"Liz!" I snapped. I looked up at the lights and watched our descent. "It's just not worth the risk, okay?" My voice cracked as I thought of how he'd said I was just some girl—I was nobody. It wasn't very spylike to be sad over such a silly thing, but mostly, I didn't want my friends to hear it. "Guys, it's okay. Josh isn't interested in me. That's fine. I'm not the kind of girl guys like. It's no biggie."
I wasn't searching for compliments, like when skinny girls say they look fat, or when girls with gorgeous curly hair say how they hate humidity. Sure, there are a few people who always tell me "Don't say you're not pretty" and "Of course you look like your mom," but I swear I wasn't silently begging Bex to roll her eyes and say, "Whatever! That guy should be so lucky." But she did, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make it better.
"Come on, guys," I said, laughing. "What? Did you think he was going to ask me to the prom?" I teased. "Or, hey, Mom's burning macaroni and cheese for supper Sunday night; maybe he can come over and she can tell him about the time she jumped off a ninety-story balcony in Hong Kong with a parachute she made out of pillowcases."
I looked at them. I tried to laugh, but Bex and Liz looked at each other. I recognized the expression that crossed their faces. For days, they had been passing it between them like a note under the desk.
"Come on." We walked past the dollhouse. "In case you've forgotten, we have better things to do."
That's when we turned the corner, and all three of us jolted to a stop. My jaw went slack, and my heart started to pound as we stared into Mr. Solomon's domain. The classroom in Sublevel One didn't look like a classroom—not anymore. Instead of desks there were three long tables. Instead of chalk and paper there were boxes of rubber gloves. With the frosted-glass partitions and gleaming white floors, it looked as if we'd been kidnapped by aliens and brought to the mother ship for invasive medical procedures. (Personally, I was hoping for a nose job.)
We all stood together, Gallagher Girls closing ranks, preparing for any challenge that might walk through that door.
Little did we know that the challenge was going to be Mr. Solomon carrying three seam-busting, black plastic bags. The sight of those bulging monstrosities made the whole extraterrestrial thing look pretty good. He dropped a bag onto each of the three tables with a sickening thunk. Then he tossed a box of gloves in our direction.
"Espionage is dirty business, ladies." He slapped his hands together as if brushing off the dust of his former life. "Most of what people don't want you to know they send out with the weekly trash." He started working the knot at the top of one of the bags. "How do they spend their money? Where and what do they eat? What kind of pills do they take? How much do they love their pets?"
He grabbed the corners at the bottom of the plastic and then jerked, upturning the bag in one fluid motion that was part birthday-party magician and part executioner. Garbage went everywhere, bursting free, taking up every inch of the long table. The stench was overwhelming, and for the second time in two weeks, I thought I might throw up within that classroom, but not Joe Solomon—he leaned closer, fingering the filth.
"Is he the type of person who does crosswords with a pen?" He dropped the paper and picked up an old envelope that was covered with pieces of eggshell. "What does she doodle when she's on the phone?" Finally, he reached deep within the pile of garbage and found an old Band-Aid. He held it toward the light, studying the semicircle of dried blood that stained the square of gauze. "Everything a person touches tells us something—pieces of the puzzles of their lives." He dropped the bandage back onto the pile and slapped his hands together.
"Welcome to the science of Garbology," he said with a grin.
Thursday morning it was raining. All day, the stone walls seemed to seep moisture. The heavy tapestries and great stone fireplaces didn't seem up to the challenge of fighting the chili. Dr. Fibs had needed Liz, Bex, and me to help him after school on Monday, and we'd had to trade Driver's Ed days with Tina, Courtney, and Eva. So instead of a sunny Indian summer afternoon, we were going to go driving under a sky that matched my mood. I stood waiting for Bex and Liz downstairs by the French doors that lead to the portico. I traced my initials into the condensation, but the water only beaded and ran down the pane.
Not everyone felt as dreary as the day looked, though, because when Liz appeared beside me, she cried, "This is great! I can't believe we're going to get to use the wipers!" I guess when you get published in Scientific American at the age of nine, you have a slightly skewed idea of fun.
Our feet splashed down the soggy grass as we cut across the lawn toward where Madame Dabney sat waiting in the car, its headlights already slicing through the gray as the wipers sloshed back and forth.
Fifteen minutes later, Madame Dabney was saying, "Um, Rebecca dear, perhaps you should…" Her voice trailed off, though, as Bex made yet another turn and ended up on the wrong side of the road. One might have expected a spy to lay on the emergency brake and knock Bex unconscious with a well-placed blow to the back of her head, but Madame Dabney merely said, "Yes, a right up here, dear… Oh, my…" and gripped the dashboard as Bex turned across traffic.
"Sorry," Bex yelled, presumably to the truck driver she'd cut off. "Keep forgetting they're over there, don't I?"
The rain had stopped, but the wheels made a wet, slick sound as they threw water up into the undercarriage of the car. The windows were fogged, and I couldn't see where we were going, which was kind of a blessing, because every time I caught a glance at the world around us, I saw another year of my life flash before my eyes.