Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover

by Ally Carter

  She pushed herself back onto the bed and told me, "You're that good." The way she looked at me said she

  wasn't speaking as an aunt, she was speaking as a spy.

  But I didn't want to be compared to my father in that place. In that way. I didn't deserve it, so I said, "I'm not."

  "Yeah, maybe you aren't," Abby said, and despite my protest, a wave of hurt ran through me. But then she cocked an eyebrow. "But you will be."

  A new feeling coursed through me—relief. I felt…like a girl. Like I didn't know all the answers and that was okay because I still had time to learn them.

  "So you're not going to tell my mom?"

  "Why?" Abby looked at me. "So she can get mad at both of us?"

  It seemed like a fair point until I realized…

  "But why would she get mad at you?"

  "For showing you this." The sound of a heavy notebook dropping onto her wooden dresser caught me off guard. Sheets of paper almost seemed to whistle as she thumbed through the pages.

  "The threat book," my aunt told me as I looked at the book. The covers could barely contain it. "This is just this month. This is just Macey—not even counting the rest of the McHenry family," She thumbed through the pages, but I didn't dare to read the words. "We keep copies of every letter, every e-mail, every 911 call and crazy floral delivery card. We keep track of everything, Cam, and analyze it and study it and do what it is we do."

  She thumbed through the thick book one final time as she said again, "This is just this month."

  Every spy knows that what you don't say is just as important—maybe more so—than what you do. Aunt Abby didn't tell me that what was going on was bigger than four Gallagher Girls in training and a secret room. She didn't tell me that there were a whole lot of psycho people in this world, and a whole lot of them were fascinated by one of my best friends. But those were maybe the only things I was sure of as I stepped toward the door.

  Still, there was one thing I had to ask.

  "What's this symbol?" I asked, pointing to the satellite photo of the hand, which had fallen to the floor. My aunt casually glanced my way.

  "Not sure. That's one of the leads we're tracking down. It's probably nothing, though. They were too good to make a mistake that could lead us to them."

  "That's what Bex says."

  "Bex is good."

  "Yeah," I said, turning to leave. Then I stopped. "I've seen it before…before Boston."

  "You remember where?" Abby asked. A new light filled her eyes, and I got the feeling we were playing a game of covert chicken, both of us waiting to see if the other would blink first.

  "It'll come to me," I said, which didn't exactly answer her question, but that's okay. I got the impression that it didn't exactly matter.

  "If you remember, let me know," she said, and I would have bet the farm (or…well…Grandma and Grandpa's farm) that she already knew. I was halfway to the door when she called, "Cam." She held out a piece of paper. "Since you're here, would you mind giving this to Macey?"

  I stood in the hall for a long time, reading the first line over and over, wishing the note were written on Evapopaper, trying to find a way to make the words dissolve.

  Itinerary: Saturday, 5:00 a.m. Peacock departs Gallagher Academy for Philadelphia, PA.

  Things You Can Do When the Life of One of Your Best Friends May Be at Risk, and She's Got to Help Her Dad Campaign for Vice President Anyway, and You Really, Really Don't Want Her to Go:

  1. Sweet-talk Mr. Mosckowitz into moving up the exercise where the ninth graders (the grade Macey was up to now) are locked in a room and can't get out until they break the Epstein Equation.

  2. Hack into Secret Service databases, leaving indications that the aforementioned roommate had been making some incredibly dangerous threats against another protectee, Preston Winters (because she totally had).

  3. If the roommate were to have an allergic reaction to her mother's experimental night cream, resulting in a terrible zit outbreak that leaves her very unphotogenic and unlikely to test well with undecided women between the ages of 21 and 42 in the process, then maybe she wouldn't be required on the campaign trail after all!

  4. Two words: food poisoning (but only as a last resort).

  They really were good plans. After all, Bex and I hadn't just aced Mr. Solomon's Logistical Thinking and Planning for Success midterm for nothing. Logistically speaking, we'd been about as covert as we could possibly be without coming right out and hog-tying Macey to her desk chair (a plan that Bex proposed frequently).

