As I walked down the Grand Stairs I reminded myself that I shouldn't be nervous. I'd been on dates before—both real and of the study variety. And studying with Zach—not Josh—meant I wouldn't even have to hide the fact that I was doing PhD-level physics in the tenth grade. But as I entered the library and looked around for Zach, I couldn't fight the feeling that "myself was one cover legend I didn't quite know how to be.
"Hello, Gallagher Girl." He'd claimed a table in the back of the library. The VERY back.
18:00 hours: The Operative met The Subject in a suspiciously-remote location, indicating that he may have had more "date" and less "study" on his mind. —Analysis by Macey McHenry
Books covered the table. His school jacket hung over the back of his chair.
I sat down across from him. "So," I said, feeling my voice crack, "what should we start on?"
"I don't know," he said, but I got the distinct impression that he did know. A lot of things. Because, for starters, it was my scientific opinion that Zach was one of those people who used his intelligence to make sure no one knew exactly how intelligent he was (a tendency Macey tells me is common among boys with really sexy arms).
18:02 hours: The Operative became overwhelmed by the complete and utter silence at the table.
"Zach," I said, just to make sure my voice was still working. He looked at me. "So, I was thinking we could look at the impact of propaganda in third world economies?"
"That's what you were thinking?"
"Yes," I said, but he kept looking at me … I mean really looking at me. I wanted to be Tiffany St. James (even if it meant wearing the strapless dress). I wanted to be a homeschooled girl with a cat named Suzie. I wanted to be anyone but myself as I sat there feeling completely out of cover.
"So …" I tried again. "I guess we should outline the report and maybe summarize our notes and—"
"Gallagher Girl," Zach said, not waiting for me to finish a sentence that didn't have an end. "Is there something you want to ask me?"
"No," I lied, and then we both went back to our books.
18:14 hours: The Operative began to realize that the study date might actually consist of studying.
How long does it take for two people to find a comfortable silence? I don't know. One time I drove all the way to Omaha and back with Grandpa Morgan, and he hardly said ten words. My dad and I used to spend Sundays on the living room floor, trading sections of the newspaper, and there was no noise except for the sound of turning pages. But sitting there—with Zach—was different.
"So—" I started, before realizing I had no earthly idea what was supposed to come next.
He raised his eyebrows but not his head, and studied me with upturned eyes. "So …" his word dragged out longer than mine, filling that terrible void of noise.
"So what do you think of the Gallagher Academy?" He tried to laugh, then seemed to think better of it at the last minute. "Oh. It's swell."
The Operative noticed that The Subject's use of the adjective "swell" was either intentional sarcasm or regional slang and noted to check it against the Gallagher Academy database.
I went back to my notebooks but couldn't read a single word. I used to think talking to a normal boy was hard. Turns out it's nothing compared to talking to a highly trained boy-spy who may or may not have been bred and raised by the U.S. Government.
I was just starting to consider aborting the mission altogether when two eighth grade girls came running out of the stacks and stopped short, staring at me and Zach. Then they turned and dashed away, their giggles and whispers floating to me through the aisle.
"You handled that pretty well," Zach said with a subtle nod toward the gossip I inspired.
"Well, I've had some practice, I guess. Besides, sticks and stones," I said, and it was true. For a spy, it takes a lot more than giggles to hurt you.
I turned the page in my notebook and felt my eyes lose focus as I listened to the silence that seemed louder in Zach's presence.
"I gotta say," he said as he laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair onto two legs, balancing. "I'm a little disappointed."
"Disappointed!" I cried.
He laughed. "Yeah, Gallagher Girl. I thought you had a reputation for being…proactive?"
Which was a nice way of putting it, I guess. "Yeah," I said, wishing I could figure out some way to turn the conversation back to him. "Well, what would you do if everyone thought you had breached security?"
He smiled and leaned forward. I heard the front legs of his chair land on the hardwood floor with a crack. "I'd probably find out everything I could about everyone who…was new ?" he said, as if the words had come right off the top of his head. "Who maybe didn't have an alibi on the night of the ball? I might even try to get close to anyone I suspected," he said. He eased in closer. "I might even bug their rooms if I got the chance."
"Hahahahaha!" (Yeah, that's the sound of a highly trained secret agent forcing laughter.)
"But you wouldn't do any of that," he said, standing. "Would you, Gallagher Girl?"
"Of course I—"
Then Zach reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wire that I had last seen disappearing inside an electrical outlet in the boys' rooms. He dropped the bug on the table, then leaned close to my ear and whispered, "I'm not all bad, Gallagher Girl."