Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover

Page 6

The sirens finally stopped. My mother said, "It's time."
Okay, here's the thing you need to know about spy schools— it's not about hiding them. Nope. Because, let's face it, spy schools have students, and students have parents, and parents are going to ask questions. According to Liz, non-spy parents are really big on obvious questions like "so where exactly is your school?" (Spy parents are far more likely to hack into a government database or put a GPS unit in your tooth or something.) In any case, you kinda need an actual school to present to the world; but like everything else about my life, my school wasn't exactly what it seemed.
Following my mother down the sweeping Grand Stairs, I couldn't help but think that our first line of defense was about to be put to the test, because even though the Gallagher Academy has never exactly hidden (it is a big, honking mansion, after all), my school has never gone looking for the spotlight.
When Gillian Gallagher converted her family's home into a school where young women could learn the covert skills that no men would ever teach them, she'd had the good sense not to put "The Gallagher Academy—Educating Government Operatives Since 1865" on the sign. Instead she'd called it a finishing school for the most outstanding girls of the day. Our cover has evolved with the times, but our ultimate mission has stayed the same: make sure no one ever knows just how exceptional we really are. Which, let's face it, is a whole lot easier when there aren't two dozen national news crews videotaping your every move.
When we reached the foyer, I could have sworn that the entire student body was holding their breath as my mother pulled open the double doors and stepped outside.
Warm sunlight beamed down. My stomach growled, and for a second I wondered what our chef was making for the welcome-back dinner. But when I saw three big black SUVs pulling through the gate, I totally lost my appetite.
"Secret Service," my mother whispered to us as they started down the winding lane. I remembered that even Macey's protectors wouldn't know what we really do behind our walls.
An efficient-looking man with a touch of gray sprinkled through his dark hair climbed out of one of the vehicles and walked toward us. "Ms. Morgan? Agent Hughes. We spoke on the phone."
"Yes," Mom said. "You're the agent in charge of the McHenry family's security detail. That is the term, isn't it?" she asked, one hand against her chest as if this were totally new territory for her.
The man smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "Now, I don't want you to worry about anything. Our agents will be responsible for Ms. McHenry's security. They'll answer any questions you have and keep you informed of what the Service needs from you. No one is
expecting you to think like a security professional."
"That is a relief," my mother told him in the most utterly believable, non-ironic voice I've ever heard.
(Have I mentioned lately that my mom is the BEST SPY EVER?!)
"Oh, I'm sorry," my mother said, looking from Agent Hughes and then to us. "Please allow me to introduce Macey's roommates. This is Elizabeth Sutton and Rebecca Baxter, and my daughter, Cammie."
But Agent Hughes wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at me—the girl who is hardly ever stared at.
"You were on the roof?" he asked, but it wasn't a question. He stepped closer; his gaze flashed across the bandage on my head, then his eyes searched mine. "Don't you worry about anything, young lady. We're going to take good care of all of you."
I nodded and looked away, thinking about my cover—I was supposed to be scared and tired and ready to let someone else fight for Macey.
Then I remembered that the best covers always have their roots in the truth.
"And the walls circle the entire grounds?" Agent Hughes asked as we walked around the campus.
"Yes," my mom said.
"According to the blueprints, you do have security cameras?" His gaze drifted along our ivy-covered walls.
"Yes," Mom said calmly. "Some."
(Actually, there are 2,546, but for obvious reasons she didn't share that.)
"Well," the agent went on, "I'm sure our people can consult with you on how to"—he seemed to be considering his words—"tighten things up a bit."
"Yes," my mom said with a glance toward me—her daughter, who had been slipping through the Gallagher Academy defenses for years. "That would be most helpful"
And then panic set in. The Secret Service was going to be "tightening" things?
"As the advance team told you last week, we'll be placing one of our agents with Ms. McHenry."
The Secret Service was going to be "placing" people?
"Full-time," Agent Hughes added. "Someone to go with her to classes. Live here. Accompany her everywhere she goes."
The Secret Service was going to be "accompanying" us places?
I looked at Bex and Liz, watched them swallow the same terror I was feeling. Our school has prepared us for a lot of things, but I had to wonder if anything had prepared us for that.
But the surprises were only just beginning, because then my mother smiled and said, "Of course."
The agent walked ahead, appraising our grounds, our walls, our life. At the end of our long (and heavily protected) lane, satellite dishes rose from news trucks, ready to beam pictures of our school around the world, and I knew the most dangerous thing in our history was about to happen in front of this man's very eyes.
And there was nothing any of us could do to stop it.
"Oh," Agent Hughes said when the gates parted for one last car. "Right on schedule."
