by Carter, Ally
Before me stood a person who was capable of cracking the Y chromosome code, and I wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.
“Come on!” I said.
“Yeah, well tell it to someone who isn’t the freaking mascot of the seventh-freaking-grade!” She eased onto her bed and crossed her legs. “So there is only one way that I am going to care about your boy problems.”
Work brain, work, I urged my mind, but it was like a car stuck in the mud.
“I’m getting out of the newbie classes,” Macey said. “And you’re going to help me.”
I really didn’t like the sound of this, but I still managed to ask, “What’s in it for me?”
“For starters, I don’t have a conversation with our friend Jessica Boden about an early morning trip to the labs with an old Dr Pepper bottle, or a late-night trip outside the grounds, where someone came home with leaves in her hair.” She smirked at Liz. “Or a certain Driver’s Ed incident.”
For the first time, I didn’t doubt that Macey was a Gallagher Girl, too. The looks Liz and Bex were giving me said that they agreed.
“Did you know Jessica’s mother is a trustee?” Macey said, her voice dripping with sarcastic irony. “See, Jessica’s mentioned that fact to me about a hundred and fifty times now and—”
“Okay, already,” I said, stopping her. “What else do I get?”
“A soul mate.”
“Ladies, this is a business of alliances,” Mr. Solomon said as he stood in front of our class the next morning. “You may not like these people. You may hate these people. These people may represent everything you hate, but all it takes is one thing, ladies—one thread of commonality to form a bond in our lives.” He strolled back to his desk. “To make an ally.”
So that’s what I had with Macey—an alliance. We weren’t friends; we weren’t enemies. I wasn’t exactly blocking off Fourth of July weekend to spend at her place in the Hamptons, but I planned on playing nice just the same.
When lunchtime rolled around, Macey strolled over to our table, and I braced myself for what was going to happen. If the Communists and the Capitalists could fight together to take down the Nazis . . . I told myself. If Spike could fight alongside Buffy to rid the world of demons . . . If lemon could join forces with lime to create something as delicious and refreshing as Sprite, then surely I can work alongside Macey McHenry for the cause of true love!
She was sitting beside me. She was eating pie. I had to look again. Macey’s eating pie?! And then she actually spoke, but I couldn’t hear her over the roar of a nearby debate (in Korean) about whether Jason Bourne could take James Bond, and if it mattered whether it was Sean-Connery-Bond or Pierce-Brosnan-Bond.
“Did you say something, Macey?” I asked, but she cut me a look that could kill. She reached into her bag, ripped off a sliver of Evapopaper, and scribbled:
Can we study tonight? (Tell anyone, and I’ll kill you in your sleep!)
“Seven o’clock?” I asked her. She nodded. We had a date.
The pie had looked pretty good, so I got up to go get some, and when I did, I glanced at the Vogue Macey had been reading, but I couldn’t learn much about fashion, because Macey’s organic chemistry notes were taped inside, covering that month’s salute to silk.
Sitting on the floor of our suite that night with Macey’s homework scattered around us, I wasn’t really sure how this alliance business was supposed to work. Luckily, Liz had been giving it some thought.
“You can start by explaining what this means.” She held DeeDee’s note up to Macey’s face.
“Ew!” Macey cried, turning her head and holding her nose as she pushed the paper away.
But what Liz lacked in strength, she made up for in tenacity. She shoved the note back in Macey’s direction despite Macey’s complaint of, “I thought you got rid of all that trash!”
“Well, not this. This is evidence,” Liz said, stating what, in her mind, was the obvious.
“Ugh! Gross.”
I saw Bex shift. She’d been doing a better than average job of ignoring us, but I knew all of her sensors were on full alert. Her eyes never left her notebook, but she saw everything. (Bex is super sleuthy that way.)
“What does it mean?” Liz asked again, inching closer and closer to Macey McHenry, our new professor of boys.
