I'd Tell You I Love You, But Then I'd Have to Kill You (Gallagher Girls)

by Carter, Ally

  The Operative tried to implement the Purusey breathing technique, which has been proven effective at fooling polygraphs. There is no conclusive evidence as to whether it is effective at masking the internal lie detectors of fifteen-year-old boys.

  The waitress came and took our orders, and Josh leaned way back in his seat. I knew from Liz’s notes on body language that this meant he was feeling pretty confident (either that or I smelled like the tunnel and he wanted to get as far away from me as possible). “I’m sorry we missed the movie,” Josh said as he rearranged his pickles.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “This is fun, too.”

  Then the strangest thing happened—we both stopped talking. It was like that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where everyone in town got their voices stolen. I was beginning to wonder if that had actually happened—like maybe, back at school, the CIA had been fiddling around with one of Dr. Fibs’s experiments and something had gone horribly wrong. I started to open my mouth and test my theory, when I heard a muffled cry of “Josh!” and some banging on the diner windows, and I realized that the muteness hadn’t affected anyone but us.

  When I heard the ding of the diner door, I spun to see a mob of teenagers heading our way, and let me tell you, for a girl who’s gone to a private all-girls school since the seventh grade, that’s a pretty scary sight.

  I have never been so behind enemy lines in my life! I thought, scrolling back through our P&E training on how to handle multiple attackers. Normally, I might have counted on Josh—my guide in that strange and foreign land—but he was panicking, too. I could tell by the way his jaw had gone all slack and a french fry was poised, midair, en route to his mouth.

  I mentally reeled through the things in my favor: no one knew me. I wasn’t wearing my uniform. And if push came to shove I could . . . well . . . push and shove. (Two of the boys looked pretty football player-ish, but I did an entire project once on the “the bigger they are the harder they fall” philosophy of hand-to-hand combat, and there is totally something to it.) I was safe, for the meantime.

  My cover might not have been blown, but I couldn’t say the same for my confidence—especially when one of the girls, a very pretty blond, said, “Hi, Josh,” and he said, “Hi, DeeDee.”

  The Operative realized that the band of insurgents was led by the suspect known as DeeDee (even though she did not appear to have any pink paper in her possession).

  Most of the mob walked by with just the occasional “Hey, Josh” as they passed, but DeeDee and another boy crawled into the booth with us, and oh yeah, guess who ended up being pressed up against Josh? DEE DEE! (Soooo not an accident!) Can I just say that it is such a good thing that there was an entire diner full of witnesses, because I’m fairly certain I could have killed her with a bottle of ketchup.

  “Hi, I’m DeeDee,” she said as she helped herself to one of Josh’s fries (rude!). “Have we met?”

  I’m the daughter of two secret agents who has a genius IQ and the ability to kill you in your sleep and make it look like an accident, you silly, vapid, two-bit . . .

  “Cammie’s new in town.”

  Okay, this is why it’s always best to have backup. Josh totally saved me, because I was seriously starting to finger the ketchup bottle about then.

  “Oh,” she said. Even though Macey McHenry herself had done my makeup, I felt completely covered with boils as I sat there. She helped herself to another fry, but didn’t look at me when she said, “Hi.”

  “DeeDee and I have known each other for forever,” Josh said, and DeeDee blushed.

  Two of the girls from the mob put some money in the jukebox and soon a song I’d never heard was echoing throughout the diner, causing the boy who was sliding into the booth next to me to yell when he said, “Yeah, she’s just one of the boys.” He thrust a hand in my direction.

  “Hey, I’m Dillon.”

  THIS is Dillon? My superspy instincts were taken aback as I studied the small boy who was supposedly “D’Man.” (Note to self: don’t believe everything you read when hacking into the DMV, because short boys will totally lie about their height when applying for their learners’ permits.) It took a second for me to recognize him and realize he’d been the boy with Josh in the street—the one who’d been told I was nobody.

  Somehow I managed to say, “Hi. I’m Cammie.”

