My Life As A Spy

By Peggy McManus October, 2026

Being four years old is miserable, especially when you’re a spy. 

I didn’t want to become a spy, but circumstances beyond my preschooler control forced me into it. You see, I was desperate to find a way to break out of nursery school, which, to me, was a prison run by the evil Warden Blackheart and a band of ruthless guards she called teachers. 

I got the idea to become a spy from watching my favorite TV show, “Get Smart.” I mean, if Maxwell Smart could make it as a spy, I could. I hoped to dig up enough dirt on the warden and her guards to convince my parents to get me out of there. It was worth a shot.

The reason I was being detained at the so-called nursery school in the first place was that my parents were too busy being adults during the week to keep an eye on me. Why they would pick such an awful place to stash me, I do not know. My guess is that it was cheap.

But let me tell you, this was no place for children. We were forced to drink warm tomato juice at snack time, even if the taste made some of us, including me, gag. Even worse, at nap time, the guards turned off the lights and patrolled the aisles of cots, carrying flashlights that they shined in our faces to see if we were awake. Any prisoner caught with their eyes open was whacked across the knuckles with a flashlight and hauled off to solitary confinement.

As I was not a napper, I went under deep cover during mandatory nap times, using my exceptional acting skills to feign being in a near-comatose state. Occasionally, I let out a fake snore to keep it authentic. All the while, I secretly watched the guards through squinted eyes, waiting for one of them to make a mistake that would give me the irrefutable evidence I needed to convince my parents to break me out of there.

Oh sure, I told my parents about the nap-time knuckle rapping, but all they said was, “Has anyone rapped your knuckles?”

“No,” I had to admit, “but that’s only because I am a good spy and fool the guards into thinking I’m asleep.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like there’s anything for you to be concerned about then,” they replied.

Obviously, I was going to need something more dire than capital punishment to sway them over to my way of thinking. As such, I took to sitting at the desk nearest to where the guards clustered, listening for anything I could use against them.

Oh, I learned plenty about those so-called teachers with their neat little dresses and up-styled hair. Mrs. Machete didn’t like the new girl, Lyssa. Miss Swatbottom was dating a man who worked in a bank. She hoped he would marry her so she could stay at home and have babies of her own instead of guarding other people’s brats.

Then there was Mrs. Blackheart, the prison warden. She did not tolerate foolishness or much of anything else. Should one of her tiny inmates act up, she whisked them out of the common area and locked them in a holding cell until their parents came to pick them up. 

Since Dad was usually the last parent to show up at pick-up time, I was often there to spy on Warden Blackheart as she informed various parents of their child’s wrongdoing. First, she pointed out their obviously bad parenting skills, and then she encouraged the use of knuckle-rapping as an effective teaching tool. To conclude, Warden Blackheart let the parents know that their child would be expelled if the bad behavior continued.

“I understand Billy was screaming, Mrs. Blackheart, but one of the students ran over his toe with a tricycle.”

“That’s what they all say,” Warden Blackheart responded. She’d hear no more about it. “Behave or be gone. That’s my rule.”

Interesting development, I thought dubiously. All I need to do now is make a bunch of noise and maybe spit out some warm tomato juice, and I’ll be expelled! Brilliant! I thought, I’ll use the old be-noisy-and-gross trick! Good thinking, Piggly!

Unfortunately, my excitement for this plan was short-lived. Being noisy and gross got you thrown in solitary confinement, and who knew what horrors took place in there! All I did know was that the kids who went in never made another sound if and when they made it back into the general population. They just sat quietly in their chairs staring blankly at the nearest wall. You might see an occasional eye twitch, but otherwise they didn’t move at all.

I needed a plan that didn’t involve doing time in solitary confinement. After all, I didn’t need an eye twitch. I had enough problems. 

The next morning, when I arrived at the prison, I made sure to sit at a desk near where the guards huddled, so I could spy on them as they gossiped in whispers and practiced their knuckle rapping techniques by tapping their flashlights on their palms. I stopped myself from whistling as I sauntered over, since that would have landed me in solitary for sure. Instead, I quietly took my seat and pretended to focus on coloring a page in my Archie and Veronica coloring book.

“I swear this is the third day this week Lyssa has worn that ugly sweater,” I heard Mrs. Machete say. “Does she only have one?” 

“It’s not like we get paid enough to go clothes shopping,” Miss Swatbottom whispered back. “I could barely cover rent this month!”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Mrs. Machete said. “Mrs. Blackheart is such a tight wad! I heard teachers at the other nursery make twice what we do!”

“What are you whispering about over there?” Warden Blackheart barked from where she was standing several feet away from the guards. 

