Translation: WE'RE IN!! (Translation done by Cameron Morgan and verified by Macey McHenry.)
We had a place! We had a date—to the movies!
My euphoria lasted from the time I picked up the note and all the way through our customary debrief up in the suite. By the next morning, however, I wasn't thinking like a girl—I was thinking like a spy.
What if movies were the favorite pastime of the guys in the Gallagher Maintenance Department? Or, what if the movie was gross and I got nauseous and puked Milk Duds everywhere?
MILK DUDS! What if I got caramel in my teeth and had to go digging around in a molar or something to get it out? There is simply no attractive way of doing that! What was I going to do—only eat popcorn? But then the same thing could happen with the little kernel pieces!
Oh my gosh! I had an Organic Chemistry test and a Conversational Swahili exam, but both of those things seemed like child's play compared to the dilemma at hand— right up until Macey joined us at our lunch table and said, "Junior Mints."
Junior Mints—of course! Minty chocolate fun with none of the dangerous side effects. I take back everything I ever said about her ever in my life. MACEY McHENRY IS A GENIUS!
Liz was looking at the note, comparing it against the others she'd already run through the lab to see if the chemical composition of the paper or the ink could tell us anything. (It did—he shops at Wal-Mart.)
"Notice how he tilts the M in movie," Liz said, holding the note toward us. "I think I remember reading that this shows a tendency to…"
But a tendency to what, we'd never find out, because just then the sophomore lunch tables went quiet in a way that could only mean one thing.
"Hello, ladies," Joe Solomon said, but not before I snatched the piece of paper and crammed it in my mouth, which ordinarily would have been really great spy maneuvering except that Josh doesn't use Evapopaper.
"How's the lasagna?" Mr. Solomon asked, and I started to say something before I remembered that my mouth was…well… otherwise engaged.
"The Gallagher Academy career fair is this Friday evening," Mr. Solomon said. My roommates and I all looked at each other—the exact same thing crossing our minds— this Friday evening! "Here's a list of agencies and firms that will be represented." He tossed a stack of flyers onto the long table. "Great chance to see what's out there—especially for those of you who won't be joining me in Sublevel Two."
Okay, I admit it. That part made me swallow a little paper.
After Mr. Solomon left, I spat out what was left of Josh's note (which luckily included all of the writing) and stared at it and the shiny flyer, which announced a chance for me to chart the course of the rest of my life. I wasn't hungry anymore.
Career day at spy school is probably like career days at regular schools except…well … we probably have a lot more guests who arrive by rappeling out of black helicopters. (The guys from Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms have always been kinda show-offy.)
The hallways were full of folding tables and cheesy banners, (GO ALL THE WAY WITH THE NSA—who thinks of this stuff?) Every classroom had a scout perched at a back table, watching in amazement as we went through our routines. Even P&E was crawling with spies—literally—as we spread out in the barn and showed off our overall lethal-ness for the recruiters.
"Don't take my head off!" Liz cried.
I wasn't sure if she was talking about the roundhouse kick that had just passed inches from her nose or the fact that Bex was refusing to consider postponing my big date. In any case, I was fairly certain we probably shouldn't be having that conversation in a hayloft full of current and future government agents.
Light cascaded through the skylights. Barn swallows nested in the rafters up above. And ten feet away, Tina Walters was showing an agent from the FBI how we'd learned to kill a man with a piece of uncooked spaghetti.
"Guys!" I snapped.
A whistle blew, telling us it was time to shift positions, so Bex came to stand behind me. As she wrapped her arms around my neck, she whispered in my ear, "Crowded corridors. Tons of people. No one will miss you—not The Chameleon."
I flipped her over my back and glared at her as she lay sprawled on the mat beneath me.
"I think you have to cancel," Liz said as she charged at me. I slid aside and dropped her neatly to the mat next to Bex. She pushed up on her elbows and whispered, "This is an opportunity for the Gallagher Girls of today to decide how they will become the Gallagher Women of tomorrow." (Or so we'd read on the flyer.)
I was just starting to feel in control of the situation, when Bex's leg swung swiftly around, catching me off guard, dropping me to the top of the pile. "Yeah, like Cammie doesn't know what she's going to be when she grows up."
Before I could reply, we saw a man walking toward us, so we scrambled to our feet. He wasn't tall or short; he wasn't handsome or ugly. He was the kind of person you could see a dozen times and never quite remember, and with just one glance I knew he was a pavement artist—I knew he was like me.
"Very nice," the man said. There was no telling how long he'd been in that crowded loft, watching. "You girls are sophomores, is that right?"
There was an extra bounce in Bex's step as she inched toward him. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice full of swagger.
"And you're all studying Covert Operations?" he asked with a sideways glance at Liz, who had somehow gotten her hair tangled in the laces of my shoe.
"Just for this semester," Liz said, sounding totally relieved.