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.

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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!