To be a spy you first have to be the best of everything. Actually, you just have to be better than civilians and know how to send a better than decent right hook. But for me, being a spy means you have to be perfect.

But from what I've experienced, Perfect sometimes doesn't cut it either.

My first class at this deranged spy school is COW: Countries of the World.

Don't normal people already cover this in Grade school?

How did that sound? Did I sound ignorant?

I think I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.

I enter the class room only to be met with the teacher.

Mr. Smith.

Now, this year Mr. Smith looks like a typical guy in his 40's; Forty-Seven to be exact. He has a white mustache; white hair with sideburns that looks like it might disappear from his scalp tomorrow and a big pot belly that hangs over his belt and makes his suspenders look…unnatural.

Mr. Smith is a natural at deception. He knows every way to make himself look like a totally different person. He knows when someone is trying to look like a totally different person, too; especially if he knew the person beforehand.

So when Mr. Smith stars at me when I enter the class room, I know i'm screwed.

"Ah, Cammie Morgan. I was wondering when you'd show up at this school."

Oh,

Crap.

"Nice cover you got there, "He says, examining me, "Have you been using the new finger prints I taught you to get?"

"I'm Cameron Carter now," I say.

"And I'm the boogeyman," He replies. "Face it, Cam, you'll always be a Morgan."

"Cameron," I correct him.

This is going to be the worst spy class of my life.

xXNothing But The TruthXx

I sit in the back of the COW class and never put my hand up, blending into the background like a Chameleon. It's one of the things I do best, after all. I had to use it to my advantage; I'm a spy.

I mostly stare into space, I already know this stuff.

When COW class ends, I rush out; making myself seem like I don't want to learn "useless" stuff like that.

Next is Culture and Assimilation class. I blend into the crowed while walking to my destination, feeling like one of them. I know I'm not and the feeling quickly demolishes. I probably will never be one of them.

The teacher is Madame Dabney. She wears glasses and walks around the class, seeming like she is floating.

She teaches us manners, etiquette, dance, and basically everything proper you need to learn when you're a spy. I listen in this class because even though I'm an experienced spy, I have not yet learned to be polite. I think it shows in my cover.

Madame Dabney calls on me to answer a question and I answer flawlessly, but not was flawless as I want. She nods at me and moves on to ask another person a question, leaving me determined to learn to the best of my abilities.

For the rest of the class I plan how to be the best.

I plan to better than the best.

I plan to be perfect.

xXNothing But The TruthXx

Mr. Mosckowitz is the teacher of my next class and I wonder if anyone else my age is in a grade lower than they should be. I remember the files I searched on the internet about Gallagher Academy. I'm the only one.

I would perceive Mr. Mosckowitz to be weak. He is 5 foot 5 and wears glass. What is it with this school and glasses? From the files I hacked into I know that he is interested in scuba diving and swimming in general. That would explain his wrinkled tips of his fingers.

Mr. Mosckowitz teaches us data encryption and mathematics that is for people twice the age of most of the spies in the class. I listen with rapt attention and blend in with the background, sitting in the back of the class.

He doesn't glance back at me once. No one does. I am glad.

I'm not perfect at this class either and I'm getting frustrated.

Next I have Lunch and I sit in the same spot I had breakfast in. No one bothers me but almost everyone glances at me at least once.

The Head Chief is Chief Louis and his crème brulee is delicious. From what I know about him, he used to be the chef at the white house before an incident involving Fluffy (the First Poodle), a gastronomical chemical agent, and some very questionable cheese. The incident was resolved by a Gallagher Spy so he repaid the favour by working here, at Gallagher Academy. He is also renowned for his crème brulee.

I eat my food in silence and am about to get up when someone puts a hand on my table. I looked up to the smirking face of Zachery Goode.

"Do you need something?" I ask.

He shakes his head and pulls a chair from another table to sit on. He moves to my table and puts his elbows on top.

"If you don't need anything then I'm leaving," I say, piling my food on m tray to take to the garbage disposal.

"I need answers," He says.

I raise my brow and keep my face a curious look of question, "Answers?" I ask.

Zachery nods, "Not a lot," He says. "I'm just curious about things."

I roll my eyes and keep my Punk façade on, "Ask away, Zachery, but if I don't want to answer, I'm leaving."

"That," He says.

I look at him in confusion.

"Why do you call me Zachery?" He asks.

Now I'm naturally confused and I know it shows on my face. I am cursing myself a hundred times over for letting my façade slip.

"Isn't it your name?" I ask.

"Well, yea," He says, "But haven't you read any of the magazines? My nickname is Zach."

"I don't do nicknames, Zachery," I say. "Now if we're done here, I'm leaving." I don't wait for a response before I take my tray, dump it into the garbage disposal and stride out of the Cafeteria. I am gone before he can even send me one of his pathetic smirks.

I know that almost every girl would do anything to talk to Zachery Goode.

I'm not one of them.

A/N Hey. this is longer than the last chapter. i do not own the Gallagher Girls series. tell me what you think of this chapter, please. -May