I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You

Chapter Thirteen

Spies are wise. Spies are strong. But, most of all, spies are patient.

We waited two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Do you know how long that is in fifteen-year-old-girl time? A lot. A LOT, a lot. I was really starting to empathize with all those women who talk about biological clocks. I mean, I know mine's still got a lot of ticks left in it, but I still managed to think and worry about Operation Josh every spare minute—and that was at genius spy school, where spare minutes aren't exactly common. I can only imagine the misery of a girl going to a normal school, since she probably isn't going to spend her Saturday nights helping her best friend crack the codes that protect U.S. spy satellites. (Liz even split the extra credit she earned from Mr. Mosckowitz with me—the cash prize offered by the NSA, she kept.)

We were in the classic holding pattern, gathering info, building his profile and my legend, biding our time until we had what we needed to go in.

Two weeks of this. TWO WEEKS! (Just in case you missed it before.)

Then, as with all good covert operatives, we caught a break.

Tuesday, October 1. Subject received an e-mail from Dillon, screen name "D'Man," asking if The Subject would like a ride home from play practice. The Subject responded by saying that he would be walking home—that he needs to return some videos at "AJ's" (local establishment located on town square that specializes in movie and video game rentals).

I looked at the e-mail as Bex slid it onto the breakfast table in front of me.

"Tonight," she whispered. "We're on."

During CoveOps class I honestly couldn't write fast enough. Joe Solomon is a genius, I thought, wondering why I'd never realized it before.

"Learn your legends early. Learn them well," he warned as he leaned over, gripping the back of the teacher's chair I'd never seen him sit in. "The split second it takes you to recall something your cover identity would know is the split second in which very bad people can do very bad things."

My hand was shaking. Pencil marks were going everywhere on the page—kind of like the time I picked up a pencil to use in Dr. Fibs's class, only it turned out it wasn't an ordinary pencil, but rather a prototype for a new Morse code auto-translator. (Needless to say, I still haven't fully recovered from the guilt of sharpening it.)

"Most of all, remember that going into deep cover does not mean approaching subjects." Mr. Solomon eyed us. "It means putting yourself in a position where the subject approaches you."

I don't know about regular girls, but when you're a spy, getting dressed to go out can be something of a production. (Can I just say thank goodness for Velcro—seriously—no wonder the Gallagher Academy invented the stuff.)

"I still think we should have put her hair up," Liz said. "It looks glamorous."

"Yeah," Macey scoffed, "because so many girls go for glamour when they hang out at the Roseville town square."

She had a point.

Personally, I didn't care, which was kind of ironic since it was my hair and all, but I had plenty of other things on my mind—not the least of which was the arsenal of items that Bex was spreading out on the bed in front of me—not that I could really see all that well, because Macey was doing my makeup and she kept telling me to "look up" or "look down" or "hold perfectly still."

When she wasn't barking demands, she was saying things like, "Talk, but not too much. Laugh, but not too loud." And, my personal favorite, "If he's shorter than you, slouch."

Then Bex took over. "Let's talk pocket litter." (Not a sentence you hear every day unless you're…well… us.) "You're not sixteen, so IDs aren't a problem, but we still have to support your cover identity." She turned and began scanning the items on the bed. "Take this," she said, tossing a pack of gum in my direction. It was the same brand we'd pulled from Josh's garbage. "To display common likes and help with the whole breath thing." Bex scanned the bed again. "What did we say, handbag or no handbag?" she asked, turning back to the group.

"She should definitely carry a purse," Macey said, and Bex agreed. I couldn't believe it! Macey and Bex were bonding…over accessories! Would wonders never cease?

Bex pulled a bag off the bed and opened it. "Movie ticket stub—if he asks you how you liked it, just say you did, but you didn't buy the ending." She dropped the tiny scrap of paper into the bag and picked up another item. "Binocuglasses. You shouldn't need them tonight, of course, but it won't hurt to have them." She dropped yet another item inside our pack of lies then topped everything off with a What Would Jesus Do? ink pen, then snapped the bag shut with a very self-satisfied smirk.

I had no idea how Bex had found all that stuff, and to tell you the truth, I didn't want to know. But as I looked at everything I was supposed to carry and thought about all the things I was supposed to know, I had to wonder: Do all girls go through this? Is every girl on a date really in deep cover?

"And, don't forget…"

I looked up to see the silver cross swinging back and forth on its chain.

"It's broken," I told Bex. "It hasn't worked right since the water from the tank shorted it out; and you still wouldn't have been able to pick up the signal because of the jammers."

"Cammie," Bex said, sighing. "Cammie, Cammie, Cammie…this is your legend." The cross kept swinging. "This is how it's accessorized."

I knew she was right. As soon as I crossed that fence, I had to stop being me and start being that other person—the homeschooled girl who wore that necklace and …

"You have got to be kidding me!" I snapped, but it was too late, Liz had appeared in the doorway, holding Onyx.

And I thought this boy business was hard before I had to rub a cat all over my body to give the hair-covered illusion of a feline-lover.

All these years I'd thought being a spy was challenging. Turns out, being a girl is the tricky part.

They walked with me downstairs to the most remote of the secret passageways.

"Did you check your flashlight?" Liz asked, the way Grandma Morgan always says "Do you have your ticket?" whenever they take me to the airport. It was sweet. I wished they could go with me, but that's something every spy learns early in the game—it doesn't matter how skilled your team is, there will come a time when you have to go on alone.

As we walked along, Macey said, "I still don't understand how you're going to get out and back in without getting caught."

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn't. Someday, I really ought to write a book about the mansion. I could probably make a fortune selling copies to the newbies, sharing tricks like how you can jiggle the door of the janitor's closet in the west stairwell, then slide down a pipe all the way to the butler's pantry. (How you get back up is up to you.) Another good one is the wooden panel on the landing of the stone staircase in the old chapel. If you press it three times, it will pop open, and from there, you have ceiling access to every room in the North Hall. (I just wouldn't recommend this one if you are in any way afraid of spiders.)

"You'll see, Macey," I told her as we turned to walk down a long stone corridor toward the old ruby-colored tapestry that hung alone on the cold stone wall. I looked at the Gallagher family tree, and then at Macey. She didn't study the generations, didn't find her own name there or ask questions; she just said, "You look good," and I nearly passed out from the shock of such high praise.

I pulled the tapestry aside and started to slip in, just as Bex said, "Knock 'em dead!"

I was already inside when Liz yelled after me, "But not literally!"