Cross my heart and hope to spy* by Ally Carter* (ink book reader TXT) 📖

until we're juniors, you know?" I said, but the man just muttered, "Uh-huh." "And I'm just a sophomore, so you shouldn't worry about the results coming out all screwy or anything. I'm not immune to your powers of interrogation." Yet. "Good to know," he mumbled, but his eyes never left the screens.
"I know it's just standard protocol, so just…ask away." I was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop. "Really," I said. "Whatever you need to know, just—" "Do you attend the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women?" the man blurted, and for reasons I will never understand I said, "Uh…yes?" as if it might be
a trick question. "Have you ever studied the subject of Covert Operations?"
"Yes," I said again, feeling my confidence, or maybe just my training, coming back to me. "Did your Covert Operations coursework ever take you to the town of Roseville, Virginia?" Even in that sterile room beneath Washington, D.C., I could almost feel the hot, humid night last September. I could almost hear the band and smell the corn dogs. My stomach growled as I said, "Yes."
Polygraph Guy made notes and studied the bank of monitors that surrounded him. "Is that when you first noticed The Subject?" Here's the thing about being a spy in love: your boyfriend never has a name. People like Polygraph Guy were never just going to call him josh. He would always be
The Subject, a person of interest. Taking away his name was their way of taking him
away, or what was left of him. So I said, "Yes," and tried not to let my voice crack. "And you utilized your training to develop a relationship with The Subject?"
"Gee, when you say it like that—"
"Yes or no, Ms.—"
"Yes!"
Which, I would like to point out, is not nearly as bad as it sounds since, for example, you don't need a search warrant to go through someone's trash. Seriously.
Once it hits the curb it is totally fair game—you can look it up. But somehow I knew that the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence was probably far less concerned about the trash thing than it was about
what came after the trash thing. So I was fully prepared when Polygraph Guy said, "Did
The Subject follow you during your Covert Operations final examination?" I thought about Josh appearing in the abandoned warehouse during finals week, bursting through walls and commandeering a forklift to "save" me, so I swallowed hard
as I said, "Yes." "And was The Subject given memory-modification tea to erase the events of that night?" It sounded so easy coming from him, so black-and-white. Sure, my mom gave Josh some tea that's supposed to wipe a person's memory blank, erase a few hours of
their life, and give everyone a clean slate. But clean slates are a rare thing in any life—
especially a spy's life—so I didn't let myself wonder for the millionth time what Josh
remembered about that night, about me. I didn't torture myself with any of the questions
that might never have answers as I sat there, knowing that there is no such thing as
black-and-white—remembering that my whole life is, by definition, a little bit gray. I nodded, then muttered, "Yes." Like it or not, I knew I had to say the word out loud. He made some more notes, punched some keys. "Are you currently involved with The Subject in any way?" "No," I blurted, because I knew that much was true. I hadn't seen Josh, hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even hacked into his e-mail account over winter break, which,
given present circumstances, turned out to be a pretty good thing. (Plus, I had spent the
last two weeks in Nebraska with Grandpa and Grandma Morgan, and they have dial-up,
which takes forever!) Then the man in the wire-rim glasses looked away from the screen and straight into my eyes. "And do you intend to reinitiate contact with The Subject despite strict
rules prohibiting such a relationship?" There it was: the question I'd pondered for weeks.
There I was: Cammie the Chameleon—the Gallagher Girl who had risked the most sacred sisterhood in the history of espionage. For a boy. "Ms. Morgan," Polygraph Guy said, growing impatient, "are you going to reinitiate contact with The Subject?" "No," I said softly.
Then I glanced back at the screen to see if I was lying.

