That's right. You read that correctly—flowers on a stick (or, well, flowers on a stretchy band thingy).
He walked toward me slowly, as I said, "That's a wrist corsage."
"Yeah," he said, blushing. "Well, it's a special occasion."
"So, is this an inside joke thing or a your-mom-made' you-buy-it thing?"
He leaned down to kiss me but stopped halfway. "You wanna know the truth?" he whispered.
"Yes."
I felt a quick peck on my check, then he said, "Both."
At approximately 18:07 hours The Subject presented The Operative with a vital piece of (floral) evidence. Macey McHenry later determined this to be an eight on the overall "lameness scale." The Operative, however, thought it was sweet and kind of funny, and decided to wear it with pride.
"You look great," he said, but I totally didn't. I mean, I looked movie okay or bowling okay. I soooo didn't look wrist-corsage okay.
I tugged at my skirt. "So what is this special occasion?"
And then he laughed. "You didn't think I'd remember, did you?" he teased.
Remember what? the girl in me wanted to scream, but the spy in me just smiled and said, "Of course I knew you'd remember." Total lie.
"So"—Josh went to open the door—"shall we?"
According to protocol, an operative should never allow herself to be transported to a secondary location. However, because of her history with The Subject and the fact that she once tossed him to the street like a sack of potatoes, The Operative thought it was probably safe.
I'd never been in a minivan before. It was like the roadtrip portion of my great small-town experiment—with cup holders. Take it from someone who is highly interested in gadgetry on both a personal and professional level—the modern-day espionage world has nothing on the good folks at General Motors when it comes to cup holder design.
"I like your van."
"I'm saving for a car, you know?" he said, like he'd thought I was being sarcastic.
"No, really," I hurried to say. "It's… roomy, and it's got these great… I just like it."
Maybe wrist corsages cut off circulation to the brain? I mean, is that why so many girls do stupid things on prom night? I was really going to have to investigate this further, I decided. Then I caught a glimpse of Josh in the dashboard lights, and he was, in a word, beautiful. His hair was longer now, and I could see the shadow of his long eyelashes on his cheekbones. The more I was around him the more I saw the little things—like his hands or the small scar at the edge of his jaw where (he says) he got cut in a knife fight, but where (according to his medical files) he fell off his bike when he was seven.
I have scars, too, of course. But Josh can never hear the stories.
"Josh?" I said, and he glanced at me. We were almost out of town, and the trees were growing heavier overhead as the road curved.
"What?" he asked softly, as if secretly fearing something was wrong. He turned off of the highway and onto a winding bit of blacktop.
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"For everything."
Okay, so there are two basic things I know for a fact about the good citizens of Roseville. One: they honestly have no clue about what really goes on at the Gallagher Academy. None. You'd think there would be a few government conspiracy theories floating around about what takes place behind our ivy-covered walls, but I never heard a single one (and I had reason to listen).
The second thing about Roseville is that it takes its small-town-ness seriously. As if the gazebo and town carnival hadn't been enough to tip me off, I saw a man with a reflector vest and a flashlight directing traffic as soon as Josh pulled into a pasture. Yeah, that's right, crowd control in pastures is key to small-town life.
We parked at the end of a line of cars, and I looked at Josh. "What's going—"
"You'll see." Then he walked around to open my door. (I know—totally sweet!)
We followed the gentle strains of music that floated out toward us, riding on a wave of light that filtered between the slats and through the sliding doors of a huge old barn.
"Hey," I cried, "that looks just like our barn—" He looked at me quizzically. "—in Mongolia."
"It's the fall harvest dance," Josh explained. "It's a Roseville tradition from back when almost everyone farmed. But now it's just an excuse for everyone to get drunk and dance with people they're not married to." He stopped and looked at me. "We can do whatever you want to do, but when I heard this was tonight I kinda thought you might want to come," he said. "I mean…it's okay if you want to go do something else. We could…"
I shut him up with a kiss (a basic technique that, I've been told, even non-spy girls have used with great success). "Let's dance."
Can I just say that doing the tango with Madame Dabney had totally not prepared me for what actual dances are like? Sure, if I ever have to infiltrate an embassy party, I'll probably be glad I've had C&A, but I could tell as soon as we walked into the barn that I didn't have the training for this. Streamers hung from the rafters above us. Twinkling lights formed a tentlike dome. A flatbed trailer sat along the south wall, and a band was playing an old country song while what looked like the entire population of Roseville danced around in circles. I saw a hayloft above us at the far end of the barn, but where we stood there was nothing above us but rafters and lights. Old women sat on bales of straw, clapping, keeping rhythm as the deputy chief of police (I recognized him from the dunk tank) picked up a fiddle and started to play.