The limo turned onto the drive, but instead of pulling closer to the mansion, it stopped. Men in dark suits swarmed the car, and I remembered how, a year ago, a car just like that had brought Macey to us. Like deja vu, Senator and Mrs. McHenry climbed from the backseat and stood framed between our great stone gates.
I could hear the reporters' chatter in the distance. The flashing bulbs of their cameras sparkled even in the summer sun.
And then the car door opened again.
And just like that the deja vu was over.
A year before, Macey had stepped from the backseat of a nearly identical car, but this time, instead of combat boots, she wore pumps almost exactly like her mother's. Her short skirt and diamond nose stud were replaced with modest black pants, a sweater, and a sling.
At first I hoped her clothing was the only difference; but I barely recognized the girl who allowed her mother to hug her tightly, who didn't protest when her father took her good hand and lifted their united fists toward the sky.
Bex cut me a look that said Are you sure you were the one with head trauma? but I just watched the three McHenrys push past the cameras and the questions and start toward the school. Back to us. I thought about the girl who had come to us last fall and the one who had left last spring and, finally, about the young woman who had shivered by a lake, and I wondered which one of Macey's cover identities she was going to be now.
As they came closer I waited for her to catch my eye and smile that mischievous smile she'd given me outside her parents' suite in Boston, but when I stepped forward, a broad body in a dark suit moved to block my path.
"Excuse me, miss," the Secret Service agent said. It was the first time any of them had seen me as a threat, but I didn't take it as a compliment.
Behind me, I heard my mother say, "Senator, Mrs. McHenry, it's so nice to see you both again. I'm only sorry it has to be under such troubling circumstances." She gestured toward the front doors. "Won't you come in?"
Just when I felt myself getting pushed out of the picture, the procession stopped. The senior senator from Virginia stepped toward me and said, "Cammie?" He placed his large hands on both of my shoulders, gripping tightly.
"Thank you," he said, and I could have sworn I heard his voice crack. When he looked into my eyes, I couldn't help myself: I felt my lips tremble. My vision blurred. It was easy to remember what having a father feels like as the senator whispered, "And I'm so sorry."
It might have been about the sweetest, most genuine moment in McHenry family history, if Macey's mother hadn't then turned to her daughter and whispered, "Go to the bathroom and put some concealer on that." She pointed to the bruise at the corner of Macey's eye. "Really," she told her daughter, "there's no need to look like a common street thug when there aren't even any cameras around."
And, like that, the moment was over.
Chapter Seven
There are many things to love about the welcome-back dinner.
1. Hearing what everyone did over their summer vacation (which is probably far more interesting at a school where there's a very good possibility that the stories include actual gunfire).
2. The fact that even though Grandma Morgan probably makes the best chicken and dumplings in the entire world, our chef used to work at the White House, and sometimes a girl just needs a little crème brûlée.
3. Gossip.
But that night, neither I nor 2 could really hold a candle to 3. At all.
"So, Cammie," Tina Walters said as she squeezed onto
the bench across from me, squishing Liz and Anna Fetterman together, "I heard you put three of them in the hospital."
"Tina," I sighed, "it wasn't like that."
Eva Alvarez was trying to sign Macey's cast, which was difficult because the campaign manager didn't want anything to obscure the big Winters-McHenry sticker already plastered on Macey's forearm. Bex was picking apart one of the rolls from the basket on the table (even though the teachers hadn't made their entrance yet and, therefore, eating could be punishable by death—or at the very least some serious Culture and Assimilation extra homework if Madame Dabney caught you.)
"And, Macey"—Tina whirled on the girl beside me— "rumor has it you were spotted In a compromising position with a certain future first son."
And just like that, everything got quiet again.
The entire junior class turned and stared, but I kept doing exactly what I had been: studying Macey. The snob who had come to us a year before would have scoffed; the girl who had covered two years' worth of advanced encryption in nine months might have rolled her eyes; but the girl beside me simply said, "Someone needs better sources."
It was the first time she'd spoken, and something in her tone made me wonder whether or not the girl by the lake was gone for good.
"So, who thinks we'll have to stay in Code Red all semester?" Anna Fetterman asked, not even trying to disguise the fear in her voice.
My roommates and I all looked at each other, the scene that we'd witnessed outside playing over all of our faces.
"Well, they are going to give you a full-time Secret Service detail, aren't they?" Tina asked.
Macey nodded.
"Maybe the Secret Service … you know"—Liz hesitated and then lowered her voice to a whisper—"knows."
But all I could think about were the agents who had questioned me after Boston, the lies I'd already had to tell to keep our secret safe.
"Mom wouldn't," I started. "She wouldn't agree to that."
"It would be a pretty good test, though, wouldn't it?" Bex asked. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was already gearing up for the challenge—the thought of bringing the outside world inside our walls, the danger, the risk, the possibility of knocking a member of the United States Secret Service unconscious at some point during the semester.