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for making the headmistress's office look like
a regular school is to add a TV.)
    Bex
flipped through channel after channel until we came to the image that made us
all freeze.
    "And
here we are," a tall correspondent said into a microphone as she strolled
down a familiar stretch of Highway 10, "outside the gates of the Gallagher
Academy for Exceptional Young Women, where one exceptional young woman will be
returning shortly, after the most traumatic incident of her life. And the
question remains: Will these walls be enough to keep Macey McHenry safe?"
    The
sirens finally stopped. My mother said, "It's time."
     
     
    Okay,
here's the thing you need to know about spy schools— it's not about hiding them.
Nope. Because, let's face it, spy schools have students, and students have
parents, and parents are going to ask questions. According to Liz, non-spy
parents are really big on obvious questions like "so where exactly is your
school?" (Spy parents are far more likely to hack into a government database or put a GPS
unit in your tooth or something.) In any case, you kinda need an actual school
to present to the world; but like everything else about my life, my school
wasn't exactly what it seemed.
    Following
my mother down the sweeping Grand Stairs, I couldn't help but think that our
first line of defense was about to be put to the test, because even though the
Gallagher Academy has never exactly hidden (it is a big, honking mansion, after
all), my school has never gone looking for the spotlight.
    When
Gillian Gallagher converted her family's home into a school where young women
could learn the covert skills that no men would ever teach them, she'd had the
good sense not to put "The Gallagher Academy—Educating Government
Operatives Since 1865" on the sign. Instead she'd called it a finishing
school for the most outstanding girls of the day. Our cover has evolved with
the times, but our ultimate mission has stayed the same: make sure no one ever
knows just how exceptional we really are. Which, let's face it, is a whole lot
easier when there aren't two dozen national news crews videotaping your every
move.
    When
we reached the foyer, I could have sworn that the entire student body was
holding their breath as my mother pulled open the double doors and stepped
outside.
    Warm
sunlight beamed down. My stomach growled, and for a second I wondered what our
chef was making for the welcome-back dinner. But when I saw three big black
SUVs pulling through the gate, I totally lost my appetite.
    "Secret
Service," my mother whispered to us as they started down the winding lane.
I remembered that even Macey's protectors wouldn't know what we really do
behind our walls.
    An
efficient-looking man with a touch of gray sprinkled through his dark hair
climbed out of one of the vehicles and walked toward us. "Ms. Morgan?
Agent Hughes. We spoke on the phone."
    "Yes,"
Mom said. "You're the agent in charge of the McHenry family's security
detail. That is the term, isn't it?" she asked, one hand against her chest
as if this were totally new territory for her.
    The
man smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "Now, I don't
want you to worry about anything. Our agents will be responsible for Ms.
McHenry's security. They'll answer any questions you have and keep you informed
of what the Service needs from you. No one is
    expecting you to think like a
security professional."
    "That
is a relief," my mother told him in the most utterly believable,
non-ironic voice I've ever heard.
    (Have
I mentioned lately that my mom is the BEST SPY EVER?!)
    "Oh,
I'm sorry," my mother said, looking from Agent Hughes and then to us.
"Please allow me to introduce Macey's roommates. This is Elizabeth Sutton
and Rebecca Baxter, and my daughter, Cammie."
    But
Agent Hughes wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at me—the girl who is
hardly ever stared at.
    "You
were on the roof?" he asked, but it wasn't a question. He stepped closer;
his gaze flashed across the bandage