But by the time Professor Buckingham took the podium and announced, "Today we will be reviewing the origins of the clandestine services, beginning with the Montevellian Theory of Operative Development," I knew I wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon.
I love Professor Buckingham. She's cool and strong and the most amazing role model, but her teaching style could probably best be described as … well…boring.
"Since its publication more than two thousand years ago, The Art of War has been the definitive thesis in warfare and deception …" she read from her notes as warm sunlight drifted through the windows and lunch grew heavy in my stomach. Her voice was soothing, like white noise, and my eyelids felt like they weighed about a ton, since, for obvious reasons, there hadn't been a whole lot of sleeping in our room the night before.
(Have I mentioned that we had evidence that strongly suggested there is a boys' school? For spies!)
But was Professor Buckingham filling us in about our long-lost band of potential brothers? No. She was talking about the 1947 Council of Covert Operatives, which, let me tell you, isn't nearly as interesting as it sounds.
Then Buckingham stopped talking. The sudden silence jolted me awake as my teacher looked over the top of her reading glasses. "Yes, Ms. McHenry?"
And then, maybe for the first time that semester, Patricia Buckingham had our full attention.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Macey said. "I was only wondering— and I'm sorry if everyone else already knows this—I'm still a little new, you know."
"That is fine, Ms. McHenry," Buckingham said. "What is your question?"
"Well, I was just wondering if there are other schools." Macey paused. She seemed to study our teacher a moment before adding, "Like the Gallagher Academy."
Liz almost fell out of her chair. Tina's eyes got really, really big, and I'm pretty sure the entire sophomore class stopped breathing.
"I mean," Macey went on, "is this the only school of its kind, or are there—"
"There is only one Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, Ms. McHenry," Buckingham said, throwing her shoulders back. "It is the finest institution of its kind in the world."
Buckingham smiled and returned to her notes, totally not expecting Macey to continue.
"So there are other institutions?"
Buckingham sighed, and an almost pained expression crossed her face as she carefully chose her words. "During the Cold War, the concept of recruiting and training operatives at a young age was not an uncommon practice. And there may have been institutions formed for that purpose." Then she straightened her glasses and looked around the room as if to see exactly how far off course we'd forced her to stray. "For obvious reasons it is impossible to determine if any such schools are in existence now. If they ever existed at all, of course."
"So there could be other schools?" Tina exclaimed.
"Could and are, Ms. Walters," Buckingham said, her voice as strong as steel, "are two very different things." She gave us a cold smile that signaled that the Q&A portion of the program was officially over.
Buckingham went back to her notes. "This theory was the fashion until 1953, when a group of retired agents…" Eva and Tina's attention drifted back out the window. But my roommates and I remained on high alert.
There have been other schools.
It doesn't mean there are any now.
I thought of the way Mr. Solomon and my dad had been smiling in the picture. There was no date on it, no place. It was almost like it was a fake—part of some legend the CIA had manufactured in a lab, an alias of my father's that I had never known.
And then there was a knock at the door.
"Yes?" Buckingham said as she removed her glasses and the door eased open.
Every head in the room turned, and Mr. Solomon said, "Pop quiz."
I hadn't exactly slept. I hadn't really eaten. It was maybe the worst possible time for a CoveOps assignment, and yet, three minutes later, as I buttoned my winter coat and ran down the Grand Staircase with the entire sophomore CoveOps class, I stopped thinking about the picture and the file. I stopped thinking. And sometimes, even at the Gallagher Academy, that can be a very good thing.
The cold wind blew in our faces as we dashed through the front doors. A familiar van sat idling in the driveway, so we headed toward it until Mr. Solomon called, "That's not our ride, ladies," and eight highly trained operatives skidded to a stop.
I looked to my right, expecting another van to appear from around the corner of the mansion, but all I saw were eighth graders on their way to Protection & Enforcement class (P&E), their ponytails swaying back and forth as they ran. I turned to my left and saw nothing but snow in the vast open field that lay between the mansion and the woods.
"Then how are we …" I started, but then I trailed off. Bright sunlight bounced off slushy piles of half-melted snow. I squinted and blinked, making sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, because I could have sworn the ground's shape began to shift.
I glanced at my teacher, saw the faintest hint of a smile grow on his lips while, behind him, a great hollow opening appeared in the middle of the field. Twin blades of a helicopter rose steadily from the huge hole, and wet snow whirled over the frozen ground as the blades started to spin. Mr. Solomon pointed over his shoulder and said, "That's our ride."
Chapter Seven
When I was five, Mom brought me to the Gallagher Academy for the first time. I'd thought it was the biggest building in the world; but today I looked through the helicopter's windows and watched the mansion grow smaller and smaller until it looked like it was in a snow globe that someone had given a good shake.