Bernstein - Spy-in-Training

To the Bernsteins of Glasgow

W hen I fell asleep last night I was still twelve. A child. A barely formed person. A blank slate. Now Im awake and Im thirteen. Ive changed. I cant put my finger on exactly how. I just know I feel different.

Bridge.

Maybe its the confidence that comes with age. Maybe theres something special about me thats always been there but is only now ready to emerge like a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon.

Bridget!

I wonder if my family will notice. I wonder if theyre as excited about this big birthday as I am.

BRIDGET!

Wait, thats my brothers voice! My older-in-years-but-not-maturity brother, Ryan. Is he outside the house and waking me up to sing Happy Birthday to me?

I grope for my glasses, roll out of bed, and yank open the curtains to see my brother, my unshaven, disheveled brother, perched on the top rung of our rarely used ladder. Hes grinning at me like waking up to find him inches from my window ledge is an everyday occurrence. He gestures to me to open the window. I peer at the clock. Six fifty-five a.m. I ought to jump back into bed, pull the covers and possibly a pillow over my head, turn on the radio, and leave him out there. But its six fifty-five a.m. and hes standing on a ladder outside my bedroom window. I must know why!

I open the window and the gangly idiot crawls in. He goes to pat my head and I recoil in horror. He smells like old wood, rust, and paint. Its the smell of our dank little garden shed, where we keep the ladder. I want to be cool here. I fold my arms, shake my head slightly, and let the hint of a smile play across my lips. I want him to understand hes the screw-up and Im the awesome sibling. The one whos wise beyond her years.

What are you doing? Youre grounded, I squeak, sounding every bit the freaked-out little sister. He just gives me his signature stupid grin and a half-asleep look. You cant cage the kid, he yawns, dragging a hand through his unruly black hair. Try to cage the kid, the kidll break out of the cage. Then he tracks dirt across my nice clean room and tumbles onto my bed!

Ryan, get up! But he doesnt get up. He rolls into a ball with his dirty sneakers on my actual comforter.

The kid needs his sleep, he mutters.

Of course the kid... of course youre sleepy, I reply, trying to keep my voice low and unsqueaky. You were out all night. What did you do? Where did you go? Who were you with?

Ill tell you when youre older.

I am older. I wait for this to sink in. I wait for the look of realization. I wait for Ryan to be the first to congratulate me on my special day.

I am older, I repeat.

Nothing. He just lies there infesting my bedsheets with fungus and mold.

Like how you used to be fifteen and then you turned sixteen?

More nothing. Just the sound of his congested breathing. Is he messing with me?

Are those Christmas lights? he suddenly says.

I follow his baffled gaze to the strings of colorful bulbs framing my door and windows.

Whats up with that? Christmas is seven months away.

Now its my turn to look baffled. Have we been formally introduced? You know I like them on all year round. Its my thing. One of my things.

But even as Im saying this, Im thinking, Ryan never comes in here. He doesnt know what my things are. He barely knows me. Which is why he chose my room to sneak back into the house. Anywhere else hed leave a dirty trail. His own bedroom window has long been superglued shut in a futile effort to keep him from doing whatever it is he keeps doing. But no one would ever think of looking for him in here. Ryan shakes his head and favors me with a condescending smirk. Thats a little bit disturbed.

You stole a car. Youve got the disturbed category all sewn up.

I was in a car that was stolen by someone else, he says, all innocent. I was a victim.

You drove to Vegas.

I was a victim in Vegas.

Mom and Dad have talked about sending you to military school. Dad bookmarked the home page.

Awesome. Teach the kid hand-to-hand combat. Give him access to loaded weapons. Dream come true.

Then we both hear it. Loud. Harsh. Painful and sustained. Dads first nose blow of the morning, echoing around the house from three rooms away. We lock eyes. This could go several ways. The nose blow could lead to a bout of hacking coughs, which could lead to a visit to the bathroom. A visit to the bathroom inevitably leads to a shout of, If Im up, everybodys up! Which means a thump, or group of thumps, on the door.

Ryan puts a finger to his lips. He slides off the comforter and attempts to squeeze under the bed.

We wait in silence, anticipating the follow-up cough. An eternity passes. But there is no further phlegm to be expelled.

Ryan, I whisper. The mole is back in his hole. Repeat, the mole is back in his hole.

In reply, three sharp high musical notes sound from under my bed.

For a second I think, Hes playing along. Hes whistling like its our secret code. Then theres a bunch of tuneless peeping and I realize the worst thing that could possibly happen has happened. Ryan has found my flute.

Sure enough, Ryan rolls out from under the bed with a delighted look on his face and my silver-plated closed-hole C flute in his hands.

Put that back, I demand.

Whats this? He laughs.

I could remind him. I could say, Remember I was in the school band last year? Remember I played at the Christmas concert? I could go on, Oh no, you dont remember. Cause you werent there. That was the night you got caught trying to abduct a red fox from the zoo. Which meant that Mom and Dad werent there, either. Instead I say, Its not yours. Put it away. I can feel my face reddening. He does not do as I ask. Instead he wheezes into the flute some more. I make a grab for it. He holds it up over my head. You want it back? Here it is, he says. Im not going to jump up like a dog trying to grab a Frisbee. Im not going to do it.

I thought you wanted it back. Look, here it is, he says. He lowers the flute. I try to take it. Once again, he holds it out of my reach. I jump.

I hate you so much, I seethe.

My scarlet face and furious words only seem to make him happier. And then we hear music. Not terrible flute music. Actual real melodic music. Its coming from a few rooms away. Its that Katy Perry song where she asks if you ever feel like a plastic bag.

Ryan tosses the flute onto my bed. The little sister machine is up, he says. Which gives the kid thirty seconds to beat her to the bathroom. Thus creating the impression hes in a hurry to get to school. Cause the kids a reformed character.

Ryan holds out a hand to be high-fived. When he sees I have no intention of congratulating him for his web of lies and deceit, he high-fives himself! And with that, hes out the door and gone.

A matter of seconds later, I hear his feet pounding on the carpet. I hear a high-pitched voice wail, Ryan! I hear Ryans voice shout, Kids gotta jam. And I hear the bathroom door slam shut.

Hes so annoying, sighs my younger sister, Natalie, as she walks into my room. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees the flute lying on top of my bed. Youve got a flute, she says, gazing at me with big blue eyes. Why didnt you tell me? We can play duets. Woodwind sounds beautiful with acoustic guitar. I say nothing. I dont have to. Natalie picks up on my reluctance (although she doesnt pick up on my fear of being upstaged). I understand, she says, nodding. Musics so personal. But I cant wait to hear you play. I just know itll be beautiful.