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

Last Time On Bridget Wilder: Boys Don't Spy. Bridget was taken prisoner by evil sneaker manufacturer Galton Bird. She outwitted him and left him trapped under a chair that bore the weight of her biological father, Carter Strike.

Now--and for the last time-- read on!

12) Old Habits

”We didn’t lose a friend,” says Joanna. “We gained a boring girl from Boston who thinks we care about

figure-skating.”

    It’s been two weeks since Emily and her mother moved back to Boston to be reunited with former

Captain Ben Barnicle and start a new life following the disappearance of Bird Galton. It’s been two

minutes since Emily’s bi-weekly Face-Time session during which she talks to Joanna and I in great

detail about her enduring passion for figure-skating. I nodded and smiled a lot, and Joanna openly

yawned. I think this might be one of those long-distance friendships that has run it’s course.

    Back at school, Brendan Chew has taken to calling me Widget Wilder.

    “Everyone likes widgets,” I tell him.”They’re useful.”

    “Not you,” he smirks. “You’re the one that gets downloaded by accident and it fills your computer

with bugs and corrupts every file. Bad Widget!”

    Arguing with a specimen like Chew is futile. I mentally prepare myself for many weeks of “Bad

Widget!” chants, until he replaces it with something equally puerile. I content myself by remembering

the brief moment in time when we were muffin buddies. Chew will never remember but I know that

somewhere buried deep down in his subconscious, he has the capacity to be nice and thoughtful. Maybe

someday waaaaaay into the future, someone will meet the nice, thoughtful version.

    All Caps is racking up Instagram views with his new prank, You Dropped A Quarter. This is how it

works. He tells an unsuspecting victim they dropped a quarter. When he or she bends over to pick it up,

All Caps pushes them over, and films the result.  Yes, that’s it.  And, yes, people love it.    Drowsy P was

a big hit in his drama school’s production of Grease, until one of the backup dancers he’d dated and the

dumped without telling her, attacked him on stage. The ensuing publicity got him a part on a  science-

fiction high school TV show, where he plays an alien who can only survive on Earth if he kisses a girl

every half-hour.

    “It’s a pretty good show,” concludes Joanna, after we’d spent a fun Saturday night in my room

watching six consecutive episodes. 

    Should Drowsy P be rewarded for his bad behavior? Should All Caps be applauded? Should all the

selfish, dumb, thoughtless boys we know get away with treating us the way we do? I had a chance to

change the behavior of an entire species, and I didn’t do it. I chickened out. Or I had an attack of

conscience. So I can’t complain.

    There’s a knock on my bedroom door. Ryan enters my bedroom, carrying a tray.

    “Hey Bridget. Hey Joanna. I figured you girls would be getting hungry, so I brought you an ice-cream

cake and a couple of sodas.”

    Joanna stares at me and then at Ryan. “Uh, thanks?”, she manages to say.

    “No problem.” He peers at the screen. “That the kissing alien show? I hear it’s a lot of fun. Okay, if I

put the tray on your bed, Bridget? Or do you want it on the floor?

    “Bed’s fine, Ryan, thanks,” I smile at him.

    “Enjoy your night, guys, “ he says. “Holler if you need anything.”

    And then my brother leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

   “See,” I tell the incredulous Joanna. “Not all guys are mean.”

    I don’t tell her I replaced the sneakers I stole out of Ryan’s closet with Cromatos I took from Bird’s

warehouse.

   I said I had an attack of conscience. I never claimed I was a saint.

The End