by Ally Carter
"Hey, Cammie …" He was taking long, lazy steps, backing away from me, toward the lights and sounds of the festival in full swing. "…tell Suzie she's a lucky cat."
Have sexier words ever been spoken? I seriously think not!
"I'm Josh, by the way."
I started running as I yelled, "Good-bye, Josh." But before the words even reached him, I was gone.
The Overnight Express truck was waiting at the end of the alley when I got there, lights off. I felt Mr. Smith's pop bottle in my hand, and for a second I couldn't remember why I would be carrying such a thing. I know. I'm almost ashamed of it now—the fact that ten seconds with a boy had driven my mission from my mind. But I did look at it, and I did remember who I was—why I was there—and I knew it was time to forget about boys and trash cans and cats named Suzie; I remembered what was real and what was legend.
As I pulled open the back door of the truck, I expected to see my classmates sitting there, envying my mission-accomplishing superspy-ness, but all I saw were packages and packages—even the television was gone, and instead of cries of congratulations, I heard the words Tell Suzie she's a lucky cat echoing in my head then growing silent as I realized something was wrong.
I spun in the street. I looked in the cab of the truck, where a bright orange cap lay on the dashboard, probably where the rightful driver had left it. We had come and gone without a trace, and now all that was left was that bottle and a long run home.
I told myself that having to run two miles in wet jeans was just karmic payback for having indulged in both the corn dog and the ice cream, but as I reached the edge of town, I wasn't so sure. As I ran, my mind was free. I was back on the street with Josh. I was watching Liz and Bex disappear around a corner with Mr. Smith. I was talking to an old woman about a grandmother I didn't know. I was just another girl at the party.
The lights of the school cut through the leaves of the trees in the distance as my boots beat a heavy rhythm on the pavement. Damp denim rubbed against my legs. Sweat poured down my back. Mom is always saying that a spy should trust her gut, and right then my gut was telling me that I didn't want to go back to the mansion, that I didn't want to be anywhere near Joe Solomon and Mr. Smith, and by the time I reached the main gates, I would have given just about anything not to have to go through them.
"Big night, Cam?" A stocky man with a buzz cut and a perpetual mouth full of bubble gum appeared at the guardhouse doof. He knew my name, but I'd never been introduced to him. If I had, I probably would have called him something other than Bubblegum Guard. But as it was, he was just another guy on the staff who worked for my mom, who probably went on missions with my dad, who knew all the details about my life, while I knew none about his.
I suddenly missed my bench in Roseville. I longed for the noisy, anonymous chaos of the square.
I started down the driveway, but Bubblegum Guard called out to me, "Hey, Cam, you want a ride?" He gestured toward a ruby red golf cart that sat behind the guardhouse.
"No, thanks." I shook my head. "Good night."
I'm sorry I don't know your name.
When I reached the main foyer, I started for the stairs. I wanted a shower. I wanted my bed. I wanted to shake free of the uneasy feeling that had settled in my gut from the moment I saw that orange cap lying on the dashboard— abandoned. I had the bottle in my hands, but somehow I knew that wasn't really the point.
Then I heard footsteps and a cry of "Wait!" as Mr. Mosckowitz rushed after me.
"Hi, Mr. M. Great driving tonight," I said. I remembered that it had been his first mission, too.
Something important must have made him chase me down, but for a second his features shifted. He actually glowed (but not like the time he tested that flame-retardant skin gel for Dr. Fibs).
"You think?" he asked. "Because, well, at that second stop sign, I think I might have hesitated a little too long. Forty-eight hours or less," he said, with a punch at the air, "that's the Overnight Express motto; I just don't think a real driver would have waited so long."
"Oh." I gave him a nod. "I thought it was just right— nothing causes delays like an accident, you know."
His face brightened again. "You think?"
"It was perfect."
I turned again and started up the stairs, but Mr. Mosckowitz said, "Oh, gee, wait. I was supposed to tell you…" He paused, and I imagined him churning through the gigabytes of his brain. "… that you are supposed to go to the CoveOps class for a debrief."
