I was on the run.
Gone without a trace.
It was all too much.
Even for Cammie Morgan.
Even for me.
I left to keep them safe.
All of them.
Now I wish I hadn't.
But it's too late now.
Way too late.
Cammie's POV—obviously
Discretely, I swiped the morning paper and ran down the block, laughing like a maniac like I most often do.
Life in the city was great! No COC, nothing after me at all. I ripped a chunk of paper from the sports section, not caring who won the 37th annual superbowl. Eh, I never was a football fan. Soccer is my sport, if I even have one. That's the only 'real' sport that I know how to play.
I took a pen out of a passing businessman's pocket and started to write a letter to Bex, Liz, and Macey. He never even noticed. NYC, the ultimate test for any pavement artist.
My handwriting was messy after six months away from Language Arts class. I grabbed a sticky old stamp from my messenger bag and slapped it onto the envelope. Then I threw it into a mailbox in the post office.
Then I was back on the street, minding my own business. Or… almost. A shiver went up my spine to alert my brain. I knew that feeling. I was being followed. Tailed, a term I hadn't used in a while.
I stood up straighter and as I walked behind a pole I silently switched directions, quickly putting on lipstick, heels, and a gym outfit. I started hurrying along, and went over to the nearest convenience store, running up to the clerk out of breath.
"Hi," I say in the most adult voice that I can muster. The young man, around 18, took a quick intake of breath. "What is the number of the nearest YMCA?" I ask. If there's one thing I ever learned at Gallagher, it's how to be a cell phony.
"Oh, um, here." He grabbed a piece of scratch paper and started writing frantically. When he was done he shoved the paper at me. I saw two numbers.
"Um, the second one is mine," he explained. I gave him an award-winning smile and strutted out the door. Before I left, I scanned the people behind the window. Only one person seemed to be looking at me at all. A young boy, around my age maybe. But weirdly enough, I recognized him from somewhere. Trust me, that is in no way good. At all.
I took out one of my cell phones (swiped) and called Bex. Even though I knew her number by heart, I stared intently at the page the whole time, looking and then punching in the numbers (wrong of course, since they were Bex's not the gym's). Then when Bex answered saying "Hello," I started faking.
"Hi, are you the manager of the YMCA on 32nd and 5th?" I asked. I didn't think there was a gym there, but what the hey. Bex caught on quickly.
"Yes, Mrs. Sandra O'Neal, how may I help you, love?" The Irish accent was a little much until I noticed that O'Neal was an Irish name. Sometimes I can be a little slow. I took a compact out of my bag and looked in the tiny mirror while I pretended to put on makeup. Me? Makeup? No way.
"Does your gym have kickboxing classes?" I sounded very intent. Good. Finally I found the boy in the mirror. He had out a high tech hacking phone. I zoomed in on the signal on the back and recognized it immediately. Oh, no. Blackthorn academy for boys. Or, well, assassins (sorry for the spoiler).
I took a look back up at the boy in the mirror. A million Blackthorn faces zoomed through my mind, desperately searching for a match. All spies have one signature thing that they forgot to disguise. He would be in there somewhere.
I heard a tiny beep in the phone and a quick breath, obviously the boy. I knew who it sounded like, but it wasn't him. I knew it wasn't Zach. Zach would hide better.
It wasn't Zach, I realized immediately.
It was Grant.
After this discovery, I sped ahead silently, still acting on the cell.
"Well, yes, we do have cardiovascular and kickboxing classes all throughout the day," Bex answered. Thank God that we took theater lessons as an elective in our first year at Gallagher.
"When is your next class? I would love to take it if you have room."
"Our next one is at 10:15. You're welcome here anytime though. We love new lassies here at the Y. Would you like to apply for a membership?"
"Maybe later. Thank you Ms. Sandra for the info. I'll be seeing you around."
"Yes, yes. Have a great day, love."
Shortly after that I heard a tiny little beep as Grant dropped the line. As I slowly turned a corner I ditched my coat and smeared some bottled water down my face, mixed with mascara so that I looked like I'd been crying. I shook out my hair and silently stole a passing teen's cell, the case sporting pink rhinestones. The transformation took less than twenty seconds. I changed directions and walked on, across the street and around again. I could see Grant up ahead of me, still trying to grab a signal to my old phone with his tracker.
"Troy… Troy, no you can't do this! I have nowhere else to live!... No, no, no!... But you said… you, you said that you loved me…what?"
I cried and cried, real fake tears blurring my eyes as I passed Grant. He stared undistractedly at the small blinking screen, hooked on the false lead. I smiled for a quarter-millisecond and then got back into character.
"I love you, Troy! You can't… She isn't the one for you… I know that you made a mistake—… no! Don't, don't Troy! That isn't what the real you would do!"
Grant passed by me silently, bumping me and mumbling his apology, eyes attached to the screen. I grinned, hanging up on "Troy" and making my way back to the Crib, as all of the Outsiders called it. They were the people I lived with. Only Zing was there in his little nest of blankets. The building had been deserted for years, and everyone knew it would be deserted for many more.
"Hey, whatcha doing Whip?" Zing asked. Whip was my ON. That is, Outsider name.
"Not much, Zing. Just picking up some lunch." I turned away from him, cautious not to start a conversation. When it comes to talking, Zing didn't know stop.
