Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (6 page)

When
Gillian Gallagher converted her family's home into a school where young women
could learn the covert skills that no men would ever teach them, she'd had the
good sense not to put "The Gallagher Academy—Educating Government
Operatives Since 1865" on the sign. Instead she'd called it a finishing
school for the most outstanding girls of the day. Our cover has evolved with
the times, but our ultimate mission has stayed the same: make sure no one ever
knows just how exceptional we really are. Which, let's face it, is a whole lot
easier when there aren't two dozen national news crews videotaping your every
move.

When
we reached the foyer, I could have sworn that the entire student body was
holding their breath as my mother pulled open the double doors and stepped
outside.

Warm
sunlight beamed down. My stomach growled, and for a second I wondered what our
chef was making for the welcome-back dinner. But when I saw three big black
SUVs pulling through the gate, I totally lost my appetite.

"Secret
Service," my mother whispered to us as they started down the winding lane.
I remembered that even Macey's protectors wouldn't know what we really do
behind our walls.

An
efficient-looking man with a touch of gray sprinkled through his dark hair
climbed out of one of the vehicles and walked toward us. "Ms. Morgan?
Agent Hughes. We spoke on the phone."

"Yes,"
Mom said. "You're the agent in charge of the McHenry family's security
detail. That is the term, isn't it?" she asked, one hand against her chest
as if this were totally new territory for her.

The
man smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "Now, I don't
want you to worry about anything. Our agents will be responsible for Ms.
McHenry's security. They'll answer any questions you have and keep you informed
of what the Service needs from you. No one is

expecting you to think like a
security professional."

"That
is a relief," my mother told him in the most utterly believable,
non-ironic voice I've ever heard.

(Have
I mentioned lately that my mom is the BEST SPY EVER?!)

"Oh,
I'm sorry," my mother said, looking from Agent Hughes and then to us.
"Please allow me to introduce Macey's roommates. This is Elizabeth Sutton
and Rebecca Baxter, and my daughter, Cammie."

But
Agent Hughes wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at me—the girl who is
hardly ever stared at.

"You
were on the roof?" he asked, but it wasn't a question. He stepped closer;
his gaze flashed across the bandage on my head, then his eyes searched mine.
"Don't you worry about anything, young lady. We're going to take good care
of all of you."

I
nodded and looked away, thinking about my cover—I was supposed to be scared and
tired and ready to let someone else fight for Macey.

Then
I remembered that the best covers always have their roots in the truth.

"And
the walls circle the entire grounds?" Agent Hughes asked as we walked
around the campus.

"Yes," my mom said.

"According
to the blueprints, you do have security cameras?" His gaze drifted along
our ivy-covered walls.

"Yes," Mom said calmly.
"Some."

(Actually,
there are 2,546, but for obvious reasons she didn't share that.)

"Well,"
the agent went on, "I'm sure our people can consult with you on how
to"—he seemed to be considering his words—"tighten things up a
bit."

"Yes,"
my mom said with a glance toward me—her daughter, who had been slipping through
the Gallagher Academy defenses for years. "That would be most
helpful"

And
then panic set in. The Secret Service was going to be "tightening"
things?

"As
the advance team told you last week, we'll be placing one of our agents with
Ms. McHenry."

The
Secret Service was going to be "placing" people?

"Full-time,"
Agent Hughes added. "Someone to go with her to classes. Live here.
Accompany her everywhere she goes."

The
Secret Service was going to be "accompanying" us places?

I
looked at Bex and Liz, watched them swallow the same terror I was feeling. Our
school has prepared us for a lot of things, but I had to wonder if anything had
prepared us for that.

But
the surprises were only just beginning, because then my mother smiled and said,
"Of course."

The
agent walked ahead, appraising our grounds, our walls, our life. At the end of
our long (and heavily protected) lane, satellite dishes rose from news trucks,
ready to beam pictures of our school around the world, and I knew the most
dangerous thing in our history was about to happen in front of this man's very
eyes.

And there was nothing any of us
could do to stop it.

"Oh,"
Agent Hughes said when the gates parted for one last car. "Right on
schedule."

The
limo turned onto the drive, but instead of pulling closer to the mansion, it
stopped. Men in dark suits swarmed the car, and I remembered how, a year ago, a
car just like that had brought Macey to us. Like deja vu, Senator and Mrs.
McHenry climbed from the backseat and stood framed between our great stone
gates.

I
could hear the reporters' chatter in the distance. The flashing bulbs of their
cameras sparkled even in the summer sun.

And then the car door opened
again.

And just like that the deja vu
was over.

A
year before, Macey had stepped from the backseat of a nearly identical car, but
this time, instead of combat boots, she wore pumps almost exactly like her
mother's. Her short skirt and diamond nose stud were replaced with modest black
pants, a sweater, and a sling.

At
first I hoped her clothing was the only difference; but I barely recognized the
girl who allowed her mother to hug her tightly, who didn't protest when her
father took her good hand and lifted their united fists toward the sky.

Bex
cut me a look that said
Are
you sure you were the one with head trauma?
but I just watched the three
McHenrys push past the cameras and the questions and start toward the school.
Back to us. I thought about the girl who had come to us last fall and the one
who had left last spring and, finally, about the young woman who had shivered
by a lake, and I wondered which one of Macey's cover identities she was going
to be now.

