Ally Carter: [Gallagher Girls 02 ] - Cross My Heart & Hope To Spy

I swallowed hard, then suddenly understood why take-your-daughter-to-work day was never really an option in the Morgan family.

"Okay," I muttered, taking the badge gingerly. Then the man slapped the counter, and—spy training or not—I jumped.

"Ha!" The guard let out a sharp laugh and leaned closer to my mother. "The Gallagher Academy is growing them more gullible than it did in my day, Rachel," he teased, then winked at me. "Spy humor."

Well, personally, I didn't think his "humor" was all that funny, but my mother smiled and took my arm again. "Come on, kiddo, you don't want to be late."

She led me down a sunny corridor that made it almost impossible to believe we were underground. Bright, cool light splashed the gray walls and reminded me of Sublevel One at school…which reminded me of my Covert Operations class…which reminded me of finals week…which reminded me of …

Josh.

We passed the Office of Guerrilla Warfare but didn't slow down. Two women waved to my mother outside the Department of Cover and Concealment, but we didn't stop to chat.

We walked faster, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of secrets, until the corridor branched and we could either go left, toward the Department of Sabotage and Seemingly Accidental Explosions, or right, to the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence. And despite the FLAME-RESISTANT BODYSUITS MANDATORY BEYOND THIS POINT sign marking the hallway to my left, I'd much rather have gone in that direction. Or just back to the mall. Anywhere but where I knew I had to go.

Because even though the truth can set you free, that doesn't mean it won't be painful.

"My name is Cammie."

"No, what's your full name?" asked the man in front of the polygraph machine, as if I weren't wearing the aforementioned (and supposedly nonexplosive) name badge.

I thought about my mother's words of wisdom and took a deep breath. "Cameron Ann Morgan."

The room around me was completely bare, except for a stainless steel table, two chairs, and a mirror made of one-way glass. I probably wasn't the first Gallagher Girl to sit in that sterile room—after all, debriefs are a part of the covert operations package. Still, I couldn't help squirming in the hard metal chair—maybe because it was cold in there, maybe because I was nervous, maybe because I was experiencing a slight underwear situation. (Note to self: develop a wedgie theory of interrogation—there could totally be something to it!) But the efficient-looking man in the wire-rim glasses was too busy twisting knobs and punching keys, trying to figure out what the truth sounded like coming from me, to care about my fidgeting.

"The Gallagher Academy doesn't teach interrogation procedures until we're juniors, you know?" I said, but the man just muttered, "Uh-huh."

"And I'm just a sophomore, so you shouldn't worry about the results coming out all screwy or anything. I'm not immune to your powers of interrogation." Yet.

"Good to know," he mumbled, but his eyes never left the screens.

"I know it's just standard protocol, so just…ask away." I was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop. "Really," I said. "Whatever you need to know, just—"

"Do you attend the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women?" the man blurted, and for reasons I will never understand I said, "Uh…yes?" as if it might be a trick question.

"Have you ever studied the subject of Covert Operations?"

"Yes," I said again, feeling my confidence, or maybe just my training, coming back to me.

"Did your Covert Operations coursework ever take you to the town of Roseville, Virginia?"

Even in that sterile room beneath Washington, D.C., I could almost feel the hot, humid night last September. I could almost hear the band and smell the corn dogs.

My stomach growled as I said, "Yes."

Polygraph Guy made notes and studied the bank of monitors that surrounded him. "Is that when you first noticed The Subject?"

Here's the thing about being a spy in love: your boyfriend never has a name. People like Polygraph Guy were never just going to call him josh. He would always be The Subject, a person of interest. Taking away his name was their way of taking him away, or what was left of him. So I said, "Yes," and tried not to let my voice crack.

"And you utilized your training to develop a relationship with The Subject?"

"Gee, when you say it like that—"

"Yes or no, Ms.—"

"Yes!"

Which, I would like to point out, is not nearly as bad as it sounds since, for example, you don't need a search warrant to go through someone's trash. Seriously. Once it hits the curb it is totally fair game—you can look it up.

But somehow I knew that the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence was probably far less concerned about the trash thing than it was about what came after the trash thing. So I was fully prepared when Polygraph Guy said, "Did The Subject follow you during your Covert Operations final examination?"

I thought about Josh appearing in the abandoned warehouse during finals week, bursting through walls and commandeering a forklift to "save" me, so I swallowed hard as I said, "Yes."

"And was The Subject given memory-modification tea to erase the events of that night?"

It sounded so easy coming from him, so black-and-white. Sure, my mom gave Josh some tea that's supposed to wipe a person's memory blank, erase a few hours of their life, and give everyone a clean slate. But clean slates are a rare thing in any life—especially a spy's life—so I didn't let myself wonder for the millionth time what Josh remembered about that night, about me. I didn't torture myself with any of the questions that might never have answers as I sat there, knowing that there is no such thing as black-and-white—remembering that my whole life is, by definition, a little bit gray.

I nodded, then muttered, "Yes." Like it or not, I knew I had to say the word out loud.

He made some more notes, punched some keys. "Are you currently involved with The Subject in any way?"

"No," I blurted, because I knew that much was true. I hadn't seen Josh, hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even hacked into his e-mail account over winter break, which, given present circumstances, turned out to be a pretty good thing. (Plus, I had spent the last two weeks in Nebraska with Grandpa and Grandma Morgan, and they have dial-up, which takes forever!)

Then the man in the wire-rim glasses looked away from the screen and straight into my eyes. "And do you intend to reinitiate contact with The Subject despite strict rules prohibiting such a relationship?"

There it was: the question I'd pondered for weeks.

There I was: Cammie the Chameleon—the Gallagher Girl who had risked the most sacred sisterhood in the history of espionage. For a boy.

"Ms. Morgan," Polygraph Guy said, growing impatient, "are you going to reinitiate contact with The Subject?"

"No," I said softly.

Then I glanced back at the screen to see if I was lying.

Chapter Two

If you've ever been debriefed by the CIA, then you probably know exactly how I felt two hours later as I sat in the backseat of a limousine, watching city give way to suburbs and suburbs to countryside. Dirty piles of blackened ice became thick blankets of lush white snow, and the world seemed clean and new—ready for a fresh start.

I was through with lying (except for official cover stories, of course). And sneaking around (well…except when involved in covert operations). I was going to be normal! (Or as normal as a student at spy school ever gets a chance to be.)

I was going to be … myself.

I looked at my mother and reiterated the promise that I would never let a boy come between me and my family or my friends or matters of national security ever again. Then I realized that she'd hardly said a word since we'd left D.C. "I did okay, didn't I?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.