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!"
Chapter Fourteen
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).