  But Mr. Mosckowitz wasn't doing the locked room assignment this year, since he'd developed a case of claustrophobia after a top-secret summer assignment that involved a Porta Potti and two Lebanese hairdressers.

  And it turns out the Secret Service doesn't take death threats by protectees all that seriously. Especially if they're girls. Even if they're Gallagher Girls.

  And we should have known that Macey would never get a pimple. Ever. It goes against the laws of nature or something.

  And worst of all, the last part of our master plan didn't work because a person can't possibly get food poisoning if the person no longer eats food.

  I didn't know if it was nerves or fear or if she really was reverting back to the Macey she had been when she came to us a year before, but night after night we sat at the juniors' table in the Grand Hall while our roommate pushed the food around on her plate—not eating, not laughing. Just waiting for whatever would come next.

  "This is bad," Liz said Friday morning as we left Culture and Assimilation. The halls were filling up. And time was running out.

  "We could always—"

  "No!" Liz and I both snapped, not really thinking that was the time or place to be reminded of Bex's "no one can get out of my slipknots" argument, but it was Macey who made us stop.

  "It's okay, guys," Macey said. She turned toward Dr. Fibs's basement lab. "Thanks for trying and everything, but I've got to go." The way she said it, I knew that getting her out of her trip wasn't really up for debate. She shrugged and added, "It's the job."

  I might have argued; I might have pleaded, but right then I realized that Bex and I weren't the only ones who had been born into a family business—a genetic fate. Macey's first full sentence had been "Vote for Daddy," and not even a kidnapping attempt, midterms, and the three of us could keep her off the campaign trail.

  As Bex pulled me toward the elevator and Sublevel Two, the chaos of the halls faded away, replaced by the smooth whirring of the elevator and the lasers and the sounds of a new set of worries in my head.

  "What?" Bex asked.

  "Zach," I said numbly.

  "Cam, he is bloody dreamy—I'm not going to deny you that—but I don't think boys are really the most important thing right now."

  "Zach got through."

  I thought about him standing behind the bleachers. I thought about me standing behind the bleachers. In the restricted zone. "Zach got through security. If he did …" I trailed off, not wanting to say the worst of what was on my mind. Bex nodded, not wanting to hear it.

  A moment later we were stepping out of the elevator. Our footsteps echoed as we ran, around and around and around the spiraling ramp, lower into the depths of the school.

  "Don't worry, Cam," Bex said, not even close to being winded. "We'll think of something. If Mr. Solomon doesn't kill us for being late."

  But then she stopped. Partly, I think, because we'd finally reached the classroom; partly because our teacher— perhaps our best teacher, our strictest teacher—was nowhere to be seen.

  I don't know how normal girls behave when a teacher is out of the room, but Gallagher Girls get quiet. Crazy quiet. Because operatives in training learn very early on that you can never really trust that you're alone.

  So Bex didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. Even Tina Walters was speechless.

  "You're the juniors?"

  The voice was one I didn't know. I turned to see a face I didn't recognize. A
man. An older man in a Gallagher Academy maintenance department uniform. His name badge read "Art," and he was glaring at us as if he knew we were personally responsible for the terrible hydrochloric acid spill in Dr. Fibs's lab, which had probably taken weeks to clean up.

  "Solomon said you were the juniors," Art told us.

  "Yes, sir," Mick said, because 1) We've all been taking culture class since we were in the seventh grade and Madame Dabney does her job well, and 2) at the Gallagher Academy, everyone is more than they appear.

  We look like normal girls, but we're not. Our teachers could blend in with any prep school faculty in the world, but they're so much more. Every girl in that room knew that to spend your retirement in the Gallagher Academy maintenance department you must have had high clearance and massive skills—you're there for a reason. So Art was a "sir" to us. No doubt about it.

