On the way to the cafeteria, we stopped in the locker room to give ourselves a once-over in the mirror. Or, at least, Tara, April, Bubbles, and Chloe gave themselves once-overs. Since the twins were busy preparing outfits for Brooke and Zee’s mission, I took the opportunity to tug on the end of my skirt, forcing it to cover at least a small portion of my upper thigh, and I meticulously plucked the rhinestones off my tank top.
Tara watched me. “Ten-to-one odds it’s back in your closet, re-jeweled, tomorrow,” she said.
I frowned.
“And double or nothing says that next time, the jewels are pink,” Tara added.
I continued de-jeweling my shirt. I would have ditched the necklace, too, but even I had to admit the sonar thing was cool. “You seem to be feeling better,” I told Tara. She turned her face away from me slightly. I kept going. I’d had too many years of practice resisting subtle snubs to be put off by something as benign as a head turn. “The people in Al Jawf, they’re not your parents, are they?”
If Tara was surprised that I knew about her parents being foreign operatives, she didn’t show it. “I don’t know, actually,” she said, her accent crisper than I’d heard it in a while. “Their contact information is classified—even from me, but my mother’s very fair-skinned, and my father doesn’t speak any of the relevant languages terribly well.”
That was as close as Tara would come to saying that the chances that either of her parents was stationed in Al Jawf were slim to none.
“Are they the reason that you do this?” I asked, gesturing to the locker room and its contents (a half-dozen cheerleaders, plus me). “Did you join the Squad because you’re a legacy?”
Tara turned back to look at me. “I’m not a legacy,” she said, her mouth pulling into a half smile at the thought. “I’m just an intelligence brat.”
“There’s a difference?” I asked.
Tara lowered her voice. “Brooke is a legacy,” she said, the other half of her mouth completing the smile. “Her mom was on one of the original Squads. There’s a big, big difference.” Then she pressed her lips together, and I knew as well as if she’d told me that I wasn’t going to get another piece of information out of her.
“HWAs, anyone?” Bubbles popped out of nowhere to stand by my side. Tara reached past me to grab some papers from the tiny, peppy one, who then turned to me. “Here are yours,” she said. “History, math, chemistry, Spanish, and computer science.” She paused. “Didn’t you do any homework last night?” she asked.
It was freaky—Bubbles Lane, two parts contortionist, one part professional airhead, sounded bizarrely like my mother.
“I was busy,” I replied, pulling the last rhinestone off my shirt with my free hand. Then I thumbed through the papers she’d handed me. “Number three’s wrong,” I said, scanning over my math homework. “And how in the world did they match my handwriting so well?” Even the chicken scratch in the margins was identical to my own.
“You have a ninety-seven in math,” Tara said (did everyone on the Squad know my GPA?), and then she nodded toward the papers in my hand. “Number three is wrong because if you get number three wrong, you’ll get a ninety-seven on that assignment.”
I wondered if this meant my history homework was going to be yet another C-.
“The HWA program is designed to let you keep your current average. It doesn’t help you or hurt you. It keeps things the same.”
I gave Tara a look of mock dismay. “Are you trying to tell me I’m not going to be on the honor roll?”
Tara rolled her eyes back at me. The exchange felt normal—more normal than I would ever have imagined any Toby–God Squad exchange capable of being, and definitely more normal than my interactions with Tara before she’d worked it out in her mind that the agents in danger probably weren’t her parents.
But, I reminded myself, the operatives were still someone’s family, and their lives were in the hands of Brooke Camden and Zee Kim. I had to work to remind myself that Zee was more or less a teen prodigy when it came to the human mind, and that Brooke, according to what Tara had just told me, was a legacy. She was born for this, she was bred for this, she was raised for this. She was this.
“Come on, people,” Chloe said. “Need I rehash my ‘appearance is everything, appearances are important’ speech? Cafeteria. Now.”
