I'd Tell You I Love You, But Then I'd Have to Kill You (Gallagher Girls 1)

"Oh, you know the Joneses," I said, even though I didn't, but judging by the line of people going in and out of the house at the end of the block, it was probably a pretty safe thing to say.

Luckily, Josh smiled and added, "Yeah, these parties get wilder every year."

"Uh-huh," I said, all the while watching as Bex struggled to drag Liz across the roof—to the back of the house—but Liz slipped and started sliding down. She tried to hang on to a gutter, but slipped, and soon she was swinging off the side of the Abramses' house, and my heart was pounding harder and harder (for a lot of reasons).

Josh looked as embarrassed as I felt as he nodded toward the pie in his hand and said, "My mom forgot this." He paused, as if debating whether to say more. "Except she never just forgets her pies." He rolled his eyes. "See, she's kind of famous for her pies, so whenever she goes anywhere, she likes for people to ask about her pie about ten times before she unveils it, or something." His free hand was back in his pocket. He looked embarrassed that he'd shared that deep, dark family secret. "Lame, huh?"

Actually, the pie did look really good, but I totally couldn't tell him that.

"No," I said. "I think it's kinda nice." And I did. My mom isn't famous for her pies. No, she's famous for defusing a nuclear device in Brussels with only a pair of cuticle scissors and a ponytail holder. Somehow, at that moment, pies seemed cooler.

Josh started to turn, but Liz was still dangling off the roof, so I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind, "Was Keith surprised?"

Well, I didn't know who Keith was or why the Joneses were throwing him a surprise party, but that was good enough to stop Josh and make him say, "No, he's never surprised. But he fakes it pretty good."

I was something of an expert at faking it myself— especially when I saw Bex lower herself to Liz's level—the two of them swinging in midair as Bex struggled to fix Liz's tangled cables—but Bex still managed to give me the big thumbs-up and mouth, He's cute!

"You wanna go get a Coke?" he asked, and I thought, Yes! There was nothing in the world I wanted more. But behind him, Bex was taking aim at the heel of his shoe, firing a tracking device into the back of his Nike.

I heard a subtle sound as the device buried itself into the rubber sole, but Josh didn't even bat an eye. Bex looked totally proud of herself, despite the fact that Liz was still spinning like an out-of-control piñata.

"So this is where you live?" I asked, as if I didn't know.

"Yeah. All my life," Josh said, but he didn't sound proud of it—not like Grandpa Morgan when he says he's lived on the ranch all his life—like he has roots. When Josh said it, he sounded like he had chains. I've spent enough time studying languages to know that almost any phrase can have two meanings.

Behind Josh, Bex must have fixed Liz's cable, because I heard the whizzing sound of two people in near free fall and then the clanging racket of someone landing in a pile of metal trash cans.

I was ready to knock Josh unconscious and run for it, but he waved the noise away and said, "This neighborhood has all kinds of dogs."

"Oh." I sighed with relief. There was more clanging, so I said, "Big ones, I guess."

I didn't breathe again until I saw Bex clamp her hand over Liz's mouth and drag her into the bushes on the far side of the yard.

"Oh, um, I told my mom I'd go get her jacket out of the car," I said, stepping toward the dozens of vehicles that lined the street.

"I'll go with—" he started, but just then a boy appeared in the street and yelled, "Josh!"

Josh looked at the boy and waved at him.

"You go on," I said.

"No, that's—"

"Josh!" the boy called again, drawing nearer.

"Really," I said, "I'll catch up with you over there."

And then, for the second time, I found myself running away from him, trying to avoid the party.

I ducked behind an SUV, repositioned its side mirror, and watched as the boy met up with Josh in the middle of the street. He tried to take the pie from Josh, and said, "Did you bake that for me? You shouldn't have!" Josh punched him hard on the shoulder. "Ow," the boy said, rubbing his arm. Then he gestured toward where I had disappeared in the dark. "Who was that? She was kinda cute."

I held my breath as Josh followed his friend's gaze and then said, "Oh, nobody. Just some girl."

Chapter Eleven

Summary of Surveillance Operatives: Cameron Morgan, Rebecca Baxter, and Elizabeth Sutton (hereafter referred to as "The Operatives")

After observing a Gallagher Academy operative (Cameron Morgan) on two routine assignments, The Operatives concluded that a young man (known at the time only as "Josh," aka Tell-Suzie-she's-a-lucky-cat boy) was a POI (Person of Interest).

