"Zach got through."
I thought about him standing behind the bleachers. I thought about me standing behind the bleachers. In the restricted zone. "Zach got through security. If he did …" I trailed off, not wanting to say the worst of what was on my mind. Bex nodded, not wanting to hear it.
A moment later we were stepping out of the elevator. Our footsteps echoed as we ran, around and around and around the spiraling ramp, lower into the depths of the school.
"Don't worry, Cam," Bex said, not even close to being winded. "We'll think of something. If Mr. Solomon doesn't kill us for being late."
But then she stopped. Partly, I think, because we'd finally reached the classroom; partly because our teacher— perhaps our best teacher, our strictest teacher—was nowhere to be seen.
I don't know how normal girls behave when a teacher is out of the room, but Gallagher Girls get quiet. Crazy quiet. Because operatives in training learn very early on that you can never really trust that you're alone.
So Bex didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. Even Tina Walters was speechless.
"You're the juniors?"
The voice was one I didn't know. I turned to see a face I didn't recognize. A man. An older man in a Gallagher Academy maintenance department uniform. His name badge read "Art," and he was glaring at us as if he knew we were personally responsible for the terrible hydrochloric acid spill in Dr. Fibs's lab, which had probably taken weeks to clean up.
"Solomon said you were the juniors," Art told us.
"Yes, sir," Mick said, because 1) We've all been taking culture class since we were in the seventh grade and Madame Dabney does her job well, and 2) at the Gallagher Academy, everyone is more than they appear.
We look like normal girls, but we're not. Our teachers could blend in with any prep school faculty in the world, but they're so much more. Every girl in that room knew that to spend your retirement in the Gallagher Academy maintenance department you must have had high clearance and massive skills—you're there for a reason. So Art was a "sir" to us. No doubt about it.
Still, Art looked at us as if we were exactly what he was expecting.
As he turned and started out the door, we stared after him. But then he stopped and called back over his shoulder. "Well? Are you coming or aren't ya?"
We got up and followed Art exactly the way we'd come.
No one asked about Mr. Solomon, but one glance at the girls following in the maintenance man's wake told me that we were all wondering the exact same thing.
Well, make that two things: 1.) Where was Mr. Solomon? and 2.) What had happened to Art?
The man walked with a slight limp, his right foot never landing evenly upon the stone floor. His left hand hung against his side at an odd angle, and thick bottle-like glasses must have made the world look very different through his eyes.
But none of that kept him from snapping, "Walters!" when Tina whispered something to Eva, so I'm pretty sure there wasn't anything wrong with his hearing.
We passed ancient wooden doors with locks that looked like they must have required two-ton keys. We climbed higher, past rooms that looked like sets from old monster movies.
When we neared the top, we all walked faster, toward the elevator, anticipating that we were smart enough, seasoned enough, savvy enough to guess what would come next. But one of the golden rules of covert operations is Always anticipate, never commit, and that would have been a good time to remember it.
Because Art called, "Ladies!" And the entire class skidded to a stop. We turned to see the man standing in front of one of those enormous doors that, until then, I'd never seen open. He reached inside and flipped on a switch. Light replaced shadow and danced over the stone floor as he took a step on his crooked leg.
"Bex," I whispered as we followed him inside. "Did he seem…"
But I didn't finish. Oh, who am I kidding—I couldn't finish. Because the room we were stepping into wasn't just an ordinary room. It wasn't a place for an ordinary class.
Rows of clothes lined two long walls. In the center, shelves stood covered with accessories. Mirrors sat in a long row along the back of the room, shelves and drawers, all neatly labeled, sat waiting.
"It's a closet," Eva Alvarez said in awe.
"And it's…huge," Tina Walters replied.
I know normal girls would probably love to find themselves inside a closet two times the size of most suburban houses. But not this closet. This closet could only truly be appreciated by a Gallagher Girl.
We all stepped inside, knowing we were on the verge of a lesson unlike any we'd ever had.
Eva reached out for another switch, and the lights surrounding the mirrors at the back of the room came to life, washing over hats and wigs, glasses and false teeth. Overcoats and umbrellas.
I looked at the man who had brought us there. I turned my gaze from his crippled leg and mangled arm…and I knew.
Art stepped to the center of the room and said, "Ladies." He took off his glasses with his left arm, which, for the first time, seemed normal and straight. He kicked off his right shoe, picked it up, and let a small pebble fall into his hand, and then stood squarely upon his right leg. And then finally he pulled off the gray wig and dropped it onto the low center shelf that ran the length of the room.
Tina Walters gasped. Anna Fetterman stumbled backward. Mr. Solomon was the only one in the room smiling as he swept his arms around the Gallagher Academy closet. "Small changes. Big differences."