I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You (12 page)

Spies are wise. Spies are strong. But, most of all, spies are patient.

We waited two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Do you know how long that is in fifteen-year-old-girl time? A lot. A LOT, a lot. I was really starting to empathize with all those women who talk about biological clocks. I mean, I know mine's still got a lot of ticks left in it, but I still managed to think and worry about Operation Josh every spare minute—and
that
was at genius spy school, where spare minutes aren't exactly common. I can only imagine the misery of a girl going to a normal school, since she probably isn't going to spend her Saturday nights helping her best friend crack the codes that protect U.S. spy satellites. (Liz even split the extra credit she earned from Mr. Mosckowitz with me—the cash prize offered by the NSA, she kept.)

We were in the classic holding pattern, gathering info, building his profile and my legend, biding our time until we had what we needed to go in.

Two weeks of this. TWO WEEKS! (Just in case you missed it before.)

Then, as with all good covert operatives, we caught a break.

Tuesday, October 1. Subject received an e-mail from Dillon, screen name "D'Man," asking if The Subject would like a ride home from play practice. The Subject responded by saying that he would be walking home—that he needs to return some videos at "AJ's" (local establishment located on town square that specializes in movie and video game rentals).

I looked at the e-mail as Bex slid it onto the breakfast table in front of me.

"Tonight," she whispered. "We're on."

During CoveOps class I honestly couldn't write fast enough. Joe Solomon is a genius, I thought, wondering why I'd never realized it before.

"Learn your legends early. Learn them well," he warned as he leaned over, gripping the back of the teacher's chair I'd never seen him sit in. "The split second it takes you to recall something your cover identity would know is the split second in which very bad people can do very bad things."

My hand was shaking. Pencil marks were going everywhere on the page—kind of like the time I picked up a pencil to use in Dr. Fibs's class, only it turned out it wasn't an ordinary pencil, but rather a prototype for a new Morse code auto-translator. (Needless to say, I still haven't fully recovered from the guilt of sharpening it.)

"Most of all, remember that going into deep cover does not mean approaching subjects." Mr. Solomon eyed us. "It means putting yourself in a position where
the subject
approaches
you."

I don't know about regular girls, but when you're a spy, getting dressed to go out can be something of a production. (Can I just say thank goodness for Velcro—seriously—no wonder the Gallagher Academy invented the stuff.)

"I still think we should have put her hair up," Liz said. "It looks
glamorous."

"Yeah," Macey scoffed, "because so many girls go for glamour when they hang out at the Roseville town square."

She had a point.

Personally, I didn't care, which was kind of ironic since it was
my
hair and all, but I had plenty of other things on my mind—not the least of which was the arsenal of items that Bex was spreading out on the bed in front of me—not that I could really see all that well, because Macey was doing my makeup and she kept telling me to "look up" or "look down" or "hold perfectly still."

When she wasn't barking demands, she was saying things like, "Talk, but not too much. Laugh, but not too loud." And, my personal favorite, "If he's shorter than you, slouch."

Then Bex took over. "Let's talk pocket litter." (Not a sentence you hear every day unless you're…well… us.) "You're not sixteen, so IDs aren't a problem, but we still have to support your cover identity." She turned and began scanning the items on the bed. "Take this," she said, tossing a pack of gum in my direction. It was the same brand we'd pulled from Josh's garbage. "To display common likes and help with the whole breath thing." Bex scanned the bed again. "What did we say, handbag or no handbag?" she asked, turning back to the group.

"She should definitely carry a purse," Macey said, and Bex agreed. I couldn't believe it! Macey and Bex were bonding…over accessories! Would wonders never cease?

Bex pulled a bag off the bed and opened it. "Movie ticket stub—if he asks you how you liked it, just say you did, but you didn't buy the ending." She dropped the tiny scrap of paper into the bag and picked up another item. "Binocuglasses. You shouldn't need them tonight, of course, but it won't hurt to have them." She dropped yet another item inside our pack of lies then topped everything off with a
What Would Jesus Do?
ink pen, then snapped the bag shut with a very self-satisfied smirk.

I had no idea how Bex had found all that stuff, and to tell you the truth, I didn't want to know. But as I looked at everything I was supposed to carry and thought about all the things I was supposed to know, I had to wonder: Do all girls go through this? Is every girl on a date really in deep cover?

"And, don't forget…"

I looked up to see the silver cross swinging back and forth on its chain.

"It's broken," I told Bex. "It hasn't worked right since the water from the tank shorted it out; and you still wouldn't have been able to pick up the signal because of the jammers."

