by Ally Carter
"Notice how he tilts the M in movie," Liz said, holding the note toward us. "I think I remember reading that this shows a tendency to…"
But a tendency to what, we'd never find out, because just then the sophomore lunch tables went quiet in a way that could only mean one thing.
"Hello, ladies," Joe Solomon said, but not before I snatched the piece of paper and crammed it in my mouth, which ordinarily would have been really great spy maneuvering except that Josh doesn't use Evapopaper.
"How's the lasagna?" Mr. Solomon asked, and I started to say something before I remembered that my mouth was…well… otherwise engaged.
"The Gallagher Academy career fair is this Friday evening," Mr. Solomon said. My roommates and I all looked at each other—the exact same thing crossing our minds— this Friday evening! "Here's a list of agencies and firms that will be represented." He tossed a stack of flyers onto the long table. "Great chance to see what's out there—especially for those of you who won't be joining me in Sublevel Two."
Okay, I admit it. That part made me swallow a little paper.
After Mr. Solomon left, I spat out what was left of Josh's note (which luckily included all of the writing) and stared at it and the shiny flyer, which announced a chance for me to chart the course of the rest of my life. I wasn't hungry anymore.
Career day at spy school is probably like career days at regular schools except…well … we probably have a lot more guests who arrive by rappeling out of black helicopters. (The guys from Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms have always been kinda show-offy.)
The hallways were full of folding tables and cheesy banners, (go ALL THE WAY WITH THE NSA—who thinks of this stuff?) Every classroom had a scout perched at a back table, watching in amazement as we went through our routines. Even P&E was crawling with spies—literally—as we spread out in the barn and showed off our overall lethal-ness for the recruiters.
"Don't take my head off!" Liz cried.
I wasn't sure if she was talking about the roundhouse kick that had just passed inches from her nose or the fact that Bex was refusing to consider postponing my big date. In any case, I was fairly certain we probably shouldn't be having that conversation in a hayloft full of current and future government agents.
Light cascaded through the skylights. Barn swallows nested in the rafters up above. And ten feet away, Tina Walters was showing an agent from the FBI how we'd learned to kill a man with a piece of uncooked spaghetti.
"Guys!" I snapped.
A whistle blew, telling us it was time to shift positions, so Bex came to stand behind me. As she wrapped her arms around my neck, she whispered in my ear, "Crowded corridors. Tons of people. No one will miss you—not The Chameleon."
I flipped her over my back and glared at her as she lay sprawled on the mat beneath me.
"I think you have to cancel," Liz said as she charged at me. I slid aside and dropped her neatly to the mat next to Bex. She pushed up on her elbows and whispered, "This is an opportunity for the Gallagher Girls of today to decide how they will become the Gallagher Women of tomorrow." (Or so we'd read on the flyer.)
I was just starting to feel in control of the situation, when Bex's leg swung swiftly around, catching me off guard, dropping me to the top of the pile. "Yeah, like Cammie doesn't know what she's going to be when she grows up."
Before I could reply, we saw a man walking toward us, so we scrambled to our feet. He wasn't tall or short; he wasn't handsome or ugly. He was the kind of person you could see a dozen times and never quite remember, and with just one glance I knew he was a pavement artist—I knew he was like me.
"Very nice," the man said. There was no telling how long he'd been in that crowded loft, watching. "You girls are sophomores, is that right?"
There was an extra bounce in Bex's step as she inched toward him. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice full of swagger.
"And you're all studying Covert Operations?" he asked with a sideways glance at Liz, who had somehow gotten her hair tangled in the laces of my shoe.
"Just for this semester," Liz said, sounding totally relieved.
"Next semester we can specialize if we want to," Bex clarified. "But a lot of us continue training for fieldwork."
I'm pretty sure she was getting ready to slip into the conversation how she got to be lookout for her dad once while he took out an arms dealer at an outdoor market in Cairo, but the man didn't give her a chance.
