I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You (18 page)

I felt like I was outside myself looking down. Who is that girl, I wondered. Doesn't she know how lucky she is? Doesn't she realize that she has really pretty earrings that match her necklace and a boy who would think of such a thing? Who is she to worry about quantum physics or chemical agents or NSA codes? Doesn't she know this is one of those rare moments in life where everything is right and good and wonderful?

Doesn't she know these moments always end?

As I inched through the secret passageways, my thoughts seemed to echo in the narrow space:
But it isn't my birthday.

I wished the nagging doubt would just go away. I had earrings, didn't I? Does it really matter why he'd given them to me? After all, normal girls get mad when their boyfriends forget their birthdays, so shouldn't remembering a wrong birthday be worth bonus points or something? I should have been crediting Josh's account in case he ever forgot something else—like twenty years from now he could forget our wedding anniversary and I could say,
Don't worry, darling; remember when you gave me earrings when it wasn't my birthday? Now we're even.

But it wasn't my birthday.

I thought about the date: November nineteenth. I remembered telling Josh that was my birthday during his rapid-fire interrogation by the park, and I wasn't sure which was more sobering—that he'd remembered or I'd forgotten.

The empty corridors seemed to spiral out in front of me. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to take a shower and talk to my friends, and so I was already half asleep as I leaned against the back side of the ancient stone that framed the huge fireplace in the second-floor student lounge. In just a couple of weeks the fireplace was going to be useless to me as a passageway unless I wanted to wear one of Dr. Fibs's fireproof bodysuits on my dates with Josh (but they make even Bex look fat), so I pulled the lever one last time, expecting the stones to part, but when I did, I accidentally knocked an old torch holder that slid down, opening yet another hidden door, and revealing a branch in the passageway that I don't think I'd ever seen before.

I don't know why I followed it—spy genetics or teenage curiosity—but soon I was wandering down the corridor, not knowing where I was until I walked through thin slivers of light and stopped to peer through cracks into the Hall of History, where Gilly's sword stood gleaming beneath its perpetual spotlight.

That's also when I heard the crying.

Farther down the passageway I found my mother's office and the bookshelves I had watched spin around to reveal the memorabilia of a headmaster of an elite boarding school. I leaned against them, peered through a crack in the plaster, and watched my mother cry. Someone could have thrown a switch, and the bookcase would have spun around, taking me with it, but as I stood in the cramped and musty space I couldn't turn away.

She was alone in her office, curled up in her chair. The last time I'd seen her she'd been dancing and laughing, but now she sat alone, and tears ran down her face. I wanted to hold her so that we could cry together. I wanted to feel her salty tears on my cheek. I wanted to smooth her hair and tell her that I was tired, too. But I stayed where I was—watching, knowing the reasons I didn't go comfort her: I couldn't explain what I was wearing; I couldn't tell her why I was there; but mostly, I knew that it was something she didn't want me to see.

When she reached for a tissue on the shelf behind her desk, her eyes were closed, and yet she found the box with the sure, steady motion of someone who had known it would be there. It was a practiced gesture, a habit. And I knew that my mother's grief, like her life, was full of secrets. Then I felt the earrings in my pocket, and I knew why the tears had picked that night to come.

"Oh my gosh," I said, once more that night—this time for a very different reason.

I slipped farther down the passageway and eventually slid to a window seat in an abandoned classroom. I didn't cry. Something told me the universe couldn't handle both Morgan women weeping at the same time, so I sat there stoically, letting my mother be the weak one for a little while, taking my turn on duty.

I didn't move; I just waited out the night. The school was quiet around me, and I let the silence calm my heartbreak, lull me into a sleepless trance as I stared past my reflection in the dark glass, and whispered, "Happy birthday, Daddy."

I stayed away as long as I could that Sunday morning, but by noon, I had to see my mother; I had to know that she was okay and apologize somehow for forgetting my father in that small way. I had to know if that was the beginning of the end of my memories.