"Cammie," Bex said, sighing.
"Cammie, Cammie, Cammie…
this is your legend." The cross kept swinging.
"This
is how it's accessorized."

I knew she was right. As soon as I crossed that fence, I had to stop being me and start being that other person—the homeschooled girl who wore that necklace and …

"You have got to be kidding me!" I snapped, but it was too late, Liz had appeared in the doorway, holding Onyx.

And I thought this boy business was hard
before
I had to rub a cat all over my body to give the hair-covered illusion of a feline-lover.

All these years I'd thought being a spy was challenging. Turns out, being a girl is the tricky part.

They walked with me downstairs to the most remote of the secret passageways.

"Did you check your flashlight?" Liz asked, the way Grandma Morgan always says "Do you have your ticket?" whenever they take me to the airport. It was sweet. I wished they could go with me, but that's something every spy learns early in the game—it doesn't matter how skilled your team is, there will come a time when you have to go on alone.

As we walked along, Macey said, "I still don't understand how you're going to get out and back in without getting caught."

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn't. Someday, I really ought to write a book about the mansion. I could probably make a fortune selling copies to the newbies, sharing tricks like how you can jiggle the door of the janitor's closet in the west stairwell, then slide down a pipe all the way to the butler's pantry. (How you get back up is up to you.) Another good one is the wooden panel on the landing of the stone staircase in the old chapel. If you press it three times, it will pop open, and from there, you have ceiling access to every room in the North Hall. (I just wouldn't recommend this one if you are in any way afraid of spiders.)

"You'll see, Macey," I told her as we turned to walk down a long stone corridor toward the old ruby-colored tapestry that hung alone on the cold stone wall. I looked at the Gallagher family tree, and then at Macey. She didn't study the generations, didn't find her own name there or ask questions; she just said, "You look good," and I nearly passed out from the shock of such high praise.

I pulled the tapestry aside and started to slip in, just as Bex said, "Knock 'em dead!"

I was already inside when Liz yelled after me, "But
not literally!"

I don't know how I let them talk me into it. Well, I do, but you'll never hear me admit it out loud. Sneaking outside the campus grounds was one thing—that was merely a matter of memorizing the sweeping grids of the cameras, knowing the blind spots of the guards, and circumventing the motion detectors along the south wall. But wearing shoes that made the sneaking infinitely more difficult was something I will never be proud of. Sure, Macey's black boots elongated my legs and gave me an aura of Charlie's Angels-ness, but by the time I was in position on a park bench at the corner of the town square, my feet were sore, my ankle was twisted, and my nerves were shot.

Lucky for me, I had some time to collect myself. So. Much. Time.

Here's the thing you need to know about surveillance: it's boring. Sure, sometimes we blow stuff up and jump off buildings and/or moving trains, but most of the time we just hang around waiting for something to happen (a fact that almost never makes it into the movies), so I might have felt pretty silly if I were a normal girl and not a highly trained secret-agent-type person as I sat on that park bench, trying to act normal when, by definition, I'm anything but.

17:35 hours (that's five thirty-five
P.M.):
The Operative moved into position.

18:00 hours: The Operative was wishing she'd brought something to eat because she couldn't leave her post to go buy a candy bar, much less use the bathroom.

18:30 hours: The Operative realized it's almost impossible to look pretty and/or seductive if you SERIOUSLY have to go pee.

 
My homework for that night consisted of fifty pages of
The Art of War,
which needed translating into Arabic, a credit card—slash-fingerprint modifier that need perfecting for Dr. Fibs, and Madame Dabney had been dropping big pop-quiz hints at the end of C&A. Yet, there I was, rubbing my swelling ankle and thinking that I really should be getting CoveOps extra credit for this.

I looked at my watch again: seven forty-five. Okay, I thought, I'll give him until eight and then…

"Hi," I heard from behind me.

Oh, jeez- Oh, jeez.
I couldn't turn around. Oh heck, I had to turn around.

"Cammie?" he said again as if it were a question.

I could have said hi back in fourteen different languages (and that's not including pig Latin). And yet I was speechless as he came to stand in front of me.

"Um … Oh … Um …"

"Josh," he said, pointing to himself as if he thought I'd forgotten.

How sweet is that? I know I'm no boy expert, but I have heard entire lectures on reading body language, and I have to say that assuming that a person will have forgotten your name is
way
high on my "indicators of humbleness" list (not that I have one, but I totally have a starting point now).

"Hi."

