As the optical scanners swept over my face I heard Mr. Mosckowitz ask, "So, hey, Cammie, it was fun. Wasn't it?" And I realized that one of the most brilliant men in the world needed me to verify that he'd had fun.

This place never ceases to amaze me.

Chapter Eight

Sublevel One was dark as I got out of the elevator. I followed the maze of frosted glass through the light of emergency exit signs and the flickering computer screens. I passed a library filled with facts too sensitive for a seventh grader to know. I walked along a balcony that overlooks a massive three-story room the size of a gymnasium that comes complete with movable walls and fake people, so Bex and I call it the dollhouse—it's where spies come to play.

As I got closer to the classroom, the hallway got brighter, and soon I was looking through one wall of illuminated glass at the silhouettes of my classmates. No one was talking. Not Mr. Solomon. Not any of the girls. I crept toward the open door—saw my classmates in their usual seats and Mr. Solomon perched on a low bookcase at the back of the room, his hands gripping the dark wood as he leaned casually back.

I stood there for a long time, not knowing what to do. Finally, I said, "I got the bottle."

But Joe Solomon didn't smile. He didn't say "well done." He didn't even look at me as he leaned against that bookcase, staring at the white tiles on the floor.

"Come in, Ms. Morgan," he said softly. "We've been expecting you."

I headed for my desk on the far side of the room, and then I saw them—the two empty chairs. I searched for the eyes of my classmates, but not one of them looked back.

"They should be back by …" I began, but just then Mr. Solomon picked up a remote control and punched a button, and the room went dark except for a long sliver of light that shone from a projector beside him. I was standing in the center of its path, silhouetted against the image glowing on a screen.

In the picture, Bex was sitting on the wall in front of the Roseville library. Then I heard a click and the image changed. I saw Liz peeking around a tree, which is really bad form, but Mr. Solomon didn't comment. His silence seemed totally worse. Another click. Bex was looking over her shoulder, crossing a street. Click. Liz was next to a funnel-cake stand.

"Ask the question, Ms. Morgan," he said, his voice carrying ominously through the dark room. "Don't you want to know where they are?"

I did want to know, but I was almost afraid to hear the answer. More images flashed on the screen, surveillance photos taken by a well-trained, well-placed team. Bex and Liz hadn't known they were there—I hadn't known they were there—and yet someone had stalked our every step. I felt like prey.

"Ask me why they're not here," Mr. Solomon demanded. I saw his dim outline. His arms were crossed. "You want to be a spy, don't you, Chameleon?" My code name was nothing more than a mockery on his lips. "Now tell me what happens to spies who get made."

No, I thought.

Another click.

Is that Bex? Of course it wasn't—she was with Mr. Smith; she was safe, but I couldn't help but stare at the dark, gritty image on the screen—the bloody, swollen face that stared back at me—and tremble for my friend.

"They won't start with Bex, you know," he went on. "They'll start with Liz."

Another click and then I was looking at a pair of thin arms bound behind a chair and a cascade of bloody blond hair. "These people are very good at what they do. They know Bex can take the punches; what hurts Bex most is listening to her friend scream."

The projector's light was warm as it danced across my skin. He was moving closer. I saw his shadow join mine on the screen.

"And she is screaming—she will be for about six hours, until she becomes so dehydrated she can't form sounds." My gaze was going blurry; my knees were weak. Terror was pounding in my ears so loudly that I barely heard him when he whispered, "And then they start on Bex." Another click. "They have special things in mind for her."

I'm going to be sick, I thought, unable to look him in the eye.

"This is what you're signing up for." He forced me to face the image. "Look at what is happening to your friends!"

"Stop it!" I yelled. "Stop it." And then I dropped the bottle. The neck snapped, shattering, sending shards of glass across the floor.

"You lost two-thirds of your team. Your friends are gone."

"No," I said again. "Stop."

"No, Ms. Morgan, once this starts—it doesn't stop." My face was hot and my eyes were swollen. "It never stops."

And it doesn't. He was right and I knew it all too well.

I sensed, rather than saw, Mr. Solomon turn to the class and ask, "Who wants to be a spy now?"

No one raised a hand. No one spoke. We weren't supposed to.

"Next semester, ladies, Covert Operations will be an optional field of study, but this semester, it's mandatory. No one gets to back out now because they're scared. But you won't ever be as scared as you are right now—not this semester. On that you have my word."

The overhead lights came on, and twelve girls squinted against the sudden glare. Mr. Solomon moved toward the door, but stopped. "And ladies, if you aren't scared right now, we don't want you anyway."

He slid aside a glass partition, revealing Bex and Liz, who sat behind it, unharmed. Then he walked away.

We sat in silence for a long time, listening to his footsteps fade.

Up in our room, we were greeted by a pile of clothes and accessories that had seemed so important at the start of our night—but seemed so insignificant now.

