At that minute Josh and DeeDee were probably dancing in a gymnasium full of streamers, but I was in the Grand Hall of a mansion. I bet the Roseville Spring Fling had a DJ—maybe a local band—but I was listening to Mozart performed by four members of the New York Philharmonic (because that's their cover and all). I wondered when I would start feeling like Tiffany St. James, assistant to the undersecretary of the Interior, and stop feeling like a girl in a dress she totally couldn't pull off. (Also, I was seriously hoping Dr. Steve wouldn't ask me to join him for the tango.)
Courtney Bauer's legend said that she was the princess of a small European country, so every few minutes her royal highness would insist on dancing with Grant, who was supposed to be an infamous playboy who owed a great deal of money to the Russian mob, and therefore was hiding from Kim Lee, who was supposed to be the illegitimate daughter of a Russian mobster. (Which was quite unfortunate for Kim, because I know for a fact she'd been looking forward to dancing with Grant all week.)
I wondered if all dances have this kind of drama—if there's always this much riding on who gets to dance with whom.
On the dance floor, Bex was doing the tango with the security guard who always had a mouthful of bubble gum. An eighth grade boy had cornered Macey by the punch bowl and was trying to act all mature, saying, "So, do you want to go somewhere more private?"
"That depends, do you want to keep that hand?" Macey replied.
Every few minutes, Mr. Solomon would stop someone and ask something like, "There are four men in the room wearing handkerchiefs, name them." So I stayed on my toes—watching, listening. That's why I couldn't really help but notice that Zach was dancing with everyone. A lot. Even my mom (who was undercover as the First Lady of France).
I felt myself sinking further into the shadows of the party until I heard someone cry, "Tiffany, there you are!" Another of our teachers, Mr. Mosckowitz, came rushing toward me. But Mr. M. is pretty new to the whole undercover thing, so he leaned toward me and said, "Cammie, I'm supposed to be your boss. I'm the undersecretary of the—"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," I said, before he got us both in trouble.
Madame Dabney strolled by with a clipboard. "Addresses undersecretary of Interior as Mr. Secretary—check."
I resisted the temptation to tell him that his fake mustache was an excellent touch. Mr. Mosckowitz smiled, and I remembered that he had spent most of his life locked up in the basement of the NSA, cracking codes, and even the world's foremost authority on data encryption probably likes being somebody else sometimes.
"I say, Tiffany, did you get those memos I sent over?" he asked, trying to sound all bosslike—and it might have worked if he hadn't had some caviar stuck in his mustache.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I did." I felt myself becoming Tiffany St. James, which, at the moment, was a whole lot better than being me—especially when Mr. Mosckowitz asked, "So tell me, Tiffany, are you enjoying the party?"
"Tiffany is the life of the party," another voice chimed in.
That wasn't true—at all—but I couldn't exactly say so, because Zach was coming toward us, a glass in each hand.
"Excuse me, Mr. Secretary," Zach said, offering Mr. Mosckowitz a glass, "but I believe this is your drink."
Mr. Mosckowitz twirled his fake mustache until it came off, then quickly stuck it back on. "Oh yes. It is!" He took the glass and leaned in to me. "It is my drink, isn't it?"
"Yes," I whispered back.
"Thank you, my good man," Mr. Mosckowitz said to Zach, and I couldn't help but notice that the undersecretary had spontaneously become British. "Good show!"
Through the twinkling lights of the party I saw my mother standing next to a far wall. I wanted to smile and wave, but Tiffany St. James didn't know that beautiful woman. And something made me stand up straighter, listen harder, and wish we'd already covered lip-reading in CoveOps, because even though two dozen dancing couples stood between us, both the spy and the girl in me knew my mom was worried about something.
"Isn't that right, Tiffany?" Mr. Mosckowitz asked, and it took me a half second to remember that he was talking to me.
"I wonder, Mr. Secretary," Zach was saying to Mr. Mosckowitz, "would you mind if I borrowed Tiffany for a moment?"
"Not at all," Mr. Mosckowitz said, even though Tiffany … I mean, I … might have minded a great deal.
"They're playing our song." Zach put his drink on a passing tray, took my arm smoothly, and pulled me onto the floor.
The bad part about being in deep cover is that you have to like what your legend likes, eat what she eats. Since Tiffany St. James did, in fact, like dancing, there was no room to argue. I had to dance with Zach Goode (after all, a Gallagher Girl always has to be prepared to sacrifice for her country).
In my (very uncomfortable) heels, my eyes reached Zach at about neck level. His hand felt broad on my back, and he smelled, well, different from Dr. Steve. (But in a really good way.)
"You know the undersecretary," Mr. Mosckowitz was saying to Anna Fetterman as we danced past, "is really directly under…the secretary. So really I'm just like the secretary, but …"
"Under?" Anna guessed, but I think Mr. Mosckowitz kind of missed the point, because he smiled.
"So tell me, Tiffany St. James," Zach said. "What does a girl like you do for fun?"
"I didn't tell you my name was Tiffany St. James," I said, hoping to catch him in a mistake. "How did you know?"
"Oh," he said, cocking an eyebrow, sounding exactly like the charming and debonair international art thief he was supposed to be. "I always make it a point to know the names of"—he cinched me tighter—"beautiful women."