  Dillon was nodding his head slowly as he eyed me and said, “So this is the mystery woman.” DeeDee instantly stopped chewing on her fry. “So she exists!” Dillon exclaimed. “You have to forgive my friend here,” Dillon said as he slid one arm around my shoulders. “He’s not the most outgoing of hosts, so if I can do anything to help you feel at home here, consider me at your disposal.”

  Dillon’s arm was still around me, so I was feeling pretty grateful for all those P&E classes when Josh reached across the table and punched Dillon in the shoulder.

  “What?” Dillon cried. “I’m just being hospitable.”

  If that was hospitable then Madame Dabney really needed to update her curriculum.

  “Well, Cammie,” Dillon went on, unfazed, “please allow me to say that I can see why doofus here’s been keeping you to himself.”

  Dillon reached for a fry, but this time Josh moved the plate away and said, “Well, thanks for stopping by. Don’t let us keep you.” And then Josh tried to kick Dillon under the table, but he missed and hit me, but it’s not like I screamed or anything. (I’ve totally been kicked harder.)

  “Are you kidding?” Dillon asked, elbows-on-table as he lowered his voice, forcing us all to huddle around his conspiracy. “We’re gonna go climb the wall and moon some rich girls later. Wanna come?”

  The wall? OUR wall? I wondered in disbelief. Is it possible I’ve been routinely mooned for the past three years and didn’t know it? Has Josh’s very own backside been exposed (and possibly photographed by the security department) without my knowledge?

  (Note to self: find those photographs.)

  I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Josh leaned closer and said, “The Gallagher Academy?” as if wondering whether or not I’d heard of the place. “It’s a really snooty boarding school. The girls there are all rich delinquents or something.”

  I wanted to jump to our defense. I wanted to proclaim that you shouldn’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile through an underground tunnel in her uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to tell them everything they owed to the Gallagher Girls who had gone before me, but I couldn’t. Sometimes spies can only nod and say, “Oh, really?”

  “What?” Dillon said. “You don’t, like, go there?” he asked, then laughed so loudly that everyone in the restaurant turned to stare.

  I studied Dillon and wondered how long it would take me to hack into the IRS—I bet, by December, Uncle Sam could be repossessing everything his family owned. “I’m homeschooled,” I said, while silently chanting, And I have a cat named Suzie, and my dad’s an engineer, and I love mint chocolate cookie ice cream.

  “Yeah,” Dillon said. “I forgot. You know that’s kinda weird, don’t you?”

  But before I could defend myself, DeeDee said, “I think that’s really nice.” Making it infinitely more difficult to hate her.

  “So, what do you say?” Dillon asked, turning back to Josh. He sounded almost giddy, and can I just say, giddy is not an expression that most boys wear well. “Wanna TP the grounds or something?”

  But Josh didn’t answer. Instead, he was pushing DeeDee out of the booth and pulling money out of his wallet. He dropped the bills on the table, then reached for my hand. “You wanna leave, too. Right?” he asked.

  Yes! I wanted to cry. I read his face. I knew what he was feeling, and I was feeling it, too. I took his hand, and it was as if he were helping me into another world instead of out of a red-vinyl booth. The two hamburgers lay, barely touched, on the table behind us, but I didn’t care.

  Dillon got up and let me out, but Josh didn’t drop my hand.

  WE WERE HOLDING HANDS!
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br />   He started pulling me toward the door, but a girl doesn’t forget three years of culture training just like that, so I turned to Dillon and DeeDee and muttered, “Bye. It was nice meeting you.” Total lie, but one even non-spies tell in polite society, so it probably doesn’t count.

  Dillon yelled, “Whoa,” in the manner of someone who’s seen way too many Keanu Reeves movies. “You’re missing out, bro. We’re gonna mess with some rich chicks!”

  Yeah, D’Man, I thought, as Josh opened the door. Why don’t you go ahead and try it?

  Now, normally, I’m not a huge fan of hand-holding, but that’s really just in movies when the hero and the heroine have to run from the bad guys, and they do it while holding hands, which is just crazy. No one can run as fast when they’re holding someone else’s hand. (A fact I once verified in a P&E experiment.)