"Well," he said. "I'll let you get back to your practice." He placed his hands in his pockets and smiled. When he turned to walk away, I didn't think he'd seen me at all, until he glanced in my direction and nodded. "Ms. Morgan." If he'd had a hat he would have tipped it.
On the other side of the room, Ms. Hancock blew her whistle again and yelled, "Circle up, girls. Let's show our guests how we play rock-paper-scissors."
Bex winked at me and rolled up a copy of the October Vogue that she'd borrowed from Macey.
I felt sorry for whoever drew rock and scissors.
Operation Divide and Conquer The operation, which took place on Friday night, October 29, was a basic four-man op with three agents holding in secure sweeping patterns throughout the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women. The Reserve Operatives were assigned a portion of the main campus, and when asked where Agent Morgan was, The Operatives were to reply "I don't know" or "I just saw her heading that way" while pointing in a very general direction.
If asked more directly about the location of Agent Morgan, The Operatives were to exclaim, "You just missed her!" and then walk very quickly away.
I followed Bex and Macey through the corridors. Sounds bounced off the hardwood floors and stone walls as newbies drooled over the Mr. Solomon-like recruiters from the CIA, and a flock of seventh graders oohed and aahed over the latest satellite feeds from Homeland Security. (So that's what Brad Pitt's bedroom looks like…)
Bex was totally right. I've seen the Gallagher Academy in states of organized chaos before, but never have I seen it so alive. The air was full of something (and not just the gases that had escaped from the labs when someone from Interpol got a little too close to one of Dr. Fibs's classified projects).
"Okay," Bex said to me beneath her breath. "Knock 'em dead."
I glanced at Macey. "You'll be fine," she said, and I started to feel really good. Then she finished. "Just don't be an idiot."
I turned down an empty corridor, leaving the sounds of our future behind me, and sensed something else drawing closer. I reached out for the tapestry and the crest-slash-trigger behind it, when I stopped frozen at the sound of my name.
"You must be Cameron Morgan."
The man strolling toward me had a dark suit, dark hair, and eyes so black they could get completely lost in the night.
"And where are you running off to?" the man asked.
"Oh, they needed more napkins at the refreshments table." (Whether you agree or disagree with my actions, you've got to admit that my fibbing ability was totally getting better.)
He laughed. "Oh, child, don't you know that anyone with your pedigree should never have to fetch the napkins?" I stared blankly at him, unable to smile, until he extended his hand. "I'm Max Edwards. I knew your father."
Of course he did. I'd met a half dozen men like Max Edwards already that day—men with stories, men with secrets—all wanting to pull me aside and return a little piece of my father to me. Even without Josh waiting for me at the end of the tunnel, I think I might have felt like running the other way.
"I'm with Interpol now." Max Edwards said, eyeing me. "I know you're a CIA legacy and all, but that's no reason not to give the rest of us a shot, eh?"
"No, sir."
"Started the CoveOps training yet?"
"Yes, sir, with the intro class."
"Good. Good. I'm sure Joe Solomon is finding plenty to teach you," he said, patting me on the-shoulder, emphasizing the word in a way I didn't understand. Then he leaned closer and whispered, "I'm going to give you some advice, Cammie. Not ev
eryone can live this life, you know. Not everyone has it in their blood—the stress, the risk, the sacrifice." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card with a phone number centered and alone on the plain white background. "Call me anytime. You'll always have a place with us."
He patted me on the shoulder again and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty stone corridor. I watched him turn the corner; then I counted to ten and slipped behind the tapestry. Halfway down the tunnel, I stopped and changed my clothes. I never saw that card again.
Chapter Seventeen
I know in spy movies it always looks really cool when the operative goes from a maid's uniform to a slinky, sexy ballgown in the amount of time it takes an elevator to climb three floors. Well, I don't know how it is for TV spies, but I can tell you that even with Velcro, the art of the quick change is one that must take a lot of practice (not to mention better lighting than one is likely to find in a tunnel that was once a part of the Underground Railroad).
