"That's Mr. Solomon, Macey," I said, starting for the bathroom because, well, I didn't want to cry in front of my friends. And one of the advantages of the face-washing process is that you have an excuse for squinting your eyes and looking away.
"Not Mr. Solomon," Macey said. "The other guy. Is he Blackthorne?"
"No, Macey," Bex said, saving me the trouble. I glanced in the bathroom mirror and saw Bex turn from the screen and catch my eye in the glass. "That's Cam's dad."
We study a lot of dangerous stuff at the Gallagher Academy, but there are some things so feared that they're never, ever mentioned. Everyone knows my dad was in the CIA. That he went on a mission and never came home. Now there's an empty grave in the family plot in Nebraska. Everyone knows, but no one ever asks to hear the story. And that night, Macey was no different.
I splashed cold water on my face and flossed my teeth, clinging to my routine—to normal. I might have stayed in there, flossing forever, if I hadn't heard Liz say, "Oh. My. Gosh."
In the mirror I saw her staring at the picture on the screen with the eyes of a scientist, taking in every detail of the faces of the two boys.
"Cam," Liz called, without taking her eyes from the screen. "You've got to look at this!"
I moved from teeth-flossing to face-moisturizing— anything to stay busy. "I've seen it already," I told her.
"No, Cam," Liz said, pointing at the bright screen in the dim room. "Look! Look at his shirt! Mr. Solomon's T-shirt!"
But she didn't have to finish, because there…magnified—enhanced—I saw what I hadn't noticed in my mother's office. I read the words BLACKTHORNE INSTITUTE FOR BOYS.
"It's a school," Macey said slowly.
"A boys' school!" Liz cried.
I looked at the picture and said what everyone else was thinking. "For spies?"
Chapter Six
I've always heard that the hardest thing for a spy isn't knowing things—it's acting like you don't know things you're not supposed to know. But I'd never really appreciated the difference until then. Looking at Mr. Solomon was hard, talking to my mom was impossible, and the whole next day felt like a dream. A very weird there's-a-boys'-school-for-spies-that-nobody-ever-told-me-about nightmare.
Blackthorne was a school! That Mr. Solomon had gone to! A school where they make more Mr. Solomons! It was officially the strangest day of my entire covert life. (And that includes the time Dr. Fibs's lab was temporarily gravity-free.)
I told myself that maybe it was just coincidence that Tina Walters had been swearing for years that there was a boys' school in Maine. After all, Tina also swore that Gillian Gallagher was a direct descendant of Joan of Arc. Tina swears a lot of things. Tina is frequently wrong.
But by the time Professor Buckingham took the podium and announced, "Today we will be reviewing the origins of the clandestine services, beginning with the Montevellian Theory of Operative Development," I knew I wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon.
I love Professor Buckingham. She's cool and strong and the most amazing role model, but her teaching style could probably best be described as … well…boring.
"Since its publication more than two thousand years ago, The Art of War has been the definitive thesis in warfare and deception …" she read from her notes as warm sunlight drifted through the windows and lunch grew heavy in my stomach. Her voice was soothing, like white noise, and my eyelids felt like they weighed about a ton, since, for obvious reasons, there hadn't been a whole lot of sleeping in our room the night before.
(Have I mentioned that we had evidence that strongly suggested there is a boys' school? For spies!)
But was Professor Buckingham filling us in about our long-lost band of potential brothers? No. She was talking about the 1947 Council of Covert Operatives, which, let me tell you, isn't nearly as interesting as it sounds.
Then Buckingham stopped talking. The sudden silence jolted me awake as my teacher looked over the top of her reading glasses. "Yes, Ms. McHenry?"
And then, maybe for the first time that semester, Patricia Buckingham had our full attention.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Macey said. "I was only wondering— and I'm sorry if everyone else already knows this—I'm still a little new, you know."
"That is fine, Ms. McHenry," Buckingham said. "What is your question?"
"Well, I was just wondering if there are other schools." Macey paused. She seemed to study our teacher a moment before adding, "Like the Gallagher Academy."
Liz almost fell out of her chair. Tina's eyes got really, really big, and I'm pretty sure the entire sophomore class stopped breathing.
"I mean," Macey went on, "is this the only school of its kind, or are there—"
"There is only one Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, Ms. McHenry," Buckingham said, throwing her shoulders back. "It is the finest institution of its kind in the world."