I said that in English, didn't I? It wasn't Arabic or French? Oh, please, God in Heaven, don't let him think I'm an exchange student … or worse, a girl who knows, like, three words of a foreign language and goes around using them all the time just to prove how smart/cultured/generally better than everyone else she is.

"I saw you sitting over here," he said.
Okay, looks like we're good on the English thing.
"I haven't seen you around at all lately."

"Oh." I shot upright. "I was in Mongolia."

Note to self: learn to be a less extreme liar.

"With the Peace Corps," I said slowly. "My parents are big into that. That's when they started the homeschooling thing," I said, remembering my legend, feeling the momentum.

"Wow. That's so cool," he said.

"It is?" I asked, wondering if he was serious. But he was smiling, so I said, "Oh, yeah. It is."

He slid onto the seat beside me. "So, have you lived, like, a lot of places?"

I've traveled quite a bit, but I've actually only lived three places: a Nebraska ranch, a school for geniuses, and a D.C. town house. Luckily, I'm an excellent liar with a very thorough legend. Four years' worth of COW lessons swam in my head, and I went for some of the highlights. "Thailand's really beautiful."

"Wow."

Then I remembered Macey's
don't be cooler than he is
advice. "It was long time ago," I said. "It wasn't a big thing."

"But you live here now?"

 
The Subject likes to state the obvious, which may signify a defect in observation skills and/or short-term memory?

"Yeah." I nodded. And then things got quiet—painfully quiet. "I'm waiting on my mom," I blurted, finally remembering my cover story. "She takes a class at night … at the library." I gestured to the red brick building across the square. "And I like to come into town with her because I don't get out much, thanks to my nontraditional education."

 
The Subject has really blue eyes that twinkle when he looks at someone like she's maybe a little bit insane.

After a long stretch of really awkward silence, he stood up and said, "I gotta go." I wanted to beg him not to leave, but even I knew that might come off as a tad bit desperate. He stepped away, and I didn't know how to stop him (well, I did, but several of the moves I had in mind are really only legal during times of war).

"Hey," he said, "what's your last name?"

"Solomon," I blurted.

Ew!
A large portion of my future government salary will someday be spent trying to understand why I chose
that
name at
this
moment, but it was out there and I couldn't take it back.

"Are you, like, in the book?"

The book? What book?

He laughed and stepped closer. "Can I
call
you?" he asked, reading the confusion on my face.

Josh was asking if he could call me! He wanted my phone number! What it meant—truly and irrevocably meant—I didn't know. But I felt very safe in ruling out the possibility that he thought I was "nobody." Still, that didn't change the fact that the last phone I used doubles as a stun gun (so for obvious reasons I probably shouldn't give him the number of that one).

I said, "No." But then the most amazing thing happened: Josh looked totally sad! It was as if I'd run over his puppy (though no actual puppies were harmed in the formation of that metaphor).

I was shocked. I was amazed. I was drunk on power!

"No!" I said again. "Not, 'no
you
can't call me.' I meant, 'no, you
can't
call me.'" Then, seeing his confusion, I added, "There are strict rules at my house." Not a lie.

He nodded, faking understanding, then asked, "What about e-mail?"

I shook my head.

"I see."

"I'll be back here tomorrow," I blurted, stopping him in his tracks. "My mom, she has class again. I'll…"

"Okay." He nodded, then turned to go. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?"
I yelled at Macey, though it wasn't her fault. I mean, if a boy gets all gooey and disappointed because you won't give him your phone number and then you tell him you will be at a designated place at a designated time—therein eliminating the need for a phone number—and he says "maybe" he'll see you there? That's cause to yell—isn't it?

"Maybe?" I yelled again, which might have been overkill since I'd had the whole walk back to school to simmer in his words, and my roommates were hearing them for the first time.

Liz was wearing the same expression she gets whenever Dr. Fibs tells us we'll be needing our gas masks for class— equal parts fear and euphoria. Macey was doing her nails, and Bex was doing yoga in the corner of the room.

Most people are supposed to get calmer with deep breathing and inner reflection—not Bex. "I could take him out," she offered, and if she hadn't been twisted up like a pretzel at the time, I might have worried more about it. After all, she knew where he lived.

"Well…" Liz stammered. "I supposed you'll just have to go, and then if he shows, it means he likes you."

"Wrong," Macey said, making a buzzer sound as she flipped through a textbook. "If he comes, it means he's curious—or bored—but probably curious."

"But when will we know if he likes her?" Liz pleaded.

Macey rolled her big, blue, beautiful eyes. "That's not the question," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The question is—how much?"

Is there no end to the things we have to learn?