Cross my heart and hope to spy* - Ally Carter* (i have read the book TXT) 📗

at me in D.C., and bore no resemblance to the guy who had sunned himself on the gazebo steps. So far I'd seen three different faces for Zachary Goode, and at the moment I didn't have a clue which was real and which was legend.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm over it."

"No you aren't, Gallagher Girl. But you will be."


Walking to my mother's office on Sunday night, I couldn't help wondering when it was all going to get easier. Josh wasn't even my boyfriend anymore, yet my life was still full of boy-related drama. Hadn't I spent a good portion of my winter break trying to put those things behind me? But that was before I knew that I'd stink at countersurveillance--that the drama would follow me wherever I went.

A few minutes later Mom appeared in the doorway of her office. "How are you, kiddo?"

"Fine."

But one of the downsides of having a top government operative for a mother is that, most of the time, she knows when you're lying--even to yourself.

"No," Mom said. I heard the click of the door as it locked into place. "You're not."

I could have told her it was nothing; I might have informed her that I was as fine as I could be, considering that Eva Alvarez had barged into our room at six a.m. in the morning (on a Sunday) asking to borrow Macey's curling iron. But my mother knew better, so I just walked over to the leather sofa, sank into the soft cushions, and said, "I saw Josh."

And my mom said, "I know."

Of course I knew she'd know, because--well, she is a spy, and my headmistress, and there was probably a tape of the whole ordeal floating around somewhere. (Note to self: find and destroy that tape.) But right then Rachel Morgan was looking at me not as a spy, but as a mother. Maybe that's why I had to look away.

She sank to the couch beside me. "I know it may not seem like it, but this is a good thing, Cam. Seeing him was a good thing."

But it didn't feel like a good thing.

"The tea we gave Josh is quite effective, but sometimes certain triggers can cause people to remember the things we need them to forget. Josh has seen you. He's talked to you. We know that he doesn't remember following you on your CoveOps final. He has no recollection of coming back here and being debriefed. The Gallagher Academy is just an elite boarding school to him," my mother said. "Josh is no longer a security threat."

So now we knew that Josh would never know the truth.

I've been punched hard before, lots of times, by people who know what they're doing, but something about my mother's words made me lose my breath. I know it's crazy-- me thinking that maybe one day Josh would dump DeeDee the Adorable and suddenly remember the truth about me and love me anyway. I know that was a crazy dream. But it was my dream. And a part of me hated to watch it die.

"I know this is hard, kiddo," Mom said one final time. "So that's why I thought you might like something to take your mind off of it." And then Mom reached behind her desk and pulled out a large white box wrapped in a beautiful blue ribbon.

Well, obviously I'd gotten presents from my mother before--good presents (signed first editions of A Spy's Guide to Underground Moscow don't grow on trees, you know), but I had a feeling this present was different. I felt like there was some kind of string attached.

"Go ahead," Mom said. "I think it should fit."

I untied the ribbon and let it fall to the floor, took the top off the box, and peeled away the layers of tissue paper.

"It's a dress," I said, stating the obvious--except it wasn't just a dress. It was red...and floor-length...and strapless! And I know normal mothers probably buy normal daughters strapless dresses all the time, for dances and proms and cello recitals and stuff, but the last time my mother had held a dress like that she'd been getting ready for a New Year's Eve party on board the yacht of a Middle Eastern arms dealer, so something about this dress felt...different.

"It's beautiful," I said.

Mom walked over to the microwave to pop in some frozen burritos. "I'm glad you like it. I thought it would look good on you."

Which, to tell you the truth, I sort of doubted, but I didn't think it was the right time to point that out.

"Uh, Mom..."

"I also thought it might come in handy in a week or so."

I sat there staring into the box, thinking that whatever was coming, it was big. It was important. And it required formal wear.

CHAPTER 15

The Gallagher Academy has prepared me well for a lot of things, but none of those things are red. Or strapless.

Maybe my mother had forgotten that I was the girl nobody sees--The Chameleon--and chameleons simply don't walk around in formal gowns with empire waists and long gauzy skirts that flow when you twirl. It was as if my mother didn't know that this dress was for someone who was definitely supposed to be seen.

"What's the matter, Gallagher Girl?" Zach asked as we left COW the next morning and started the walk to C&A. "You seem...jumpy."

Well, he would have been jumpy too if he'd heard Bex's theory that a terrorist group was going to take over a prom and we were going to have to go undercover and stop it, but obviously I couldn't say that. And in a few minutes, after we'd settled into the Chippendale chairs of the Culture and Assimilation classroom, no one was saying anything.

