"Cammie's new in town."
Okay, this is why it's always best to have backup. Josh totally saved me, because I was seriously starting to finger the ketchup bottle about then.
"Oh," she said. Even though Macey McHenry herself had done my makeup, I felt completely covered with boils as I sat there. She helped herself to another fry, but didn't look at me when she said, "Hi."
"DeeDee and I have known each other for forever," Josh said, and DeeDee blushed.
Two of the girls from the mob put some money in the jukebox and soon a song I'd never heard was echoing throughout the diner, causing the boy who was sliding into the booth next to me to yell when he said, "Yeah, she's just one of the boys." He thrust a hand in my direction.
"Hey, I'm Dillon."
THIS is Dillon? My superspy instincts were taken aback as I studied the small boy who was supposedly "D'Man." (Note to self: don't believe everything you read when hacking into the DMV, because short boys will totally lie about their height when applying for their learners' permits.) It took a second for me to recognize him and realize he'd been the boy with Josh in the street—the one who'd been told I was nobody.
Somehow I managed to say, "Hi. I'm Cammie."
Dillon was nodding his head slowly as he eyed me and said, "So this is the mystery woman." DeeDee instantly stopped chewing on her fry. "So she exists!" Dillon exclaimed. "You have to forgive my friend here," Dillon said as he slid one arm around my shoulders. "He's not the most outgoing of hosts, so if I can do anything to help you feel at home here, consider me at your disposal."
Dillon's arm was still around me, so I was feeling pretty grateful for all those P&E classes when Josh reached across the table and punched Dillon in the shoulder.
"What?" Dillon cried. "I'm just being hospitable."
If that was hospitable then Madame Dabney really needed to update her curriculum.
"Well, Cammie," Dillon went on, unfazed, "please allow me to say that I can see why doofus here's been keeping you to himself."
Dillon reached for a fry, but this time Josh moved the plate away and said, "Well, thanks for stopping by. Don't let us keep you." And then Josh tried to kick Dillon under the table, but he missed and hit me, but it's not like I screamed or anything. (I've totally been kicked harder.)
"Are you kidding?" Dillon asked, elbows-on-table as he lowered his voice, forcing us all to huddle around his conspiracy. "We're gonna go climb the wall and moon some rich girls later. Wanna come?"
The wall? OUR wall? I wondered in disbelief. Is it possible I've been routinely mooned for the past three years and didn't know it? Has Josh's very own backside been exposed (and possibly photographed by the security department) without my knowledge?
(Note to self: find those photographs.)
I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Josh leaned closer and said, "The Gallagher Academy?" as if wondering whether or not I'd heard of the place. "It's a really snooty boarding school. The girls there are all rich delinquents or something."
I wanted to jump to our defense. I wanted to proclaim that you shouldn't judge someone until you've walked a mile through an underground tunnel in her uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to tell them everything they owed to the Gallagher Girls who had gone before me, but I couldn't. Sometimes spies can only nod and say, "Oh, really?"
"What?" Dillon said. "You don't, like, go there?" he asked, then laughed so loudly that everyone in the restaurant turned to stare.
I studied Dillon and wondered how long it would take me to hack into the IRS—I bet, by December, Uncle Sam could be repossessing everything his family owned. "I'm homeschooled," I said, while silently chanting, And I have a cat named Suzie, and my dad's an engineer, and I love mint chocolate cookie ice cream.
"Yeah," Dillon said. "I forgot. You know that's kinda weird, don't you?"
But before I could defend myself, DeeDee said, "I think that's really nice." Making it infinitely more difficult to hate her.
"So, what do you say?" Dillon asked, turning back to Josh. He sounded almost giddy, and can I just say, giddy is not an expression that most boys wear well. "Wanna TP the grounds or something?"
But Josh didn't answer. Instead, he was pushing DeeDee out of the booth and pulling money out of his wallet. He dropped the bills on the table, then reached for my hand. "You wanna leave, too. Right?" he asked.
Yes! I wanted to cry. I read his face. I knew what he was feeling, and I was feeling it, too. I took his hand, and it was as if he were helping me into another world instead of out of a red-vinyl booth. The two hamburgers lay, barely touched, on the table behind us, but I didn't care.
Dillon got up and let me out, but Josh didn't drop my hand.
WE WERE HOLDING HANDS!
He started pulling me toward the door, but a girl doesn't forget three years of culture training just like that, so I turned to Dillon and DeeDee and muttered, "Bye. It was nice meeting you." Total lie, but one even non-spies tell in polite society, so it probably doesn't count.
Dillon yelled, "Whoa," in the manner of someone who's seen way too many Keanu Reeves movies. "You're missing out, bro. We're gonna mess with some rich chicks!"
Yeah, D'Man, I thought, as Josh opened the door. Why don't you go ahead and try it?
Now, normally, I'm not a huge fan of hand-holding, but that's really just in movies when the hero and the heroine have to run from the bad guys, and they do it while holding hands, which is just crazy. No one can run as fast when they're holding someone else's hand. (A fact I once verified in a P&E experiment.)