I've never been a Gallagher Girl until now. But my mother has. My aunt, too.

I've never stuck to one place long enough to make friends, to live instead of save. To laugh instead of mourn. To love.

I've never been A Gallagher Girl but they look happy. They live, laugh, love together.

Is that what being a Gallagher Girl is?

Or is there more to it?

A week and a half later, we go to the carnival.

Yes, you heard me correctly: carnival.

You know the place where the ferries wheels are; the screaming, the crying, the shouting, the laughing, the loudness, the games, the roller coasters.

Yes, there.

You remember that we're spies, yeah?

xXNothing But The TruthXx

Mr. Smith pulls me aside while the other spies fill into the yellow school bus.

"Kinda bright for spies, don't ya think?" I question him.

"Sometimes the only way to be unnoticed is to be noticed," he replies with a grim look and continues in a quieter tone. "Listen, Cam; be yourself today, okay?"

I give him a look. "Listen Cam, just be you today, okay? Sometimes the only way to be unnoticed is to be noticed." I mock him is a high girly voice that is far from his real voice. "What's gotten into you today?" I ask, laughing.

He glares back at me and my seemingly forced laughter fades away. He is serious.

"Uh uh," I reply to his expression, I shake my head frantically, "No way."

"The point of this expedition is for you spies to go to the carnival for six hours and not get found by the scouts—otherwise known as your teachers. To do this, you must change your look. We will evaluate how well they—and you—are doing after a week and a half or no spy lessons." Mr. Smith continues, looking me dead in the eye, "I will not be one of scouts. I want you to win this, Cam."

"No," I say. "Are you insane? The whole reason I'm here is to keep my cover and now you want me to blow it because of one stupid evaluation that both you and I know I can take blind-folded and looking any way possible."

"Listen, Cam," He hisses, his face looks anxious. "You can't run forever."

I give him a fierce glare, "I've been doing fine for the better part of my life and I'm pretty positive I can for the rest."

"And how many accidents have to happen before you realize you're wrong?"

"Enough have already happened to show me that I'm not."

The buses were almost full. Everyone is dressed fashionably in shorts and spaghetti straps (for the girls) and wife beaters (for the boys) as opposed to my ratty, flexible yoga pants and long-sleeved T 'N A sweater.

I could almost picture myself as one of them. Talking to fellow spies and being given the illusion of 'The Good Guys Will Always Win As Long As You Know How To Fight'. But then I snap back into reality and the weight of my mission dropped back onto my shoulders. The wistful tendrils of the thought licked my mind and made me wish it were true. It isn't. And it probably never would be.

"And if I win? They will get suspicious. I don't need that now. Not when my mother is here. I can't have that. There's too much at stake, Mr. Smith. You know that."

"You can't hide forever," he stresses.

"I can and I will."

I don't.

They tell us to find clothing to disguise ourselves with in the carnival, and give each of us twenty bucks. They also mention something about finding resources in a desperate situation.

We're in a carnival. Despite the very few, and very random confused circus clowns that desperately need to be escorted back to their 'sanctuary' or whatever, I wouldn't label this situation as desperate.

The rest room is my first stop. Well, technically, second, after borrowing a little boys' back bag. I'm going to return it, really. Eventually. Maybe. Ok, so maybe I'm not; but it's for a good cause.

I'm being me.

How idiotic does that sound?

xXNothing But The TruthXx

Long blond hair that shines under the dying washroom light, eyes that change color, a smile that hardly shows, a body covered with scars.

I get to work.

I rub some cream that I stole from the spy school on myself to make my scars disappear for a moment—they won't disappear forever; I've tried that. My scars are a part of me. They tell where I've been and who I've become, so I cover them up . The cream works and dries fast so I don't intend to give it back anytime soon.

Next, I start with my clothes. This single person washroom doesn't have a full length mirror and I yell that to the people to bang on the door and loudly complain about how long I'm taking.

Dark wash skinny jeans with a white tank-top. Pink flip-flops matching my pink earrings. Black shades and the comms hidden in my ear.

It's not completely me—I'm still acting—but I feel naked, nonetheless. Because this is the closest I've let myself reveal.

I finish stuffing my clothes away in the borrowed backpack just as the banging at the door—that has started a little after the other pair banging this door left—intensifies and signals that the person outside is getting more than just a little impatient.

I step out. And come face to face with Zachary Goodie wearing black shades and a hoodie. I smile, staring my facade.

"Hello," I say pleasantly. "Sorry I took long. What's in your hand?"

In his hand is a black JanSport bag. I know what's inside it, of course: clothes. But that didn't stop me from making polite conversation a.k.a stalling.

I gesture to the flickering bathroom lights, dirty mirror and walls and toilet that I wouldn't ever want to sit on. "It's all yours." I say before he answers my other questions.

He smiles meekly, steps in, and locks the door behind him. I wait for him.

"Quit following me," he demands.

"But you're The Zachary Goode! Ohmigosh, I can't believe this!" This is amazing.

"I am Not Zachery Goddie or whoever you said I was." His reply is sharp and covered with a lie.

I tell him so, "Liarrrr!"

He groans in frustration and grips a hand through his hair. He isn't very good in disguising himself.

"Mr. Goode, I saw your hair when I left the washroom. It is you!"

He sighs and opens his mouth to say something was but is over-road by my tractor mouth I adopted for this mission. "How about this: since you don't want to be spotted by all your other fans, I could hang out with you and I won't tell anybody who you really are!" I smile a face cracking smile that breaks the fake barrier.

He shakes his head, making the hair on the brown wig he put on fall over his black shades.

"Puh-lease ?"

"I don't have time for—"

"If you don't let me hang out with you I'm going to yank that obviously fake wig off your pretty head and give everyone a view they'll enjoy," I threaten suddenly.

He blinks, taken by surprise. I morph my lips into a sweet smile once again, "Please with a cherry on top?"

He agrees but I know it's only because I threatened him.

"Geez," I mutter, "and I thought you celebrities did stuff from the goodness of your heart. Now I see you don't have one at all."

Stage One (Get Zachary to join me): Completed.

A/N

SORRY! I APOLOGIZE FOR THE OVER DUE UPDATE!

IT'S PARTY BECAUSE I LOST MY NOTEBOOK AND IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY BECAUSE I HAVE ALL THE POEMS AND THOUGHTS IN THERE AND IF ANYONE WERE TO READ IT AND POST IT ON THE INTERNET, I WOULD DIE!

And the other reason is my teacher loves to give out piles of homework to get us ready for high school. I hate math.

Well, I hope you like this chapter and constructive criticism is appreciated! Thanks for all the reviews in the previous chapters, you guys! You know who you are

Random Fact: I used to be really insecure about my height. I was nicknamed tree because of my tallness when I was younger.

Until next time,

May.

(PS. Sorry to any grammar mistakes I've looked over accidentally.)