  Still, Art looked at us as if we were exactly what he was expecting.

  As he turned and started out the door, we stared after him. But then he stopped and called back over his shoulder. "Well? Are you coming or aren't ya?"

  We got up and followed Art exactly the way we'd come.

  No one asked about Mr. Solomon, but one glance at the girls following in the maintenance man's wake told me that we were all wondering the exact same thing.

  Well, make that two things: 1.) Where was Mr. Solomon? and 2.) What had happened to Art?

  The man walked with a slight limp, his right foot never landing evenly upon the stone floor. His left hand hung against his side at an odd angle, and thick bottle-like glasses must have made the world look very different through his eyes.

  But none of that kept him from snapping, "Walters!" when Tina whispered something to Eva, so I'm pretty sure there wasn't anything wrong with his hearing.

  We passed ancient wooden doors with locks that looked like they must have required two-ton keys. We climbed higher, past rooms that looked like sets from old monster movies.

  When we neared the top, we all walked faster, toward the elevator, anticipating that we were smart enough, seasoned enough, savvy enough to guess what would come next. But one of the golden rules of covert operations is Always anticipate, never commit, and that would have been a good time to remember it.

  Because Art called, "Ladies!" And the entire class skidded to a stop. We turned to see the man standing in front of one of those enormous doors that, until then, I'd never seen open. He reached inside and flipped on a switch. Light replaced shadow and danced over the stone floor as he took a step on his crooked leg.

  "Bex," I whispered as we followed him inside. "Did he seem…"

  But I didn't finish. Oh, who am I kidding—I couldn't finish. Because the room we were stepping into wasn't just an ordinary room. It wasn't a place for an ordinary class.

  Rows of clothes lined two long walls. In the center, shelves stood covered with accessories. Mirrors sat in a long row along the back of the room, shelves and drawers, all neatly labeled, sat waiting.

  "It's a closet," Eva Alvarez said in awe.

  "And it's…huge," Tina Walters replied.

  I know normal girls would probably love to find themselves inside a closet two times the size of most suburban houses. But not this closet. This closet could only truly be appreciated by a Gallagher Girl.

  We all stepped inside, knowing we were on the verge of a lesson unlike any we'd ever had.

  Eva reached out for another switch, and the lights surrounding the mirrors at the back of the room came to life, washing over hats and wigs, glasses and false teeth. Overcoats and umbrellas.

  I looked at the man who had brought us there. I turned my gaze from his crippled leg and mangled arm…and I knew.

  Art stepped to the center of the room and said, "Ladies." He took off his glasses with his left arm, which, for the first time, seemed normal and straight. He kicked off his right shoe, picked it up, and let a small pebble fall into his hand, and then stood squarely upon his right leg. And then finally he pulled off the gray wig and dropped it onto the low center shelf that ran the length of the room.

  Tina Walters gasped. Anna Fetterman stumbled backward. Mr. Solomon was the only one in the room smiling as he swept his arms around the Gallagher Academy closet. "Small changes. Big differences."

  He unbuttoned "Art's" shirt and stood in front of us in a white T-shirt (the black trousers, however, he kept on). "Welcome to the science of disguise."

  A full minute later, half the class was still staring at Joe Solomon, wondering how old, kinda-pitiful Art could have been the same totally hot guy we had seen every school day for more than a year.

  But I was turning, staring at a chameleon's utter fantasy—a place with the sole purpose of making a girl disappear.

  And then I saw Bex, and my joy was instantly replaced with unease.

  Because she was smiling. And nodding. And whispering, "Plan B?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  Covert Operations Report

  After learning that Operative McHenry was in danger from a person (or persons) knowing the real identity of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, Operatives Morgan, Baxter, and Sutton decided to implement a shadow operation to oversee Operative McHenry's security.

  It also involved a lot of shadow of the eye variety.

  Was it crazy? Yes.

  Was it necessary? Maybe.

