"Then why are you smiling?" Liz's voice went up and entire octave, but I just looked at her - thought about a folder on a metal table and eyes that looked like they'd seen everything.
"I think he knows things."
Chapter Twelve
Covert Operatives Report
When Operatives Morgan, McHenry, Baxter, and Sutton (hereafter referred to as The Operatives) returned to the Gallagher Academy for the spring semester of their junior year, they were faced with an absent mother-slash-headmistress, a fugitive former teacher, and a tall, dark, and cocky new faculty member who, presumably, knew far more than he was saying.
The operatives were resolved to make him say.
The first day of the semester started as semesters often do.
Mr. Smith gave a really good pop quiz on the world's most unstable political regimes and the top five ways to undermine each. By midmorning Madame Dabney was passing out place cards and instructing us to prepare a seating chart for a state dinner that includes two ambassadors, five senators, and three rogue operatives who may be selling nuclear technology to the highest bidder.
But walking out of Madame Dabney's tearoom that Monday morning, I couldn't help but remember that nothing would ever be "typical" again.
"That's it. It's official!" Tina Walters whispered to me. "Joe Solomon is in deep."
I shot an anxious glance at Bex, but Tine went slowly, savoring every word.
"According to my sources, he hasn't been farmed out to any cooperating agencies. He's not listed on the in-action list. And he's not exactly the type for official cover operatives, so wherever he is . . . our teacher is in deep, deep cover."
The entire junior class, and I recognized the look that was spreading through the narrow hall. If possible, Joe Solomon had just gotten cooler. And hotter.
"I bet he and your mom are on some super-secret and dangerous mission, Cam,"
Courtney Bauer guessed as we emerged into the main corridor on the second floor.
"Yeah." Anna Fetterman's voice had taken on a dreamy quality. "I bet your mom and Mr.
Solomon are going to find them. I bet . . ."
Anna went on, but I tuned out, barely registering the sounds of my school - slamming doors and running girls. I looked into center of the foyer below, where a half dozen teachers stood huddled together in a way I'd never seen before.
"Cam?" Anna asked. "Are you okay?"
One by one the teaches in the foyer began to break away and start down the halls or up the stairs.
"Cam?" Anna asked, her voice higher.
"Sorry, Anna," I muttered. "I've . . . got to go."
Professor Buckingham was already at the top of the Grand Staircase, walking toward the Hall of History, when I cried, "Professor? Professor Buckingham!"
"Yes, Cameron?" She didn't snap the words, but they sounded weary. She seemed tired as she stood beside the sword that had belonged to Ioseph Cavan. "Is there something I can help you with?"
I wanted to know why my mother's door was closed to everyone, even me. I wanted to ask how it could all be true about Mr. Solomon - how it could be true at all. But there was only one thing that I knew it was okay to ask.
"It's spring," I said.
"It is?" Professor Buckingham glanced out a window streaked with freezing rain.
"I mean, it's the spring semester. You said last fall that you might be able to teach me about the Circle of Cavan in the spring. And . . . it's spring."
All around us, girls were filing into classrooms, rushing out the front doors to P&E. the halls were growing quiet. School was back in session - life was back to normal. But behind Patricia Buckingham, my mother's office door stayed closed.
"Junior year curriculum is very challenging, Cameron dear," she said.