CHAPTER 2

If you've ever been debriefed by the CIA, then you probably know exactly how I felt two hours later as I sat in the backseat of a limousine, watching city give way to
suburbs and suburbs to countryside. Dirty piles of blackened ice became thick blankets
of lush white snow, and the world seemed clean and new—ready for a fresh start. I was through with lying (except for official cover stories, of course). And sneaking around (well…except when involved in covert operations). I was going to be
normal! (Or as normal as a student at spy school ever gets a chance to be.) I was going to be … myself.
I looked at my mother and reiterated the promise that I would never let a boy come between me and my family or my friends or matters of national security ever
again. Then I realized that she'd hardly said a word since we'd left D.C. "I did okay,
didn't I?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. "Of course, sweetie. You aced it."
Which, not to sound conceited or anything, I kind of already knew, because A) I've always tested well, and B) people who fail polygraphs don't usually walk out of top-
secret facilities and get driven back to spy school. Then I thought about the one-way glass. "You got to watch, didn't you?" I asked, fully expecting her to say, You were great, sweetie, or I think this might be worth some
extra credit, or Remember, breathing is key when you're being interrogated with a
TruthMaster 3000. But no. She didn't say any of those things. Instead, my mother just placed her hand over mine and said, "No, Cam. I'm afraid I had some things to do."
Things? My mother had missed my first official government interrogation because of … things? I might have asked for details, begged her to explain how she could miss such a milestone in a young spy's life, but I know the things my mother does typically involve
national security, fake passports, and the occasional batch of weapons-grade plutonium,
so I said, "Oh. Okay," knowing I shouldn't feel hurt, but feeling it anyway. We sat in silence until there was nothing to see outside my window but the tall stone fences that circle the Gallagher Academy grounds. Home. I felt the limo slow and stop behind the long line of nearly identical chauffeured cars that brought us back to school each semester. It had been more than a century since
Gillian Gallagher had decided to turn her family's mansion into an elite boarding school,
and even then, after more than a hundred years of educating exceptional young women,
no one in the town of Roseville, Virginia, had a clue just how exceptional we really
were. Not even my ex-boyfriend.

"Tell me everything!" someone cried as soon as I opened the limo door. Sunlight bounced off the snow, blinding me before I could focus on my best friend's face. Bex's
caramel-colored eyes bore into me, her brown skin glowed, and, as usual, she looked
like an Egyptian goddess. "Was it awesome?" She stepped aside as I crawled out of the car, but didn't pause because…well… Bex doesn't exactly have a pause. She has a play and a fast-forward and occasionally a
rewind, but Rebecca Baxter didn't become the first non-American Gallagher Girl in
history by standing still. "Did they grill you?" she continued. Then her eyes went wide and her accent grew heavy. "Was there torture?" Well, of course there wasn't torture; but before I could say so, Bex exclaimed, "I bet it was bloody brilliant!" Most little girls in England grow up wanting to marry a
prince. Bex grew up wanting to kick James Bond's butt and assume his double-0
ranking. My mom walked around the side of the car. "Good afternoon, Rebecca. I trust you made it back from the airport okay?" And then, despite the bright sun that glowed
around us, a shadow seemed to cross my best friend's face. "Yes, ma'am." She pulled one of my bags from the open trunk. "Thanks again for letting me spend winter break with you." Most people wouldn't have noticed the
slight change in her voice, the faint vulnerability of her smile. But I understand what it's
like not to know what continent your parents are on, or when you'll see them again. If
ever. My mother was standing right beside me, but all Bex had was a coded message
saying her parents were representing England's MI6 in a joint project with the CIA, and
that, like it or not, they couldn't exactly come home for Christmas. When Mom hugged Bex and whispered, "You're always welcome with us, sweetheart," I couldn't help thinking about how Bex had both of her parents some of the
time, and I had one of my parents most of the time, but right then, neither of us seemed
entirely happy with the deal. We stood in silence for a minute, watching my mother walk away. I could have asked Bex about her parents. She could have mentioned my dad. But instead I just
turned to her and said, "I got to meet the woman who bugged the Berlin Embassy in
1962." And that was all it took to make my best friend smile.
We started for the main doors, pushing through the crowded foyer and up the Grand Staircase. We were halfway to our rooms when someone … or rather,
something…stopped us in our tracks. "Ladies," Patricia Buckingham called as I reached for the door to the East Wing —and the fastest route to our rooms. I tried the knob, but it wouldn't budge. "It's …" I twisted harder. "…stuck!"
"It's not stuck, ladies," Buckingham called again, her genteel British accent carrying above the noise in the foyer below. "It's locked," she said, as if we have locked
doors all the time at the Gallagher Academy, which, let me tell you— we don't. I mean,
sure,