Chapter Seventeen
I know in spy movies it always looks really cool when the operative goes from a maid's uniform to a slinky, sexy ballgown in the amount of time it takes an elevator to climb three floors. Well, I don't know how it is for TV spies, but I can tell you that even with Velcro, the art of the quick change is one that must take a lot of practice (not to mention better lighting than one is likely to find in a tunnel that was once a part of the Underground Railroad).
That's probably why I panicked when I saw the strange look on Josh's face when he first saw me outside the gazebo. Either my blouse was open, or my skirt was stuck in my underwear, or something even more mortifying. I froze.
"You look …"
I have lipstick on my teeth. My hair is full of cobwebs. I'm wearing two different kinds of shoes and my backup is two whole miles away!
"… amazing."
I'd never felt less invisible in my life. I forgot about Bex and Macey and their great bodies, Liz and her gorgeous blond hair. Even my mother faded from my mind as I saw myself through Josh's eyes. For the first time in a long time I didn't want to disappear.
Then I remembered that it was my turn to say something. He was wearing a leather jacket and khaki pants that had the kind of crisp creases that made me think of the Navy SEALs, who were probably doing a demonstration in the Gallagher Academy pond at that very moment, so I said, "You look very…clean."
"Yeah." He tugged at his collar. "My mom found out and … well… let's just say you were this close to having to wear a wrist corsage." He held two fingers inches apart, and I remembered one time when my dad got my mom a corsage— of course it came equipped with a retinal scanner and comms unit, but still, the thought was nice.
I started to say so, but just then Josh said, "I'm sorry, but we kind of missed the movie. I should have looked up the times before I asked you. It started at six."
The mission was compromised at 19:00 hours when The Operative and The Subject realized they had missed their window of opportunity—which in The Operative's opinion was a waste of her best outfit.
"Oh," I said, trying not to sound too heartbroken. I'd let Liz do my hair. I'd jogged two miles in the dark. I had been looking forward to this all week, but all I could do was put on my best spy face and say, "That's okay. I guess I'll just…"
"Do you want to grab a burger?" Josh blurted before I could finish my thought.
Grab a burger? I'd just eaten filet mignon with the Deputy Director of the CIA, but I found myself saying, "I'd love to!"
Across the square, bright lights beamed through one set of windows. We walked toward the light, and Josh held the door open for me and gestured for me to walk in (how sweet is that!). The diner had a black-and-white checkerboard floor with red vinyl booths and lots of old records and pictures of Elvis nailed to the walls. The whole place was a little too doo-woppy for my personal taste, but that didn't stop me from crawling into a booth—unfortunately on the side facing away from the windows since Josh had already nabbed the best position for himself. (Mr. Smith would have been very disappointed in me.) But at least across the booth he probably couldn't feel my leg shaking.
The Operative tried to implement the Purusey breathing technique, which has been proven effective at fooling polygraphs. There is no conclusive evidence as to whether it is effective at masking the internal lie detectors of fifteen-year-old boys.
The waitress came and took our orders, and Josh leaned way back in his seat. I knew from Liz's notes on body language that this meant he was feeling pretty confident (either that or I smelled like the tunnel and he wanted to get as far away from me as possible). "I'm sorry we missed the movie," Josh said as he rearranged his pickles.
"That's okay," I said. "This is fun, too."
Then the strangest thing happened—we both stopped talking. It was like that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where everyone in town got their voices stolen. I was beginning to wonder if that had actually happened—like maybe, back at school, the CIA had been fiddling around with one of Dr. Fibs's experiments and something had gone horribly wrong. I started to open my mouth and test my theory, when I heard a muffled cry of "Josh!" and some banging on the diner windows, and I realized that the muteness hadn't affected anyone but us.
When I heard the ding of the diner door, I spun to see a mob of teenagers heading our way, and let me tell you, for a girl who's gone to a private all-girls school since the seventh grade, that's a pretty scary sight.
I have never been so behind enemy lines in my life! I thought, scrolling back through our P&E training on how to handle multiple attackers. Normally, I might have counted on Josh—my guide in that strange and foreign land—but he was panicking, too. I could tell by the way his jaw had gone all slack and a french fry was poised, midair, en route to his mouth.
I mentally reeled through the things in my favor: no one knew me. I wasn't wearing my uniform. And if push came to shove I could…well…push and shove. (Two of the boys looked pretty football player-ish, but I did an entire project once on the "the bigger they are the harder they fall" philosophy of hand-to-hand combat, and there is totally something to it.) I was safe, for the meantime.
My cover might not have been blown, but I couldn't say the same for my confidence—especially when one of the girls, a very pretty blond, said, "Hi, Josh," and he said, "Hi, DeeDee."