Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (11 page)

Instantly,
I felt the entire junior CoveOps class from the

Gallagher
Academy for Exceptional Young Women pivot to see a guy in a trench coat
approach a man in a plaid shirt and block his view of the candidates, who were
passing in the street below them.

A
group of women were waving a sign that read
god bless you, macey and preston,
and
as if on cue, Preston ran toward the women and hugged them while, twenty feet
away, CNN carried the whole scene live and in color.

But
Macey didn't run anywhere. Or hug anyone (which is totally in character anyway—kidnapping
attempt or not). Instead she held her father's hand. She waved. She smiled.

"We
have to be perfect every second of every day, ladies." I've heard
Joe
Solomon
say
some pretty heady stuff in the past two years, but I don't think I'd ever heard
him sound more solemn than when he said, "The bad guys just have to get
lucky…once."

And
then I couldn't help it. I thought about Boston, I thought about luck. I
thought about how close we came to having a very bad ending to our summer
vacation.

"I
don't know if any of you will go into protection services someday or not,
ladies, but if you do…" Mr. Solomon's voice was soft in my ear, steady
against the din of Secret Service orders, "This is your worst
nightmare."

At that moment, I'm pretty sure
Bex wanted to drag our roommate into the nearest bulletproof automobile and
drive back to Roseville as quickly as humanly possible. But that wasn't going
to happen because 1) the real Secret Service might shoot us if we tried, 2) the
CNN correspondents might have some interesting questions if Bex took out
Senator McHenry's body men with two well-placed kicks, and 3) our midterm
grades were probably riding on doing exactly not that, and as if we needed
reminding, our teacher's voice was a constant in our ears.

"Given
the wind velocity and direction, the greatest threat from sniper assault is
where, Ms. Morrison?"

Bex
and I looked at each other and mouthed, "The church steeple," just as
Mick said those very words.

"Four
members of the Secret Service have infiltrated the protesters across the
street, Ms. Fetterman," Mr. Solomon asked again. "Identify the
agents."

"Uh
…" Anna started while, on the street in front of us, Aunt Abby and Macey
were walking by. "Red backpack," Anna answered. "Lady in the
blue bandanna. The man in the yellow T-shirt, and…" She trailed off.

"Anyone?" Mr. Solomon
asked.

"The
guy with the long red beard," I found myself saying. I wasn't sure when
I'd even seen him, but as soon as I said the words I knew they were true.

"Why?" Mr. Solomon
questioned.

"The
static," I said. "Two and a half minutes ago there was a burst of
static on the Secret Service frequency. He flinched."

Somewhere
in the crowd of bodies, I could have sworn I felt Joe Solomon smile.

I used
to wonder if Secret Service Agents ever got tired of hearing the same speeches
from the same people a dozen times a day every day until someone either has to
give a speech that says they won or give a speech that says they lost. But
after that day I started wondering if the security team even heard the speeches
at all.

"Beta
team, protesters stay in Level Two. I repeat, protesters stay in Level
Two," one of the anonymous voices said.

"Charlie
team, we have unusual movement in a window in the City National Bank
building," another voice said, and in a flash, all the blinds on the
fourth floor of the building across the street were pulled down.

And
then … a voice I recognized. "Peacock is stage- ready and moving."

"Aunt Abby," I
whispered to Bex.

"Peacock?" she
whispered back.

Onstage,
The Senator was sweeping out his hand and saying, "Family. I don't have to
tell the Buckeye state how much family means to me."

The
crowd cheered wildly for a few minutes, but when Macey replaced her father at
the microphone, a hush fell so completely over the Ohio swing voters that I
could have sworn someone or something had turned the volume down.

"It's
great being here today." Macey looked out over the crowd. She looked lost
for a moment—dazed. But then I could have sworn her gaze fell on Bex and me. A
new light seemed to fill her eyes as she looked at us and added, "With my
family." At this point Senator McHenry put his arm around his wife, and I
couldn't help thinking about Clipboard Lady's direction of "spontaneous
hugging."

"And
there's something I want to say," Macey went on, even stronger now.
"There's nothing we can't do if we stick together. There's nothing we
can't overcome if we try. I learned that from the people who love me. The
people who know…the
real
me." This time I knew Macey
was looking straight at us.

Beside me, I heard Bex whisper,
"That's our girl."

"Ms.
Baxter." Mr. Solomon's voice brought us back to the moment, to the
mission. "There's a man thirty feet behind you in a denim jacket. Get his
fingerprints without his knowledge." With a wink, Bex was gone.

There
were more speeches, more cheering, but eventually Macey walked down the steps
on the left side of the stage and through a gap in the bleachers that led to a
secure area behind the stands. As soon as she disappeared, I heard my aunt's
voice saying, "Peacock is secure and holding in the yellow tent," and
I took my first deep breath since Sunday night.

The
crowd was staring at the stage while Governor Winters said, "Our opponents
have had four years to talk the talk, but now it's time to
walk the walk!"
People clapped. People laughed. It was like he was a puppet master and two
thousand people jumped every time he pulled the strings.

But
I didn't clap. I didn't laugh. I just kept hearing Mr. Solomon's voice—not in
my ear—in my head. I remembered something he'd said in the helicopter.
"Protection is ten

percent protocol and ninety
percent instinct."

