by Ally Carter
"Knew," Liz corrected, unwilling to accept partial credit when she'd gotten an answer right.
"Knew," Macey went on, "I wasn't in Switzerland. How'd you find me here?"
I looked out over the lake and thought about a day not that long ago. "This is where I would have come," I said, not realizing until then that it was true.
"Me too," added Bex.
We all looked at Liz, who nodded. "Yeah."
Macey laughed. It was so quick and clean that I could have sworn it sent a ripple coursing through the lake. "Are they really still searching in Switzerland?"
"By now they've widened the net to include half of Northern Europe," Bex said with a grin.
"Still think they only let you in because of who your family is?" I asked.
"Yes." Macey's answer shocked me. I'd been in the process of getting up. The coarse wood of the dock was pinching my hands as they supported too much of my weight, and yet I couldn't move,
Macey smiled. She cocked an eyebrow and said, "But that's not why they keep me."
Of all the tests Macey McHenry had passed in the last year, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that that was the biggest one.
"Besides," she said playfully batting her eyes, "my father is potentially the second most powerful man in the country."
"Well," Liz said softly, "not for much longer."
"Why?" I asked, looking at her.
"Because the polls opened two hours ago."
Spies are great at pretending, so we made believe that the bad part was over; we acted as if everything was going to be okay. We rolled down the windows and sang at the top of our lungs and tried not to think about why we had to make unscheduled stops, and turn without signaling, and dozens of other countersurveillance techniques that are the sign of really bad drivers and really good spies.
But no matter how good we were at vehicular countersurveillance, there was at least one dangerous encounter that I knew we'd never outrun.
"We have her."
The truck stop was loud—full of the sounds of diesel engines and the clank of plates and silverware being cleared from greasy tables—and for a moment, I was afraid my mother hadn't heard me. "I said, we've got—"
"Yes, Professor Buckingham," Mom said slowly, and at first I started to correct her. I wanted to say that she'd mistaken the sound of my voice. Badly. But then Mom talked on. "It is very good to hear from you. In fact, I've been wondering where you are now, Patricia?" Mom asked, and I knew that someone was close.
"We're on our way to you," I said, not wanting to say too much over the phone. "Mom, I'm sorry we ran away." With every breath, the words came faster. "We tried to tell Madame Dabney, but everyone was so busy looking in Switzerland, but I just knew in my gut she wasn't there, and—"
"Of course things are ready for you here. If Macey has completed her biology test and is ready, the Secret Service should bring her here to D.C. so that she can join her parents as soon as possible."
I stepped farther down the narrow hallway, away from the crowded dining room, stretching the phone's greasy cord to its limit as I said, "They don't know she ran away, do they?"
"Of course not," Mom answered, the ultimate spy. "That's too much trouble."
I thought about Senator and Mrs. McHenry, and something made me smile.
"So how mad are they that she isn't there?"
"I've taken care of everything," Mom said, her voice still perfectly even and delightful.
A television blared live news coverage—a map of the United States, ready to be divided state by state into red and blue. It was election day in America, but there was one vote left that mattered, and, ironically, it was the one the McHenrys had lost a long time ago.
"Cam!" Bex yelled, "it's time."
"Mom," I said, suddenly needing to say it, "I love you."
A long pause filled the line. For a second, I thought I might have lost her.
"I feel exactly the same way. And Patricia." My mother's voice grew lower. "Hurry. And be careful."
I might have said a hundred other things, except the pay phone wasn't secure (not to mention sanitary), and besides, my friends—and our mission—were waiting.
The Operatives began preparations to go undercover inside hostile territory (a.k.a. the official Winters-McHenry presidential watch party).
Operatives Sutton and Baxter were thrilled to learn that this would require shopping for new clothes.
Unfortunately, according to Operative McHenry, to fully blend in, The Operatives' new clothes couldn't be too cute. Or comfortable.