Of course I am, I thought as I gripped the bottle. Of course it isn't over.
As the optical scanners swept over my face I heard Mr. Mosckowitz ask, "So, hey, Cammie, it was fun. Wasn't it?" And I realized that one of the most brilliant men in the world needed me to verify that he'd had fun.
This place never ceases to amaze me.
Chapter Eight
Sublevel One was dark as I got out of the elevator. I followed the maze of frosted glass through the light of emergency exit signs and the flickering computer screens. I passed a library filled with facts too sensitive for a seventh grader to know. I walked along a balcony that overlooks a massive three-story room the size of a gymnasium that comes complete with movable walls and fake people, so Bex and I call it the dollhouse—it's where spies come to play.
As I got closer to the classroom, the hallway got brighter, and soon I was looking through one wall of illuminated glass at the silhouettes of my classmates. No one was talking. Not Mr. Solomon. Not any of the girls. I crept toward the open door—saw my classmates in their usual seats and Mr. Solomon perched on a low bookcase at the back of the room, his hands gripping the dark wood as he leaned casually back.
I stood there for a long time, not knowing what to do. Finally, I said, "I got the bottle."
But Joe Solomon didn't smile. He didn't say "well done." He didn't even look at me as he leaned against that bookcase, staring at the white tiles on the floor.
"Come in, Ms. Morgan," he said softly. "We've been expecting you."
I headed for my desk on the far side of the room, and then I saw them—the two empty chairs. I searched for the eyes of my classmates, but not one of them looked back.
"They should be back by …" I began, but just then Mr. Solomon picked up a remote control and punched a button, and the room went dark except for a long sliver of light that shone from a projector beside him. I was standing in the center of its path, silhouetted against the image glowing on a screen.
In the picture, Bex was sitting on the wall in front of the Roseville library. Then I heard a click and the image changed. I saw Liz peeking around a tree, which is really bad form, but Mr. Solomon didn't comment. His silence seemed totally worse. Another click. Bex was looking over her shoulder, crossing a street. Click. Liz was next to a funnel-cake stand.
"Ask the question, Ms. Morgan," he said, his voice carrying ominously through the dark room. "Don't you want to know where they are?"
I did want to know, but I was almost afraid to hear the answer. More images flashed on the screen, surveillance photos taken by a well-trained, well-placed team. Bex and Liz hadn't known they were there—I hadn't known they were there—and yet someone had stalked our every step. I felt like prey.
"Ask me why they're not here," Mr. Solomon demanded. I saw his dim outline. His arms were crossed. "You want to be a spy, don't you, Chameleon?" My code name was nothing more than a mockery on his lips. "Now tell me what happens to spies who get made."
No, I thought.
Another click.
Is that Bex? Of course it wasn't—she was with Mr. Smith; she was safe, but I couldn't help but stare at the dark, gritty image on the screen—the bloody, swollen face that stared back at me—and tremble for my friend.
"They won't start with Bex, you know," he went on. "They'll start with Liz."
Another click and then I was looking at a pair of thin arms bound behind a chair and a cascade of bloody blond hair. "These people are very good at what they do. They know Bex can take th
e punches; what hurts Bex most is listening to her friend scream."
The projector's light was warm as it danced across my skin. He was moving closer. I saw his shadow join mine on the screen.
"And she is screaming—she will be for about six hours, until she becomes so dehydrated she can't form sounds." My gaze was going blurry; my knees were weak. Terror was pounding in my ears so loudly that I barely heard him when he whispered, "And then they start on Bex." Another click. "They have special things in mind for her."
I'm going to be sick, I thought, unable to look him in the eye.
"This is what you're signing up for." He forced me to face the image. "Look at what is happening to your friends!"
"Stop it!" I yelled. "Stop it." And then I dropped the bottle. The neck snapped, shattering, sending shards of glass across the floor.
"You lost two-thirds of your team. Your friends are gone."
"No," I said again. "Stop."
