I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You

Chapter Fourteen

I don't know how I let them talk me into it. Well, I do, but you'll never hear me admit it out loud. Sneaking outside the campus grounds was one thing—that was merely a matter of memorizing the sweeping grids of the cameras, knowing the blind spots of the guards, and circumventing the motion detectors along the south wall. But wearing shoes that made the sneaking infinitely more difficult was something I will never be proud of. Sure, Macey's black boots elongated my legs and gave me an aura of Charlie's Angels-ness, but by the time I was in position on a park bench at the corner of the town square, my feet were sore, my ankle was twisted, and my nerves were shot.

Lucky for me, I had some time to collect myself. So. Much. Time.

Here's the thing you need to know about surveillance: it's boring. Sure, sometimes we blow stuff up and jump off buildings and/or moving trains, but most of the time we just hang around waiting for something to happen (a fact that almost never makes it into the movies), so I might have felt pretty silly if I were a normal girl and not a highly trained secret-agent-type person as I sat on that park bench, trying to act normal when, by definition, I'm anything but.

17:35 hours (that's five thirty-five p.m.): The Operative moved into position.

18:00 hours: The Operative was wishing she'd brought something to eat because she couldn't leave her post to go buy a candy bar, much less use the bathroom.

18:30 hours: The Operative realized it's almost impossible to look pretty and/or seductive if you SERIOUSLY have to go pee.

My homework for that night consisted of fifty pages of The Art of War, which needed translating into Arabic, a credit card—slash-fingerprint modifier that need perfecting for Dr. Fibs, and Madame Dabney had been dropping big pop-quiz hints at the end of C&A. Yet, there I was, rubbing my swelling ankle and thinking that I really should be getting CoveOps extra credit for this.

I looked at my watch again: seven forty-five. Okay, I thought, I'll give him until eight and then…

"Hi," I heard from behind me.

Oh, jeez- Oh, jeez. I couldn't turn around. Oh heck, I had to turn around.

"Cammie?" he said again as if it were a question.

I could have said hi back in fourteen different languages (and that's not including pig Latin). And yet I was speechless as he came to stand in front of me.

"Um … Oh … Um …"

"Josh," he said, pointing to himself as if he thought I'd forgotten.

How sweet is that? I know I'm no boy expert, but I have heard entire lectures on reading body language, and I have to say that assuming that a person will have forgotten your name is way high on my "indicators of humbleness" list (not that I have one, but I totally have a starting point now).

"Hi."

I said that in English, didn't I? It wasn't Arabic or French? Oh, please, God in Heaven, don't let him think I'm an exchange student … or worse, a girl who knows, like, three words of a foreign language and goes around using them all the time just to prove how smart/cultured/generally better than everyone else she is.

"I saw you sitting over here," he said. Okay, looks like we're good on the English thing. "I haven't seen you around at all lately."

"Oh." I shot upright. "I was in Mongolia."

Note to self: learn to be a less extreme liar.

"With the Peace Corps," I said slowly. "My parents are big into that. That's when they started the homeschooling thing," I said, remembering my legend, feeling the momentum.

"Wow. That's so cool," he said.

"It is?" I asked, wondering if he was serious. But he was smiling, so I said, "Oh, yeah. It is."

He slid onto the seat beside me. "So, have you lived, like, a lot of places?"

I've traveled quite a bit, but I've actually only lived three places: a Nebraska ranch, a school for geniuses, and a D.C. town house. Luckily, I'm an excellent liar with a very thorough legend. Four years' worth of COW lessons swam in my head, and I went for some of the highlights. "Thailand's really beautiful."

"Wow."

Then I remembered Macey's don't be cooler than he is advice. "It was long time ago," I said. "It wasn't a big thing."

"But you live here now?"

The Subject likes to state the obvious, which may signify a defect in observation skills and/or short-term memory?

"Yeah." I nodded. And then things got quiet—painfully quiet. "I'm waiting on my mom," I blurted, finally remembering my cover story. "She takes a class at night … at the library." I gestured to the red brick building across the square. "And I like to come into town with her because I don't get out much, thanks to my nontraditional education."

The Subject has really blue eyes that twinkle when he looks at someone like she's maybe a little bit insane.

After a long stretch of really awkward silence, he stood up and said, "I gotta go." I wanted to beg him not to leave, but even I knew that might come off as a tad bit desperate. He stepped away, and I didn't know how to stop him (well, I did, but several of the moves I had in mind are really only legal during times of war).

"Hey," he said, "what's your last name?"

"Solomon," I blurted.

Ew! A large portion of my future government salary will someday be spent trying to understand why I chose that name at this moment, but it was out there and I couldn't take it back.

"Are you, like, in the book?"

The book? What book?

He laughed and stepped closer. "Can I call you?" he asked, reading the confusion on my face.

Josh was asking if he could call me! He wanted my phone number! What it meant—truly and irrevocably meant—I didn't know. But I felt very safe in ruling out the possibility that he thought I was "nobody." Still, that didn't change the fact that the last phone I used doubles as a stun gun (so for obvious reasons I probably shouldn't give him the number of that one).

I said, "No." But then the most amazing thing happened: Josh looked totally sad! It was as if I'd run over his puppy (though no actual puppies were harmed in the formation of that metaphor).

I was shocked. I was amazed. I was drunk on power!

"No!" I said again. "Not, 'no you can't call me.' I meant, 'no, you can't call me.'" Then, seeing his confusion, I added, "There are strict rules at my house." Not a lie.

He nodded, faking understanding, then asked, "What about e-mail?"

I shook my head.

"I see."

"I'll be back here tomorrow," I blurted, stopping him in his tracks. "My mom, she has class again. I'll…"

"Okay." He nodded, then turned to go. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I yelled at Macey, though it wasn't her fault. I mean, if a boy gets all gooey and disappointed because you won't give him your phone number and then you tell him you will be at a designated place at a designated time—therein eliminating the need for a phone number—and he says "maybe" he'll see you there? That's cause to yell—isn't it?

"Maybe?" I yelled again, which might have been overkill since I'd had the whole walk back to school to simmer in his words, and my roommates were hearing them for the first time.

Liz was wearing the same expression she gets whenever Dr. Fibs tells us we'll be needing our gas masks for class— equal parts fear and euphoria. Macey was doing her nails, and Bex was doing yoga in the corner of the room.

Most people are supposed to get calmer with deep breathing and inner reflection—not Bex. "I could take him out," she offered, and if she hadn't been twisted up like a pretzel at the time, I might have worried more about it. After all, she knew where he lived.

"Well…" Liz stammered. "I supposed you'll just have to go, and then if he shows, it means he likes you."

"Wrong," Macey said, making a buzzer sound as she flipped through a textbook. "If he comes, it means he's curious—or bored—but probably curious."

"But when will we know if he likes her?" Liz pleaded.

Macey rolled her big, blue, beautiful eyes. "That's not the question," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The question is—how much?"

Is there no end to the things we have to learn?