Okay. I should be typing FST, but I thought I would enchant your lives by giving you a Gallagher Girl oneshot. Here ya go.
Listening: I caught Fire by the Used
When I first heard that I -I mean Cammie, Liz, and I- would be leading the first op in our CoveOps class, my heart leaped out of rejoice. I had been waiting and training for this day for a while; maybe even forever.
Cammie's eyes met mine and locked in ecstasy. Cammie was probably thinking about how this wasn't punishment for my previous actions, it was the greatest reward possible! I didn't regret what I had almost done to Macey. When you insult one of my friends -especially Liz- I'm going to kick your arse. I didn't care if you were Joe Solomon. Liz had some soft skin and naivety so if you made any move to take that away from her, it would be the last move you ever made.
My mind began to whirl out of control with the possibilities of tonight. Cammie looked stoked; surprise, surprise. And Liz? Liz was looking down at her flash cards but I could tell that she wasn't really seeing them. To most people, there wasn't much of a difference, but to me and people like me, the difference was as clear as day and night. Looking could just be taking a glance at something. It was, by definition, the use of one's eye. Seeing, was actually taking in detail about something.
The rest of the classes breezed by, and even though my teachers attempted, without even knowing, to distract me, I could not help but anticipate what would happen. Like Liz said at lunch, anything could be out there, and even though that thought scared her, it thrilled me to no end. The thought of the unknown was both nerve-wracking, and amazing. My father once told me, "Surprises may mess up everything and be bad in general, but that's what the life of a spy revolves around." And that was one hundred and eleven percent true. Surprises, as a rule, are bad. Not having the knowledge of what is going to happen, is very, very wrong. But as a spy, we would all be out of jobs and ways of living if there were no surprises. If the U.S. government -or any government- didn't need protection from surprise attacks, where would we be right now? I'll tell you. Wasting away in a tenth grade Biology class, dissecting frogs and gossiping about whose going out with whom. We would be bored out of our genius minds. But with surprises, we took classes like conversational Swahili, and learned how to send coded messages in the cup of a bra. Now you tell me, which sounds more appealing?
It was all of this knowledge -well not really the Swahili, or coded cup messages- that led me to slip into a dark pair of blue jeans, and a forest green t-shirt. I combed my mid-length, black hair and pulled it back into a low ponytail. I was ready. Cammie looked good with one of her mother's old tops on and a simple pair of jeans. Liz looked insane, but she vehemently disagreed with us and her argument was that she wanted to be prepared for anything.
I was about to point out that we probably would not be in need of a pill-box hat unless we were going to some sixty's party. But as soon as I opened my mouth, Tina Walters came rushing into the room. She was holding up a pair of black leather pants, and a mini-skirt, asking us which one looked better. On many occasions, I am humored by the way Americans think. A teacher tells you not to wear your uniform, and you automatically think to dress like a street-walker. Tina Walters, the daughter of two CIA agents really wasn't thinking this through. The real question was which one would blend in more.
I was about to tell her this, when Eva Alvarez runs in asking about a pair of high heeled boots that were extremely hot, but completely painful looking.
"Umm, Eva, can you run in those?" Cammie asked logically and before Eva could respond, Macey lookes up from her magazine and says, "They're all the rage in Milan."
I turned to stare at her trying to let her know that she really didn't have anything of importance to add. "If you want to know." She added and if seemed as if her voice was pointed directly at me.
Within the next few minutes, most of the Sophomore class was crammed in our tiny suite shouting questions and putting on anything and everything in sight. What the bloody hell just happened? I questioned myself as Cammie tried to get everyone back to their super senses.
I had squished myself next to Liz, feeling amazed at the runway show taking place before our eyes.
Over the buzz of our closest friends, I faintly heard Cammie shout, "Hey!", but no one was listening. Seconds later, she was whistling loud enough to resemble a tea kettle. Everyone finally turned away from Macey, and Cammie ominously said, "It's time."
We were done playing dress-up and everyone knew it.
/*-/*-/*-/*-
"Hello ladies." Our new CoveOps teacher told us in a voice that let me know that he had never seen so many make-up covered fifteen year old girls in his life. "Don't you all look very..." He paused and let his jaw drop slightly, probably thinking of how ridiculous everyone looked. "Nice." He finished, trying to regain some pseudo-composure. He slapped his calloused hands together to stop the shaking, but his voice gave everything away. "Well, very big night. Very big. For..." He paused again. "All of us."
I glanced over and saw innocent little Mr. Moskowitz pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and staring nervously past the driveway of the lit mansion.
There was a frightening tension that hung in the air as everyone came to one common thought: we had no idea what was out there. Most of us knew that the woods surrounding Gallagher were a minefield -possibly literally- and my pulse kicked up beyond a normal level. There's an American saying that the possibilities were endless, but no one really understood that until they were in a position that resembled mine. Anything could be out there right now. Anything. And that thought thrilled me and frightened me to no end.
Suddenly, a large olive colored delivery truck came roaring toward us. Where's the fire? I wondered as Mr. Solomon flung the door in and yelled, "get in!" I was reminded of Covert Operations rule #1 as I jumped through the cargo doors. I didn't see any monitors or headsets, so I was curious as to where Joe had gotten this van. All of the ones belonging to Gallagher, were decked out in spy gear and everything else you would see in a James Bond movie.