"The all-school exam..." Madame Dabney exclaimed as she stood in the center of the room. Soft rays of early sunshine glowed around her, and her voice had taken on such a dreamy quality that I almost expected harps to start playing as she floated across the floor. "Ooh, ladies," she said, then rushed to add, "...and gentlemen. In all my years of teaching at this fine institution, I have never had the opportunity to organize such an exciting educational experience."

Liz went still, and Eva and Tina tore their eyes from Grant's muscular forearms.

"This Friday evening, all students in grades eight through twelve will be invited to a formal examination." Madame Dabney waited for what she must have expected to be a standing ovation. "A ball, ladies and gentlemen," she explained when no one broke into applause. "There's going to be a ball!"

Tina gasped, and Liz's eyes went wide in a way that can only be induced by the combination of both tests and high heels; Jonas swallowed hard and turned the exact same shade of red as the dress that was hanging in my closet--the dress I was going to have to wear ... for a grade!

There had to be some kind of mistake, I thought. Surely Bex was supposed to get that dress and I was supposed to get instructions on how to access the dusty, dirty, mice-infested ductwork of the Russian Embassy or something.

Mice I can handle. Strapless bras? Well let's just say, I'm the kind of girl who likes things sufficiently strapped.

"Tomorrow during this time, you will each be fitted for a gown." She beamed at the girls. "And tuxedos," she said as she turned to the boys. "On Friday evening you will be asked to participate in a cumulative examination--a night that will encompass everything we teach. And you will be expected to dance."

At that point I'm pretty sure every other girl in the room heard "dance."

But I thought back to Bex's words as we'd stood in the deserted East Wing, and I, personally, heard "rematch."


There's something to be said for having Joe Solomon blindfold you and fly you to D.C. After all, the hard part about top-secret, clandestine missions isn't the shock or the fear or the helicopter turbulence. The hard part ... is the waiting. And I know I wasn't the only Gallagher Girl to feel that way, because in the week following the ball announcement, there were so many rumors floating up and down our halls, even I could hardly keep them all straight.

For example:

Instead of having a comprehensive exam, like we'd been told, we were actually going to have to infiltrate a prom that was going to be taken over by terrorists. FALSE.

All the girls in the eighth grade class now hated Macey McHenry since all the boys in the eighth grade class were in love with her. TRUE.

Chef Louis was going to serve poisoned appetizers so that we would have to concoct antidotes. Or die. FALSE.

Thursday's P&E lesson centered on defensive positions that could give the term "kick pleat" an entirely new meaning. TRUE.

Body-waxing as a torture-slash-interrogation tactic is illegal under international law. FALSE. (But if the yells coming from Tina Walters's bathroom were any indication, it totally should be true.)


By Friday morning you couldn't walk down the hall without hearing at least a dozen conversations that involved bobby pins (and not in the usual lock-picking and/or self-defense contexts). A part of me was a little concerned by the state of my sisterhood, but another part of me knew that half of a mission's success is determined before the mission even starts. Prep work matters. And, it turns out, that goes double for missions that involve formal wear.

"Will you hold still?" Macey demanded as she grabbed my jaw and held my head steady (because everyone knows eyeliner can be lethal in the wrong hands). But how could I possibly sit there as if my liquid liner were the most important thing in the world? We had less than an hour before the ball began, and that was time I could have been using to go over my chemistry textbook or my CoveOps notes. Didn't my best friends know that this was an all-school exam--that's every subject, and this was my big chance at redemption?

But no. I couldn't study at all, because Liz was doing really painful twisty things with my hair while Macey gave me a three-minute lecture on the state of my pores. Meanwhile, Bex was busy sewing one of Dr. Fibs's bulletproof cups into her Wonderbra instead of the foam things it came with. And I couldn't help but think that spy stuff is hard. Girl stuff is hard. But I doubt there's anything harder than spy-girl stuff.

I didn't even want to think about what the boys were doing then, because...hello ... I'd seen the tuxedos hanging in the C&A classroom, and they were all black. And so were their shoes. And their ties. And every single boy from the Blackthorne Institute had hair not much longer than a buzz cut, so I seriously doubt they were going through this. Nothing in life...much less espionage ... is fair.

It was nearly seven o'clock. Our suite smelled like perfume and curling irons that had been on too long. And down the hall, I heard Anna Fetterman yell, "Does this make me look fat?" even though she weighs one hundred and two pounds. It wasn't just another night at the Gallagher Academy. This wasn't just another exam. And I, for one, wasn't ready. In a lot of ways.

"Can somebody zip me?" Eva cried, running into the room