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

Chapter Eighteen

Pros and cons of being a girl-genius-slash-spy-in-training-slash-girlfriend of cutest-slash-nicest-slash-sweetest boy in the world:

PRO: ability to tell the boy how you feel in any of fourteen different languages.

CON: boy cannot understand any of the languages (well, except English, of course, but even then he speaks with the highly specialized and often untranslatable "boy" dialect).

PRO: when boy is having trouble with his chemistry project, you can meet him at the library and help him study.

CON: you can't help him too much because it's kind of hard to explain how you're doing PhD-level chemistry in the tenth grade.

PRO: the look on your boyfriend's face when he surprises you with an assortment of cat toys and asks, "Do you think Suzie will like them?"

CON: knowing there is no Suzie, and you can never tell him that.

Three weeks later I was sitting in the Grand Hall, listening to my classmates talk about how they were going to use their Saturday night to catch up on movies (or homework … but mostly movies), when Liz came in and dropped about a dozen textbooks on the table so hard my fork jumped off my plate.

"Are you ready for this?" she said, her voice reverberating with glee. "We've got a little Chang, a little Mulvaney, a lot of Strendesky, some—"

"Liz," I said, really hating what had to come next. "Oh, gee, Liz, I thought you knew…I've got plans with—"

"Josh," she finished for me. She picked up a copy of A Mayan's Guide to Molecular Regeneration that had fallen to the floor and added it to the top of the stack. "This project's due on Wednesday, Cam."

"I know."

"It's thirty percent of our midterm grade."

"I know. I'm gonna work on it…" But I didn't know when. I hadn't thought about it once since Dr. Fibs assigned it three weeks ago—the Monday after my first date with Josh. I was taking life one day, one outfit, one date at a time.

The Grand Hall was starting to empty as some girls went to grab dessert and others headed upstairs or outside. I glanced at my watch and got up. "Look, Josh has got something planned, okay? It's this whole surprise thing he's been talking about and … I think it's a big deal. It'll be okay. I'll do the project tomorrow." That was what I'd said yesterday.

But Liz didn't remind me of that. She just nodded and told me to be careful as I dashed out of the Grand Hall and toward the library, where, if you push against the D-F shelf while pulling on a copy of Downing's Modem Uses for Ancient Weapons, you can slip into my second favorite passageway.

That is, unless Mr. Solomon is in the library.

"Hello, Ms. Morgan," Mr. Solomon said, stopping me in my tracks. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know about any of the secret passageways—especially that one, since it took me two full years to find it—but still it totally freaked me out to turn around and see him standing there.

"And what are you up to this fine evening?" He shoved both hands into his pockets, then leaned forward. "Hot date?"

I'm pretty sure that was Joe Solomon's attempt at male-role-model humor, but it still didn't stop me from making a noise that sounded like hahahahahaha. Yeah. I know. How covert am I?

"Oh, I was just… Um …"

"Hey, kiddo," I heard from behind me. "Were you looking for me?"

The library is probably my favorite room in the mansion. It has a huge stone fireplace in the middle of a two-story circular space that's filled with study tables and big comfy armchairs. Overhead, a second-story balcony overlooks everything, and that's where I saw my mother.

She started down the stairs, a book of poetry in her hands, and I thought she looked like the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She reached the main floor and slipped her arm around me. "I was just coming to find you."

"Uh, you were?"

And then I remembered Joe Solomon who was standing there, looking on.

"Well then," he said, taking a step toward the door. "I'll leave you two girls alone."

Okay, I'm not sure, but I think my mom could totally take Joe Solomon, and as soon as he called her a "girl" I thought for sure I'd see the proof. But Mom didn't say anything. She didn't pin his arm behind his back or jump into the air and slash him across the face with one of her high-heeled black boots (a move I totally want to perfect someday—just as soon as I can borrow those boots). Oh, no, she just smiled at him. Like a Thanks, I can take it from here smile.

I felt sick. She pulled me into the hall and walked with me toward the chapel. Behind me, I heard the scrape of forks on plates and dinner chatter (in Farsi) as we passed the Great Hall. She looped her arm through mine and said, "I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight."

Okay, so I know I have lots of different languages at my disposal and everything, but I honestly didn't understand what my mother was asking. It was weird— not like Nazi-submarine-in-the-lake weird, but someone's-been-watching-too-many-made-for-TV-movies weird.

"Or not," she jumped to say when she read my bewildered expression. "I just thought you might want to go into town or something."

Well, actually, I did want to go to town—just not with her. In fact, I was already wearing lipstick, and an outfit was stashed in the tunnel. Josh had sounded so excited when he'd said, "Now, you're coming Saturday night, right? You don't have to do something with your parents, do you?"

I'd said no, but now my mother was asking me to do just that. I looked into her eyes—her beautiful eyes that have seen horrors and miracles and all things in between, and then I said, "I'm pretty tired." Technically not a lie.

"Something low-key, then," she said with all her super-spy persistence. "Maybe a movie?"

"I…" I am a terrible person. "I… See, I've got to …"

Then I heard a voice behind me. "Cammie promised to help me with my organic chemistry paper."

I turned to see Macey McHenry strolling my way. Her face was blank, her tone perfectly normal. Macey might have been behind the curve academically, but when it came to the lyin' side of spyin', the girl was a natural. (And the fact that Tina Walters swears she hijacked a sheik's yacht in the Mediterranean probably played into that a little bit.)

Mom looked at Macey and then back at me. "Oh," she said, but her smile seemed a little forced and her tone a little sad as she lowered her voice and rubbed my arms. "Okay. I just didn't want you to be alone tonight."

Alone? When am I ever alone? I live in a mansion with about a hundred girls, and except for when I'm in my secret room or one of the window seats or by myself in the loft of the P&E barn or … Okay, so sometimes I'm alone.

Macey slipped away, and Mom watched her go. "I know it hasn't been easy … with her. But I'm proud of you, kiddo." She hugged me again. It was a hug that lingered, like there might not be another one for a long, long time, and I wished for a second that I didn't have to pull away so soon. Or ever. But I did anyway. Josh was waiting.

"Supper?" I asked. "Tomorrow night?"

"Sure thing, kiddo," Mom said as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I turned and headed down the corridor, my footsteps thankfully louder than my thoughts. That is, until I turned the corner in the long stone corridor and ran right into Macey.

She was leaning against the wall, hands on hips as she looked at me. "I don't like lying to your mom," she said. "I'll lie to mine, but not yours. That's messed up." Then Macey let out a low, soft laugh, pushed off from the wall and studied me. "I hope he's worth it."

"He is," I whispered.

She stopped just before she passed me. "Really? He is? 'Cause I don't see what's so special about him that you'd risk losing what you've got."

It was a good question. A great question, especially if you're Macey McHenry and everything in life has been given to you but nothing has been earned. If the world looks at your slick, plastic shell and expects there to be nothing but candy inside. If this is your one and only shot at being part of a family—despite your famous last name. Yeah. Then that's a really good question.

"He's just…" I tried, wanting to say "sweet" or "caring" or "funny"—because they're all totally true. But instead, I said, "He's just a normal boy."

"Hmph," Macey scoffed. "I know lots of normal boys."

I looked at her. "I don't."