"No," I said. "This won't work. He's a spy. He'll figure out that I'm…spying."
"It's perfect, and no he won't," Macey said. She placed a lip brush in her mouth and circled me, surveying what she saw.
"But shouldn't I look…better?"
"Cam, he's seen you in P&E," Bex said, obviously referring to my tendency to be, shall we say, perspiration-challenged.
"And he's seen you totally dressed up," Liz added.
"What he hasn't seen," said Macey, positioning me in front of the mirror, "is casual Cammie."
I felt like Barbie's less-than-perfect friend.
"Everything about tonight has to seem normal, Cam," Bex warned, not seeing the irony in the amount of effort it took to achieve the look of utter effortlessness.
"She's right," Macey said. "Guys are like dogs—they can always tell when you're needy."
"Just remember your cover," Liz said, handing me my backpack.
"And remember to let him lead the conversation—see what he'll give you before you know what you'll have to take," Bex said, quoting one of Mr. Solomon's best lectures.
"Right," I said, reminding myself that we were just going to be in the library. What kind of terrible things could happen in the library, for crying out loud?
"And, Cam," Macey called after me. "Be yourself."
No matter where I went that semester, I couldn't get away from those words: be yourself. But I could never be all of myself, especially then, because a solid twenty percent of me wanted to spike Zach's morning orange juice with truth serum and be done with it. (Actually, that was Bex's idea, but we were saving it for an emergency.)
As I walked down the Grand Stairs I reminded myself that I shouldn't be nervous. I'd been on dates before—both real and of the study variety. And studying with Zach—not Josh—meant I wouldn't even have to hide the fact that I was doing PhD-level physics in the tenth grade. But as I entered the library and looked around for Zach, I couldn't fight the feeling that "myself was one cover legend I didn't quite know how to be.
"Hello, Gallagher Girl." He'd claimed a table in the back of the library. The VERY back.
18:00 hours: The Operative met The Subject in a suspiciously-remote location, indicating that he may have had more "date" and less "study" on his mind. —Analysis by Macey McHenry
Books covered the table. His school jacket hung over the back of his chair.
I sat down across from him. "So," I said, feeling my voice crack, "what should we start on?"
"I don't know," he said, but I got the distinct impression that he did know. A lot of things. Because, for starters, it was my scientific opinion that Zach was one of those people who used his intelligence to make sure no one knew exactly how intelligent he was (a tendency Macey tells me is common among boys with really sexy arms).
18:02 hours: The Operative became overwhelmed by the complete and utter silence at the table.
"Zach," I said, just to make sure my voice was still working. He looked at me. "So, I was thinking we could look at the impact of propaganda in third world economies?"
"That's what you were thinking?"
"Yes," I said, but he kept looking at me … I mean really looking at me. I wanted to be Tiffany St. James (even if it meant wearing the strapless dress). I wanted to be a homeschooled girl with a cat named Suzie. I wanted to be anyone but myself as I sat there feeling completely out of cover.
"So …" I tried again. "I guess we should outline the report and maybe summarize our notes and—"
"Gallagher Girl," Zach said, not waiting for me to finish a sentence that didn't have an end. "Is there something you want to ask me?"
"No," I lied, and then we both went back to our books.
18:14 hours: The Operative began to realize that the study date might actually consist of studying.
How long does it take for two people to find a comfortable silence? I don't know. One time I drove all the way to Omaha and back with Grandpa Morgan, and he hardly said ten words. My dad and I used to spend Sundays on the living room floor, trading sections of the newspaper, and there was no noise except for the sound of turning pages. But sitting there—with Zach—was different.
"So—" I started, before realizing I had no earthly idea what was supposed to come next.
He raised his eyebrows but not his head, and studied me with upturned eyes. "So …" his word dragged out longer than mine, filling that terrible void of noise.
"So what do you think of the Gallagher Academy?" He tried to laugh, then seemed to think better of it at the last minute. "Oh. It's swell."
The Operative noticed that The Subject's use of the adjective "swell" was either intentional sarcasm or regional slang and noted to check it against the Gallagher Academy database.
I went back to my notebooks but couldn't read a single word. I used to think talking to a normal boy was hard. Turns out it's nothing compared to talking to a highly trained boy-spy who may or may not have been bred and raised by the U.S. Government.
I was just starting to consider aborting the mission altogether when two eighth grade girls came running out of the stacks and stopped short, staring at me and Zach. Then they turned and dashed away, their giggles and whispers floating to me through the aisle.
"You handled that pretty well," Zach said with a subtle nod toward the gossip I inspired.
"Well, I've had some practice, I guess. Besides, sticks and stones," I said, and it was true. For a spy, it takes a lot more than giggles to hurt you.