"Is khabar ko kisi kitab ke andar daal dein, ya aisa kuch?" Liz whispered as we practiced our Hindi and ate our macaroni and cheese (the gourmet kind); and yet, as much as I appreciated Liz's flash cards, I didn't think planting the news in Macey's textbook was the best way to tell her the truth.
"Usse apne pari war ke panch jani dushmano ke naam puchain aur phir ek naam aur jord dein." Bex offered, but I shook my head because the "Hey, Macey, just when you thought no one could hate your family more than you do" option didn't seem like the way to go either.
The truth of the matter is, we might know fourteen different languages, but when it comes to breaking bad news, not even a Gallagher Girl can always find the words.
"Maybe," I said slowly and in English, despite the teachers that roamed the Grand Hall making sure our Hindi had the accent we were all trying to master, "maybe we shouldn't…"
"Tell her?" Liz asked, reading my mind.
I don't like keeping secrets, which, given my chosen profession, is strange but true. But I remembered the way I had felt on my first elevator ride from Sublevel Two—that there are some secrets we keep because we can't bear to let them out, and some because it's better to keep them in. I looked at my two best friends and wondered which kind we were keeping now.
"I'd want to know," Bex said simply, and I nodded, not surprised, but glad to hear it all the same.
"I…" Liz whispered and leaned closer. "I think…" she stammered again, and I could tell that Liz the genius knew that the more information you had—the more data points you could plot—the better your conclusions. But Liz the girl, knew that ignorance is sometimes bliss.
"No," she said finally with a shake of her head. "I wouldn't want to know. And besides"—she looked at me, her blue eyes wide—"if it were best for Macey to know, wouldn't your mom and Abby and Mr. Solomon and everybody…tell her?"
I hate it when she's right. And unfortunately, it happens a lot.
I felt Bex and Liz staring at me, and I knew that I was the tiebreaking vote. A girl at the senior table held a copy of a newspaper; it rustled as she turned the page. The headline, "Tuesday's Presidential Race Too Close to Call," screamed louder than the voices of a hundred chattering girls as Macey walked through the doors at the back of the room with the rest of the ninth graders who had stayed late in P&E. She was smiling; she was laughing; the girl by the lake seemed farther away, and yet I knew that she was still inside Macey somewhere, and I really didn't want to see her again.
"What's up?" Macey asked as she took the seat beside me. I didn't have a clue what to say or how to say it.
Fortunately, Joe Solomon was the one who answered, "Pop quiz."
"Now, I know some of you aren't on the CoveOps track of study," Mr. Solomon said, glancing down the table at the entire junior class, "but there are aspects of this life—of this world—from which you can never walk away. Ever. The fact that almost everything you say to almost everyone you love for the rest of your life will be a lie is one of them. So, if you don't mind a little extra work …" he said, looking down at Liz, which is kind of like asking me if I didn't mind an extra dessert, "plain clothes. Foyer. Twenty minutes."
Ten minutes later I was running down the Grand Stairs, a half step behind Bex and Liz. The adrenaline that only comes from going someplace else, doing something else, being someone else for just a little while was starting to course through me again. Macey was beside me. I didn't have a clue where we were going, but to be honest, I didn't care.
Abby was standing by the door, smiling a knowing, mischievous smile to everyone who passed. But as Macey and
I stepped toward the door, my aunt's smile was totally not what we got.
An arm. That's what I saw first. An arm blocking the doorway, reaching for Macey's shoulder.
"Sorry," Aunt Abby said. "Not a secure location."
I gave Macey a sympathetic shrug and tried to push past. But Abby didn't budge. "Oh." She looked at me. "I think you and your mother have an…arrangement?"
I could hear the retreating footsteps in the blackness outside. I could feel the opportunity slipping away.
"But—" I started. I didn't know if I was pleading with my aunt, or my teacher, or with Macey's Secret Service shadow, but I knew the situation called for some serious pleading with someone. "But this is an assignment!" I blurted. Abby just shook her head.
"Sorry, girls," she said. "Sure"—she glanced at Macey— "I'll take a bullet for you, but that doesn't mean I'll incur the wrath of Rachel."
Bex and Liz skidded to a stop outside and turned back to us, Bex's eyes asking what was taking us so long; but Aunt Abby turned away, into the darkness, without a second glance.
"Hey," I said, running to catch up with Macey. "You okay?"
She smiled. "I'm great." But she didn't sound great. Not even a little.
"It's me you're talking to," I told her. "I can't vote, remember?"
"I'm…" This time she really seemed to be thinking about the answer, and I knew there was a chance I'd get the truth instead of the party line. "I'm mad," she said finally, the words echoing down the long empty hall.
"Okay."
"And I'm sick of this." She held out the cast that covered her left arm. "This stupid, dirty, itchy…reminder. But apparently I poll ten points better with it on."