  But Josh and I weren’t running. Oh, no. We were strolling. Our joined hands kind of swayed back and forth as if we were about to ask Red Rover to send someone on over.

  After a long time, he looked down at the street and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” I honestly couldn’t think of one thing he’d done wrong. Not one thing.

  He jerked his head back toward the diner. “Dillon. He’s really not that bad,” he said. “We’ve been having that same conversation since kindergarten. He’s big on the talk—not so much on the action.”

  “So we don’t need to go warn the Gallagher Academy, then?” I teased.

  “No,” he said, smiling. “I think they’re safe.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “they probably are.” I thought about our walls—our world. “And DeeDee?” I asked and felt my breath catch. “She seems sweet.” Sadly, not a lie.

  “She is, but”—his hand tightened around mine—“I don’t want to talk about DeeDee.”

  Maybe it was the twinkle lights of the gazebo or the way Josh’s hand felt in mine, or perhaps it was the exposure to Dr. Fibs’s purple sneezing gas I’d had earlier in the day, but when we stopped walking, everything got really, really whirly, like the whole world was a merry-go-round and Josh and I were standing in the center. There must have been all kinds of centripetal force, because we were getting closer and closer together, and before I knew it, something I’d been dreaming about my whole life was happening. But I’m not going to write about it here, because—seriously— my mother is going to read this! Plus, all kinds of VIPs are probably going to commission this report, and they seriously don’t need to hear about my first kiss.

  (Oh, jeez! I didn’t mean to say that. . . .)

  So, okay, Josh kissed me. I know some of you might want details—like how soft his lips were, and how, as I breathed out, he breathed in and vice versa so that it seemed we were permanently joined at the soul or something. . . . But I’m not going to tell you those parts. No way. They’re private.

  But I will say that it was everything it was supposed to be—warm and sweet and very much the beginning of . . . well . . . just the beginning.

  Pros and cons of being a girl-genius-slash-spy-in-training-slash-girlfriend of cutest-slash-nicest-slash-sweetest boy in the world:

  PRO: ability to tell the boy how you feel in any of fourteen different languages.

  CON: boy cannot understand any of the languages (well, except English, of course, but even then he speaks with the highly specialized and often untranslatable “boy” dialect).

  PRO: when boy is having trouble with his chemistry project, you can meet him at the library and help him study.

  CON: you can’t help him too much because it’s kind of hard to explain how you’re doing PhD-level chemistry in the tenth grade.

  PRO: the look on your boyfriend’s face when he surprises you with an assortment of cat toys and asks, “Do you think Suzie will like them?”

  CON: knowing there is no Suzie, and you can never tell him that.

  Three weeks later I was sitting in the Grand Hall, listening to my classmates talk about how they were going to use their Saturday night to catch up on movies (or homework . . . but mostly movies), when Liz came in and dropped about a dozen textbooks on the table so hard my fork jumped off my plate.

  “Are you ready for this?” she said, her voice reverberating with glee. “We’ve got a little Chang, a little Mulvaney, a lot of Strendesky, some—”

  “Liz,” I said, really hating what had to come next. “Oh, gee, Liz, I thought you knew . . . I’ve got plans with—”

  “Josh,” she finished for me. She picked up a copy of A Mayan’s Guide to Molecular Regeneration that had fallen to the floor and added it to the top of the stack. “This project’s due on Wednesday, Cam.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s thirty percent of our midterm grade.”

  “I know. I’m gonna work on it. . . .” But I didn’t know when. I hadn’t thought about it once since Dr. Fibs assigned it three weeks ago—the Monday after my first date with Josh. I was taking life one day, one outfit, one date at a time.

  The Grand Hall was starting to empty as some girls went to grab dessert and others headed upstairs or outside. I glanced at my watch and got up. “Look, Josh has got something planned, okay? It’s this whole surprise thing he’s been talking about and . . . I think it’s a big deal. It’ll be okay. I’ll do the project tomorrow.” That was what I’d said yesterday.