"First rule," he warned us as we got semi-comfortable, "don't touch any of the packages." Mr. Solomon crawled in after us and Mr. Moskowitz was still outside looking a little star-struck. "Harvey?" He said softly but with an impatient edge to his voice. "Clock's ticking." And with that, he threw Mr M the keys.
"Oh!" He exclaimed snapping out of his daze. "Yep. Sure thing. I'll see you," he gestured to all of us. "Out there."
I love Mr. Moskowitz, I really do. He's so naive and unexperienced.
"No, you won't, Harvey." Mr. Solomon said with a soft smile in his silky voice. "That's the idea."
/*-/*-/*-/*-
Was I insane for thinking that this wasn't how I imagined my second -yes, yes, second- time in the dark with a guy as handsome as Mr. Solomon?
"Operatives in deep cover will be given false histories." he shot at us through the blanket of darkness that touched everything. "These histories, including names, dates of birth, and favorite kindergarten teachers, are called..." He paused for us to finish.
"Legends!" Lix exclaimed. As long as there was a question and answer, she wouldn't start hyperventilating. I think.
"Very good, Ms. Sutton." He said trying to hide his smirk. "For this mission, ladies, you will be posing as normal teenage girls. Think you can handle that?" He asked in all seriousness. "When conducting manual surveillance on a subject in a three-man rotation, the person with visual contact is the..."
"Eyeball!"
"Correct. The person within sight of the eyeball is the..."
"Backup."
"And the final person?"
"The reserve." We all droned.
"Very good. Now remember, rotate frequently, but not too frequently. Vary your pace, and above all..."
The truck came to a stop and I heard the engine turn off.
Above all, what? I wanted to shout. My first covert operation, my first hint at what goes on in the real world, and he forgets to tell us what the most important thing is? What sort of teacher does that?
Mr. Solomon moved a television monitor to a shelf in front of us and fiddled with some wires. "In the field ladies, you can never expect things to go as planned. I fully expect you to master the ability to improvise. For example, tonights mission requires a vehicle not owned by the Gallagher Academy, So-" he motioned all around us. "I made alternative arrangements." As he finished his sentence, I got the visual of Joe Solomon slinking around and hopping into the van while the unsuspecting driver ate a normal dinner with his normal family.
He began to pass earpieces to Liz, Cammie, and me, and said, "Basic comms units. Don't be afraid to use them." Even if it looks like you're talking to yourself. Then he showed us a pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses, an "I heart Roseville" button, and a necklace with a silver cross. "There are cameras contained within these three items, which will allow us to follow and critique your progress." The cross swung back and forth on his forefinger, and the image of my mates and class swung back to and fro. "These are for our benefit tonight -it's just a teaching exercise, ladies, but don't expect us to come to your rescue."
As soon as he finished his speaking, the tension and fear began to claw its way into my heart, making my blood pump faster. I saw Cammie look around, her eyes wide with fright. My leg began to twitch, a nervous habit. Liz started to wring her hands like you see in all those paper towel commercials.
The music level increased as Mr. Moskowitz peeked in to see us. "They're close." He said dismally.
Mr. Solomon plugged a green wire into a speaker, and the next second I heard Rachel Morgan's voice join the carnival music. "It's great weather for running." She said, and I instantly wanted it to be 11:11 so I could wish that we wouldn't be trailing her.
Boy, did I ever regret wishing that when I heard the next voice.
Mr. Solomon turned back to us and said, "There are three types of subjects who will always be the most difficult to surveil." He counted them off on his fingers. "People who are trained. People who suspect they may be followed. And people you know." He paused to look at my mates and I. "Ladies, this is your lucky night." He pulled a black-and-white photo from his jacket and held it up. The face was new to us even though we had seen the man everyday since seventh grade. The recognizable voice blared through the speakers.
"Yes, I should probably get back into that habit myself."
"Oh bollocks!" I exclaimed and Liz dropped her flashcards.
"Smith!" Cammie shouted. "You expect us to recon professor Smith?"
A team of CIA all-stars would get made in twenty minutes. Three Gallagher girls with only the blood running through their veins as training didn't stand a chance.
"But... but... but... he never leaves the grounds." Cammie stammered trying to come up with something in our defense. "He would never go into an unsecured area on a whim. This goes against the subject's pattern of behavior!" She said pulling information from the flashcards lying on the floor.
Mr. Solomon smiled. He knew this was an impossible mission. That's why he assigned it to us. "Trust me. ladies," he said with respect, "no one knows Mr. Smith's pattern of behavior." He tossed a thick manila file to us that held the information we needed. "The one thing we do know is that tonight is the Roseville town carnival, and Mr. Smith, for good or bad, is a man who loves his funnel cakes."
"Well, have fun." Rachel's voice wafted through the speakers and I imagined what the people on the street saw. A beautiful woman, waving to a friend and then taking off into a pun in the crisp air of Autumn.
"Your mission," Mr. Solomon started, "is to find out what he drinks with those funnel cakes." He finished and I tried to not let out a gust of disappointment. My first operation, and it was for what? A beverage?
"Subject's at the firehouse, wise guy." Rachel whispered to all of us. "He's all yours."
That's right Mrs. Morgan, he was.
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