  Was there any way to talk Bex out of it? Only if we agreed to go with the hog-tying option, so really, it seemed like our best bet.

  We spent all of Friday afternoon researching, planning, and doing some seriously covert accessorizing, but by

  Saturday morning all I could do was walk with Bex and Liz through the halls and fight the combination of nostalgia and nerves that seemed to be growing stronger with every step.

  After all, I hadn't been outside the grounds (unofficially) in months; I hadn't opened any of the secret passageways; I hadn't broken any rules. (Okay, I hadn't broken any big rules.)

  But as I reached for the statue of the Rozell sisters (two identical Gallagher Girls who had posed as double agents— literally—during World War I), I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to trigger an opening into something much darker and deeper than any secret passageway I'd ever found before.

  And that was before I heard Liz cry, "Ew!" and saw her jump back, stumble over Bex's foot, and slam against the wall, skinning her elbow in the process.

  The Operatives brought the necessary equipment for a detailed deception-and-disguise operation.

  They did not, however, bring the necessary equipment for killing spiders.

  Dusty cobwebs hung between the low beams like nature's little surveillance detectors. The biggest spiders I'd ever seen scurried from the light, and I just stood there remembering that there are many, many reasons why a Gallagher Girl should keep in practice. One, you don't want to lose your edge. Two, you never know when you might have to call upon your training. And three, if you go too long without using your secret passages, other things tend to take over in your absence.

  Even Bex took a big step back. (Because, while Bex is perfectly willing to take on three armed attackers at once, spiders are an entirely different thing.) But Liz was the person I was staring at. After all, there we were, locked inside the safest place in the country, and yet she was already bleeding.

  "Hey, Liz, maybe you should stay here. You know … set up and run a comms center?"

  "That's better if I'm on site," she argued back.

  "And cover for us," I added, "if someone starts asking where we are."

  "It's Saturday," she reminded me. "In a huge building. That you are notorious for disappearing inside."

  "But—" I didn't know what was coming over me, but suddenly I felt like someone should change my nickname from Cammie the Chameleon to Cammie the Corrupter. I was about to break out of my school (again), to do something I wasn't supposed to be doing (again). But that wasn't what worried me as I looked at Liz, who barely weighed a hundred pounds, and then at the
secret tunnel that might have been leading us to actual bad guys with actual guns. "Liz, it's just that—"

  "Why aren't you telling Bex to stay behind?" Liz shot back, but we all knew the answer: the only way Bex would miss this would be if she were unconscious. And tied up. And locked in a concrete bunker. In Siberia.

  Which was a thought that almost made me laugh. Almost. But when I heard Bex say, "Maybe you should sit this one out, Lizzie," I knew my best friend was thinking it too. That once we went forward, there might not be any coming back. In a lot of ways.

  Liz is a genius—the kind of genius that puts the rest of us to shame. She no doubt knew the odds. She'd probably calculated the chances of us getting caught, of us getting hurt, and (if it wasn't too traumatic for her to think about) of us getting knocked down a full letter grade on our midterms. But still she turned defiantly and pushed through the cobwebs.

  There was no hiding our tracks then—no turning back— so Bex swept her arm across the door, gesturing "after you."

  I stepped into the darkness with nothing but my training and my cover and my friends who would follow me to the end of the earth, no matter what was waiting for us on the other side.

  Well, it turned out what was waiting for us was a 1987 Dodge minivan.

  And Liz had the keys.

  "Liz," I said, walking toward her, praying that no one would come driving by and see us. (Partly because we totally weren't supposed to be there. Partly because…well … it was a really ugly minivan.)

  But Liz just said, "Get in." Then she stopped. "Who's driving?"

  Bex dove for the keys, but given her tendency to forget which side of the road we're supposed to be on, I snatched them out of her grasp.

  "Liz," I said again, eyeing the rusty fender, "when you said you could get us a car… Liz, where did you get this car?"

  "It's a project," she said simply, strapping herself into the backseat.