Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (22 page)

"I'm
so ready for this to be over," she said as if she'd just admitted her
deepest, darkest secret. "I'm so ready for Tuesday."

That
was the moment we'd been waiting for—the opening I'd needed to tell her the
truth about what was happening and warn her that it wouldn't end that quickly—
that she wasn't going to stop being Gilly's descendant on Wednesday.

"What?"
she asked, reading my face. I'd come to that corridor to tell her the truth, to
warn her, but Macey still had hope that Tuesday might mark the end, and I for
one didn't want to take that away from her too soon.

I found myself standing,
thinking, moving.

"What do you want to do,
Macey?" I asked.

"I
want … I want to not be watched all the time," she said. "I don't
want to be looked at by the people in town. I don't want to be looked at by my
parents. I just don't want to be"—she turned her gaze toward
me—"looked at."

When
you look like Macey McHenry, the urge to disappear might sound crazy. But not
if you're a teenage girl. Not if you've been on the cover of every magazine in
America in the last six months. And not if you're a chameleon.

I
was maybe the one person in the world who could understand, and maybe that's
why she told me.

And maybe that's why I said,
"Come on."

Did I know it was against the
rules? Yes.

Did I think it was foolish?
Absolutely.

Did
I think it was worth it? Honestly? Yeah, I guess I did.

Sometimes
I wonder what makes me the Chameleon— why I like to hide and blend, why I'd rather
be unseen than noticed. But as Macey and I walked down the basement hallway, I
knew that being invisible was not without its appeal.

After
all, it had taken ninety minutes, but Macey McHenry had been successfully made
under (not over), and now we were ready for the outside world. I glanced at the
girl beside me. Her trademark blue eyes were hidden behind brown contacts and
thick glasses. We'd added a faint trace of freckles across her pale nose. Her
glossy black hair was tucked up under a curly red wig, and I knew that's all
anyone who glanced at her would remember: big red hair and glasses.

I
reached for the old Gallagher family tapestry that hung against the stone wall,
then looked at the girl I hardly recognized, and said, "You sure?"

She
reached for the small crest that was inset into the stone and twisted the
sword, triggering the release of one of my favorite secret passageways.
"You bet."

Roseville
always struck me as the kind of place where nothing ever really changes, but
that night, lights burned in the distance, and a bright iridescent glow grew
from the horizon as Macey and I walked into town. There was a sound, too, that
came and went, a low rumbling, like a river. All around us, people were
hurrying from restaurants, carrying big armloads of blankets
across
the
square,
streaming toward the
light.

"What
do you want to do?" I turned to Macey. She was looking at a reflection in
a store window of two girls. To the citizens of Roseville they probably looked
like ordinary girls. People passed them by without a second look. The redhead
in the glass was no one of consequence. She was unnoticed and unseen.

She was like me.

And
she was loving every second of it as she said, "We follow them."

Okay,
as a pavement artist, it wasn't the toughest tail I'd ever encountered. The
lights were strong and growing brighter. Dozens of people were walking in the
same direction, down the side streets that led from the square.

A pair of men were passing,
arguing.

"McHenry,"
one of the men spat at the other. "He's no better than the others."

I
looked at Macey, expecting to see some sort of reaction in her eyes, but her
expression was as indifferent as someone would expect a sixteen-year-old girl's
to be.

"I
don't care if he does have ties to Roseville!" one of the men protested.

"You
mean his daughter being up at the school?" the other man asked.

And
then Macey did something I'll never forget. She bumped into the man, actually
made physical contact, and looked him in the eye. I held my breath for a second
as Macey McHenry—the very girl he was talking about—stared at him with her
contact-colored eyes and said, "Excuse me."

"No,
pardon me, young lady," the guy said, and then he turned back to his
friend. He kept walking toward the lights.

I
knew we were breaking a promise to my mother, and that we were taking a
terrible risk. But the look on Macey's face right then made it all okay.

Then
we turned a corner, and I saw the rows of glowing orbs, the waving American
flag, and I heard the roaring sound for what it was. Not a river…

Football.

The
Roseville football stadium was on the far side of town, nestled against the
tall hills that rose from the valley just fifty yards behind me. In the
distance, the band started playing. The sound echoed through the hills. The
cheering crowd grew louder as we walked toward the chain-link fence, joining
the stream of people that flowed inside the gates. Steel beams framed the
stands. Specks of dust and debris would fall sometimes like a faint snowfall as
we stood beneath the bleachers, staring out onto the field. There were
uniformed officials holding big orange markers. A coach paced back and forth,
yelling orders no one seemed to hear. Cheerleaders moved in perfect unison,
their red pleated skirts flipping as they yelled and kicked. And behind them
sat a small stage with five girls in crowns and fancy dresses.

"Oh
my gosh," Macey said, pointing to the girl in the center who wore a white
dress and a tiara. She sounded as overwhelmed as I felt.

"I
think maybe she's their queen," I guessed, because, honestly, we were in
completely foreign territory!

Spies
have to be comfortable in all kinds of social situations, but I don't think
I'd ever been anywhere where some people were wearing tiaras and others were
wearing sweatshirts. I mean, I'd watched football on TV with Grandpa Morgan,
but never once had I seen any girls in formal wear!

A
track circled around the football field. On the other side lay the opposing
stands, the opposing team. Macey and I started walking in that direction, past
the concession stand, and ran right into Tina Walters.

"Excuse
me," Tina said, stumbling a little. And then she looked at Macey. She
looked at me. She opened her mouth to speak, but then, just as quickly, she
shook her head as if dismissing some crazy thought.

