Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (15 page)

She
thumbed through the thick book one final time as she said again, "This is
just
this month."

Every spy knows that what you
don't say is just as important—maybe more so—than what you do. Aunt Abby
didn't tell me that what was going on was bigger than four Gallagher Girls in
training and a secret room. She didn't tell me that there were a whole lot of
psycho people in this world, and a whole lot of them were fascinated by one of
my best friends. But those were maybe the only things I was sure of as I
stepped toward the door.

Still, there was one thing I had
to ask.

"What's
this symbol?" I asked, pointing to the satellite photo of the hand, which
had fallen to the floor. My aunt casually glanced my way.

"Not
sure. That's one of the leads we're tracking down. It's probably nothing,
though. They were too good to make a mistake that could lead us to them."

"That's what Bex says."

"Bex is good."

"Yeah,"
I said, turning to leave. Then I stopped. "I've seen it before…before
Boston."

"You
remember where?" Abby asked. A new light filled her eyes, and I got the
feeling we were playing a game of covert chicken, both of us waiting to see if
the other would blink first.

"It'll
come to me," I said, which didn't exactly answer her question, but that's
okay. I got the impression that it didn't exactly matter.

"If
you remember, let me know," she said, and I would have bet the farm (or…well…Grandma
and Grandpa's farm) that she already knew. I was halfway to the door when she
called, "Cam." She held out a piece of paper. "Since you're
here, would you mind giving this to Macey?"

I
stood in the hall for a long time, reading the first line over and over,
wishing the note were written on Evapopaper, trying to find a way to make the
words dissolve.

Itinerary:
Saturday, 5:00 a.m. Peacock departs Gallagher Academy for Philadelphia, PA.

Things
You Can Do When the Life of One of Your Best Friends May Be at Risk, and She's
Got to Help Her Dad Campaign for Vice President Anyway, and You Really, Really
Don't Want Her to Go:

1.
              
Sweet-talk
Mr. Mosckowitz into moving up the exercise where the ninth graders (the grade
Macey was up to now) are locked in a room and can't get out until they break
the Epstein Equation.

2.
              
Hack into
Secret Service databases, leaving indications that the aforementioned roommate
had been making some incredibly dangerous threats against another protectee,
Preston Winters (because she totally had).

3.
              
If the
roommate were to have an allergic reaction to her mother's experimental night
cream, resulting in a terrible zit outbreak that leaves her very unphotogenic
and unlikely to test well with undecided women between the ages of 21 and 42 in
the process, then maybe she wouldn't be required on the campaign trail after
all!

4.
              
Two words:
food poisoning (but only as a last resort).

They
really were good plans. After all, Bex and I hadn't just aced Mr. Solomon's
Logistical Thinking and Planning for Success midterm for nothing. Logistically
speaking, we'd been about as covert as we could possibly be without coming
right out and hog-tying Macey to her desk chair (a plan that Bex proposed
frequently).

But
Mr. Mosckowitz wasn't doing the locked room assignment this year, since he'd
developed a case of claustrophobia after a top-secret summer assignment that
involved a Porta Potti and two Lebanese hairdressers.

And
it turns out the Secret Service doesn't take death threats
by
protectees
all that seriously. Especially if they're girls. Even if they're Gallagher
Girls.

And
we should have known that Macey would never get a pimple. Ever. It goes against
the laws of nature or something.

And
worst of all, the last part of our master plan didn't work because a person
can't possibly get food poisoning if the person no longer eats food.

I
didn't know if it was nerves or fear or if she really was reverting back to the
Macey she had been when she came to us a year before, but night after night we
sat at the juniors' table in the Grand Hall while our roommate pushed the food
around on her plate—not eating, not laughing. Just waiting for whatever would
come next.

"This
is bad," Liz said Friday morning as we left Culture and Assimilation. The
halls were filling up. And time was running out.

"We could always—"

"No!"
Liz and I both snapped, not really thinking that was the time or place to be
reminded of Bex's "no one can get out of my slipknots" argument, but
it was Macey who made us stop.

"It's
okay, guys," Macey said. She turned toward Dr. Fibs's basement lab.
"Thanks for trying and everything, but I've got to go." The way she said
it, I knew that getting her out of her trip wasn't really up for debate. She
shrugged and added, "It's the job."

I
might have argued; I might have pleaded, but right then I realized that Bex and
I weren't the only ones who had been born into a family business—a genetic
fate. Macey's first full sentence had been "Vote for Daddy," and not
even a kidnapping attempt, midterms, and the three of us could keep her off the
campaign trail.

As
Bex pulled me toward the elevator and Sublevel Two, the chaos of the halls
faded away, replaced by the smooth whirring of the elevator and the lasers and
the sounds of a new set of worries in my head.

"What?" Bex asked.

"Zach," I said numbly.

"Cam,
he
is
bloody
dreamy—I'm not going to deny you that—but I don't think boys are really the
most important thing right now."

"Zach got through."

I
thought about him standing behind the bleachers. I thought about
me
standing
behind the bleachers. In the restricted zone. "Zach got through security.
If he did …" I trailed off, not wanting to say the worst of what was on my
mind. Bex nodded, not wanting to hear it.