And
just then my instincts were telling me to turn around. Maybe it was the way the
buildings lined the grassy lawn, maybe it was the crowd of people that passed
by me, but something made me think about last semester and Washington, D.C. So
while The Senator and Governor Winters stood with their hands locked together
above their heads, and the band started playing, I turned and watched the crowd
clapping and dancing. The candidates pushed toward the barriers, and the crowd
rushed closer, but one guy slipped away.

Farther from the bulletproof
banner.

Farther from everything.

Except
the bleachers and the yellow tent that stood behind them.

Another
banner hung from the side of the bleachers, advertising
www.winters-mchenry.com
, and I watched it blow
in the breeze, a corner flapping free, banging against the aluminum posts, but
no one noticed the sound. No one saw the gap. No civilian would have
appreciated that sliver of access, and what it meant. But the guy in the cap
walked toward the banner. He slipped through the tiny crack, and that's when I
knew he was a pavement artist.

I knew he was like me.

"No,"
I felt myself scream; but with the band and the crowd and the chatter of agents
securing the rope lines, the word was lost. And he was gone.

I
followed, pushing through the gap myself, but all I could see was litter and
the tangled wires and rods of the metal stands.

For
such a sunny day, it was dark under the bleachers; for such a screaming crowd,
the noise seemed very far away. A warm breeze blew red, white, and blue
confetti across my feet, while the band played and the people cheered.

And I felt someone behind me.

And
for the second time that month, a strange hand grasped my shoulder.

I
forgot all about Mr. Solomon's assignment as I reached back and grabbed the
offending hand, stepped into the move, and swung the guy smoothly through the
air, watching him crash onto a red balloon with a pop.

But
suddenly I was the one who was breathless as I stared down at the guy who lay
beneath me, and I heard the only words I totally wasn't prepared to hear.

"Hello, Gallagher
Girl."

Zach
was there. Zach was staring up at me through the shadow of the bleachers, lying
on his back, his shoulders pinned beneath my knees.

He
was real this time. This wasn't spy genes and teen hormones running away with
me. I wasn't hallucinating or daydreaming or the victim of some freaky
hologram-based countersurveillance diversion.

I was just looking…

At Zach.

"Hey,
Gallagher Girl," he said after … I don't know … an hour or something,
"you gonna let me up now?"

But
I totally didn't want to let him up because A) I had the superior position, and
with any boy—much less a Blackthorne Boy—superior position is something you
should hang on to when you get a chance, B) if I didn't let him up, there was a
lot less chance of him retaliating by flipping me through the air like a rag
doll (which I totally wouldn't have

put
past him), and C) I kinda liked knowing where I stood with Zach. For once.

So
instead of moving aside and pulling him to his feet like a good girl, I just
leaned over him like a Gallagher Girl and said, "What are you doing here?"

But
Zach didn't answer right away. Instead, he did that Zach thing he always did.
He gave me a look that was so deep—so intense—that it was as if he were trying
to send the answer to me over some cosmic, psychic thread or something.

Then
he smirked and said, "I'm
very
interested in Ohio
politics."

I
scooted backward, stumbling to my feet as I blurted, "You can't
vote."

"Yeah,
but I can campaign." He pointed to the
winters-mchenry
button on his jacket as
if to prove his point. And then it hit me—the feelings of panic that cute boys
and kidnapping attempts have probably been prompting inside Gallagher Girls
for a hundred years.

I'd
thought about seeing him about a billion times. I'd imagined what I'd be
wearing and what cool thing I would say, but I can assure you that in none of
my fantasies had I been wearing my most uncomfortable jeans and a T-shirt that
was two sizes too large. I'd thought about what kind of girl I was going to
be—interested but indifferent, lovely but amused. And yet I was none of those
things as I looked down at him and muttered, "You're a long way from
Blackthorne."

"Yeah."
He smiled. "Well, I heard that Macey McHenry was going to be making her
first post-convention public appearance here today"—he stood and brushed
some stray confetti from my hair—"and where there's one Gallagher Girl,
there are usually others."

His
smile deepened, and at that moment I seriously thought I would scream (but for
a totally different reason.)

"We're
like smoke and fire that way," I stuttered, trying my best to act cooler
than I felt.

He
smiled his slow, knowing smile. "Something like that."

And
then a whole new kind of panic hit me—ZACH WAS THERE! Because he knew Macey was
going to be there? And because he thought I might be with Macey?

(Note
to self: Modify Liz's boy-to-English translator to account for multiple
interpretations at once!)

That
couldn't be it—could it? Was it possible that Zachary Goode had broken out of
his top-secret spy school because this was his first chance at seeing me
outside of
my
top secret
spy school?

Oh.

My.

Gosh.

Could
I go back to battling rooftop attackers now? Because at least with rooftop
attackers you know where you stand! But boys—especially
that boy
—seemed
to always be a mystery.

I
heard the crowd erupt into applause again as the governor continued his speech,
but it felt like all of that was taking place on the other side of the earth.

"I
thought you'd vowed to stay out of secret passageways and laundry chutes, but I
guess…" he started but didn't finish. Instead he reached up and traced the
bruise that had all but faded along my hairline, and I felt something that has
absolutely nothing to do with blunt force trauma.

And
then something dawned on me. "How did you know about the laundry
chute?"

Zach
took a deep breath then smiled and pointed to himself like he used to do and
said, "Spy."

I
heard a voice in my earpiece say, "Chameleon, I know you're being Chameleony,
but if you could wave or something, or tell me where you are, that would be
great."