That's probably why I panicked when I saw the strange look on Josh's face when he first saw me outside the gazebo. Either my blouse was open, or my skirt was stuck in my underwear, or something even more mortifying. I froze.
"You look …"
I have lipstick on my teeth. My hair is full of cobwebs. I'm wearing two different kinds of shoes and my backup is two whole miles away!
"… amazing."
I'd never felt less invisible in my life. I forgot about Bex and Macey and their great bodies, Liz and her gorgeous blond hair. Even my mother faded from my mind as I saw myself through Josh's eyes. For the first time in a long time I didn't want to disappear.
Then I remembered that it was my turn to say something. He was wearing a leather jacket and khaki pants that had the kind of crisp creases that made me think of the Navy SEALs, who were probably doing a demonstration in the Gallagher Academy pond at that very moment, so I said, "You look very…clean."
"Yeah." He tugged at his collar. "My mom found out and … well… let's just say you were this close to having to wear a wrist corsage." He held two fingers inches apart, and I remembered one time when my dad got my mom a corsage— of course it came equipped with a retinal scanner and comms unit, but still, the thought was nice.
I started to say so, but just then Josh said, "I'm sorry, but we kind of missed the movie. I should have looked up the times before I asked you. It started at six."
The mission was compromised at 19:00 hours when The Operative and The Subject realized they had missed their window of opportunity—which in The Operative's opinion was a waste of her best outfit.
"Oh," I said, trying not to sound too heartbroken. I'd let Liz do my hair. I'd jogged two miles in the dark. I had been looking forward to this all week, but all I could do was put on my best spy face and say, "That's okay. I guess I'll just…"
"Do you want to grab a burger?" Josh blurted before I could finish my thought.
Grab a burger? I'd just eaten filet mignon with the Deputy Director of the CIA, but I found myself saying, "I'd love to!"
Across the square, bright lights beamed through one set of windows. We walked toward the light, and Josh held the door open for me and gestured for me to walk in (how sweet is that!). The diner had a black-and-white checkerboard floor with red vinyl booths and lots of old records and pictures of Elvis nailed to the walls. The whole place was a little too doo-woppy for my personal taste, but that didn't stop me from crawling into a booth—unfortunately on the side facing away from the windows since Josh had already nabbed the best position for himself. (Mr. Smith would have been very disappointed in me.) But at least across the booth he probably couldn't feel my leg shaking.
The Operative tried to implement the Purusey breathing technique, which has been proven effective at fooling polygraphs. There is no conclusive evidence as to whether it is effective at masking the internal lie detectors of fifteen-year-old boys.
The waitress came and took our orders, and Josh leaned way back in his seat. I knew from Liz's notes on body language that this meant he was feeling pretty confident (either that or I smelled like the tunnel and he wanted to get as far away from me as possible). "I'm sorry we missed the movie," Josh said as he rearranged his pickles.
"That's okay," I said. "This is fun, too."
Then the strangest thing happened—we both stopped talking. It was like that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where everyone in town got their voices stolen. I was beginning to wonder if that had actually happened—like maybe, back at school, the CIA had been fiddling around with one of Dr. Fibs's experiments and something had gone horribly wrong. I started to open my mouth and test my theory, when I heard a muffled cry of "Josh!" and some banging on the diner windows, and I realized that the muteness hadn't affected anyone but us.
When I heard the ding of the diner door, I spun to see a mob of teenagers heading our way, and let me tell you, for a girl who's gone to a private all-girls school since the seventh grade, that's a pretty scary sight.
I have never been so behind enemy lines in my life! I thought, scrolling back through our P&E training on how to handle multiple attackers. Normally, I might have counted on Josh—my guide in that strange and foreign land—but he was panicking, too. I could tell by the way his jaw had gone all slack and a french fry was poised, midair, en route to his mouth.
I mentally reeled through the things in my favor: no one knew me. I wasn't wearing my uniform. And if push came to shove I could…well…push and shove. (Two of the boys looked pretty football player-ish, but I did an entire project once on the "the bigger they are the harder they fall" philosophy of hand-to-hand combat, and there is totally something to it.) I was safe, for the meantime.