I burst through her office door, armed with a dozen excuses, but they all flew from my mind when I saw Mom, Mr. Solomon, and Buckingham staring at me as if I'd just been beamed down from outer space. They shut up too quickly—something you'd think spies would know better than to do. I didn't know what was more disturbing—the fact that something was obviously wrong, or that three faculty members of the world's premiere spy school had forgotten to lock the door.

After what seemed like forever, Buckingham said, "Cameron, I'm glad you're here. You have firsthand experience in a matter we've been discussing." At that moment it didn't matter that Patricia Buckingham had two bad hips and arthritic fingers, I still would have sworn she was made of steel. "Of course, Rachel, you are Cameron's mother, not to mention headmistress of this school, so I would respect your opinion if you chose to ask Cameron to leave."

"No," my mom said. "She's in now. She'll want to help."

The whole vibe of the room was starting to seriously creep me out, so I said, "What is it? What's—"

"Close the door, Cameron," Buckingham instructed. I did as I was told.

"Abe Baxter missed a call-in," Mr. Solomon said, crossing his arms as he leaned on the corner of Mom's desk, just like I'd seen him do a hundred times during CoveOps class. And yet, it didn't feel like a lecture. "Actually, he's missed
three
call-ins."

I didn't realize his words had knocked me off my feet until I felt my backpack pressing against my spine as I tried to lean back on the sofa. Does Bex know, I wondered for a split second before the obvious answer dawned on me: of course not.

"He may just be delayed, of course," Buckingham offered. "These things happen—communications difficulties, changes in cell operation…This doesn't necessarily mean that his cover has been compromised. Still, three missed calls is … troubling."

"Is Bex's mom …" I stumbled over my words. "Is she with him?"

Mr. Solomon looked at Buckingham, who shook her head. "Our friends at Six say no."

And then I realized why Buckingham was in charge of that discussion—she had been MI6, just like Bex's parents. She had been the one to get the call. She was the one who was going to have to decide what, if anything, to tell Bex.

"It doesn't mean anything," my mom soothed, but I heard traces of the woman I'd seen the night before—traces I probably wouldn't have heard twenty-four hours earlier, but I knew they were there now, and I'd be listening for them for the rest of my life.

"Bex …" I muttered.

"We were just talking about her, Cam," Mom said. "We don't know what to do."

Say what you will about spies, but they don't do anything halfway. Our lies come complete with Social Security numbers and fake IDs, and our truths cut like Spanish steel. I knew what my mom was saying. I knew why she risked saying it to me. The Gallagher Academy was made of stone, but news like that could burn it to the ground as quickly as if it were built out of newspapers and painted with gasoline.

"Cam"—Mom sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me—"this has happened before, of course, but each case is different, and you know Bex better than anyone—"

"Don't tell her." The words surprised even me. I know we're supposed to be tough and hardened and in the process of being prepared for anything, but I didn't want her to know just because we were too weak to carry the secret on our own. I looked at my mother again, remembered how long it takes some wounds to heal, and realized there would be plenty of time for grieving.

Bex's father was thousands of miles away, but she still had the promise of him. Who was I to take that away too soon? What would I have given for a few extra hours of it myself?

"Hey," Macey McHenry said behind me, and I instantly regretted showing her the small, ancient corridor and telling her it was a great place to study. "That had better not be because of a boy."

She dropped her stack of books beside me, but I couldn't look at her. Instead, I just sat there wiping away the tears I was crying quietly for Bex's father—swallowing the tears I was crying for my own. A long time passed. I don't know—maybe like a millennium or something—before Macey nudged me with her knee and said, "Spill."

Say what you will about Macey McHenry, but she really doesn't beat around the bush. A superspy would have lied to her—good lies, too. But I couldn't. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was PMS, but something made me look up at Macey and say, "Bex's dad is missing. He might be dead."

Macey slid to sit beside me. "You can't tell her."

"I know," I said, and then I blew my nose.

"When will they know for sure?"

"I don't know." And I didn't. "Could be days. Could be months. He hasn't called his handler. If he calls, then …"

"We can't tell her."