"Ummm…sorry." I grabbed
Macey and bolted away.

Macey
looked at me, her contact-colored eyes wide as we both silently mouthed,
Pop quiz!

Near
the bathrooms we saw Eva Alvarez posing as a member of the other team's flag
corps and talking to a middle-aged woman wearing an I [heart] #32 corsage that
was as large as her head.

I
heard Courtney Bauer's laughter from under the stands. Now I know, technically
speaking, that a crowd full of Gallagher Girls is supposed to make me feel
safe, but right then they weren't backup—they were highly trained operatives
who could blow our cover at any time.

Macey
and I stayed calm and kept walking, taking in the sights and sounds, until
suddenly things felt…different. Again. I sensed the Gallagher Girls in the
crowd, but also…something else. The game must have been going well for
Roseville, because the home crowd was cheering; but for some reason I found
myself thinking about another day and another crowd. But this time I didn't
think I was crazy as my mind flashed back to Washington, D.C. This time, I knew
what I was looking for.

"He's
here," I muttered as my gaze swept over the crowd, no longer seeing
football fans and cheerleaders, band members and aging former jocks.

"What?" Macey asked
over the roar of the crowd.

"Zach," I whispered
back.

"I
don't
know
why he
didn't kiss you!" Macey said with an exasperated sigh, as if she totally
wasn't in the mood to debrief again.

"No." I shook my head.
"He's
here."

And
that got my roommate's attention. "How do you know?" she asked, turning
to take in the crowd. "Is it a pavement artist thing?"

"No," I said.
"It's a girl thing."

Macey
nodded as if she knew exactly what I was feeling. She scanned the bleachers.
"Maybe Blackthorne is here for a CoveOps exercise too?" she offered,
but I shook my head. "Ooh! Solomon alert!" Macey said then, coming
even more alive.

Our
teacher was by the flagpole. Our teacher was looking our way. It would have
been easy to spin around, to try to hide. But luckily Macey stayed with me,
quiet and still, as Joe Solomon's gaze passed over us.

Maybe
it was instinct or training that made me freeze. Or maybe it was the sight of
the boy standing forty feet behind my teacher, in the middle of the track,
staring right at me.

Being
recognized during a covert operation is bad. We're talking democracy (not to
mention life) as you know it may cease to exist…bad. Enemy agents might try to
kill you. Friends who don't have a clue that you're posing as a United Nations
translator and using the name Tiffany St. James might totally blow your cover.
But until that moment,

I
didn't realize just how dangerous it is to be recognized by…

Your ex-boyfriend.

"Isn't
that.,." Macey started, but I couldn't wait for her to finish.

"Josh."

My
mind raced with all the reasons I shouldn't panic. After all, it was homecoming
and it seemed like the entire town of Roseville had come out for the show. And
not only that, but at that moment I looked more like Macey than like me as I
stood there in my long black wig and blue contacts, and jeans that the real me
would never wear for fun on a Friday night. But the hope I clung to the
hardest, as I stood twenty feet away from my first boyfriend, was simple: I was
still the girl nobody sees.

But
there had always been one exception to that rule. And he was standing right in
front of me.

"Has
he…filled out a little?" Macey asked, squinting her eyes to see better
through her fake glasses. "He seems…hotter," she added, as if she
totally approved.

I
wanted to say no. I wanted to pretend it didn't matter. But when he turned and
started walking away from us, I did what any spy (not to mention ex-girlfriend)
would do: I followed him.

I
should have waited for Macey, but instead I found myself pushing through the
marching band, which was lining up to take the field at halftime. I headed
after the boy who was walking freely through the crowd—not hiding. No disguise.
I marveled at the fact that there are boys in the world who are exactly what
they seem.

From
a pavement artist standpoint, following a boy like Josh Abrams is about as easy
as it gets. After all, he's untrained, unaware, and utterly unconcerned about
the
Essentials
of Elementary Countersurveillance
(my favorite book when I was seven). And yet, something about that mission was
harder than anything I'd done in a long time. Maybe it was the fact that I was
on totally unfamiliar ground. Maybe it was the way the crowds crushed around
me, making it difficult to follow against the current. Or maybe it was the
sight of another boy who had come from nowhere and now stood blocking my path.

"What
are you doing here, Gallagher Girl?" Zach's voice was low but strong. He
gripped my forearm and ushered me out of the way of a convertible that was
driving the freshman homecoming attendant around the track.

"CoveOps assignment," I
lied. "You?"

"I
thought you weren't supposed to leave school," he told me.

"Yeah,
because you're so into sticking around campus these days. Seriously, Zach, do
you ever stay at Blackthorne?"

But
he didn't answer (which, Macey tells me, is a typical reaction for both boys
and spies, so I don't know which he was being then).

"I
had a feeling you might try something like this." It sounded like the most
truthful thing he'd said to me in ages.

"Just
tell me …" Zach started, and for the first time his anger seemed to fade.
"Just tell me you didn't do this to see Jimmy."

"Josh,"
I corrected Zach for about the millionth time, but he didn't smile, and somehow
I knew that the joke was long since over. "No," I said, meaning it.
"I'm just…here."

I
didn't look for him, but somehow I knew that Josh was standing with a group of
friends ten feet away. Zach was right in front of me. There I was, caught
between two boys who couldn't have been more different. If I'd been another
girl with another cover, I don't know what I would have done; but right then,
only one thing mattered.