Washington, D.C. was the first home I'd ever really known, but that night the streets felt foreign for the first time. Maybe it was the vehicle I was driving (Dodge minivans with state-of-the art engines aren't exactly common, you know), or maybe it was the fact that the most famous girl in the country was in the backseat in a red wig, but I felt anything but invisible as we turned down streets lined with news vans and Secret Service barricades.
As we walked closer to the hotel, we passed correspondents reporting live for every news outlet in the country, and I couldn't help myself—I thought about Boston. Beside me, Macey trembled, and I knew I wasn't the only one.
I was beginning to contemplate exactly how we were going to sweet-talk or sneak our way inside (Macey couldn't exactly show up Secret Service-less, after all!), when a familiar voice cut through the chaos. "Cameron!"
The Operatives remembered that potential kidnappers aren't always as scary as highly trained operatives-slash- mothers-slash-headmistresses who happen to know that you're away from campus without permission.
"Cammie," my mother called again, hurrying to meet us.
"Mom, I—" I started, wanting to explain or apologize, to beg forgiveness or mercy, but I didn't get to do any of that because, in the next instant, Secret Service agents swarmed around us. I noticed the comms unit in my mother's ear. I realized the agents around us were all women. One of the agents winked at me, and I wondered for a second if Aunt
Abby wasn't the only Gallagher Girl who had taken a special assignment.
And yet my mother didn't wink. She didn't smile. Instead, she grabbed my arm and steered us toward the building.
Something's happening, I thought. Something's wrong. There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask, but I didn't have the time—much less the breath—to do so as an emergency exit door was thrown open and my friends and I were ushered inside.
Walking through the narrow hallway, the sense of deja vu was strong as we passed stacks of Winters-McHenry signs and catering carts—the backstage of the party—until finally we broke free into a space with gilded mirrors and silk- covered walls. It reminded me of Madame Dabney's tearoom and I realized that, in a way, our school had been preparing us for that moment for the past four and a half years.
A normal girl might have looked at the ornate ceilings and wondered if anything bad could ever happen in a place that beautiful. But we're Gallagher Girls. We know better.
"Macey," Mom said to my roommate, not even looking at me. "Go with these agents. Your parents are expecting you."
But Macey didn't move, and I remembered that this was the world Macey had been born into. The world she'd chosen was a shack by a lake.
"Go on, sweetheart," Mom urged.
Governor Winters himself passed by just then—and I knew we were in the middle of one of the most secure places in the country, and yet something hung in the air as my mother said, "I need to talk to Cammie a—"
I'm not sure what my mother would have said—what she would have told me—but she never had a chance to finish, because in the next instant a cry of "There you are" went through the room. The polls were closed, so maybe that's why Cynthia McHenry didn't hesitate to snap at her daughter. "What are you wearing?"
Macey reached up as if she'd forgotten all about the red
wig.
"Protocol, ma'am," one of the agents at Macey's side replied. "We thought it best to keep your daughter disguised as we m
oved her from the school."
"Well, she's in a secure area now," Macey's mother said, then started through the ballroom, which was becoming fuller by the second. "Well, are you coming or not?" she asked, wheeling on us all. Macey looked at us as if asking for backup, but we knew that she had to go on alone.
She took a step away, but I was so busy trying to decipher the worry in my mother's eyes that I barely saw my friend move.
"Cam, we need—" Mom started, but again she didn't get to finish.
"Mrs. Morgan," Cynthia McHenry snapped. "Walk with me, please." Mom could have said no. She could have walked away.
But instead she said, "Wait here," and I knew she wasn't just my mother and headmistress—she was a Gallagher Girl, and she was going to cling to her cover to the end.
PROS AND CONS ABOUT CRASHING A PRESIDENTIAL WATCH PARTY:
PRO: Secret Service personnel and members of the national media are everywhere, so your mother can't yell at you for running away.
CON: You know she will yell at you eventually, and the longer it builds up—the worse.
