"Yeah." I nodded. And then things got quiet—painfully quiet. "I'm waiting on my mom," I blurted, finally remembering my cover story. "She takes a class at night … at the library." I gestured to the red brick building across the square. "And I like to come into town with her because I don't get out much, thanks to my nontraditional education."
The Subject has really blue eyes that twinkle when he looks at someone like she's maybe a little bit insane.
After a long stretch of really awkward silence, he stood up and said, "I gotta go." I wanted to beg him not to leave, but even I knew that might come off as a tad bit desperate. He stepped away, and I didn't know how to stop him (well, I did, but several of the moves I had in mind are really only legal during times of war).
"Hey," he said, "what's your last name?"
"Solomon," I blurted.
Ew! A large portion of my future government salary will someday be spent trying to understand why I chose that name at this moment, but it was out there and I couldn't take it back.
"Are you, like, in the book?"
The book? What book?
He laughed and stepped closer. "Can I call you?" he asked, reading the confusion on my face.
Josh was asking if he could call me! He wanted my phone number! What it meant—truly and irrevocably meant—I didn't know. But I felt very safe in ruling out the possibility that he thought I was "nobody." Still, that didn't change the fact that the last phone I used doubles as a stun gun (so for obvious reasons I probably shouldn't give him the number of that one).
I said, "No." But then the most amazing thing happened: Josh looked totally sad! It was as if I'd run over his puppy (though no actual puppies were harmed in the formation of that metaphor).
I was shocked. I was amazed. I was drunk on power!
"No!" I said again. "Not, 'no you can't call me.' I meant, 'no, you can't call me.'" Then, seeing his confusion, I added, "There are strict rules at my house." Not a lie.
He nodded, faking understanding, then asked, "What about e-mail?"
I shook my head.
"I see."
"I'll be back here tomorrow," I blurted, stopping him in his tracks. "My mom, she has class again. I'll…"
"Okay." He nodded, then turned to go. "Maybe I'll see you around."
"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I yelled at Macey, though it wasn't her fault. I mean, if a boy gets all gooey and disappointed because you won't give him your phone number and then you tell him you will be at a designated place at a designated time—therein eliminating the need for a phone number—and he says "maybe" he'll see you there? That's cause to yell—isn't it?
"Maybe?" I yelled again, which might have been overkill since I'd had the whole walk back to school to simmer in his words, and my roommates were hearing them for the first time.
Liz was wearing the same expression she gets whenever Dr. Fibs tells us we'll be needing our gas masks for class— equal parts fear and euphoria. Macey was doing her nails, and Bex was doing yoga in the corner of the room.
Most people are supposed to get calmer with deep breathing and inner reflection—not Bex. "I could take him out," she offered, and if she hadn't been twisted up like a pretzel at the time, I might have worried more about it. After all, she knew where he lived.
"Well…" Liz stammered. "I supposed you'll just have to go, and then if he shows, it means he likes you."
"Wrong," Macey said, making a buzzer sound as she flipped through a textbook. "If he comes, it means he's curious—or bored—but probably curious."
"But when will we know if he likes her?" Liz pleaded.
Macey rolled her big, blue, beautiful eyes. "That's not the question," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The question is—how much?"
Is there no end to the things we have to learn?
Chapter Fifteen
Spy training isn't something you can turn off and on. We eat, sleep, and breathe this stuff. It has become as much a part of my DNA as lackluster hair and a weakness for peanut M&M's. I know that probably goes without saying, but before I tell you what came next, I thought I'd better point it out.
After all, imagine if you were a fifteen-year-old girl standing alone on a deserted street on a dark night, preparing for a clandestine meeting, when, all of a sudden you can't see anything because a pair of hands are covering your eyes. One second you're standing there, being grateful that you'd remembered to pack a candy bar, and then…POW…everything goes black.