Macey looked back at her notebook, and must have come to the conclusion that she’d studied enough for one night, because she tossed her notes aside. She marched to her bed, glanced at the scrap of paper once more, then dropped it to the floor.
“It means he’s in demand.” She nodded at me. “Good choosing.”
“But does he like her back?” Liz wanted to know. “This DeeDee person?”
Macey shrugged and stretched out on her bed. “Hard to say.”
That’s when Liz pulled out a notebook I’d seen her carrying around for the past week. I’d thought it was for an extra project—little did I know it was our extra project. She threw the binder open with a thunk, and a hundred pieces of paper ruffled with the sudden waft of air. I looked at the headers of each piece as Liz rifled through them. “See . . .” She pointed to a highlighted portion of one page. “. . . in this e-mail he used the word ‘bro’ in reference to his friend Dillon. As in, and I quote, ‘chill out, bro. It will be okay.’ He doesn’t have a brother. What is it about boys that makes them refer to each other in that way? I don’t call Cam or Bex sis. Why?” she demanded, as if her life depended upon her understanding this fact. “WHY?”
Yeah, that’s when Macey McHenry looked at Liz as if she were stupid. Of all the crazy things I’ve seen in this business, that was one of the craziest.
Macey cocked her head and said, “You’re the ubergenius?”
Just like that, Bex was up off the bed and moving toward Macey. Things were about to get bad—really bad. But poor Liz wasn’t hurt by what Macey said. In fact, she just looked at her and said, “I know—right?” as if she too were outraged.
Bex stopped. I exhaled. And eventually Liz shook her head in amazement, scattering the unanswered questions from her mind—something I must have seen her do a thousand times. That’s when I knew that boys were just another subject to Liz—another code she had to crack. Eventually, she dropped to the floor and said, “I’ve got to make a chart.”
“Look.” Macey seemed to give up as she straightened herself on the bed. “If he’s the sentimental type, then it means he doesn’t care about her. If he’s not, then he might like her—or might not.” She leaned closer, needing us to understand. “You can analyze or theorize—or whatever—but seriously, what good do you think it will do? You’re in here. He’s out there. And there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Oh,” Bex said, speaking for the first time. “That’s not your area of expertise anyway.” I saw her mind churning. She looked like a girl on a mission as she stepped forward. “It’s ours.”
Spies are wise. Spies are strong. But, most of all, spies are patient.
We waited two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Do you know how long that is in fifteen-year-old-girl time? A lot. A LOT, a lot. I was really starting to empathize with all those women who talk about biological clocks. I mean, I know mine’s still got a lot of ticks left in it, but I still managed to think and worry about Operation Josh every spare minute—and that was at genius spy school, where spare minutes aren’t exactly common. I can only imagine the misery of a girl going to a normal school, since she probably isn’t going to spend her Saturday nights helping her best friend crack the codes that protect U.S. spy satellites. (Liz even split the extra credit she earned from Mr. Mosckowitz with me—the cash prize offered by the NSA, she kept.)
We were in the classic holding pattern, gathering info, building his profile and my legend, biding our time until we had what we needed to go in.
Two weeks of this. TWO WEEKS! (Just in case you missed it before.)
Then, as with all good covert operatives, we caught a break.
Tuesday, October 1. Sub
ject received an e-mail from Dillon, screen name “D’Man,” asking if The Subject would like a ride home from play practice. The Subject responded by saying that he would be walking home—that he needs to return some videos at “AJ’s” (local establishment located on town square that specializes in movie and video game rentals).
I looked at the e-mail as Bex slid it onto the breakfast table in front of me.
“Tonight,” she whispered. “We’re on.”
During CoveOps class I honestly couldn’t write fast enough. Joe Solomon is a genius, I thought, wondering why I’d never realized it before.
“Learn your legends early. Learn them well,” he warned as he leaned over, gripping the back of the teacher’s chair I’d never seen him sit in. “The split second it takes you to recall something your cover identity would know is the split second in which very bad people can do very bad things.”
