From D'Man
To JAbrams
Have you come to your senses yet? I'm telling you—I saw her WITH MY OWN EYES. You've got to believe me now. SHE GOES TO THE GALLAGHER ACADEMY!! She's been lying to you!! How can you take HER word over MINE?
From JAbrams
To D'Man
I trust Cammie. I believe her. You probably just thought you saw her walking with a bunch of those girls on Saturday. She doesn't even know them. Trust me. Give it a break.
Dillon's response was a single line.
From D'Man To JAbrams Tonight. 9:00. WE'LL GET PROOF!
Now, at this point I was starting to panic, which isn't very spylike, but is pretty girl-like, so I figured I was well within my feminine rights. The "proof" to which I'd seen teenage boys refer in movies usually involved video equipment and/or feminine undergarments, so I yelled, "Oh my gosh!" and started looking around for Liz's flash cards. Surely somewhere in all that vat of knowledge there had to be instructions on what to do when your cover is completely and irrevocably blown.
Paced with the knowledge that the operation had been severely compromised, The Operatives formed a list of alternatives, which included (but were not limited to) the following:
A. Misdirection: in a variation of the "you must have seen someone who looks like me" approach, one of The Operatives could impersonate Cammie and climb the wall while Cammie looks on with Josh and Dillon and says, "Is that who you saw?" (Which is especially effective when The Subject is nearsighted.)
B. Sympathy: this technique has not only been used successfully by spies for many centuries, but it is also a staple of teenage girls. The conversation would likely resemble the following:
JOSH: Cammie, is it true you attend the Gallagher Academy, home of filthy rotten heiresses, and are not homeschooled, as you initially told me?
CAMMIE: (instantly bursts into tears—note: tears are very important!) Yes. It's true. I do go to the Gallagher Academy, but no one there understands me. It's not a school; (dramatic pause) it's a prison. I'll understand if you never want to see me again.
JOSH: How could I ever hate you, Cammie? I love you. And, if possible, now I love you even more.
C. Elimination: Dillon, aka D'Man, could be "taken out." (This alternative failed to achieve universal support.)
These were all pretty good options (well, not C, but I felt as if I owed it to Bex to at least include it), but as I weighed them in my mind, and nine o'clock drew closer, I knew there was another option. One we hadn't put on paper.
Josh and Dillon were coming to get proof, and even though the rumor that the security division had recently invested in poisonous darts probably wasn't true, I still didn't want to think about what would happen if Josh came looking for me—now or ever. And when I thought about it that way, I really only had one choice.
"I'll be back soon," I said as I shoved Josh's earrings in my pocket and reached for my silver cross, clinging to my legend till the end.
I walked toward the door as Bex called, "What are you gonna tell him?"
I didn't stop as I said, "The truth."
Chapter Twenty-six
Well. obviously I didn't mean "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" truth. More like Code Red truth—the abridged kind. Spy truth.
Yes, I go to the Gallagher Academy.
Yes, I have been lying to you.
Yes, you can't believe a single thing I've said or done.
But here's the thing about spy truth: sometimes it isn't enough to achieve your mission objectives. Sometimes you need more, and even though I didn't want to do it, maybe it's only fitting that a relationship that started with a lie would end with one.
No, I never really loved you.
No, I don't care that you're hurt.
No, I never want to see you again.
The mansion seemed especially silent and empty for so early on a Monday night. My footsteps echoed in the dim halls, but I didn't fear the noise. The tunnels were awaiting me, and Josh, and the end of something I had cherished.
Still, before I climbed the wall one last time, there was something I couldn't stand to carry over it.
Mr. Solomon's office wasn't exactly on my way—but it was close enough. I reached into the back pocket of my jeans for the folded form that Mr. Solomon had given us—that everyone but me had long since turned in. It was creased and mangled, and I realized that I'd carried it with me almost everywhere I'd gone for weeks—unsigned, unfinished.
Twenty-four hours before, I had been afraid to even look at it, but so much can happen in a spy's life in that amount of time—a father can get reborn, a friendship can live and die, a true love can dissolve like the paper its love notes are written on. Twenty-four hours before, I had been sitting on top of our walls, but now I knew on which side I belonged.
The two boxes lay at the bottom of the page, like a fork in the road that I had grown tired of straddling. Beyond our walls was a boy I could only hurt, and inside them were people I could help. It was probably the hardest decision of my life, and I made it by drawing an X. That's one of the golden rules of CoveOps: don't make anything more difficult than it has to be.
It was true; things were hard enough already.
"Hi, Josh. Hello, Dillon, so nice seeing you again," I practiced as I paced the shadows of the sidewalk—waiting, not really thinking about what I had to do, but instead trying to figure out a way to accidentally-on-purpose kick Dillon in the head—hard.