I didn't breathe again until I saw Bex clamp her hand over Liz's mouth and drag her into the bushes on the far side of the yard.
"Oh, um, I told my mom I'd go get her jacket out of the car," I said, stepping toward the dozens of vehicles that lined the street.
"I'll go with—" he started, but just then a boy appeared in the street and yelled, "Josh!"
Josh looked at the boy and waved at him.
"You go on," I said.
"No, that's—"
"Josh!" the boy called again, drawing nearer.
"Really," I said, "I'll catch up with you over there."
And then, for the second time, I found myself running away from him, trying to avoid the party.
I ducked behind an SUV, repositioned its side mirror, and watched as the boy met up with Josh in the middle of the street. He tried to take the pie from Josh, and said, "Did you bake that for me? You shouldn't have!" Josh punched him hard on the shoulder. "Ow," the boy said, rubbing his arm. Then he gestured toward where I had disappeared in the dark. "Who was that? She was kinda cute."
I held my breath as Josh followed his friend's gaze and then said, "Oh, nobody. Just some girl."
Chapter Eleven
Summary of Surveillance Operatives: Cameron Morgan, Rebecca Baxter, and Elizabeth Sutton (hereafter referred to as "The Operatives")
After observing a Gallagher Academy operative (Cameron Morgan) on two routine assignments, The Operatives concluded that a young man (known at the time only as "Josh," aka Tell-Suzie-she's-a-lucky-cat boy) was a POI (Person of Interest).
The Operatives then began a series of recon operations during which they observed the following:
The Subject, Josh Adamson Abrams, resides at 601 North Bellis in Roseville, Virginia.
Known associates: a scan of The Subject's online activity revealed that he routinely e-mails Dillon Jones, screen name D'Man,(also of North Bellis Street)—typically in regard to "really awesome" video games, "lame" movies, "my stupid" dad, and school assignments.
Occupation: sophomore at Roseville High School-home of the Fighting Pirates. (But evidently not fighting too hard, since a further search revealed that their record is 0-3.)
GPA: 3.75. The Subject exhibits difficulty in calculus and woodworking. (Rules out career as NSA code breaker and/or home improvement television "Sexy Carpenter Guy." Does NOT eliminate possibility subject looks hot in a tool belt.)
The Subject appears to excel at English, Geography, and Civics (which is great because Cammie is English-speaking and very civil!).
Family:
Mother, Joan Ellen Abrams, 46, housewife and very experienced pie baker.
Father, Jacob Whitney Abrams, 47, pharmacist and sole proprietor of Abrams and Son Pharmacy.
Sister, Joy Marjorie Abrams, 10, student.
Unusual financial activity: none, unless you count the fact that someone in the family is way too into Civil War biographies. (Can this be a possible indication of Confederate insurgents still living and working in Virginia? Must research further.)
Respectfully submitted, Cammie, Bex, and Liz
"I'm telling you it doesn't mean anything," Bex said as we stood together in front of the mirror, waiting for the scanner to slide across our faces and the light in the eyes of the painting to turn green. I hadn't mentioned Josh, but I knew what she was talking about. Bex read my reflection in the mirror, and I realized that the scanner wasn't the only thing that could see inside me.
The doors slid open, and we climbed in. "We've got the computer connection," Liz offered. "Financial records, for example, can illustrate many—"
"Liz!" I snapped. I looked up at the lights and watched our descent. "It's just not worth the risk, okay?" My voice cracked as I thought of how he'd said I was just some girl—I was nobody. It wasn't very spylike to be sad over such a silly thing, but mostly, I didn't want my friends to hear it. "Guys, it's okay. Josh isn't interested in me. That's fine. I'm not the kind of girl guys like. It's no biggie."
I wasn't searching for compliments, like when skinny girls say they look fat, or when girls with gorgeous curly hair say how they hate humidity. Sure, there are a few people who always tell me "Don't say you're not pretty" and "Of course you look like your mom," but I swear I wasn't silently begging Bex to roll her eyes and say, "Whatever! That guy should be so lucky." But she did, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make it better.
"Come on, guys," I said, laughing. "What? Did you think he was going to ask me to the prom?" I teased. "Or, hey, Mom's burning macaroni and cheese for supper Sunday night; maybe he can come over and she can tell him about the time she jumped off a ninety-story balcony in Hong Kong with a parachute she made out of pillowcases."
I looked at them. I tried to laugh, but Bex and Liz looked at each other. I recognized the expression that crossed their faces. For days, they had been passing it between them like a note under the desk.
"Come on." We walked past the dollhouse. "In case you've forgotten, we have better things to do."
That's when we turned the corner, and all three of us jolted to a stop. My jaw went slack, and my heart started to pound as we stared into Mr. Solomon's domain. The classroom in Sublevel One didn't look like a classroom—not anymore. Instead of desks there were three long tables. Instead of chalk and paper there were boxes of rubber gloves. With the frosted-glass partitions and gleaming white floors, it looked as if we'd been kidnapped by aliens and brought to the mother ship for invasive medical procedures. (Personally, I was hoping for a nose job.)