My hand was shaking. Pencil marks were going everywhere on the page—kind of like the time I picked up a pencil to use in Dr. Fibs’s class, only it turned out it wasn’t an ordinary pencil, but rather a prototype for a new Morse code auto-translator. (Needless to say, I still haven’t fully recovered from the guilt of sharpening it.)
“Most of all, remember that going into deep cover does not mean approaching subjects.” Mr. Solomon eyed us. “It means putting yourself in a position where the subject approaches you.”
I don’t know about regular girls, but when you’re a spy, getting dressed to go out can be something of a production. (Can I just say thank goodness for Velcro—seriously—no wonder the Gallagher Academy invented the stuff.)
“I still think we should have put her hair up,” Liz said. “It looks glamorous.”
“Yeah,” Macey scoffed, “because so many girls go for glamour when they hang out at the Roseville town square.”
She had a point.
Personally, I didn’t care, which was kind of ironic since it was my hair and all, but I had plenty of other things on my mind—not the least of which was the arsenal of items that Bex was spreading out on the bed in front of me—not that I could really see all that well, because Macey was doing my makeup and she kept telling me to “look up” or “look down” or “hold perfectly still.”
When she wasn’t barking demands, she was saying things like, “Talk, but not too much. Laugh, but not too loud.” And, my personal favorite, “If he’s shorter than you, slouch.”
Then Bex took over. “Let’s talk pocket litter.” (Not a sentence you hear every day unless you’re . . . well . . . us.) “You’re not sixteen, so IDs aren’t a problem, but we still have to support your cover identity.” She turned and began scanning the items on the bed. “Take this,” she said, tossing a pack of gum in my direction. It was the same brand we’d pulled from Josh’s garbage. “To display common likes and help with the whole breath thing.” Bex scanned the bed again. “What did we say, handbag or no handbag?” she asked, turning back to the group.
“She should definitely carry a purse,” Macey said, and Bex agreed. I couldn’t believe it! Macey and Bex were bonding . . . over accessories! Would wonders never cease?
Bex pulled a bag off the bed and opened it. “Movie ticket stub—if he asks you how you liked it, just say you did, but you didn’t buy the ending.” She dropped the tiny scrap of paper into the bag and picked up another item. “Binocuglasses. You shouldn’t need them tonight, of course, but it won’t hurt to have them.” She dropped yet another item inside our pack of lies then topped everything off with a What Would Jesus Do? ink pen, then snapped the bag shut with a very self-satisfied smirk.
I had no idea how Bex had found all that stuff, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to know. But as I looked at everything I was supposed to carry and thought about all the things I was supposed to know, I had to wonder: Do all girls go through this? Is every girl on a date really in deep cover?
“And, don’t forget . . .”
I looked up to see the silver cross swinging back and forth on its chain.
“It’s broken,” I told Bex. “It hasn’t worked right since the water from the tank shorted it out; and you still wouldn’t have been able to pick up the signal because of the jammers.”
“Cammie,” Bex said, sighing. “Cammie, Cammie, Cammie . . . this is your legend.” The cross kept swinging. “This is how it’s accessorized.”
I knew she was right. As soon as I crossed that fence, I had to stop being me and start being that other person—the homeschooled girl who wore that necklace and . . .
“You have got to be kidding me!” I snapped, but it was too late, Liz had appeared in the doorway, holding Onyx.
And I thought this boy business was hard before I had to rub a cat all over my body to give the hair-covered illusion of a feline-lover.
All these years I’d thought being a spy was challenging. Turns out, being a girl is the tricky part.
They walked with me downstairs to the most remote of the secret passageways.
“Did you check your flashlight?” Liz asked, the way Grandma Morgan always says “Do you have your ticket?” whenever they take me to the airport. It was sweet. I wished they could go with me, but that’s something every spy learns early in the game—it doesn’t matter how skilled your team is, there will come a time when you have to go on alone.