A
moment later we were stepping out of the elevator. Our footsteps echoed as we
ran, around and around and around the spiraling ramp, lower into the depths of
the school.

"Don't
worry, Cam," Bex said, not even close to being winded. "We'll think
of something. If Mr. Solomon doesn't kill us for being late."

But
then she stopped. Partly, I think, because we'd finally reached the classroom;
partly because our teacher— perhaps our
best
teacher, our
strictest
teacher—was nowhere to be seen.

I
don't know how normal girls behave when a teacher is out of the room, but
Gallagher Girls get quiet. Crazy quiet. Because operatives in training learn
very early on that you can never really trust that you're alone.

So
Bex didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. Even Tina Walters was
speechless.

"You're the juniors?"

The
voice was one I didn't know. I turned to see a face I didn't recognize. A man.
An older man in a Gallagher Academy maintenance department uniform. His name
badge read "Art," and he was glaring at us as if he knew we were
personally responsible for the terrible hydrochloric acid spill in Dr. Fibs's
lab, which had probably taken weeks to clean up.

"Solomon said you were the
juniors," Art told us.

"Yes, sir," Mick said,
because 1) We've all been taking culture class since we were in the seventh
grade and Madame Dabney does her job well, and 2) at the Gallagher Academy,
everyone is more than they appear.

We
look like normal girls, but we're not. Our teachers could blend in with any
prep school faculty in the world, but they're so much more. Every girl in that
room knew that to spend your retirement in the Gallagher Academy maintenance
department you must have had high clearance and massive skills—you're there for
a reason. So Art was a "sir" to us. No doubt about it.

Still,
Art looked at us as if
we
were exactly what he was
expecting.

As
he turned and started out the door, we stared after him. But then he stopped
and called back over his shoulder. "Well? Are you coming or aren't
ya?"

We
got up and followed Art exactly the way we'd come.

No one
asked about Mr. Solomon, but one glance at the girls following in the
maintenance man's wake told me that we were all wondering the exact same thing.

Well, make that two things: 1.)
Where was Mr. Solomon? and 2.) What had happened to Art?

The
man walked with a slight limp, his right foot never landing evenly upon the
stone floor. His left hand hung against his side at an odd angle, and thick
bottle-like glasses must have made the world look very different through his
eyes.

But
none of that kept him from snapping, "Walters!" when Tina whispered
something to Eva, so I'm pretty sure there wasn't anything wrong with his
hearing.

We
passed ancient wooden doors with locks that looked like they must have required
two-ton keys. We climbed higher, past rooms that looked like sets from old
monster movies.

When
we neared the top, we all walked faster, toward the elevator, anticipating that
we were smart enough, seasoned enough, savvy enough to guess what would come
next. But one of the golden rules of covert operations is
Always
anticipate, never commit,
and that would have been a good
time to remember it.

Because
Art called, "Ladies!" And the entire class skidded to a stop. We
turned to see the man standing in front of one of those enormous doors that,
until then, I'd never seen open. He reached inside and flipped on a switch.
Light replaced shadow and danced over the stone floor as he took a step on his
crooked leg.

"Bex,"
I whispered as we followed him inside. "Did he seem…"

But
I didn't finish. Oh, who am I kidding—I
couldn't
finish. Because the room we were
stepping into wasn't just an ordinary room. It wasn't a place for an ordinary
class.

Rows
of clothes lined two long walls. In the center, shelves stood covered with
accessories. Mirrors sat in a long row along the back of the room, shelves and
drawers, all neatly labeled, sat waiting.

"It's a
closet,"
Eva Alvarez said in awe.

"And it's…
huge,"
Tina Walters replied.

I
know normal girls would probably love to find themselves inside a closet two
times the size of most suburban houses. But not this closet. This closet could
only truly be appreciated by a Gallagher Girl.

We
all stepped inside, knowing we were on the verge of a lesson unlike any we'd
ever had.

Eva
reached out for another switch, and the lights surrounding the mirrors at the
back of the room came to life, washing over hats and wigs, glasses and false
teeth. Overcoats and umbrellas.

I
looked at the man who had brought us there. I turned my gaze from his crippled
leg and mangled arm…and I knew.

Art
stepped to the center of the room and said, "Ladies." He took off his
glasses with his left arm, which, for the first time, seemed normal and
straight. He kicked off his right shoe, picked it up, and let a small pebble
fall into his hand, and then stood squarely upon his right leg. And then
finally he pulled off the gray wig and dropped it onto the low center shelf
that ran the length of the room.

Tina
Walters gasped. Anna Fetterman stumbled backward. Mr. Solomon was the only one
in the room smiling as he swept his arms around the Gallagher Academy closet.
"Small changes. Big differences."

He
unbuttoned "Art's" shirt and stood in front of us in a white T-shirt
(the black trousers, however, he kept on). "Welcome to the science of
disguise."

A
full minute later, half the class was still staring at Joe Solomon, wondering
how old, kinda-pitiful Art could have been the same totally hot guy we had seen
every school day for more than a year.

But
I was turning, staring at a chameleon's utter fantasy—a place with the sole
purpose of making a girl disappear.

And
then I saw Bex, and my joy was instantly replaced with unease.

Because
she was smiling. And nodding. And whispering, "Plan B?"

Covert
Operations Report