"No, Ms. Morgan, once this starts—it doesn't stop." My face was hot and my eyes were swollen. "It never stops."
And it doesn't. He was right and I knew it all too well.
I sensed, rather than saw, Mr. Solomon turn to the class and ask, "Who wants to be a spy now?"
No one raised a hand. No one spoke. We weren't supposed to.
"Next semester, ladies, Covert Operations will be an optional field of study, but this semester, it's mandatory. No one gets to back out now because they're scared. But you won't ever be as scared as you are right now—not this semester. On that you have my word."
The overhead lights came on, and twelve girls squinted against the sudden glare. Mr. Solomon moved toward the door, but stopped. "And ladies, if you aren't scared right now, we don't want you anyway."
He slid aside a glass partition, revealing Bex and Liz, who sat behind it, unharmed. Then he walked away.
We sat in silence for a long time, listening to his footsteps fade.
Up in our room, we were greeted by a pile of clothes and accessories that had seemed so important at the start of our night—but seemed so insignificant now.
Macey was asleep—or pretending to be—I didn't care. She had a pair of those really expensive Bose sound-eliminating headphones (probably so she wouldn't be kept awake by the sound of air whizzing past her nose ring), so Bex and Liz and I could have talked or screamed. But we didn't.
Even Bex had lost her swagger, and that was maybe the scariest thing of all. I wanted her to crack a joke. I wanted her to reenact everything Smith had said on their long walk home. I wanted Bex to call out for the spotlight so that our room wouldn't be so dark. But instead, we sat in silence until I couldn't take it anymore.
"Guys, I—" I started, needing to say I was sorry, but Bex stopped me.
"You did what I would have done," she said, then looked at Liz.
"Me, too," Liz agreed.
"Yeah, but…" I wanted to say something else, but what, I didn't know.
In her bed, Macey rolled over, but she didn't open her eyes. I looked at the clock and realized it was almost one in the morning.
"Was Smith mad?" I asked after a long time.
Liz was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, so Bex was the one who answered, "I don't think so. He's probably having a good laugh about it now, don't you think?"
"Maybe," I said.
I pulled on my pajamas.
"He said he never even saw you, though," Bex said, as if she'd just remembered.
Liz came in and added, "Yeah, Cammie, he was really impressed when he heard you'd been out there. Like, really impressed."
I felt something cold against my chest, so I reached up to feel the tiny silver cross still dangling around my neck, and I remembered that someone had seen me. Until then, the boy on the street had faded almost completely from my mind.
"So," Liz asked, "what happened with you after we left?"
I fingered the cross, but said, "Nothing."
I don't know why I didn't tell them about Josh. I mean, it should have been significant—a random civilian initiating contact during an operation—that's the kind of thing you totally tell your superiors, let alone your best friends. But I kept it to myself—maybe because I didn't think it mattered, but probably because, in a place where everyone knew my story, it was nice to know there was a chapter that only I had read.
Chapter Nine
Culture and Assimilation isn't like our other classes, so I guess that's why Madame Dabney's tea room isn't like our other classrooms. French silk lines the walls. The lighting fixtures are crystal. Everything in that room is beautiful and refined and reminds us that we don't just have to be spies— we have to be ladies.
Sometimes I hate it and spend hours thinking what a waste it is to teach us things like calligraphy and needlepoint (aside from the obvious coded message usages, of course). But other times I love listening to Madame Dabney as she floats through the room with a monogrammed handkerchief in her hand, talking about what flowers are in season or the history of the waltz.
The day after our first mission was one of those days. I might have blown the mission, but I was still a whiz at setting tables, so I was actually sad to hear Madame Dabney say, "Oh, dear, girls, look at the time." I didn't want to put away the good china. I didn't want to go downstairs and face Mr. Solomon again.
"But before you leave today, girls," Madame Dabney said in an expectant, excited tone that held my attention, "I have an announcement to make!" The sounds of clattering china all but ceased as everyone took Madame Dabney in. "It's time for you to expand your education here at the Gallagher Academy, so…" She adjusted her glasses. "…beginning today after school, I am going to be teaching Driver's Ed!"
