So I really wish people would get it straight: Mr. Solomon did not build the triggers that would destroy the subs!
He's just the one that turned them on.
Or at least that's Zach told us.
And that . . . Yeah, that was the problem.
"What's wrong?" Liz asked, despite the fact that, at the front of the room, Dr. Fibs and Madame Dabney were in the midst of an incredibly interesting joint lecture on secret writing techniques (and why a Gallagher Girl should really learn how to make her own invisibility ink and do calligraphy).
"Is the sensors on the elevator shafts?" she guessed.
I shook my head.
"The two-second delay before the anti-invasion protocols kick in and we get . . .
smushed?"
"Oh my!" Dr. Fibs cried. I looked up to see that he had accidentally spilled his latest invisibility concoction over Madame Dabney, and that her white blouse was becoming more and more invisible by the second.
"I know what you're thinking, Cam," Liz went on. "We've been looking for a way into . . .
you know where . . . for weeks and we aren't any closer. But that's not true!"
At the front of the room, Madame Dabney (who, by the way, wears way sexier bras than anyone would have guessed) started dabbing at the front of her blouse with an antique tablecloth, and Dr. Fibs reached for a lighter.
"Now, remember, girls, the ink becomes visible again when exposed to heat!" Dr. Fibs yelled as he flicked the lighter on and the tablecloth went up in flames in Madame Dabney's hands.
"We have an entry strategy and an exit strategy and . . . we have a lot of strategies!" Liz said, her eyes wide, and right then I knew that a part of Liz didn't care that Zach and Mr.
Solomon had asked us to do something that no one had ever done in a hundred and fifty years. To Liz, it was just a puzzle, a test. And Liz is very, very good at tests.
"Yeah, Cam," she said again as soon as the smoke cleared (literally) and we were gathering our things and leaving class. "We'll figure it out."
"Figure out what?" Bex asked, falling into step beside us.
"Nothing," I whispered.
"Wrong answer," Bex said, leaning closer, her voice barely audible through the cascade of girls that filled the halls. "Now what's wrong?"
"Zach," Macey guessed with a shrug. She eyed me. "It's got to be Zach, right?"
"So the subs' next generation cameras with the 360 degree range and heat-sensitive triggers aren't bothering you?" Liz asked. I couldn't tell if she was mocking me or not.
"There's something he's not telling us," I whispered.
"Like what?" Bex asked, interested again.
Like what's so important about this journal? Like why didn't man in D.C. shoot him and kidnap me when he had the chance? At least filled my mind, but the halls were crowded, and there was only one thing I dared to say.
"There's just . . . something."
"He's a guy, Cam." Macey pushed past me and led the way down the hall. "And a spy.
He's a guy spy. There's always going to be something he's not telling."
"He fought with us - in D.C.," Liz said. There was no doubt in her voice, no fear. "I know you couldn't see, Cam. I know they drugged you and banged your head and all. But he and Mr. Solomon fought with us," Liz said one final time, and then turned and ran toward Mr. Mosckowitz's classroom.
I turned to Macey.