“Power trip,” I coughed into my hands. Tara stifled a smile and elbowed me in the stomach.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s head up.” Bubbles and April followed. Less than a minute later, the four of us were in the high school cafeteria, which, for reasons that continue to elude me to this day, was the place to hang out before first period, assuming you weren’t otherwise occupied with “cheerleading practice.” The moment we walked into the room, the entire school turned to look at us. It was like they’d choreographed it or something. In deference to our superior social status, a few of the wiser and more observant JV cheerleaders excused themselves from the central table.
Our table.
I hung back as the others went to take their seats. How much did I want to be skulking in the shadows right now? A lot.
“Well, I heard that she’s totally loaded, and before she came here, she dated Paris Hilton’s ex.”
At least in the shadows, I might have had a chance at avoiding the rumors that were still making their way through the student body detailing the supposed reasons I’d been chosen for the varsity cheerleading squad.
“Really? Which ex?”
When no one answered this question, I was overcome with an insane urge to say “That information is classified.”
“Well, I heard that she’s a complete lezbo who’s sleeping with one of the other girls on the squad. Can you say casting couch?”
I had to hand it to Hayley Hoffman. She was creative, and she must have had an excellent command of acoustics, because she pitched her voice just loud enough so that I could hear her, but not loud enough that Tara, Bubbles, or April could. I thought about just sucking it up and taking my place at the center table, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to turn the other cheek, because the fact that Hayley was using that particular term as an insult meant that her words weren’t just insulting me. With that in mind, I walked toward the JV table, ready to draw blood, metaphorically speaking. Probably.
I leaned toward the mass of chattering girls. “Well,” I said. “I heard that April Manning’s having a party and that people who start small-minded rumors about the other girls on the Squad aren’t invited.”
I’ve never seen mouths snap shut that quickly.
“Then again, April’s your friend, so you already knew that, right, Hayley?”
I could tell from the look on her face that she’d known nothing about the party. I should have felt sorry for her then—she and April had been friends for years, and the moment April had made varsity cheerleading, she had quite willingly left Hayley in the dust. Yup, I should have felt sorry for Hayley, at least a little.
Oh well.
“Toby,” one of the other girls said. “I love your boots. You always have the best boots.”
I purposely didn’t look down at the blue-green atrocities on my feet, half because my feet hurt more when I paid attention to them, and half because I couldn’t stomach the idea that anyone would compare my combat boots to something with a heel this high. Driven by my desire to get off my feet, I turned and walked back toward the central table, and with one last deep breath, I sat down, taking my place between Bubbles and Tara.
I retreated inside my head, careful to keep a smile on my lips and a vacant expression in my eyes. In less than half an hour, I’d be well on my way to my first official Squad-sponsored hack. Chloe would provide the technology, the twins and Bubbles would plant it, and I would do my thang.
I snapped out of it like that. I’d been on the Squad for just over twenty-four hours, and I’d actually thought the word thang. That was worse than pizzazz. It was even worse than Caboodle. At that exact moment, a handful
of guys joined us, and I remembered that Infotech was only one-third of this mission. Another third of the mission had just sat down at my table. He was six foot three, his hair was a deep chocolatey brown, and it fell in his face just enough to give his chiseled features something of an edge.
Jack Peyton. School heartthrob. Former boyfriend to not one, but two cheerleaders. Fourth-generation scumbag.
“Well, if it isn’t Everybody-Knows-Toby.”
Well, I thought, if it isn’t Smirky McJerkface.
Out loud, I censored myself. A little. “Well, if it isn’t…you.”
“It is indeed me,” he said.
I couldn’t stand the look on his face. “Congratulations,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “It must be a great honor.”
He broke into a grin then, and it changed his face in a way that I had to admit wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Jack milked that gorgeous smile for all it was worth. “You going to the God Squad party tonight, Ev?”
Ev. Short, I had to assume, for Everybody-Knows-Toby.