  But Liz didn’t remind me of that. She just nodded and told me to be careful as I dashed out of the Grand Hall and toward the library, where, if you push against the D–F shelf while pulling on a copy of Downing’s Modern Uses for Ancient Weapons, you can slip into my second favorite passageway.

  That is, unless Mr. Solomon is in the library.

  “Hello, Ms. Morgan,” Mr. Solomon said, stopping me in my tracks. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know about any of the secret passageways—especially that one, since it took me two full years to find it—but still it totally freaked me out to turn around and see him standing there.

  “And what are you up to this fine evening?” He shoved both hands into his pockets, then leaned forward. “Hot date?”

  I’m pretty sure that was Joe Solomon’s attempt at male-role-model humor, but it still didn’t stop me from making a noise that sounded like hahahahahaha. Yeah. I know. How covert am I?

  “Oh, I was just . . . Um . . .”

  “Hey, kiddo,” I heard from behind me. “Were you looking for me?”

  The library is probably my favorite room in the mansion. It has a huge stone fireplace in the middle of a two-story circular space that’s filled with study tables and big comfy armchairs. Overhead, a second-story balcony overlooks everything, and that’s where I saw my mother.

  She started down the stairs, a book of poetry in her hands, and I thought she looked like the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She reached the main floor and slipped her arm around me. “I was just coming to find you.”

  “Uh, you were?”

  And then I remembered Joe Solomon who was standing there, looking on.

  “Well then,” he said, taking a step toward the door. “I’ll leave you two girls alone.”

  Okay, I’m not sure, but I think my mom could totally take Joe Solomon, and as soon as he called her a “girl” I thought for sure I’d see the proof. But Mom didn’t say anything. She didn’t pin his arm behind his back or jump into the air and slash him across the face with one of her high-heeled black boots (a move I totally want to perfect someday—just as soon as I can borrow those boots). Oh, no, she just smiled at him. Like a Thanks, I can take it from here smile.

  I felt sick. She pulled me into the hall and walked with me toward the chapel. Behind me, I heard the scrape of forks on plates and dinner chatter (in Farsi) as we passed the Great Hall. She looped her arm through mine and said, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight.”

  Okay, so I know I have lots of different languages at my disposal and everything, but I honestly didn’t understand what my mother was asking. It was weird— not like Nazi-submarine-in-the
-lake weird, but someone’s-been-watching-too-many-made-for-TV-movies weird.

  “Or not,” she jumped to say when she read my bewildered expression. “I just thought you might want to go into town or something.”

  Well, actually, I did want to go to town—just not with her. In fact, I was already wearing lipstick, and an outfit was stashed in the tunnel. Josh had sounded so excited when he’d said, “Now, you’re coming Saturday night, right? You don’t have to do something with your parents, do you?”

  I’d said no, but now my mother was asking me to do just that. I looked into her eyes—her beautiful eyes that have seen horrors and miracles and all things in between, and then I said, “I’m pretty tired.” Technically not a lie.

  “Something low-key, then,” she said with all her superspy persistence. “Maybe a movie?”

  “I . . .” I am a terrible person. “I . . . See, I’ve got to . . .”

  Then I heard a voice behind me. “Cammie promised to help me with my organic chemistry paper.”

  I turned to see Macey McHenry strolling my way. Her face was blank, her tone perfectly normal. Macey might have been behind the curve academically, but when it came to the lyin’ side of spyin’, the girl was a natural. (And the fact that Tina Walters swears she hijacked a sheik’s yacht in the Mediterranean probably played into that a little bit.)

  Mom looked at Macey and then back at me. “Oh,” she said, but her smile seemed a little forced and her tone a little sad as she lowered her voice and rubbed my arms. “Okay. I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

  Alone? When am I ever alone? I live in a mansion with about a hundred girls, and except for when I’m in my secret room or one of the window seats or by myself in the loft of the P&E barn or . . . Okay, so sometimes I’m alone.