“Oh, nothing. We were just saying how well-behaved the children are today.”

“Ummhuh, they better be…” Warden Blackheart muttered and walked to her desk.

Aha! I thought. The guards lied right to the warden’s face! My parents hated liars! All I need to do is tell them the guards lied to Warden Blackheart, and I’ll be set free!

Well, it turned out Mom and Dad didn’t mind that the prison guards were liars. When I told them how they had lied to the warden about their piddly paychecks, Dad said it wasn’t lying; it was people doing what they had to do to keep their jobs. 

At that point I lost all hope of ever escaping the prison. There was nothing left for me to do but make it as miserable as possible for Dad to get me there. Our new prison drop-off routine went something like this:

Step One: Dad pries Piggly out of the back seat of the car. 

— Piggly commences screaming.

Step Two: Dad lifts Piggly onto his shoulders. He hopes his hair is too slick from pomade to be ripped out. 

— Piggly commences ripping Dad’s hair out.

Step Three: Dad runs, cursing, toward the prison door.

— Piggly tries various maneuvers in an effort to escape Dad’s grip on her ankles.

Step Five: Piggly breaks free and executes a perfect back handspring off Dad’s shoulders.

— Dad catches Piggly seconds before she hits the pavement. 

Step Six: Dad reaches the prison door and yanks it open.

— Piggly makes one last desperate grab at Dad’s hair.

Step Seven: Dad enters the prison and immediately sets Piggly on the floor.

— Piggly ceases all bad behavior to avoid getting thrown in solitary confinement for the day.

Step Nine: Dad throws Piggly a kiss and races out the door.

— Piggly watches him go and, resigned, begins picking strands of Dad’s sticky hair from her hands.

Even though I had failed to break out of my weekday prison, I wasn’t ready to abandon my life as a spy completely. Maybe I just need more practice, I thought. But outside of the prison, there weren’t many opportunities to practice spying. I didn’t dare spy on my older sisters, the Trolls. If they caught me, I’d be troll food, and I wasn’t willing to take that chance until I advanced from a Maxwell Smart level to a level worthy of 007 himself.

One night there was a knock on our kitchen door, and Dad opened it to find one of his buddies dropping by to ask if he would give him some tips on using his new camera.

“Sure, Skip,” Dad said. “Let’s go talk in the living room.”

I glanced up at Skip as he passed the kitchen table, where the Trolls and I were finishing our dinner. My eyes about popped out of my head. Skip was gorgeous! I was instantly head over heels for him. Man, I hadn’t fallen this hard for a guy since I first laid eyes on Huckleberry Hound!

“Hi, cutie,” Skip said to me, giving my pigtail a playful tug before following Dad into the living room.

I could only stare after him, mouth agape, as chicken noodle soup drizzled down my chin. 

Wait for me, Skip, I whispered under my breath. In 14 short years I’ll be 18, and we can run off together and live happily ever after.

Luckily, I got a hold of myself and, realizing this was a perfect opportunity to practice spying, I wiped my face with a napkin and plucked a few stray noodles from my lap while I formulated a plan. I would hide in plain sight, I thought, and the handsome Skip would be too busy talking to Dad to even notice I was watching him.

I snatched up a Top Cat comic book to use as a decoy and casually strolled into the living room. Then I climbed up on my trusty rocking horse and, feigning disinterest in the camera conversation, began studying the comic book as if it was the most fascinating thing I had ever read. Of course, I couldn’t read, and that is probably what gave me away, because the next thing I knew, Skip had picked up his new camera and snapped a picture of me! 

Horrified, I leaped off my horse and scurried out of the room. That’s it, I thought. I’m hanging up my trench coat!

A few days later, Dad showed me the photo Skip had taken. There I was, caught red-handed, my failure as a spy preserved for all time on black-and-white Kodak film.

“Cute photo of you,” Dad said, with a knowing wink.

“Whatever,” I sighed. “I gotta get back to my rocking horse, Trigger. I’m practicing to be a cowgirl, and I want to finish before my show comes on TV.”

“What show is that?” Dad asked.

“The Lone Ranger,” I replied and hurried off to mount my steed.

Epilogue:

I’m not sure what I finally did to drive Warden Blackheart to expel me from nursery school. It may have been something to do with the grasshoppers I amassed during one recess, thinking Dad and I could use them as bait. Perhaps the warden took issue with my logic that pulling the grasshoppers’ legs off would prevent them from hopping out of my pockets. Or maybe she blamed me for teaching the other inmates to collect fishing bait the same way. I guess I’ll never know. I only wish that it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out that the fastest way to get myself booted from nursery school was to simply be myself.