"It doesn't mean anything," my mom soothed, but I heard traces of the woman I'd seen the night before—traces I probably wouldn't have heard twenty-four hours earlier, but I knew they were there now, and I'd be listening for them for the rest of my life.
"Bex …" I muttered.
"We were just talking about her, Cam," Mom said. "We don't know what to do."
Say what you will about spies, but they don't do anything halfway. Our lies come complete with Social Security numbers and fake IDs, and our truths cut like Spanish steel. I knew what my mom was saying. I knew why she risked saying it to me. The Gallagher Academy was made of stone, but news like that could burn it to the ground as quickly as if it were built out of newspapers and painted with gasoline.
"Cam"—Mom sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me—"this has happened before, of course, but each case is different, and you know Bex better than anyone—"
"Don't tell her." The words surprised even me. I know we're supposed to be tough and hardened and in the process of being prepared for anything, but I didn't want her to know just because we were too weak to carry the secret on our own. I looked at my mother again, remembered how long it takes some wounds to heal, and realized there would be plenty of time for grieving.
Bex's father was thousands of miles away, but she still had the promise of him. Who was I to take that away too soon? What would I have given for a few extra hours of it myself?
"Hey," Macey McHenry said behind me, and I instantly regretted showing her the small, ancient corridor and telling her it was a great place to study. "That had better not be because of a boy."
She dropped her stack of books beside me, but I couldn't look at her. Instead, I just sat there wiping away the tears I was crying quietly for Bex's father—swallowing the tears I was crying for my own. A long time passed. I don't know—maybe like a millennium or something—before Macey nudged me with her knee and said, "Spill."
Say what you will about Macey McHenry, but she really doesn't beat around the bush. A superspy would have lied to her—good lies, too. But I couldn't. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was PMS, but something made me look up at Macey and say, "Bex's dad is missing. He might be dead."
Macey slid to sit beside me. "You can't tell her."
"I know," I said, and then I blew my nose.
"When will they know for sure?"
"I don't know." And I didn't. "Could be days. Could be months. He hasn't called his handler. If he calls, then …"
"We can't tell her."
Of course we couldn't, but something about that statement made me stop and look at her. I thought back on it, and for the first time, I heard the we. There were things I couldn't tell my mother, things I couldn't tell my boyfriend, and things I couldn't tell my friends. But sitting there with Macey McHenry, I realized for the first time that someone knew all my secrets—that I wasn't entirely alone.
Macey stood and started to walk away. "Cammie, no offense …" When someone like Macey McHenry says "no offense" it's almost impossible for someone like me not to be offended by what she says next, but I tried. "… but don't go up there now. You look like hell, and she'll see it."
I wasn't offended. I was actually glad she'd said it, because it was true and I might not have realized it if Macey hadn't said so.
Macey walked away, and I sat there for a long time— thinking. I remembered the time my dad took me to the circus. For two hours we sat side by side, watching the clowns and cheering for the lion tamer. But the part I remember most was when a man stepped out onto the high wire, fifty feet above the ground. By the time he reached the other side, five other people had climbed onto his shoulders, but I wasn't watching him—I was too busy staring at my father, who looked on as if he knew what it felt like, up there without a net.
Sitting there that day, I knew that the only thing I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, hoping none of the secrets on my shoulders would make me lose my balance.
Chapter Twenty-two
"Eyes closed," Mr. Solomon commanded again, and we followed his instructions.
The projector purred behind me. I felt its white light slicing through the room as we cinched our eyes together and trained our minds to recall even the most minute details of the things we had just seen. I thought about the photo of a supermarket parking lot as Mr. Solomon said, "Ms. Alvarez, what's wrong with this picture?"
"The blue van has handicapped plates," Eva said. "But it's parked at the back of the lot."
"Correct. Next picture." The projector clicked, the image changed, and we had two seconds to study the photo that flashed before our eyes.
"Ms. Baxter?" Mr. Solomon asked. "What's wrong here?"
"The umbrella," Bex said. "There's rain on the window and the coat on the hook is damp, but the umbrella is bundled up. Most people leave them open to dry."
"Very good."
When we opened our eyes, I didn't look at the screen, I looked at our teacher and wondered yet again how he could talk to Bex, challenge her as if nothing in the world was wrong. I didn't know whether to envy him or hate him, but I didn't have time for either, because he was saying, "Eyes closed." I heard him take a step, and I wanted to know how he could stand there when all I wanted to do was run away. "Ms. Morgan, what's wrong with this picture?"
"Um … I didn't… I mean, I'm …"
What was wrong was that I hadn't been able to look my best friend in the eye for days. What was wrong was that people like Abe Baxter live and die, and the whole world goes on—never knowing what they've sacrificed. There was so much wrong that I didn't know where to start.