Cross My Heart And Hope To Spy by Ally Carter

over it.”
    The voice was so faint I thought I might have dreamed it. Then I saw Macey McHenry—the girl who had actually been stopped on the streets of New York and offered a shot at being on the cover of
Vogue
—sitting there in a wrinkled uniform with her hair in a ponytail, reading the newest
Journal of Extreme Extractions.
    “The boy thing—the new—it’ll wear off,” Macey said, not noticing that three boys at the eighth grade table were staring at her, not caring that she was the only girl in the entire room without a trace of makeup.
    It was as if a virus had been injected into our school, but Macey’d known about a thousand boys before she’d come here. And I’d known Josh. The two of us had been exposed to boys before, so we had built up antibodies. We were, in a word, immune.

    I’m not completely sure, and this isn’t scientific or anything, but I think the most exciting words in the English language might be
CoveOps class, let’s go.
Or at least that’s what I thought as the elevator opened into Sublevel One that day, and I saw Mr. Solomon walking toward us, pulling on a jacket.
    He didn’t tell us to open our textbooks; he didn’t have us take our seats; instead, he led us upstairs and through the open doors, into the crisp cool air toward one of the ruby-red shuttle vans with the Gallagher crest on its side. I know this might sound a little anticlimactic after the helicopter thing, but to be honest, being in a helicopter with seven of my sisters was relaxing compared to the feeling of sitting in the back of the van…with boys.
    Grant sat beside Mr. Solomon at the front of the van. Zach was on the other side of Mr. Solomon, his breathing steady and even, and I knew that the Blackthorne Institute had either trained him very well or very poorly, because he seemed indifferent to the fact that he was locked in the back of a van with eight expertly trained teenage girls, a man who (according to Tina) had once strangled a Yugoslavian arms dealer with a pair of control-top panty hose, and … Dr. Steve.
    “I say, Mr. Solomon,” Dr. Steve droned on, “you’ve done an excellent job with these young ladies. Just excellent.”
    Mr. Solomon had lectured on rolling exits the week before, and for a second I wondered if he’d brought us here to illustrate how to throw someone out of a moving van; but then I remembered that Dr. Steve was driving.
    “You ladies need to pay attention to this man,” Dr. Steve said. “He’s a living legend.”
    “Just as long as they remember the most important part of that is the
living,”
Mr. Solomon said.
    I felt the van stop at our front gates then turn right and start down a road I knew well.
    “Today’s about the basics, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Solomon said easily, as if the
gentlemen
had always been there. “I want to watch you move; see you work together. Pay attention to your surroundings, and remember—half of your success in this business comes from looking like you belong, so today your cover is that you’re a bunch of private-school students enjoying a trip to town.”
    I thought about the Gallagher Academy logo on the side of this particular van, then glanced down at my uniform— made a mental note of what version of myself I was supposed to be, while, beside me, Bex asked, “What are we really?”
    “A bunch of spies”—Mr. Solomon pulled a quarter from his pocket and gave it a flip—”playing tag.” Before the quarter had even landed in his palm, I knew it wasn’t a matter of heads or tails.
    “Brush pass, Ms. Baxter,” Mr. Solomon said. “Define it.”
    “The act of covertly passing an object between two agents.”
    “Correct,” Mr. Solomon said. I glanced at Zach, half expecting him to roll his eyes or something, because, frankly, brush passes aren’t that much more complicated than learning to waltz with Madame Dabney. If you want to be technical about it, brush passes are about as low tech as you get; but they’re important,