"I say, Tiffany, did you get those memos I sent over?" he asked, trying to sound all bosslike—and it might have worked if he hadn't had some caviar stuck in his mustache.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I did." I felt myself becoming Tiffany St. James, which, at the moment, was a whole lot better than being me—especially when Mr. Mosckowitz asked, "So tell me, Tiffany, are you enjoying the party?"
"Tiffany is the life of the party," another voice chimed in.
That wasn't true—at all—but I couldn't exactly say so, because Zach was coming toward us, a glass in each hand.
"Excuse me, Mr. Secretary," Zach said, offering Mr. Mosckowitz a glass, "but I believe this is your drink."
Mr. Mosckowitz twirled his fake mustache until it came off, then quickly stuck it back on. "Oh yes. It is!" He took the glass and leaned in to me. "It is my drink, isn't it?"
"Yes," I whispered back.
"Thank you, my good man," Mr. Mosckowitz said to Zach, and I couldn't help but notice that the undersecretary had spontaneously become British. "Good show!"
Through the twinkling lights of the party I saw my mother standing next to a far wall. I wanted to smile and wave, but Tiffany St. James didn't know that beautiful woman. And something made me stand up straighter, listen harder, and wish we'd already covered lip-reading in CoveOps, because even though two dozen dancing couples stood between us, both the spy and the girl in me knew my mom was worried about something.
"Isn't that right, Tiffany?" Mr. Mosckowitz asked, and it took me a half second to remember that he was talking to me.
"I wonder, Mr. Secretary," Zach was saying to Mr. Mosckowitz, "would you mind if I borrowed Tiffany for a moment?"
"Not at all," Mr. Mosckowitz said, even though Tiffany … I mean, I … might have minded a great deal.
"They're playing our song." Zach put his drink on a passing tray, took my arm smoothly, and pulled me onto the floor.
The bad part about being in deep cover is that you have to like what your legend likes, eat what she eats. Since Tiffany St. James did, in fact, like dancing, there was no room to argue. I had to dance with Zach Goode (after all, a Gallagher Girl always has to be prepared to sacrifice for her country).
In my (very uncomfortable) heels, my eyes reached Zach at about neck level. His hand felt broad on my back, and he smelled, well, different from Dr. Steve. (But in a really good way.)
"You know the undersecretary," Mr. Mosckowitz was saying to Anna Fetterman as we danced past, "is really directly under…the secretary. So really I'm just like the secretary, but …"
"Under?" Anna guessed, but I think Mr. Mosckowitz kind of missed the point, because he smiled.
"So tell me, Tiffany St. James," Zach said. "What does a girl like you do for fun?"
"I didn't tell you my name was Tiffany St. James," I said, hoping to catch him in a mistake. "How did you know?"
"Oh," he said, cocking an eyebrow, sounding exactly like the charming and debonair international art thief he was supposed to be. "I always make it a point to know the names of"—he cinched me tighter—"beautiful women."
And then he dipped me. Yes—actual dippage. And he winked. Yes—actual winkage.
"Come on, Gallagher Girl"—he spun me out and smoothly back—"relax a little."
From the side of the room, Madame Dabney smiled and made a mark on her clipboard.
But at that moment I was capable of doing anything but relaxing…
"Hey." We stopped dancing, and Zach shook me slightly. His voice was different. His eyes were different. He wasn't his legend as he said, "Gallagher Girl? You okay?"
Actually very little was okay…
Because my bra—you know, the strapless one—had come undone.
And things were starting to slide.
Just hours before, I'd thought that the most humiliating thing in the world would be to encounter your ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend…Then getting saved by a Blackthorne Boy…Then finding out that the entire sophomore CoveOps class and two teachers had heard the whole thing.
But I was wrong.
The most humiliating thing in the world would be to have all of those things happen and then have your bra mysteriously snap open while dancing with the aforementioned Blackthorne Boy!
I was one good twirl away from disaster, yet Zach still had a hold of my waist; he was still staring into my eyes.
"I gotta go," I blurted, pulling away.
"Ms. Morgan!" Madame Dabney warned as she walked by.
"I mean," I said, turning back to Zach, "if you could excuse me for a moment." Zach didn't look like he wanted to excuse me—he looked like he honestly wanted to know what was wrong—but I just wanted to disappear and take my disobedient undergarment with me.
I started away again, but Zach held on to my hand.
"Thank you very much for the dance," I said, and pulled away.
I felt the bra slide another fraction of an inch with every step I took toward the doors. (The dress, thankfully, was staying right where it should.)
Liz came toward me and said, "Hello, I don't believe we've met. My name is Maggie McBrayer. I'm a vegetarian, and—"
"Not now, Liz," I whispered, and walked faster.
Near the doors I saw a group of eighth grade girls staring daggers at Macey, who Madame Dabney had forced to foxtrot with one of the eighth grade boys.