Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (26 page)

Walking
through the narrow hallway, the sense of deja vu was strong as we passed stacks
of Winters-McHenry signs and catering carts—the backstage of the party—until
finally we broke free into a space with gilded mirrors and silk- covered walls.
It reminded me of Madame Dabney's tearoom and I realized that, in a way, our
school had been preparing us for that moment for the past four and a half
years.

A
normal girl might have looked at the ornate ceilings and wondered if anything
bad could ever happen in a place that beautiful. But we're Gallagher Girls. We
know better.

"Macey,"
Mom said to my roommate, not even looking at me. "Go with these agents.
Your parents are expecting you."

But
Macey didn't move, and I remembered that this was the world Macey had been
born
into. The world she'd
chosen
was a
shack by a lake.

"Go on, sweetheart,"
Mom urged.

Governor
Winters himself passed by just then—and I knew we were in the middle of one of
the most secure places in the country, and yet something hung in the air as my
mother said, "I need to talk to Cammie a—"

I'm
not sure what my mother would have said—what she would have told me—but she
never had a chance to finish, because in the next instant a cry of "There
you are" went through the room. The polls were closed, so maybe that's why
Cynthia McHenry didn't hesitate to snap at her daughter. "What
are
you
wearing?"

Macey
reached up as if she'd forgotten all about the red

wig.

"Protocol,
ma'am," one of the agents at Macey's side replied. "We thought it
best to keep your daughter disguised as we moved her from the school."

"Well,
she's in a secure area now," Macey's mother said, then started through the
ballroom, which was becoming fuller by the second. "Well, are you coming
or not?" she asked, wheeling on us all. Macey looked at us as if asking
for backup, but we knew that she had to go on alone.

She
took a step away, but I was so busy trying to decipher the worry in my mother's
eyes that I barely saw my friend move.

"Cam,
we need—" Mom started, but again she didn't get to finish.

"Mrs.
Morgan," Cynthia McHenry snapped. "Walk with me, please." Mom
could have said no. She could have walked away.

But
instead she said, "Wait
here,"
and I knew she wasn't just my
mother and headmistress—she was a Gallagher Girl, and she was going to cling to
her cover to the end.

PROS AND CONS ABOUT CRASHING A PRESIDENTIAL WATCH
PARTY:

PRO:
Secret Service personnel and members of the national media are everywhere, so
your mother can't yell at you for running away.

CON:
You know she will yell at you eventually, and the longer it builds up—the
worse.

PRO: People who have given up
sleeping, eating, and any kind of normalcy for two years (and/or vast amounts
of money) in order to make someone president, really don't skimp on the giant
shrimp for the food buffet.

CON:
People who have been campaigning and living out of suitcases, buses, and trains
for that amount of time also have a tendency to let their personal hygiene (not
to mention their respect for personal space) get a little, shall we say,
skewed.

PRO:
It turns out, political watch parties come with bands!

CON:
The bands play that same song from the campaign rallies over and over and over
again.

Spies
spend most of their time waiting. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. And
standing in that big ballroom that night, counting the balloons that hung in
the nets overhead (there were are least 7,345, by the way), I couldn't help but
think that we were experiencing the best covert operations training we've ever
had.

Bex
spent a good portion of the evening talking with an oil executive who we later
learned was guilty of insider trading (a few days later we hacked into the
Securities and Exchange Commission and left an anonymous tip, FYI). Liz used
her photographic memory to reread her copy of
Advanced
Encryption and You
in preparation for a big test in Mr. Mosckowitz's class.

But
all I could do was think about the look in my mother's eyes as Cynthia McHenry
pulled her away. I whispered, "Something's wrong."

"Cammie."
A voice sliced through my worries, so I turned around. "Hey, I thought
that was you," Preston said, making his way toward us.

Bex
eyed him up and down. Liz fiddled with her top. At the front of the room, the
announcer called everyone to silence, and ordered the sound on one of the
televisions to be turned up while an anchorman said, "Yes, it's official.
We are officially calling Ohio for Governor Winters and Senator McHenry."

A
massive cheer filled the ballroom. People raised their glasses to toast the
Buckeye state, but my mind was flashing back to the shadows beneath the
bleachers on a sunny day.

"So,
are you friends of Macey's too?" Preston asked, turning to Bex and Liz,
and I could actually feel my grade

in Culture and Assimilation take
a nosedive.

"Oh,
I'm sorry," I rushed to say. "Preston Winters, this is Rebecca."

"Bex," Bex corrected me
in her American accent.

"And
Liz," I said. Liz blushed but didn't say a word. "So, are you ready
for this to be over?" I asked, because…well, I was pretty sure I was
supposed to say
something.

He
looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, "Dying for it."

"I
have a feeling the Secret Service wouldn't like your choice of words," Bex
told him.

"I guess not." He
laughed.

All
around us I could feel the room changing as the night got later and the map on
the wall became divided down the battle lines of red and blue.

"Hey,"
Preston said, looking at me. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

I
glanced at Bex and Liz, who nodded for me to go, so the potential first son and
I walked to a quiet corner of a party. "I fully admit that what I'm about
to say will officially make me a girl." For a second, I forgot my fears
and laughed. "And I'm owning that," the boy in front of me carried
on. "So that's got to be worth something, right?"

"Right," I answered,
biting back a smile.

"But
it's just that I've got to ask you about…Does Macey ever
say
anything
about me?" he finally blurted.

