does not leave the pillow.

    Bird sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I’m the creative executive in charge of design and marketing

at Cromato.”

    Joanna and I both look blank.

    “Sneakers?” says Bird. “We’re the go-to brand for your age group.”

    He waits for us to slap our palms off our foreheads and exclaim “Of course! They’re our favorites!

You, sir, are an American hero!”

    Instead, we continue looking at him, blankly. He brightens, slightly.

    “You know who we just signed up for a sponsorship deal? L4E.”

    He waits for our reaction. We remain, sadly, blank.

    “The boy band?” he says. “The one everyone’s crazy-bananas about?”

    Joanna lets out a derisive pffff.

    “I play the flute,” I tell him.

    “Not well,” Joanna feels the need to point out.

    Bird stares at us for a moment. “Cromato?” he says, again.

    “Go away,” commands Emily’s muffled voice from the pillow.

    Bird’s shoulders sag. The combination of our blank faces and Emily’s back seem to have sucked the

life out of him.

    “I’ll get back to you about the pizza,” he barely whispers as he shuffles out of the bedroom.

    Once he’s closed the door, Emily emerges from the pillow. “Why can’t he leave me alone?” she

seethes.

    Joanna smirks. “You want Mr. Beaty Dubs to stay away and he doesn’t. You want Drowsy P to call you

and he won’t.”

    “Thanks,” sulks Emily. “Thanks for the reminder.”

    She stares at her phone. “How do you think they’re spending their Saturdays? Drowsy P, All Caps and

the weird kid who called Bridget smelly? We could find out. Yes? No? Thoughts?”

    What Emily’s actually doing is asking our permission to search Drowsy P’s social media accounts for

the purposes of tracking the exciting night he’s having with his fun friends.

    “I vote no.” I say. “It’s not like they’re talking or even thinking about us.”

    “Speak for yourself,” Joanna immediately replies. “The Conquest Report is on everyone’s mind.”

    “Oh my God,” Emily moans. “He’s playing the lead in Grease.”

    She holds up her phone so we can see Drowsy P, who, as advertised, has heavy-lidded eyes, in a

leather jacket and slicked-back hair, rehearsing for the lead role in his school’s production of   Grease.

    “What a loser,” jeers Joanna. “Musicals suck and people who love musicals are feeble monkey-brained

idiots.”

    Emily lets out a sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a sob. She rolls back to the wall and

returns to the pillow.

    I sit in silence, unsure how to make Emily feel better. Joanna is still sitting on the edge of the bed. I

hear her fingers stabbing at her phone.

    “That video of me being pulled off my chair has four hundred thousand views,” she suddenly yelps.

    Joanna jumps off the bed and stomps out  of the bedroom.

    I hear her feet thud downstairs. The front door slams shut.

    “Emily?” I say softly.  I get no response. Our Saturday night hanging out as friends appears to be over.

I could text my parents to pick me up.  But before I pull my phone from the depths of my back pocket,

the bedroom door opens and Bird returns, a concerned look on his face.

    “What happened?” he asks.

    I brandish my phone. “Thanks for having us in your home, Mr… thanks, Bird, “ I say and pretend to

yawn. “But it’s getting late.”

    “I’ll take you home,” he says.

    I want to say no, but this man has been nothing but nice all night, and he’s been nothing but

disappointed and ignored. I feel like I have to make up for the failings of my entire generation by saying

yes to him one time. 

    I strap myself into the Birdmobile— it’s exactly what you expect: bright, loud and way too young for

him— and the bass from the sound system rattles my teeth. We pull out of his driveway and head  away

from his large white house. He turns the music down and looks over at me.

    “What’s wrong with Emily?” he asks me.

    “There’s nothing wrong with Emily,” I reply. “There’s something wrong with boys.”

MORE NEXT WEEK!

   

BRIDGET'S SPY SONG PLAYLIST: NEW YORK EDITION

Bridget's mission in Spy To The Rescur takes her to New York. The big Apple Store! To commemorate her action-packed visit, let's spend the weeks before publication celebrating great New York-themed songs. And also this one.

 And it's mumbly male doppelganger:

 

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

Last week, Bridget met weepy new student Emily Barnicle and Joanna had her chair pulled out from under her by school prankster, All Caps.

Now read on...

2)Friendship Is Magic

“You seemed  a little upset before,” I tell Emily Barnicle. It’s not that I want to get into a whole big emotional conversation with this  girl I barely know, but we’re standing outside a locked bathroom  door waiting for Joanna to recover from her traumatic cafeteria experience. We need to talk about something.

    “Drowsy P ghosted me,” is her reply.

    I have no comeback to that.

    Emily moves over to the sink. She washes her face and gazes at herself in the mirror.

    “The first weekend after we moved here, Casey threw me a Welcome to Reindeer Crescent party,” she

tells her reflection.

    “Of course she did,” I hear Joanna mutter from behind her toilet door, her suspicions confirmed  that

Casey, Kelly, and Nola’s lives are one long, fun party.