As we walked along, Macey said, “I still don’t understand how you’re going to get out and back in without getting caught.”
She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t. Someday, I really ought to write a book about the mansion. I could probably make a fortune selling copies to the newbies, sharing tricks like how you can jiggle the door of the janitor’s closet in the west stairwell, then slide down a pipe all the way to the butler’s pantry. (How you get back up is up to you.) Another good one is the wooden panel on the landing of the stone staircase in the old chapel. If you press it three times, it will pop open, and from there, you have ceiling access to every room in the North Hall. (I just wouldn’t recommend this one if you are in any way afraid of spiders.)
“You’ll see, Macey,” I told her as we turned to walk down a long stone corridor toward the old ruby-colored tapestry that hung alone on the cold stone wall. I looked at the Gallagher family tree, and then at Macey. She didn’t study the generations, didn’t find her own name there or ask questions; she just said, “You look good,” and I nearly passed out from the shock of such high praise.
I pulled the tapestry aside and started to slip in, just as Bex said, “Knock ’em dead!”
I was already inside when Liz yelled after me, “But not literally!”
I don’t know how I let them talk me into it. Well, I do, but you’ll never hear me admit it out loud. Sneaking outside the campus grounds was one thing—that was merely a matter of memorizing the sweeping grids of the cameras, knowing the blind spots of the guards, and circumventing the motion detectors along the south wall. But wearing shoes that made the sneaking infinitely more difficult was something I will never be proud of. Sure, Macey’s black boots elongated my legs and gave me an aura of Charlie’s Angels-ness, but by the time I was in position on a park bench at the corner of the town square, my feet were sore, my ankle was twisted, and my nerves were shot.
Lucky for me, I had some time to collect myself. So. Much. Time.
Here’s the thing you need to know about surveillance: it’s boring. Sure, sometimes we blow stuff up and jump off buildings and/or moving trains, but most of the time we just hang around waiting for something to happen (a fact that almost never makes it into the movies), so I might have felt pretty silly if I were a normal girl and not a highly trained secret-agent-type person as I sat on that park bench, trying to act normal when, by definition, I’m anything but.
17:35 hours (that’s five thirty-five P.M.): The Operative moved into position.
18:00 hours: The Operative was wishing she’d brought something to eat because she couldn’t leave her post to go buy a candy bar, much less use the bathroom.
&
nbsp; 18:30 hours: The Operative realized it’s almost impossible to look pretty and/or seductive if you SERIOUSLY have to go pee.
My homework for that night consisted of fifty pages of The Art of War, which needed translating into Arabic, a credit card–slash–fingerprint modifier that need perfecting for Dr. Fibs, and Madame Dabney had been dropping big pop-quiz hints at the end of C&A. Yet, there I was, rubbing my swelling ankle and thinking that I really should be getting CoveOps extra credit for this.
I looked at my watch again: seven forty-five. Okay, I thought, I’ll give him until eight and then . . .
“Hi,” I heard from behind me.
Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez. I couldn’t turn around. Oh heck, I had to turn around.
“Cammie?” he said again as if it were a question.
I could have said hi back in fourteen different languages (and that’s not including pig Latin). And yet I was speechless as he came to stand in front of me.
“Um . . . Oh . . . Um . . .”
“Josh,” he said, pointing to himself as if he thought I’d forgotten.
How sweet is that? I know I’m no boy expert, but I have heard entire lectures on reading body language, and I have to say that assuming that a person will have forgotten your name is way high on my “indicators of humbleness” list (not that I have one, but I totally have a starting point now).
“Hi.”
I said that in English, didn’t I? It wasn’t Arabic or French? Oh, please, God in Heaven, don’t let him think I’m an exchange student . . . or worse, a girl who knows, like, three words of a foreign language and goes around using them all the time just to prove how smart/cultured/generally better than everyone else she is.
“I saw you sitting over here,” he said. Okay, looks like we’re good on the English thing. “I haven’t seen you around at all lately.”