Of course we couldn't, but something about that statement made me stop and look at her. I thought back on it, and for the first time, I heard the
we.
There were things I couldn't tell my mother, things I couldn't tell my boyfriend, and things I couldn't tell my friends. But sitting there with Macey McHenry, I realized for the first time that someone knew all my secrets—that I wasn't entirely alone.

Macey stood and started to walk away. "Cammie, no offense …" When someone like Macey McHenry says "no offense" it's almost impossible for someone like me
not
to be offended by what she says next, but I tried. "… but don't go up there now. You look like hell, and she'll see it."

I wasn't offended. I was actually glad she'd said it, because it was true and I might not have realized it if Macey hadn't said so.

Macey walked away, and I sat there for a long time— thinking. I remembered the time my dad took me to the circus. For two hours we sat side by side, watching the clowns and cheering for the lion tamer. But the part I remember most was when a man stepped out onto the high wire, fifty feet above the ground. By the time he reached the other side, five other people had climbed onto his shoulders, but I wasn't watching him—I was too busy staring at my father, who looked on as if he knew what it felt like, up there without a net.

Sitting there that day, I knew that the only thing I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, hoping none of the secrets on my shoulders would make me lose my balance.

"Eyes closed," Mr. Solomon commanded again, and we followed his instructions.

The projector purred behind me. I felt its white light slicing through the room as we cinched our eyes together and trained our minds to recall even the most minute details of the things we had just seen. I thought about the photo of a supermarket parking lot as Mr. Solomon said, "Ms. Alvarez, what's wrong with this picture?"

"The blue van has handicapped plates," Eva said. "But it's parked at the back of the lot."

"Correct. Next picture." The projector clicked, the image changed, and we had two seconds to study the photo that flashed before our eyes.

"Ms. Baxter?" Mr. Solomon asked. "What's wrong here?"

"The umbrella," Bex said. "There's rain on the window and the coat on the hook is damp, but the umbrella is bundled up. Most people leave them open to dry."

"Very good."

When we opened our eyes, I didn't look at the screen, I looked at our teacher and wondered yet again how he could talk to Bex, challenge her as if nothing in the world was wrong. I didn't know whether to envy him or hate him, but I didn't have time for either, because he was saying, "Eyes closed." I heard him take a step, and I wanted to know how he could stand there when all I wanted to do was run away. "Ms. Morgan, what's wrong with this picture?"

"Um … I didn't… I mean, I'm …"

What was wrong was that I hadn't been able to look my best friend in the eye for days. What was wrong was that people like Abe Baxter live and die, and the whole world goes on—never knowing what they've sacrificed. There was so much wrong that I didn't know where to start.

"Okay. How about you, Ms. Bauer?"

"The teacup at the head of the table," Courtney said.

"What about it?"

"Its handle is facing the wrong way."

"So it is," Mr. Solomon said as the lights in the classroom flickered to life and we all squinted against the glare.

Our internal clocks were telling us the same thing— class wasn't over.

"I've got something for you today, ladies," Mr. Solomon said as he handed a stack of papers to each girl in the front row.

Liz's hand was instantly in the air.

"No, Ms. Sutton," Mr. Solomon said before Liz could even ask the question. "This isn't a test, and it's not for a grade. Your school just needs you to say in black and white whether you are going to keep studying covert operations next semester."

All around me, my classmates started filling out the form—a check mark here, a signature there, until Mr. Solomon stepped forward and snapped, "Ladies"—he paused as everyone looked up—"my colleague Mr. Smith is fond of saying, 'It is a big world full of dark corners and long memories.' Do not"—he paused, surveying us, and I could have sworn his stare lingered on me—"take this decision lightly."

Bex poked me in the shoulder. When I turned around, she flashed a big thumbs-up and mouthed the words "This is awesome!"

I looked back down at the form in my hands, rubbed it between my fingers, and tried to smell if there was poison in the ink.

It's just paper, I told myself. Ordinary paper. But then that very fact sent chills down my spine as I realized the form wasn't on Evapopaper. It wasn't meant to dissolve and wash away. I caught Joe Solomon's eye, and I'm pretty sure he saw me notice that—the permanence of what it meant. And even though it wasn't meant to be eaten, I still got a bad taste in my mouth.