My cover might not have been blown, but I couldn't say the same for my confidence—especially when one of the girls, a very pretty blond, said, "Hi, Josh," and he said, "Hi, DeeDee."
The Operative realized that the band of insurgents was led by the suspect known as DeeDee (even though she did not appear to have any pink paper in her possession).
Most of the mob walked by with just the occasional "Hey, Josh" as they passed, but DeeDee and another boy crawled into the booth with us, and oh yeah, guess who ended up being pressed up against Josh? DEE DEE! (Soooo not an accident!) Can I just say that it is such a good thing that there was an entire diner full of witnesses, because I'm fairly certain I could have killed her with a bottle of ketchup.
"Hi, I'm DeeDee," she said as she helped herself to one of Josh's fries (rude!). "Have we met?"
I'm the daughter of two secret agents who has a genius IQ and the ability to kill you in your sleep and make it look like an accident, you silly, vapid, two-bit…
"Cammie's new in town."
Okay, this is why it's always best to have backup. Josh totally saved me, because I was seriously starting to finger the ketchup bottle about then.
"Oh," she said. Even though Macey McHenry herself had done my makeup, I felt completely covered with boils as I sat there. She helped herself to another fry, but didn't look at me when she said, "Hi."
"DeeDee and I have known each other for forever," Josh said, and DeeDee blushed.
Two of the girls from the mob put some money in the jukebox and soon a song I'd never heard was echoing throughout the diner, causing the boy who was sliding into the booth next to me to yell when he said, "Yeah, she's just one of the boys." He thrust a hand in my direction.
"Hey, I'm Dillon."
THIS is Dillon? My superspy instincts were taken aback as I studied the small boy who was supposedly "D'Man." (Note to self: don't believe everything you read when hacking into the DMV, because short boys will totally lie about their height when applying for their learners' permits.) It took a second for me to recognize him and realize he'd been the boy with Josh in the street—the one who'd been told I was nobody.
Somehow I managed to say, "Hi. I'm Cammie."
Dillon was nodding his head slowly as he eyed me and said, "So this is the mystery woma
n." DeeDee instantly stopped chewing on her fry. "So she exists!" Dillon exclaimed. "You have to forgive my friend here," Dillon said as he slid one arm around my shoulders. "He's not the most outgoing of hosts, so if I can do anything to help you feel at home here, consider me at your disposal."
Dillon's arm was still around me, so I was feeling pretty grateful for all those P&E classes when Josh reached across the table and punched Dillon in the shoulder.
"What?" Dillon cried. "I'm just being hospitable."
If that was hospitable then Madame Dabney really needed to update her curriculum.
"Well, Cammie," Dillon went on, unfazed, "please allow me to say that I can see why doofus here's been keeping you to himself."
Dillon reached for a fry, but this time Josh moved the plate away and said, "Well, thanks for stopping by. Don't let us keep you." And then Josh tried to kick Dillon under the table, but he missed and hit me, but it's not like I screamed or anything. (I've totally been kicked harder.)
"Are you kidding?" Dillon asked, elbows-on-table as he lowered his voice, forcing us all to huddle around his conspiracy. "We're gonna go climb the wall and moon some rich girls later. Wanna come?"
The wall? OUR wall? I wondered in disbelief. Is it possible I've been routinely mooned for the past three years and didn't know it? Has Josh's very own backside been exposed (and possibly photographed by the security department) without my knowledge?
(Note to self: find those photographs.)
I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Josh leaned closer and said, "The Gallagher Academy?" as if wondering whether or not I'd heard of the place. "It's a really snooty boarding school. The girls there are all rich delinquents or something."
I wanted to jump to our defense. I wanted to proclaim that you shouldn't judge someone until you've walked a mile through an underground tunnel in her uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to tell them everything they owed to the Gallagher Girls who had gone before me, but I couldn't. Sometimes spies can only nod and say, "Oh, really?"