"Eyeball!"
"Correct. The person within sight of the eyeball is the…"
"Backup."
"And the final person …"
"The reserve."
"Very good. Now remember, rotate frequently, but not too frequently. Vary your pace and spacing, and above all…"
I felt the truck come to a stop. The engine turned off.
Above all, what? I wanted to cry. The most important night of my life, and he forgets the punch line! A small light came on in the ceiling of the truck, bathing us in an eerie, orange-yellow glow, and I heard music, the kind a merry-go-round makes, and I wondered if my whole life from that point on would be a house of mirrors.
Mr. Solomon moved a television monitor to one of the shelves and fiddled with some wires. I was expecting a view of the world outside (or at least something from the WB), but instead I saw what I'd been seeing for years—the fourteen faces of the sophomore class.
"In the field, ladies, you can never expect to have things go as planned. I fully expect you to master the ability to improvise. For example, tonight's mission requires a vehicle not owned by the Gallagher Academy. So"—he motioned around us—"I made alternative arrangements." (Yep. He definitely stole it!)
He passed earpieces to Bex, Liz, and me, and said, "Basic comms units. Don't be afraid to use them." Then he showed us a pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses, an I [HEART] Roseville button, and a necklace with a silver cross. "There are cameras contained within these three items, which will allow us to follow and critique your progress." The cross swung from his forefinger and, on the screen, the image of my classmates swayed back and forth. "These are for our benefit tonight— not yours. It's a just teaching exercise, ladies, but don't expect us to come to your rescue."
Okay, I'll admit it. I was starting to get a little freaked out at that point, but seriously, who can blame me? We were all feeling it—I could tell by the way Bex's leg twitched and Liz kept wringing her hands. Every girl in the back of that truck was on edge (and not just because we were up close and personal with Mr. Solomon, either). Even though Liz, Bex, and I were the only ones going outside, we were all more than Gallagher Girls right then—we were operatives on a mission, and we knew there would come a day when way more than grades would be riding on what we were about to learn.
The carnival music suddenly got louder as the back door opened, and the first thing I saw was a bright orange cap as Mr. Mosckowitz peeked in. "They're close," he said.
Mr. Solomon plugged a wire into a speaker, and in the next second I heard my mother's voice joining the carnival music. "It's great weather for running."
My blood went cold. Anyone but Mom, I prayed. Anyone but Mom.
You know the phrase Be careful what you wish for! Oh yeah, I'm now a really big believer in that one, because no sooner had the words crossed my mind than Mr. Solomon turned to us and said, "There are three types of subjects who will always be the most difficult to surveil." He ticked them off on his fingers. "People who are trained. People who suspect they may be followed. And people you know." He paused. "Ladies, this is your lucky night." He pulled a black-and-white photo from the pocket of his jacket and held it up. The face was new to us, but the voice that came blaring through the speaker saying, "Yes. I should probably get back into that habit myself," was one we knew well.
"Oh, bollocks!" Bex exclaimed, and Liz dropped her note cards.
"Smith!" I cried. "You expect us to recon Professor Smith?"
I couldn't believe it! Not only was it our first mission ever, but he honestly expected us to tail a man who had thirty years of experience, and who had seen us every school day since seventh grade, and who, worst of all, was the single most paranoid human being on the planet! (Seriously. I mean, he's got the plastic surgery bills to prove it.)
A team of CIA all-stars would probably get made within twenty minutes. Three Gallagher Girls didn't stand a chance. After all, once a guy's heard you give a report on the trade routes of Northern Africa, he's probably gonna wonder why you're sitting behind him on the merry-go-round!
"But… but… but… he never leaves the grounds," I protested, finally finding my words. "He would never enter an unsecured area on a whim." Oooh, good one, I thought, as I struggled to recall Liz's flash cards. "This goes against the subject's pattern of behavior!"
But Mr. Solomon only smiled. He knew it was an impossible mission—that was why he'd given it to us. "Trust me, ladies," he said with somber respect, "no one knows Mr. Smith's patterns of behavior." He tossed a thick file folder toward us. "The one thing we do know is that tonight is the Roseville town carnival, and Mr. Smith, for good or bad, is a man who loves his funnel cakes."
"Well, have fun!" My mother's voice came blaring through the speakers. I imagined her waving at her colleague as he turned at the edge of town. I heard her breathing become deeper, almost felt her cross trainers as they struck the dark pavement.
"Your mission," Mr. Solomon said, "is to find out what he drinks with those funnel cakes."
I'd been waiting my whole life for my first mission and it all came down to what? Carbonated beverages?!
"Subject's at the firehouse, Wise Guy," Mom whispered. "He's all yours." And then, just like that, my mother and her watchful eyes were gone, leaving us alone in the dark with Joe "Wise Guy" Solomon and a mathematician in a bright orange cap.