Ally Carter - Dont Judge a Girl by Her Cover

Don't Judge aGirl by Her Cover

Gallagher Girls Book 3

Ally Carter

[v0.9Scanned and Spellcheckd by the_usual]

CONTENTS

For Donna Bray, theGallagher Girl who started it all

"We'removing." The man beside me spoke into the microphone in his sleeve, and Iknew the words weren't for me.

TheAugust air was hot and thick with the smell of sea salt and bus exhaust. Theroads were packed for miles, and everywhere I looked I saw shades of red,white, and blue. Everywhere I turned, I felt the eyes of trained professionalsstaring, seeing, recording every word, analyzing every glance within a dozenmiles.

Partof me wanted to break free of the big men in the dark suits who flanked me oneither side; another part wanted to marvel at the bomb-sniffing dogs who wereexamining boxes twenty meters away. But most of all, I wanted to lie whenanother man, with a clipboard and an earpiece, asked for my name.

Afterall, I've spent a lot of time learning how to whip out false IDs and reciteperfectly crafted cover stories in situations just like these, so it was harderthan I thought

to say, "Cammie. CammieMorgan."

Itwas weirder than I would have guessed as I waited for him to scan the clipboardand say, "You can go right in."

As if I were simply asixteen-year-old girl.

As if I couldn't possibly be athreat.

As if I didn't go to a school forspies.

Walkingthrough the hotel lobby, I couldn't help but remember the first assignment mycovert operations teacher ever gave me: Notice things. Lights and cameras shone fromevery angle. A massive net full of red, white, and blue balloons snaked throughthe cavernous space like a patriotic python. Up on the mezzanine level, theTexas delegation was singing about yellow roses, while a woman walked by wearinga big foam hat shaped like a Georgia peach.

Iscanned the masses of old women and young girls. Husbands and wives. Collegekids and senior citizens. The last time I'd been in a crowd like this was in adifferent season and a different city, so maybe it was the hotel's frigidair-conditioning or just a memory of a chilly day in D.C., but for some reason,I shivered and fought against a serious case of deja vu as I looked around andsaid the name I hadn't spoken in weeks. "Zach."

ThenI blinked and wondered if a part of me would always worry that he might be onmy tail.

"Thisway," the man beside me said, but we didn't stop at the end of the line,which twisted and turned in front of the marble-covered registration desk. Wedidn't even slow down as we passed between two rows of elevators. Instead weturned down a narrow hall that seemed half a world away from the bright lightsand tall ceiling of the lobby. Plush carpeting gave way to chipped linoleumtiles until finally we were standing before an elevator I'm pretty sure hotelguests were never intended to see.

"So,you're a friend of peacocks?" the Secret Service agent asked while we waitedfor the doors to open.

"Excuseme?" I asked, because even though I'd never been in a really nice hotel, Iwas pretty sure they wouldn't have exotic birds on the penthouse level.

"Peacock,"the agent said again as we stepped into the service car that was soon carryingus, nonstop, to the top floor. "See, we use code names," he explainedas if I were a sixteen-year-old girl, "when we talk about the protectee.So you and Peacock, you're friends ?" he asked, and again Irealized that he wasn't looking at me the way a well- trained, well-armedsecurity professional looks at a potential threat (because I know a thing ortwo about well-trained and well-armed security professionals!). Nope. He waslooking at me like I was a Gallagher Girl.

Ofcourse, if you're reading this you must already know that there are two typesof people in this worldthose who know the truth about what goes on inside thewalls of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, and those whodon't. Something in the way the agent was trying to weigh my slightlyout-of-style clothes against the snooty reputation of my school told me that hewas definitely the second typethat he assumed we were all rich; that hethought we were all spoiled; and that he had no idea what it really meant to be Gallagher Girl.

And that was before Iheard the screaming.

Asthe elevator doors slid open, a high-pitched "I am going to killsomeone!" echoed from behind the double doors at the end of the hall.

Andthen I was one hundred percent certain that the man beside me didn't know thetruth about my sisterhood, because he didn't draw his weapon; he didn't evenflinch as a second Secret Service agent opened the double doors and whispered,"Peacock is angry."

Instead,he walked toward thescreaming girleven though she was a Gallagher Girl.

Even though her name was MaceyMcHenry.

Before that day, I'd never beento Boston. I'd never had a Secret Service escort. And I'd definitely never beena VIP (or the friend/roommate/guest of a VIP) at a national politicalconvention. But walking into what I'm pretty sure was the hotel's second-nicestsuite, I added another first to the list: I'd never seen Macey McHenry as madas she was then.

"Really,Macey, I think it's an adorable little puff piece." Cynthia McHenry'scool, mannered tone could not have been more different from her daughter's."He's the only son of a future presidentYou're the only daughter of afuture vice president. If people want to read about the possibility of aWhite House wedding eight years from now, I don't see any reason to stop them.Really, I don't know why you have to be so dramatic."

Rightthen I made a mental note that if Mrs. McHenry thought Macey was too dramaticthen she should probably never be left alone with the better part of our juniorclass.

"If that boy"

"That boy," her mother corrected, "is Governor Winters's son"

"triesto flirt with me" Macey went on, but Mrs. McHenry talked over her.

"Andif appearing with that boy is going to give us a two- percent bump in Ohio, thenyou will appearwith that boy."

"Percentages."Macey gave an exasperated sigh. "You know I don't do math."

Well,I have personally seen Macey McHenry do linear algebra without a calculator(after mastering our roommate Liz's system, of course), but the girl in frontof me wasn't the Macey I knew from school. She wasn't the girl on the suite'sTV either, smiling and waving and holding hands with her father on the nationalnews. Instead she was the other kind of Gallagher Girlthe kindthe agent had been expecting: the snobby kind, the spoiled kind, the kind whohad crawled out of her parents' limousine and into our school nearly a yearbefore with combat boots and a diamond nose stud.

"Thiswas the scene this morning as Senator James McHenry and his family arrived herein Boston to join Governor Winters and officially accept the vice presidentialnomination," the TV anchor was saying. But I doubt that Macey or hermother were even listening as they stared daggers at each other.

"Youwill do this, Macey," her mother said. "You will"

Butthen my escort cleared his throat, and Mrs. McHenry turned. I expected her togush like she had on the phone when Macey had called to invite me to join them,but instead she waved in my direction and said, "There, your little friendis here."

Somethingin the way her mother spoke about me made Macey draw a breath. I was relievedthat no one else noticed how my roommate's fists clenched tighter for just amoment before she spun around and snapped, "We're going for a walk."

"Don'tforget the rehearsal!" her mother called, but Macey was already pulling methrough the double doors.

Icaught the agent's eye one final time as he tried to figure out what I couldpossibly have in common with the girl who was pulling me along. On the TV,someone said, "Cynthia McHenry is a well-known businesswoman andphilanthropist. The couple has one daughter, Macey, a student at the GallagherAcademy for Exceptional Young Women, in Roseville, Virginia."