“Of course she’s going,” Lucy answered on my behalf, her voice as bright and bubbly as ever. “She’s on the squad.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and the thought of the party—loud music, low-cut jeans and lower-cut tops, alcoholic beverages served from large and suspect containers that I wouldn’t touch with an eighty-foot pole—made me physically grimace.
“You’ll be there under protest.” Jack interpreted my scowl.
“Why would I protest?” I asked dryly. “I’m a cheerleader, aren’t I?”
Jack raked his eyes up and down my body. “That shirt used to have sparkly things on it, didn’t it?” he asked, amusement playing around the corners of his mouth.
Postmakeover, I might have looked like Malibu Toby, but Jack Peyton saw straight through it.
At least somebody did.
Jack took my silence as an admission of guilt, and he grinned again. “You know, Ev,” he said, “a little sparkle never hurt a girl.”
“Bite me, Peyton.”
“Love to,” he said. “Does that mean we’re on for tonight?”
The other girls gawked at me. I’d done more or less nothing but insult him, and he’d asked me out. I was a little suspicious that my new look might have had something to do with it—I’d been insulting (not to mention physically assaulting) guys my entire life, and none of them had ever asked me out, with the not-so-notable exception of Noah’s friend Chuck.
I was too busy pondering this turn of events to answer Jack, and someone (my money was on one of the twins, who’d arrived just in time to put in an appearance and pick up on the fact that I’d defaced my shirt) kicked me sharply under the table.
“Ow!” I shrieked.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Jack said. “Pick you up at seven.”
With that, he stood up and ambled away from our table. As soon as he was gone, four other guys leaned in my direction, and one of them moved his hand toward me. Given the look on his face and the current trajectory of the aforementioned hand, I inferred that for some incomprehensible reason, he was moving to rest his hand on my thigh.
Calmly, I reached for a fork someone must have left on the table the day before and held it, poised for action, as I met Thigh Guy’s eyes. “Word of advice,” I told him. “Don’t go there.”
He must have read the intention to draw blood in my eyes, because he quickly pulled his hand back.
“Everybody-Knows-Toby,” Thigh Guy said, giving me an awed look without ever completely removing his gaze from the deadly fork in my hand. “No wonder.”
And that was the exact moment when threatening bodily harm became acceptable flirting practice at Bayport High. Overnight, I had become one of those girls, and the rest of the girls at our school had begun taking their cues from me.
“Chip, if you try to look down my shirt one more time, I’m going to have to hurt you.”
Chip, student body president and generic hottie, grinned. “Would you please?” he asked. The rest of the guys grinned lecherously at Chip’s wit.
What was a girl to do? I kicked him in the shin, and not one of the other cheerleaders glared at me. They were too busy trying to figure out how I’d managed to get a date with Jack “Unattainable” Peyton in under two minutes.
Chip grabbed his smarting shin, the rest of the guys started laughing, and I grinned. As much as I hated to admit it, a girl could get used to this.
CHAPTER 23
Code Word: Footsie
Less than an hour after I’d actually agreed to go on a date with our school’s most eligible and broody bachelor, I was in Chloe’s car, along with Bubbles, the twins, Chloe, and Lucy. Tara and April had agreed to stay behind to prepare for our mission that afternoon, and equally importantly, for our party that night.
“So when you kick them, do you like kick them hard, or do you just sort of play footsie with their shins?”
Brittany and Tiffany were very interested in what they had termed my FT (flirting technique). I got the distinct feeling that it wasn’t so much that they had trouble garnering male attention on their own as it was that they considered themselves to be connoisseurs of the art of flirtation. That there was any FT in existence that they had yet to master was a matter of grave concern.
“Toby.” Brittany said my name again. “Hello, focus! Footsie?”
“Do I look like I play footsie to you?”
Tiffany nibbled on her bottom lip in concentration.
