"So," the boy said, pointing to the crest on my coat. "The Guggenheim Academy—"
"Gallagher Academy," I corrected.
"I've never heard of it."
Which was kind of the point, but I didn't say so. "Well, it's my school."
The elevator seemed to move slower and slower as the clock in my head ticked louder and louder, and I thought about how Mr. Solomon might make us walk back to Roseville if no one achieved our mission objectives.
"You in a hurry or something?" the boy asked.
"Actually, I'm supposed to meet my teacher at the ruby slipper exhibit. I've only got twenty minutes, and if I'm late, he'll kill me." (Not a lie, but maybe an exaggeration—I hoped.)
"How do you know?"
"Because he said, 'Meet me at the ruby slipper exhibit.'"
"No." The boy was smiling, shaking his head. "How do you know you only have twenty minutes? You're not wearing a watch."
"My friend just told me." The lie was smooth and easy, and I was a little bit proud of it, happy that I didn't have to think about how, in forty-five seconds, this boy had noticed something Josh hadn't seen in four months.
"You fidget a lot," he said.
Make that two things Josh hadn't seen.
"I'm sorry," I said, but I wasn't. "I have low blood sugar." Lie number three. "I need to eat something." Which wasn't really a lie, since…well… I was hungry.
And then stranger-boy totally knocked me for a loop, because he handed me a bag of M&M'S. "Here. I ate most of them already."
"Oh…um …" What was that I'd said about strangers with candy? "That's okay. Thanks, though."
He shoved the candy back in his pocket. "Oh," the boy said. "Okay."
We finally reached the surface, and the doors slid open onto the Mall, where dusk had somehow fallen in the last ten minutes.
"Thanks again for the candy." I darted outside, knowing that to be safe I couldn't take the most direct way to the museum—not yet. I had to—
Wait.
I was being followed!
But not in any kind of covert sense!
"Where are you going?" I said, spinning on the boy behind me.
"I thought we were going to meet your teacher in the wonderful world of Oz."
"We!"
"Sure. I'm going with you."
"No you're not," I snapped, because A) The aforementioned forklift thing, and B) I'm pretty sure bringing a boy to a clandestine rendezvous isn't in the CIA handbook.
"Look," the boy said confidently. "It's dark. You're by yourself. And this is D.C." Oh my gosh. It's like he had Grandma Morgan on speed-dial or something. "And you've only got"—he pondered it—"fifteen minutes to meet your teacher."
He was wrong by ninety seconds, but I didn't say so. All I knew was that I couldn't shake him—not without creating a lot more drama than letting him tag along was going to cause, so I just quickened my pace and said, "Fine."
As we walked against the cold wind, I told myself that this was good; this was fine. Nobody looking for a Gallagher Girl would expect me to be with a boy. He was cover. He was useful.
"You can really walk fast," he said, but I didn't say anything back. "So, do you have a name?" he asked, as if that were just the most innocent question ever. As if that isn't how broken hearts and broken covers always start.
"Sure. Lots of them."
That was probably the most truthful thing I'd told him yet, but the boy just smiled at me as if I were funny and flirty and cute. Let me tell you, I was none of those things, especially after not sleeping or eating, wearing a blindfold for an hour, then walking up and down the frozen Mall all day!
My nose was running. My feet were killing me. All I really wanted to do was get to Dorothy's slippers, click my heels together, and go home. But instead I had to put up with a boy who assumed I needed protecting. A boy with whom I could never "be myself." A boy who was staring at me as if he knew a secret—and worse—as if the secret was about me.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked.
At this point I should point out that I was pretty sure the boy was flirting with me! Or at least I thought he was flirting with me, but without running it by Macey (and maybe plugging a sample into the voice-stress analyzer that Liz had developed for this very purpose), there was no way I could be sure. Last semester I'd thought I was learning how to interpret boy-related things, but all I'd really learned was that Gallagher Girls shouldn't flirt with normal boys—not because we won't like them. But because we might like them too much. And that would be the worst thing of all.
"Look, thanks for the chivalry and all, but it really isn't necessary," I muttered what may have been the understatement of the century, since I'm pretty sure I could have killed him with my backpack. "It's just up here." I pointed to the Museum of American History, which stood gleaming twenty yards away. "And there's a cop over there."
"What?" the boy said, glancing at the D.C. police officer that stood at the corner of the street, "you think that guy can do a better job protecting you than I can?"
Actually, I thought Liz could have done a better job "protecting" me than he could, but instead I said, "No, I think if you don't leave me alone, I can scream and that cop will arrest you."
Somehow the boy seemed to know it was a joke…mostly. He stepped away and smiled. And for a moment I felt myself smile, too.
"Hey," I called to him, because, despite how annoying he was right then, a pang of guilt shot through my stomach. After all, he had been all knight-in-shining-armory. It wasn't his fault I'm not the kind of girl who needs saving. "Thanks anyway."