    “I reaaaallly didn’t want to go,” Emily continues. “I don’t like parties, especially when I’m not going to

know anyone and people are just going to expect me to be another Casey and they’re going to be disappointed when they find out I’m not. But my mom’s like, go, it’s important, you’ll meet people, and I say I won’t, and she says you will, and I say I won’t and she says…”

    “So what happened?” I say, interrupting Emily’s detail-filled story. She turns from the sink to face me.

    “Everything I expected,” she says. “It was like I was a window standing between Casey and all the

people at her party. They talked through me to get her attention. Plus, she gave this pre-party prep:

don’t talk about your old school,  don’t  talk about your old friends, don’t  talk about the divorce. If

anyone had even shown any interest in getting to know me, I wouldn’t have known what I was allowed

to say to them.”

    I give Emily a sympathetic smile.  I went to a party at Kelly Beach’s house and, even though  it was

only for the purposes of a spy operation that ended in a hideous double cross, I completely identify with

her stress and confusion.

    “I hid,” Emily continues. “My plan was to lurk in Casey’s house for another half hour, long enough to

convince my mom I’d made the effort to have a good time, and then head home.

    “Been there,” I say.

    Emily points a finger upwards. “I went up to the attic. Perfect hiding place. Except there was someone

already there. Some guy was looking through a book of old photographs. When he saw me, he said,

‘You hate parties, too?’”

    She widens her eyes at me. “Amazing, right? To see someone you’ve never met before and know in an

instant  who they are and what they’re all about.”

    I nod and think, that’s exactly the opposite of my spy life.

    “His name was Duncan Podesta. He attends the Reindeer Crescent School for the Performing Arts. His

friends call him Drowsy P because he has these kind of sleepy eyes…”

    I know where this story is going. Unlike the rest of the shallow party guests who treated Emily like a

window, Duncan Podesta aka Drowsy P treated her like a book, a book that grew more fascinating the

further he read. Drowsy P wanted to know everything about Emily. Her life in Boston, her friends, the

divorce, the relocation to Reindeer Crescent, her hopes and fears for the future, her interests…

    “People’s eyes glaze over when I talk about my passion for figure-skating and how intense the training is, but Duncan was so  interested,” I hear Emily sigh.

    I tune out as she continues to re-enact her surprise encounter with Drowsy P, and then goes into

great detail about the two occasions they hung out. I know how this story ends.

    “…and we talked about Grease which is my favorite musical and he said i should do a routine based

on one of the songs and then I said, wow great idea, what song? And he said ‘You're The One That I

Want’, and I said, what about ‘Hopelessly Devoted To You’, and then he never called me again. Never

replied to my texts. Nothing! It’s like he vanished. Except I know he didn’t vanish.” 

    Emily pulls out her phone. I know what she’s going to do. She’s going to show me Drowsy P’s

Instagram. I’m going to see lots of pictures of him having fun with his friends, and I am going to have to

agree with Emily that this is indisputable evidence that, in the sleepy eyes of Duncan Podesta, she has

ceased to exist.

    “It’s not like I thought he was the Maxim Trankov to my Tatiana Volosozhar,” she says. Picking up on

my confused look, Emily goes on, “Russian figure skaters who enjoyed a beautiful romance on and off

the ice.  But why wouldn’t he even want me as a friend? Now all I am is someone’s cousin and even she

doesn’t want me around.”

    Emily starts tearing up again. The locked bathroom door opens. I get tense.  Joanna likes to give the

impression that she’s cold, heartless and bulletproof. But it’s only an impression. Being dumped on the

ground by All Caps and laughed at by the entire population of the cafeteria could have scarred her for

life.

    “People suck, Emily Barnicle,” grins Joanna, as she emerges from the bathroom looking almost

radiant. “Know what you should do? Tell me all your cousin Casey’s deep dark dirty secrets and I’ll

publish them on my Tumblr.”

    Joanna Conquest is a misery vampire. Emily’s unhappiness  cured Joanna of her own  and made her a

happier, healthier, stronger person.

    “Don’t tell her anything,” I advise Emily. 

    “You want revenge on Casey for treating you like toilet paper stuck to her shoe,’ Joanna tells her.

    “I can think of a better way to get revenge,” I say. “Why not hang out with us?”

    Is this a good idea? Hiding my double life as a spy strained my friendship with Joanna, now I’m

voluntarily adding someone new to the mix for the express purposes of  lying to them, too? On the

other hand, I’m not actively involved in crucial spy work right now. When my biological father, Carter

Strike, moves into Reindeer Crescent, I’m going to demand he teach me all the tricks of his many years

in the espionage trade. But right now, maybe helping  fragile Emily Barnicle fit into school and social life

is my mission. Also, if I’m really honest, I like the idea of having a second friend. Someone to stop

Joanna and I falling into a friend-rut. Which, you know, when there's only two of you is a real possibility.

    Joanna and I both look to Emily for a reaction. Her tears of sorrow change before our eyes to tears of

happiness.

    “Oh my gosh, yes,” she gulps. “Do you want to come over to my house this weekend?”

MORE NEXT WEEK!