I was almost out of the Crib when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My inner instincts came in, flipping the Flunky over my right shoulder and then jabbing him in the chest with my elbow. The breath rushed out of him, leaving him lying on the ground.
The Flunky had a 5 o'clock shadow around his jaw and dark shades to cover his eyes. I tried to figure out why a guy would be out in the middle of the city attacking a seemingly innocent girl. I turned to see Zing huddled in a corner, none too excited to come and help me out.
A set of footsteps indicated many more Flunkies.
I turned around and gave them a roundhouse kick, knocking down at least two. One of the others came at me and I blocked, but behind me I heard the click of handcuffs closing around my wrists, biting into my arms with no mercy. I spun to see who it was.
There was Grant, in disguise and holding the cuffs tightly, a police car in his shadow. The lights lit up the building in its entirety. I scowled in his direction, and he smirked at me, obviously pleased by his work, the idiot. Grrr… And to think he was ever Zach's friend. Well, then again I can totally imagine that. Zach. I shake the thought out of my mind. That traitor did not deserve a spot in my brain. Not now at least.
A chief policeman stepped out of one of the cop cars and walked toward me. I didn't make any eye contact. I would be out of here soon enough. I just needed a plan… the only things in the building were scraps of bread and things like that. I was stuck.
"You think you can mess around wi' my ci'y?" the cop asked in a British Cockney accent. "There's been a qui' a lo' o' stealin' in the area la'ely. Thank Go' tha' this young fella' saw you this morning and decided to follow. Wha' was your name?"
"Logan," said Grant. If I didn't know better I would've thought he was telling the complete truth. But I did, so I wasn't fooled.
"You're under arrest young la'y." He got into the driver's seat and Grant shoved me none too gently into the police car. The glass was tinted, indicating that if I attempted to punch through it, then I would most likely break my knuckles like Bella Swan. I saw Grant talking to another police officer, who curtly nodded at him and came to squish into the seat next to me. Then we were off.
This new officer was extremely over weight, probably the result of too many doughnuts. I could tell that the only reason he had on his police cap in this hot July heat was to cover his golf-ball skull. That head had no hair on it, it was all devoted to his scruffy gray beard. His eyes were very squinty, hard to make eye-contact with. I chose the polite approach, because, of course, this man could choose whether I go to JAIL or not.
"Hello Officer… I'm sorry, what is your name?"
The man was caught off guard. "Errr, um, Blundt. Officer Blundt," he spluttered.
"Blundt… what a bold name. Anyways, I think that this other kind Policeman has made a mistake. You see, I have never stolen anything in my entire life, and he expects me to be the key to a stealing spree? I really don't think that is me. You most certainly have the wrong person." The man was eating up every word, and nodding like a dog. I smiled in my brain. Spies can do that.
"Er… Curt? I think—."
"We-uh he-uh!" said Curt, the man with the accent. I groaned and I looked ahead, and saw that we were at the local police station. I had no plan. Now you must see how paralyzed I was, a spy facing the cops with no plan. BAD! A million lights and buzzers were going off in my head, screaming at me. I had acquired those sirens after years of spying, and now my mind was too numb to even think about them. It seemed like there was a banner flying across my brain that said "WHAT THE HECK DO I DO?"
Well? What the heck do I do?
Curt was at my door already, opening it and pulling my handcuffed wrists out of the car. I sent a desperate look over at Blundt, who was sitting in the car helpless. That useless lump. He led me along like a kindergartener, with the safety rope? You know what I mean?
He led me to the big, heavy door, and scanned his security badge. I heard a "beep, beep" and a click before he swung the door open and pulled me in behind him.
It smelled like a hospital. Everywhere I looked was metal. An old woman stood behind a metal reception desk, and there were two cells next to each other on the far wall. One was occupied by a cute little blonde boy, around ten or eleven years old. His hair was bright red and he was curled up on the bench, waiting to be bailed out. He looked up when the door slammed closed behind me, and his eyes were bright green and full of fear.
Curt pushed me up to the receptionist, and the lady looked up, her eyes sagging and full of boredom.
"How may I help you Curt? Found another adolescent? Are you sure this time?" Her voice was course and sounded very, very uninterested in the whole situation. "Name?"
"Whip Greenfeld. I know this one." I sighed in relief. He didn't know my real name. Real names can backfire on you.
"She can share the stall with the other accused Outsider," whined the lady. Curt walked me over, then he undid my handcuffs and pushed me in. I fell on the hard concrete. The kid skittered away.
I could've told them that he wasn't indeed what they thought he was, but that would confirm my fate, and I couldn't let that happen. After a little while of me sitting in the corner rubbing my wrists, he crawled up to me curiously.
"Hiya. What's your reeeeeal name?" he asked. I battled it out in my head. Should I lie?
"Cameron." Not a lie, that was my birth name. I just go by Cammie.
"I'm Sammy. They think I'm a New York Outsider from the streets, but really I'm not. Tomorrow morning my mama will come and get me, and then they'll see. She's working right now though, she's too busy to pick me up."
"Well alright," I said, shivering from the cold. "I can't wait to meet her."
"You betcha." Sammy then curled up with his head on my stomach, and fell asleep.
I liked the warmth where he put it. It felt nice, so I fell asleep too. I was thinking that I really like this kid.
I was only half-awake when I felt the weight removed from my body, as they took Sammy away. I only heard a whisper before I slipped away again.
"…take him to child protection services…"