PRO: People who have given up sleeping, eating, and any kind of normalcy for two years (and/or vast amounts of money) in order to make someone president, really don't skimp on the giant shrimp for the food buffet.
CON: People who have been campaigning and living out of suitcases, buses, and trains for that amount of time also have a tendency to let their personal hygiene (not to mention their respect for personal space) get a little, shall we say, skewed.
PRO: It turns out, political watch parties come with bands!
CON: The bands play that same song from the campaign rallies over and over and over again.
Spies spend most of their time waiting. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. And standing in that big ballroom that night, counting the balloons that hung in the nets overhead (there were are least 7,345, by the way), I couldn't help but think that we were experiencing the best covert operations training we've ever had.
Bex spent a good portion of the evening talking with an oil executive who we later learned was guilty of insider trading (a few days later we hacked into the Securities and Exchange Commission and left an anonymous tip, FYI). Liz used her photographic memory to reread her copy of Advanced Encryption and You in preparation for a big test in Mr. Mosckowitz's class.
But all I could do was think about the look in my mother's eyes as Cynthia McHenry pulled her away. I whispered, "Something's wrong."
"Cammie." A voice sliced through my worries, so I turned around. "Hey, I thought that was you," Preston said, making his way toward us.
Bex eyed him up and down. Liz fiddled with her top. At the front of the room, the announcer called everyone to silence, and ordered the sound on one of the televisions to be turned up while an anchorman said, "Yes, it's official. We are officially calling Ohio for Governor Winters and Senator McHenry."
A massive cheer filled the ballroom. People raised their glasses to toast the Buckeye state, but my mind was flashing back to the shadows beneath the bleachers on a sunny day.
"So, are you friends of Macey's too?" Preston asked, turning to Bex and Liz, and I could actually feel my grade
in Culture and Assimilation take a nosedive.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I rushed to say. "Preston Winters, this is Rebecca."
"Bex," Bex corrected me in her American accent.
"And Liz," I said. Liz blushed but didn't say a word. "So, are you ready for this to be over?" I asked, because…well, I was pretty sure I was supposed to say something.
He looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, "Dying for it."
"I have a feeling the Secret Service wouldn't like your choice of words," Bex told him.
"I guess not." He laughed.
All around us I could feel the room changing as the night got later and the map on the wall became divided down the battle lines of red and blue.
"Hey," Preston said, looking at me. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
I glanced at Bex and Liz, who nodded for me to go, so the potential first son and I walked to a quiet corner of a party. "I fully admit that what I'm about to say will officially make me a girl." For a second, I forgot my fears and laughed. "And I'm owning that," the boy in front of me carried on. "So that's got to be worth something, right?"
"Right," I answered, biting back a smile.
"But it's just that I've got to ask you about…Does Macey ever say anything about me?" he finally blurted.
Despite my exceptional education, I totally didn't know how to answer his question. Maybe it was because we'd spent more than a year trying to figure boys out, but in all that time it had never crossed my mind that we might be just as encrypted to them. But more likely, it was because I didn't have a clue what to say.
"She doesn't say much about any of this," I finally admitted, gesturing around at the elaborate party—her other world. "It's not really…her, you know?"
Preston smiled. He did know. And right then I knew that it wasn't really him either.
"Do you ever think about Boston, Cammie?" he asked, but I didn't get a chance to admit that I did think about it— too much. "I do," Preston said, and then he smiled. "She's really something, isn't she?"
"Yeah," I said slowly. "She really is."
He looked at me then like I've been looked at maybe once or twice in my entire life, and I felt the subtle tremor that comes with being truly seen. "Something tells me she's not the only one."
"Preston—" I started, but the potential first son just shook his head.
"Whatever secrets you and Macey have, Cammie, I don't want to know them." He took a step away but then stopped suddenly and moved closer. "Just tell me one thing: does it involve Spandex?" He closed his eyes and a really goofy look crossed his face. "Because in my mind it involves Spandex."
