I thought about Josh appearing in the abandoned warehouse during finals week, bursting through walls and commandeering a forklift to "save" me, so I swallowed hard as I said, "Yes."
"And was The Subject given memory-modification tea to erase the events of that night?"
It sounded so easy coming from him, so black-and-white. Sure, my mom gave Josh some tea that's supposed to wipe a person's memory blank, erase a few hours of their life, and give everyone a clean slate. But clean slates are a rare thing in any life—especially a spy's life—so I didn't let myself wonder for the millionth time what Josh remembered about that night, about me. I didn't torture myself with any of the questions that might never have answers as I sat there, knowing that there is no such thing as black-and-white—remembering that my whole life is, by definition, a little bit gray.
I nodded, then muttered, "Yes." Like it or not, I knew I had to say the word out loud.
He made some more notes, punched some keys. "Are you currently involved with The Subject in any way?"
"No," I blurted, because I knew that much was true. I hadn't seen Josh, hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even hacked into his e-mail account over winter break, which, given present circumstances, turned out to be a pretty good thing. (Plus, I had spent the last two weeks in Nebraska with Grandpa and Grandma Morgan, and they have dial-up, which takes forever!)
Then the man in the wire-rim glasses looked away from the screen and straight into my eyes. "And do you intend to reinitiate contact with The Subject despite strict rules prohibiting such a relationship?"
There it was: the question I'd pondered for weeks.
There I was: Cammie the Chameleon—the Gallagher Girl who had risked the most sacred sisterhood in the history of espionage. For a boy.
"Ms. Morgan," Polygraph Guy said, growing impatient, "are you going to reinitiate contact with The Subject?"
"No," I said softly.
Then I glanced back at the screen to see if I was lying.
Chapter Two
If you've ever been debriefed by the CIA, then you probably know exactly how I felt two hours later as I sat in the backseat of a limousine, watching city give way to suburbs and suburbs to countryside. Dirty piles of blackened ice became thick blankets of lush white snow, and the world seemed clean and new—ready for a fresh start.
I was through with lying (except for official cover stories, of course). And sneaking around (well…except when involved in covert operations). I was going to be normal! (Or as normal as a student at spy school ever gets a chance to be.)
I was going to be … myself.
I looked at my mother and reiterated the promise that I would never let a boy come between me and my family or my friends or matters of national security ever again. Then I realized that she'd hardly said a word since we'd left D.C. "I did okay, didn't I?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Of course, sweetie. You aced it."
Which, not to sound conceited or anything, I kind of already knew, because A) I've always tested well, and B) people who fail polygraphs don't usually walk out of top-secret facilities and get driven back to spy school.
Then I thought about the one-way glass. "You got to watch, didn't you?" I asked, fully expecting her to say, You were great, sweetie, or I think this might be worth some extra credit, or Remember, breathing is key when you're being interrogated with a TruthMaster 3000. But no. She didn't say any of those things.
Instead, my mother just placed her hand over mine and said, "No, Cam. I'm afraid I had some things to do."
Things? My mother had missed my first official government interrogation because of … things?
I might have asked for details, begged her to explain how she could miss such a milestone in a young spy's life, but I know the things my mother does typically involve national security, fake passports, and the occasional batch of weapons-grade plutonium, so I said, "Oh. Okay," knowing I shouldn't feel hurt, but feeling it anyway.
We sat in silence until there was nothing to see outside my window but the tall stone fences that circle the Gallagher Academy grounds. Home.
I felt the limo slow and stop behind the long line of nearly identical chauffeured cars that brought us back to school each semester. It had been more than a century since Gillian Gallagher had decided to turn her family's mansion into an elite boarding school, and even then, after more than a hundred years of educating exceptional young women, no one in the town of Roseville, Virginia, had a clue just how exceptional we really were. Not even my ex-boyfriend.
"Tell me everything!" someone cried as soon as I opened the limo door. Sunlight bounced off the snow, blinding me before I could focus on my best friend's face. Bex's caramel-colored eyes bore into me, her brown skin glowed, and, as usual, she looked like an Egyptian goddess. "Was it awesome?"
She stepped aside as I crawled out of the car, but didn't pause because…well…Bex doesn't exactly have a pause. She has a play and a fast-forward and occasionally a rewind, but Rebecca Baxter didn't become the first non-American Gallagher Girl in history by standing still.
"Did they grill you?" she continued. Then her eyes went wide and her accent grew heavy. "Was there torture?"
Well, of course there wasn't torture; but before I could say so, Bex exclaimed, "I bet it was bloody brilliant!" Most little girls in England grow up wanting to marry a prince. Bex grew up wanting to kick James Bond's butt and assume his double-0 ranking.
My mom walked around the side of the car. "Good afternoon, Rebecca. I trust you made it back from the airport okay?" And then, despite the bright sun that glowed around us, a shadow seemed to cross my best friend's face.