“Well, you didn’t before the Stage Six, but…”
I considered introducing Tiff to the concept of the rhetorical question, but ultimately decided that there were better uses for my time. The twins and I were sitting in the backseat of Chloe’s car, a chic little red number that totally wasn’t big enough for six people. Luckily, Bubbles and Lucy were so tiny that they only counted as two-thirds of a person each, and neither of them seemed to be the least bit put out that they were sharing the shotgun seat. Bubbles was equally unbothered by the freakishly bizarre angle at which her upper body was twisted and the fact that her positioning relative to the stick shift had to have been giving her a horrible wedgie.
“Do you kick them like this?” Brittany asked, and the toe of her foot made contact with my shin.
“No,” I said. “More like this.”
“Ow!”
In the front seat, Lucy started laughing, and Bubbles, always up for a good giggle, joined in. In a momentous lack of twin solidarity, Tiffany commenced giggling, and even Chloe Thrill-Driver Larson let out a short laugh. Was it possible? Was this a bona fide bonding moment? As I was pondering that question, Chloe took a sharp right, and my head banged against the window. As the resounding thunk filled the car, Lucy broke into another bout of high-pitched tee-hees.
I was about to tell Chloe in somewhat unpleasant terms to slow down when she whipped the car into a parking space and twisted around. “You ready?” she asked the twins.
Brittany and Tiffany immediately turned to each other. Britt smoothed her sister’s hair, and in return, Tiffany touched up her twin’s lip gloss.
“Ready,” they said, speaking in unison. It was strangely unnerving—I’d never seen them dressed identically before, and postsmooth/postgloss, they were more than identical. They were like the same person, which was, all things considered, more or less the point.
“You memorized the maps?” Chloe prodded. “You know your way to the executive wing? You’ve got a cover for each stage of security?”
The twins nodded.
Chloe took a deep breath. It was enough to make me wonder if she was actually nervous. Just how much did Chloe feel like she had to prove here?
“Here’s the magnifier,” Chloe said, handing them a small, wood-colored square. “Don’t lose it.”
As Chloe continued to rattle off directives, Tiffany slipped the magnifier into her bra like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was like a kangaroo with a freaking pouch.
“Activate your minicams, and you’re good to go.”
The twins, still moving in synchrony, fiddled expertly with their identical necklaces. Chloe adjusted one of the car’s cup holders, pulled out a keyboard, and typed some form of command in. Instantly, a large screen came down from the ceiling, and with some more nimble finger aerobics on Chloe’s part, the feed from the twins’ necklaces showed up on the screen.
“Audio.” I was unsure at first whether Chloe was giving an audio command to the car, or issuing an order to the twins.
“It should be on,” Britt said, ever the spokesperson for her twin. “We’ll do a quick check on our way to the building.”
Since we’d parked a good two blocks away, that seemed safe.
Chloe nodded. “Proceed as planned,” she said. “If any alterations need to be made in this initiative, I’ll make them from here.”
Alterations in the initiative…It wasn’t that I’d expected gadget guru Chloe to have a ditz-sized vocabulary, but still, it was an incredible jump from “Beat the Bobcats!”
“Ready?” Chloe asked.
“Ready,” the twins answered.
“Ready,” Bubbles and Lucy chorused from the front seat, where Bubbles, for some unfathomable reason, had placed her feet behind her head.
Chloe cleared her throat and turned around to give me a pointed look.
“Oh,” I said, my brain still dedicated to wondering how a person would go about contorting themselves into a pretzel shape and why exactly they might feel compelled to do so.
“Ready.”
“Ready,” all of the others said again, and I recognized the cheer-tone in their voices. “Okay!”
Unfortunately, my mind took that as a cue to launch into a mental rendition of our halftime routine as Tiffany and Brittany slipped out of the car and Bubbles (feet now a safe distance from her head) wiggled her way into the backseat.
A few minutes later, the twins’ audio clicked on. “Bangs.”
“Out.”
“Pointy-toed boots.”
“Depends on the color.”
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