"Preston," I said, laughing and slapping him gently on the arm.
I saw Macey walking toward Bex and Liz, and before I could say another word, Preston made a beeline toward her.
"Jeez, Preston." Macey rolled her eyes. "Don't you have
a—"
"Macey," Preston said, cutting her off, "I came over to say that if our dads win, we're going to be seeing a lot of each other." Macey opened her mouth as if to protest, but Preston didn't let her draw a breath. "And if they lose … well, I think we still should see a lot of each other anyway. So there," he finished with a shrug. "That's all. You ladies enjoy the party."
And with that he walked away, and all Liz, Bex, Macey, and I could do was watch him go.
"Did he seem a little …" Macey started, but it was up to Bex and Liz to finish.
"Hot?" they said in unison.
Macey nodded like maybe it was true, maybe it was okay to admit it, maybe—just maybe—there might be an advantage to being the vice president's daughter after all. But then her gaze shifted and there was a sparkle in her eye. "And speaking of hot…" Macey said, "what's new with Zach?"
I thought about Preston, who had just done one of the bravest things I'd ever witnessed, and I realized that loving someone takes courage. It takes strength. But I'd never been brave when it came to Zach—I'd never taken the chance or said what I wanted to say. I thought of the way he'd looked at me at the football game, and it suddenly seemed too late.
"I don't think he likes me anymore. Maybe he never liked me. Maybe he just liked … a challenge?"
Macey shrugged. "It happens."
"No, Cam!" Liz protested. "Maybe he's just…" But she couldn't finish, because the only way that sentence could end was badly.
"Well, now's your chance to find out," Macey said as she pointed through the crowd at the boy who stood in its center with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped as if he were the most harmless guy on earth.
"I heard someone's playing hooky," Zach told me. He smiled. Standing there, it felt almost like nothing bad had ever happened—or would ever happen again.
"There's a boy in my life," I told him. "He's a very b
ad influence."
Then Zach nodded. "Bad boys have a way of doing that. But they're worth it."
The ballroom was too hot and crowded. I felt almost dizzy as Zach leaned close to me and whispered, "Can I talk to you?"
As soon as I felt his hand in mine I forgot all about my mother's words. I didn't think about my promise. I wanted someplace quiet, someplace cool. And most of all, I wanted answers. So I let Zach lead me out a side door and onto a street that had somehow become an alley, thanks to Secret Service perimeters and D.C. blockades.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around my chest and wished I'd brought a winter coat. It suddenly seemed way too cold for the first Tuesday in November.
Someone had propped open a door to the hotel, and I heard the band stop. Some other state must have been called, because a moan rang through the night, but I wasn't really listening. Not anymore.
Because it was dark.
And I was cold.
And Zach was taking his jacket off and draping it around my shoulders, which (according to Liz, who double-checked with Macey) is the single-sexiest thing a guy can do.
His hands stayed on my shoulders a second longer than they had to. The jacket was warm and smelled like him. The wind blew harder, catching stray pieces of confetti in the breeze and whirling them around us like a patriotic snowstorm.
That was the moment when everything was supposed to be perfect.
After all, really cute boy? Check. Dramatic, romantic setting? Check. Close proximity without parental supervision? Double check.
But nothing about Zach is a regular boy, just like nothing about me is a regular girl, so instead, I looked at him and asked, "Why were you in Boston?"
Zach stepped back. He shook his head and looked down at the ground as he muttered, "There are things I can't tell you, Gallagher Girl."
"Can't?" I asked. "Or won't?"
But Zach didn't answer. He just looked at me as if to say, What's the difference.
"Tell me," I whispered, trying not to think about the fact that Zach wasn't chasing me anymore. Instead, he was staring down at me, and for the first time, I realized that he'd grown, that he was taller and stronger and not at all the boy who had kissed me last spring.