Spy to the Rescue Read Free Page B

“Abby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you okay? Is anything broken?”
    Ryan’s girlfriend, Abby—don’t worry, we’ll get to that in a moment—says something like “MumblemumblemumbleRyan.” She says it with her tiny little mouth almost completely closed and her huge gray eyesstaring over my head. Thus ends what might have been my longest conversation with Abigail Rheinhardt since Ryan brought her home from the Creepy Broken Toy Sale (or, for accuracy’s sake, since she made a favorable comment about one of the prank videos on his Instagram).
    I feel bad that I hit her with the fridge door but I feel worse for me because now I’m morally obligated to remain in the kitchen with Abby until Ryan shows up to take her to his room to . . . I don’t know . . . feed her twigs or worms. I sound mean, don’t I? Save your sympathy. For me. I’m stuck here with a fake look of concern on my face while Abby gives me nothing. Not a word. She just stands there vacantly with her arms hanging at a weird angle like they’re suspended by invisible wires. I’m not even a talky-talk kind of person but she doesn’t try.
    It’s not as if I don’t have any conversational topics to bring up with her: You’re at least sixteen but you have the affect of a nine-year-old; what’s that about? That’s a good one. Or how about: Why do you go out of your way to make everyone uncomfortable, and don’t pretend you don’t know you’re doing it because you totally do? I can tell from the way you lurk around our house like you want us to think you’re a ghost. But these relevant questions remain unspoken. Maybe, just maybe, there’ssome childhood trauma that makes Abby act the way she does. Maybe, just maybe, lurking around our house is in some way helping to heal deep wounds. And so, because I am a sensitive and caring person, I say nothing and back slowly out of the kitchen. As I leave, I hear the front door open.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” yells my sister, Natalie, from behind me. “Are you hiding from Blabby?”
    Natalie, still universally regarded as the nice one of the Wilder siblings, would not have used the nickname intended only as a private joke between us if she’d known Abby was standing a few feet away. But she didn’t see her at first. Only I did. Only I saw the expression on Abby’s face, signifying that being clobbered with the fridge door hadn’t hurt her as much as discovering that we call her Blabby behind her back.
    â€œOh,” says Natalie. She joins me in the kitchen, wearing her cheerleader uniform, and sees Abby, hands clasped, eyes downcast, toes pointed inward, a model of discomfort.
    Natalie nips the flesh of my upper arm. “Did she hear me?” she whispers. “Why didn’t you say something?”
    The awkward moment between the three of us seems to go into slow motion. I feel like Natalie and I are frozen in time, nipping and whispering and glancing ateach other as we try to not to deal with the distress we just caused Blab . . . Abby.
    The awkward moment ends when Ryan shoves past us and moves toward his girlfriend. It’s like watching a magnet pick up a safety pin. She enfolds herself into him like she’s an extra limb growing out of his armpit. She gazes adoringly up at my brother and says something like “MumblemumblemumbleRyan.”
    â€œThat car I said I was going to look at,” he replies. It’s almost as if he understands what she’s saying. She arches up on tiptoes to kiss him. Natalie and I curl our lips and clutch our stomachs at the exact same time. This is a revolting display but somehow we can’t look away. Ryan stops mid-kiss and touches a concerned finger to the fading red mark on Abby’s forehead. She mumblemumbles something and he gives us a dirty look.
    â€œNice,” he says, shaking his head to let us know