Despite
my exceptional education, I totally didn't know how to answer his question.
Maybe it was because we'd spent more than a year trying to figure boys out, but
in all that time it had never crossed my mind that we might be just as
encrypted to them. But more likely, it was because I didn't have a clue what to
say.

"She
doesn't say much about any of this," I finally admitted, gesturing around
at the elaborate party—her other world. "It's not really…
her,
you know?"

Preston
smiled. He did know. And right then I knew that it wasn't really him either.

"Do
you ever think about Boston, Cammie?" he asked, but I didn't get a chance
to admit that I did think about it— too much. "I do," Preston said,
and then he smiled. "She's really something, isn't she?"

"Yeah," I said slowly.
"She really is."

He
looked at me then like I've been looked at maybe once or twice in my entire
life, and I felt the subtle tremor that comes with being truly seen.
"Something tells me she's not the only one."

"Preston—"
I started, but the potential first son just shook his head.

"Whatever
secrets you and Macey have, Cammie, I don't want to know them." He took a
step away but then stopped suddenly and moved closer. "Just tell me one
thing: does it involve Spandex?" He closed his eyes and a really goofy
look crossed his face. "Because in my mind it involves Spandex."

"Preston,"
I said, laughing and slapping him gently on the arm.

I
saw Macey walking toward Bex and Liz, and before I could say another word,
Preston made a beeline toward her.

"Jeez,
Preston." Macey rolled her eyes. "Don't you have

a—"

"Macey,"
Preston said, cutting her off, "I came over to say that if our dads win,
we're going to be seeing a lot of each other." Macey opened her mouth as
if to protest, but Preston didn't let her draw a breath. "And if they lose
… well, I think we still should see a lot of each other anyway. So there,"
he finished with a shrug. "That's all. You ladies enjoy the party."

And
with that he walked away, and all Liz, Bex, Macey, and I could do was watch him
go.

"Did
he seem a little …" Macey started, but it was up to Bex and Liz to finish.

"Hot?" they said in
unison.

Macey
nodded like maybe it was true, maybe it was okay to admit it, maybe—just
maybe—there might be an advantage to being the vice president's daughter after
all. But then her gaze shifted and there was a sparkle in her eye. "And
speaking of hot…" Macey said, "what's new with Zach?"

I
thought about Preston, who had just done one of the bravest things I'd ever
witnessed, and I realized that loving someone takes courage. It takes strength.
But I'd never been brave when it came to Zach—I'd never taken the chance or
said what I wanted to say. I thought of the way he'd looked at me at the
football game, and it suddenly seemed too late.

"I
don't think he likes me anymore. Maybe he never liked me. Maybe he just liked
…
a challenge?"

Macey shrugged. "It
happens."

"No,
Cam!" Liz protested. "Maybe he's just…" But she couldn't finish,
because the only way that sentence could end was badly.

"Well,
now's your chance to find out," Macey said as she pointed through the
crowd at the boy who stood in its center with his hands in his pockets, his
shoulders slumped as if he were the most harmless guy on earth.

"I
heard someone's playing hooky," Zach told me. He smiled. Standing there,
it felt almost like nothing bad had ever happened—or would ever happen again.

"There's
a boy in my life," I told him. "He's a very bad influence."

Then
Zach nodded. "Bad boys have a way of doing that. But they're worth
it."

The
ballroom was too hot and crowded. I felt almost dizzy as Zach leaned close to
me and whispered, "Can I talk to you?"

As
soon as I felt his hand in mine I forgot all about my mother's words. I didn't
think about my promise. I wanted someplace quiet, someplace cool. And most of
all, I wanted answers. So I let Zach lead me out a side door and onto a street
that had somehow become an alley, thanks to Secret Service perimeters and D.C.
blockades.

I
shivered and wrapped my arms around my chest and wished I'd brought a winter
coat. It suddenly seemed way too cold for the first Tuesday in November.

Someone
had propped open a door to the hotel, and I heard the band stop. Some other
state must have been called, because a moan rang through the night, but I
wasn't really listening. Not anymore.

Because it was dark.

And I was cold.

And
Zach was taking his jacket off and draping it around my shoulders, which
(according to Liz, who double-checked with Macey) is the single-sexiest thing a
guy can do.

His
hands stayed on my shoulders a second longer than they had to. The jacket was
warm and smelled like him. The wind blew harder, catching stray pieces of
confetti in the breeze and whirling them around us like a patriotic snowstorm.

That
was the moment when everything was supposed to be perfect.

After
all, really cute boy? Check. Dramatic, romantic setting? Check. Close proximity
without parental supervision? Double check.

But
nothing about Zach is a regular boy, just like nothing about me is a regular
girl, so instead, I looked at him and asked, "Why were you in
Boston?"

Zach
stepped back. He shook his head and looked down at the ground as he muttered,
"There are things I can't tell you, Gallagher Girl."

"Can't?" I asked.
"Or won't?"

But
Zach didn't answer. He just looked at me as if to say,
What's
the difference.

"Tell
me," I whispered, trying not to think about the fact that Zach wasn't
chasing me anymore. Instead, he was staring down at me, and for the first
time, I realized that he'd grown, that he was taller and stronger and not at
all the boy who had kissed me last spring.

"There are some things you
don't want to know."

I
know it sounds crazy, but I believed him. After all, I've lived my whole life
on a need-to-know basis, and right then I was willing to take Zach's word for it.
I was willing to believe.