As
they came closer I waited for her to catch my eye and smile that mischievous
smile she'd given me outside her parents' suite in Boston, but when I stepped
forward, a broad body in a dark suit moved to block my path.

"Excuse
me, miss," the Secret Service agent said. It was the first time any of
them had seen me as a threat, but I didn't take it as a compliment.

Behind
me, I heard my mother say, "Senator, Mrs. McHenry, it's so nice to see you
both again. I'm only sorry it has to be under such troubling
circumstances." She gestured toward the front doors. "Won't you come
in?"

Just
when I felt myself getting pushed out of the picture, the procession stopped.
The senior senator from Virginia stepped toward me and said,
"Cammie?" He placed his large hands on both of my shoulders, gripping
tightly.

"Thank
you," he said, and I could have sworn I heard his voice crack. When he
looked into my eyes, I couldn't help myself: I felt my lips tremble. My vision
blurred. It was easy to remember what having a father feels like as the senator
whispered, "And I'm so sorry."

It
might have been about the sweetest, most genuine moment in McHenry family
history, if Macey's mother hadn't then turned to her daughter and whispered,
"Go to the bathroom and put some concealer on that." She pointed to
the bruise at the corner of Macey's eye. "Really," she told her
daughter, "there's no need to look like a common street thug when there
aren't even any cameras around."

And, like that, the moment was
over.

T
here are
many things to love about the welcome-back dinner.

1.
               
Hearing
what everyone did over their summer vacation (which is probably far more
interesting at a school where there's a very good possibility that the stories
include actual gunfire).

2.
               
The
fact that even though Grandma Morgan probably makes the best chicken and
dumplings in the entire world, our chef used to work at the White House, and
sometimes a girl just needs a little crème brûlée.

3.
               
Gossip.

But
that night, neither I nor 2 could really hold a candle to 3. At all.

"So,
Cammie," Tina Walters said as she squeezed onto

the
bench across from me, squishing Liz and Anna Fetterman together, "I heard
you put three of them in the hospital."

"Tina," I sighed,
"it wasn't like that."

Eva
Alvarez was trying to sign Macey's cast, which was difficult because the
campaign manager didn't want anything to obscure the big Winters-McHenry
sticker already plastered on Macey's forearm. Bex was picking apart one of the
rolls from the basket on the table (even though the teachers hadn't made their
entrance yet and, therefore, eating could be punishable by death—or at the very
least some serious Culture and Assimilation extra homework if Madame Dabney
caught you.)

"And,
Macey"—Tina whirled on the girl beside me— "rumor has it
you
were
spotted In a
compromising
position with a certain future first son."

And just like that, everything
got quiet again.

The
entire junior class turned and stared, but I kept doing exactly what I had
been: studying Macey. The snob who had come to us a year before would have
scoffed; the girl who had covered two years' worth of advanced encryption in
nine months might have rolled her eyes; but the girl beside me simply said,
"Someone needs better sources."

It
was the first time she'd spoken, and something in her tone made me wonder
whether or not the girl by the lake was gone for good.

"So,
who thinks we'll have to stay in Code Red all semester?" Anna Fetterman
asked, not even trying to disguise the fear in her voice.

My
roommates and I all looked at each other, the scene that we'd witnessed outside
playing over all of our faces.

"Well,
they are going to give you a full-time Secret Service detail, aren't
they?" Tina asked.

Macey nodded.

"Maybe
the Secret Service … you know"—Liz hesitated and then lowered her voice to
a whisper—
"knows."

But
all I could think about were the agents who had questioned me after Boston, the
lies I'd already had to tell to keep our secret safe.

"Mom
wouldn't," I started. "She wouldn't agree to that."

"It
would be a pretty good test, though, wouldn't it?" Bex asked. I could tell
by the tone of her voice that she was already gearing up for the challenge—the
thought of bringing the outside world inside our walls, the danger, the risk,
the possibility of knocking a member of the United States Secret Service
unconscious at some point during the semester.

"What
if you get a guy agent?" Courtney Bauer joined in the conversation.
"Aren't all the Secret Service guys really hot?"

"They're
okay," Macey said nonchalantly, as if she'd seen hotter (and I'm pretty
sure she had).

"What
if he's like, Mr.
Solomon
hot?" Anna asked and then blushed.

As
much as I wanted to join in and feel excited about a possible (hot) newcomer,
all I could think was that there was too much risk and danger already. I
remembered the feeling in my stomach as the elevator took us to the roof in Boston.
I could have stopped it then. If I'd been focused, if my mind had been anywhere
except on a certain boy, my school and my sisterhood might still be safe. But
instead, a generation of geniuses were sitting around stealing dinner rolls and
discussing the theoretical biceps of the person who might jeopardize our entire
way of life (and whether or not he would actually take a bullet for Macey if
the need arose).

Suddenly
the doors at the back of the room swung open, and my mother appeared, leading
our teachers down the center of the huge room.

I
saw the new face of Mr. Smith, our Countries of the World instructor, who is
one of the more paranoid government operatives on the planet and chooses to
prove it by getting a new face every year during summer vacation. I heard the
muttering of more than a hundred teenage girls as they realized that this year
Mr. Smith's new face was…hot.