Oh my gosh! I'd completely forgotten about Driver's Ed! Sure, we're allowed to toss each other over our shoulders or concoct antidotes for rare poisons for extra credit, but when it comes to tricky stuff like adjusting rearview mirrors and knowing who has the right-of-way at four-way stops, the Gallagher Trustees don't take any chances. Plus, there's that whole discount-on-your-car-insurance thing to consider.
Madame Dabney said, "We'll be going out in groups of four—by suite." She consulted a piece of paper then looked directly toward Liz, Bex, and me. "Beginning with the four of you."
Liz looked at Bex and me, not understanding. "Four?" she whispered, just as a light seemed to dawn, and from the back of the room we heard Macey say, "Sounds like fun."
(Do I really need to say she was being sarcastic?)
That afternoon, we strolled down the steps of the rear portico and toward the motor pool, where an old Ford Taurus was waiting for us, its yellow STUDENT DRIVER triangle gleaming in the sun.
Mom tells me Madame Dabney spent most of her career in deep cover, working the underground Nazi cells that remained active in France after World War II, but at times like this I have a really hard time believing her—especially when the woman in question shows up wearing a Give Safety a Brake! T-shirt.
"Ooooh, girls! This is going to be such a delight!" she said, and then proceeded to do things like point to the brake and say, "That makes the car stop," and the accelerator, "That makes the car go." But the craziest thing of all was that Liz was taking notes.
She has a photographic memory! She joined Mensa at the age of eight! And yet she felt compelled to draw a diagram of the steering column and note exactly which button turned on the windshield wipers.
"Be sure you write down that the steering wheel is round," I said, and she seriously had the W-H-E of wheel written in her little notebook before she realized I was joking.
"Cammie, don't make fun," Liz said, the way she always did. But just then, Macey mocked, "Yeah, Cammie, don't make fun." Even Liz wanted to deck her.
"Now, girls," Madame Dabney said, "let's focus." She drew her hands into a position of prayer as she turned to Bex. "Rebecca, dear, how do you feel about starting us out?"
I gasped. Don't get me wrong; I love Bex. She's my best friend. But I've been driving since I could see over t
he wheel and work the pedals at the same time (something Grandpa Morgan swears is a milestone in every farm kid's life), so why should Bex, a native Londoner who spent her formative years riding the Tube and waving down taxis, be the first to tackle Highway 10?
I consoled myself by thinking that Bex is my best friend, and she is good at everything, or so I thought until she pulled out onto the highway ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD! Now all this might have been funny except there's a hill there—did I mention that? A great big can't-see-the-semi-until-it's-about-to-hit-you-head-on hill. But I was the only one who noticed, because Madame Dabney was writing on her clipboard, Liz was doing bio-chem homework, and Macey was having a fingernail emergency.
I tried to yell, but I must have temporarily lost the power of speech, and Bex was the only other person paying attention to the road, and she thought she was on the right side of it—or left side—or whatever (you get what I mean).
My voice returned just in time for me to yell "BEX!" and she said, "What?" turning and sending us swerving into the other lane, which under normal circumstances would have been disastrous, but in this case really saved our lives. Fate is tricky that way—something I guess every spy figures out eventually.
Then Bex calmly righted the car and headed into town, completely unfazed.
When Bex hung a left at the Piggly Wiggly and nearly took out a crossing guard from Roseville Elementary School, Madame Dabney made her pull into the grocery store parking lot and trade places with Macey. But Bex didn't seem mad, which in itself was a little scary. Instead, she had a really pleased look on her face as she opened my door and made me push Liz into the seat Macey was vacating, which was harder than it sounds, since Liz had become kind of… oh, what's the word?…petrified.
Madame Dabney had obviously learned her lesson with Bex, because there were lots of Easy on the accelerator, dears and Okay, there's a stop sign over there, darlings coming from the front seat as Macey eased onto the streets.