Macey was asleep—or pretending to be—I didn't care. She had a pair of those really expensive Bose sound-eliminating headphones (probably so she wouldn't be kept awake by the sound of air whizzing past her nose ring), so Bex and Liz and I could have talked or screamed. But we didn't.

Even Bex had lost her swagger, and that was maybe the scariest thing of all. I wanted her to crack a joke. I wanted her to reenact everything Smith had said on their long walk home. I wanted Bex to call out for the spotlight so that our room wouldn't be so dark. But instead, we sat in silence until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Guys, I—" I started, needing to say I was sorry, but Bex stopped me.

"You did what I would have done," she said, then looked at Liz.

"Me, too," Liz agreed.

"Yeah, but…" I wanted to say something else, but what, I didn't know.

In her bed, Macey rolled over, but she didn't open her eyes. I looked at the clock and realized it was almost one in the morning.

"Was Smith mad?" I asked after a long time.

Liz was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, so Bex was the one who answered, "I don't think so. He's probably having a good laugh about it now, don't you think?"

"Maybe," I said.

I pulled on my pajamas.

"He said he never even saw you, though," Bex said, as if she'd just remembered.

Liz came in and added, "Yeah, Cammie, he was really impressed when he heard you'd been out there. Like, really impressed."

I felt something cold against my chest, so I reached up to feel the tiny silver cross still dangling around my neck, and I remembered that someone had seen me. Until then, the boy on the street had faded almost completely from my mind.

"So," Liz asked, "what happened with you after we left?"

I fingered the cross, but said, "Nothing."

I don't know why I didn't tell them about Josh. I mean, it should have been significant—a random civilian initiating contact during an operation—that's the kind of thing you totally tell your superiors, let alone your best friends. But I kept it to myself—maybe because I didn't think it mattered, but probably because, in a place where everyone knew my story, it was nice to know there was a chapter that only I had read.

Chapter Nine

Culture and Assimilation isn't like our other classes, so I guess that's why Madame Dabney's tea room isn't like our other classrooms. French silk lines the walls. The lighting fixtures are crystal. Everything in that room is beautiful and refined and reminds us that we don't just have to be spies— we have to be ladies.

Sometimes I hate it and spend hours thinking what a waste it is to teach us things like calligraphy and needlepoint (aside from the obvious coded message usages, of course). But other times I love listening to Madame Dabney as she floats through the room with a monogrammed handkerchief in her hand, talking about what flowers are in season or the history of the waltz.

The day after our first mission was one of those days. I might have blown the mission, but I was still a whiz at setting tables, so I was actually sad to hear Madame Dabney say, "Oh, dear, girls, look at the time." I didn't want to put away the good china. I didn't want to go downstairs and face Mr. Solomon again.

"But before you leave today, girls," Madame Dabney said in an expectant, excited tone that held my attention, "I have an announcement to make!" The sounds of clattering china all but ceased as everyone took Madame Dabney in. "It's time for you to expand your education here at the Gallagher Academy, so…" She adjusted her glasses. "…beginning today after school, I am going to be teaching Driver's Ed!"

Oh my gosh! I'd completely forgotten about Driver's Ed! Sure, we're allowed to toss each other over our shoulders or concoct antidotes for rare poisons for extra credit, but when it comes to tricky stuff like adjusting rearview mirrors and knowing who has the right-of-way at four-way stops, the Gallagher Trustees don't take any chances. Plus, there's that whole discount-on-your-car-insurance thing to consider.

Madame Dabney said, "We'll be going out in groups of four—by suite." She consulted a piece of paper then looked directly toward Liz, Bex, and me. "Beginning with the four of you."

Liz looked at Bex and me, not understanding. "Four?" she whispered, just as a light seemed to dawn, and from the back of the room we heard Macey say, "Sounds like fun."

(Do I really need to say she was being sarcastic?)

That afternoon, we strolled down the steps of the rear portico and toward the motor pool, where an old Ford Taurus was waiting for us, its yellow STUDENT DRIVER triangle gleaming in the sun.

Mom tells me Madame Dabney spent most of her career in deep cover, working the underground Nazi cells that remained active in France after World War II, but at times like this I have a really hard time believing her—especially when the woman in question shows up wearing a Give Safety a Brake! T-shirt.

"Ooooh, girls! This is going to be such a delight!" she said, and then proceeded to do things like point to the brake and say, "That makes the car stop," and the accelerator, "That makes the car go." But the craziest thing of all was that Liz was taking notes.

She has a photographic memory! She joined Mensa at the age of eight! And yet she felt compelled to draw a diagram of the steering column and note exactly which button turned on the windshield wipers.

"Be sure you write down that the steering wheel is round," I said, and she seriously had the W-H-E of wheel written in her little notebook before she realized I was joking.