Our school was going undercover, pulling on its disguises as deftly as any seasoned operative can do, and as Bex, Liz, and I ran against a current of eighth graders on their way to stand guard outside the Protection and Enforcement barn, I couldn't help but smile. After all, it had been three hundred and sixty-four days since Macey had come to us during a Code Red. It seemed only fitting that she would come back to us in one.
But as we ran through the Hall of History, I watched Gillian Gallagher's sword disappear into the case that holds our deepest treasure, and something hit me: we wouldn't have a Code Red for Macey,
We were having a Code Red for Macey and whoever was coming with her.
The door to my mother's office eased open. Inside, I saw our headmistress, wearing her best suit and a grim expression. "I guess we're ready for our close-ups?" she was saying.
As soon as we stepped into the office I heard more voices.
"Now America waits for its first glimpse of Macey McHenry, the brave young woman who has so recently been thrust into the spotlight—and into danger."
(Evidently, one of the Code Red precautions for making the headmistress's office look like a regular school is to add a TV.)
Bex flipped through channel after channel until we came to the image that made us all freeze.
"And here we are," a tall correspondent said into a microphone as she strolled down a familiar stretch of Highway 10, "outside the gates of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, where one exceptional young woman will be returning shortly, after the most traumatic incident of her life. And the question remains: Will these walls be enough to keep Macey McHenry safe?"
The sirens finally stopped. My mother said, "It's time."
Okay, here's the thing you need to know about spy schools— it's not about hiding them. Nope. Because, let's face it, spy schools have students, and students have parents, and parents are going to ask questions. According to Liz, non-spy parents are really big on obvious questions like "so where exactly is your school?" (Spy parents are far more likely to hack into a government database or put a GPS unit in your tooth or something.) In any case, you kinda need an actual school to present to the world; but like everything else about my life, my school wasn't exactly what it seemed.
Following my mother down the sweeping Grand Stairs, I couldn't help but think that our first line of defense was about to be put to the test, because even though the Gallagher Academy has never exactly hidden (it is a big, honking mansion, after all), my school has never gone looking for the spotlight.
When Gillian Gallagher converted her family's home into a school where young women could learn the covert skills that no men would ever teach them, she'd had the good sense not to put "The Gallagher Academy—Educating Government Operatives Since 1865" on the sign. Instead she'd called it a finishing school for the most outstanding girls of the day. Our cover has evolved with the times, but our ultimate mission has stayed the same: make sure no one ever knows just how exceptional we really are. Which, let's face it, is a whole lot easier when there aren't two dozen national news crews videotaping your every move.
When we reached the foyer, I could have sworn that the entire student body was holding their breath as my mother pulled open the double doors and stepped outside.
Warm sunlight beamed down. My stomach growled, and for a second I wondered what our chef was making for the welcome-back dinner. But when I saw three big black SUVs pulling through the gate, I totally lost my appetite.
"Secret Service," my mother whispered to us as they started down the winding lane. I remembered that even Macey's protectors wouldn't know what we really do behind our walls.
An efficient-looking man with a touch of gray sprinkled through his dark hair climbed out of one of the vehicles and walked toward us. "Ms. Morgan? Agent Hughes. We spoke on the phone."
"Yes," Mom said. "You're the agent in charge of the McHenry family's security detail. That is the term, isn't it?" she asked, one hand against her chest as if this were totally new territory for her.
The man smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "Now, I don't want you to worry about anything. Our agents will be responsible for Ms. McHenry's security. They'll answer any questions you have and keep you informed of what the Service needs from you. No one is
expecting you to think like a security professional."
"That is a relief," my mother told him in the most utterly believable, non-ironic voice I've ever heard.
(Have I mentioned lately that my mom is the BEST SPY EVER?!)
"Oh, I'm sorry," my mother said, looking from Agent Hughes and then to us. "Please allow me to introduce Macey's roommates. This is Elizabeth Sutton and Rebecca Baxter, and my daughter, Cammie."
But Agent Hughes wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at me—the girl who is hardly ever stared at.
"You were on the roof?" he asked, but it wasn't a question. He stepped closer; his gaze flashed across the bandage on my head, then his eyes searched mine. "Don't you worry about anything, young lady. We're going to take good care of all of you."
I nodded and looked away, thinking about my cover—I was supposed to be scared and tired and ready to let someone else fight for Macey.
Then I remembered that the best covers always have their roots in the truth.
"And the walls circle the entire grounds?" Agent Hughes asked as we walked around the campus.