Chapter Fifteen
The Gallagher Academy has prepared me well for a lot of things, but none of those things are red. Or strapless.
Maybe my mother had forgotten that I was the girl nobody sees—The Chameleon—and chameleons simply don't walk around in formal gowns with empire waists and long gauzy skirts that flow when you twirl. It was as if my mother didn't know that this dress was for someone who was definitely supposed to be seen.
"What's the matter, Gallagher Girl?" Zach asked as we left COW the next morning and started the walk to C&A. "You seem…jumpy."
Well, he would have been jumpy too if he'd heard Bex's theory that a terrorist group was going to take over a prom and we were going to have to go undercover and stop it, but obviously I couldn't say that. And in a few minutes, after we'd settled into the Chippendale chairs of the Culture and Assimilation classroom, no one was saying anything.
"The all-school exam…" Madame Dabney exclaimed as she stood in the center of the room. Soft rays of early sunshine glowed around her, and her voice had taken on such a dreamy quality that I almost expected harps to start playing as she floated across the floor. "Ooh, ladies," she said, then rushed to add, "…and gentlemen. In all my years of teaching at this fine institution, I have never had the opportunity to organize such an exciting educational experience."
Liz went still, and Eva and Tina tore their eyes from Grant's muscular forearms.
"This Friday evening, all students in grades eight through twelve will be invited to a formal examination." Madame Dabney waited for what she must have expected to be a standing ovation. "A ball, ladies and gentlemen," she explained when no one broke into applause. "There's going to be a ball!"
Tina gasped, and Liz's eyes went wide in a way that can only be induced by the combination of both tests and high heels; Jonas swallowed hard and turned the exact same shade of red as the dress that was hanging in my closet—the dress I was going to have to wear … for a grade!
There had to be some kind of mistake, I thought. Surely Bex was supposed to get that dress and I was supposed to get instructions on how to access the dusty, dirty, mice-infested ductwork of the Russian Embassy or something.
Mice I can handle. Strapless bras? Well let's just say, I'm the kind of girl who likes things sufficiently strapped.
"Tomorrow during this time, you will each be fitted for a gown." She beamed at the girls. "And tuxedos," she said as she turned to the boys. "On Friday evening you will be asked to participate in a cumulative examination—a night that will encompass everything we teach. And you will be expected to dance."
At that point I'm pretty sure every other girl in the room heard "dance."
But I thought back to Bex's words as we'd stood in the deserted East Wing, and I, personally, heard "rematch."
There's something to be said for having Joe Solomon blindfold you and fly you to D.C. After all, the hard part about top-secret, clandestine missions isn't the shock or the fear or the helicopter turbulence. The hard part … is the waiting. And I know I wasn't the only Gallagher Girl to feel that way, because in the week following the ball announcement, there were so many rumors floating up and down our halls, even I could hardly keep them all straight.
For example:
Instead of having a comprehensive exam, like we'd been told, we were actually going to have to infiltrate a prom that was going to be taken over by terrorists. FALSE.
All the girls in the eighth grade class now hated Macey McHenry since all the boys in the eighth grade class were in love with her. TRUE.
Chef Louis was going to serve poisoned appetizers so that we would have to concoct antidotes. Or die. FALSE.
Thursday's P&E lesson centered on defensive positions that could give the term "kick pleat" an entirely new meaning. TRUE.
Body-waxing as a torture-slash-interrogation tactic is illegal under international law. FALSE. (But if the yells coming from Tina Walters's bathroom were any indication, it totally should be true.)
By Friday morning you couldn't walk down the hall without hearing at least a dozen conversations that involved bobby pins (and not in the usual lock-picking and/or self-defense contexts). A part of me was a little concerned by the state of my sisterhood, but another part of me knew that half of a mission's success is determined before the mission even starts. Prep work matters. And, it turns out, that goes double for missions that involve formal wear.
"Will you hold still?" Macey demanded as she grabbed my jaw and held my head steady (because everyone knows eyeliner can be lethal in the wrong hands). But how could I possibly sit there as if my liquid liner were the most important thing in the world? We had less than an hour before the ball began, and that was time I could have been using to go over my chemistry textbook or my CoveOps notes. Didn't my best friends know that this was an all-school exam—that's every subject, and this was my big chance at redemption?
But no. I couldn't study at all, because Liz was doing really painful twisty things with my hair while Macey gave me a three-minute lecture on the state of my pores. Meanwhile, Bex was busy sewing one of Dr. Fibs's bulletproof cups into her Wonderbra instead of the foam things it came with. And I couldn't help but think that spy stuff is hard. Girl stuff is hard. But I doubt there's anything harder than spy-girl stuff.
I didn't even want to think about what the boys were doing then, because…hello … I'd seen the tuxedos hanging in the C&A classroom, and they were all black. And so were their shoes. And their ties. And every single boy from the Blackthorne Institute had hair not much longer than a buzz cut, so I seriously doubt they were going through this. Nothing in life…much less espionage … is fair.