The Operatives then began a series of recon operations during which they observed the following:

The Subject, Josh Adamson Abrams, resides at 601 North Bellis in Roseville, Virginia.

Known associates: a scan of The Subject's online activity revealed that he routinely e-mails Dillon Jones, screen name D'Man,(also of North Bellis Street)—typically in regard to "really awesome" video games, "lame" movies, "my stupid" dad, and school assignments.

Occupation: sophomore at Roseville High School-home of the Fighting Pirates. (But evidently not fighting too hard, since a further search revealed that their record is 0-3.)

GPA: 3.75. The Subject exhibits difficulty in calculus and woodworking. (Rules out career as NSA code breaker and/or home improvement television "Sexy Carpenter Guy." Does NOT eliminate possibility subject looks hot in a tool belt.)

The Subject appears to excel at English, Geography, and Civics (which is great because Cammie is English-speaking and very civil!).

Family:

Mother, Joan Ellen Abrams, 46, housewife and very experienced pie baker.

Father, Jacob Whitney Abrams, 47, pharmacist and sole proprietor of Abrams and Son Pharmacy.

Sister, Joy Marjorie Abrams, 10, student.

Unusual financial activity: none, unless you count the fact that someone in the family is way too into Civil War biographies. (Can this be a possible indication of Confederate insurgents still living and working in Virginia? Must research further.)

Respectfully submitted, Cammie, Bex, and Liz

"I'm telling you it doesn't mean anything," Bex said as we stood together in front of the mirror, waiting for the scanner to slide across our faces and the light in the eyes of the painting to turn green. I hadn't mentioned Josh, but I knew what she was talking about. Bex read my reflection in the mirror, and I realized that the scanner wasn't the only thing that could see inside me.

The doors slid open, and we climbed in. "We've got the computer connection," Liz offered. "Financial records, for example, can illustrate many—"

"Liz!" I snapped. I looked up at the lights and watched our descent. "It's just not worth the risk, okay?" My voice cracked as I thought of how he'd said I was just some girl—I was nobody. It wasn't very spylike to be sad over such a silly thing, but mostly, I didn't want my friends to hear it. "Guys, it's okay. Josh isn't interested in me. That's fine. I'm not the kind of girl guys like. It's no biggie."

I wasn't searching for compliments, like when skinny girls say they look fat, or when girls with gorgeous curly hair say how they hate humidity. Sure, there are a few people who always tell me "Don't say you're not pretty" and "Of course you look like your mom," but I swear I wasn't silently begging Bex to roll her eyes and say, "Whatever! That guy should be so lucky." But she did, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make it better.

"Come on, guys," I said, laughing. "What? Did you think he was going to ask me to the prom?" I teased. "Or, hey, Mom's burning macaroni and cheese for supper Sunday night; maybe he can come over and she can tell him about the time she jumped off a ninety-story balcony in Hong Kong with a parachute she made out of pillowcases."

I looked at them. I tried to laugh, but Bex and Liz looked at each other. I recognized the expression that crossed their faces. For days, they had been passing it between them like a note under the desk.

"Come on." We walked past the dollhouse. "In case you've forgotten, we have better things to do."

That's when we turned the corner, and all three of us jolted to a stop. My jaw went slack, and my heart started to pound as we stared into Mr. Solomon's domain. The classroom in Sublevel One didn't look like a classroom—not anymore. Instead of desks there were three long tables. Instead of chalk and paper there were boxes of rubber gloves. With the frosted-glass partitions and gleaming white floors, it looked as if we'd been kidnapped by aliens and brought to the mother ship for invasive medical procedures. (Personally, I was hoping for a nose job.)

We all stood together, Gallagher Girls closing ranks, preparing for any challenge that might walk through that door.

Little did we know that the challenge was going to be Mr. Solomon carrying three seam-busting, black plastic bags. The sight of those bulging monstrosities made the whole extraterrestrial thing look pretty good. He dropped a bag onto each of the three tables with a sickening thunk. Then he tossed a box of gloves in our direction.

"Espionage is dirty business, ladies." He slapped his hands together as if brushing off the dust of his former life. "Most of what people don't want you to know they send out with the weekly trash." He started working the knot at the top of one of the bags. "How do they spend their money? Where and what do they eat? What kind of pills do they take? How much do they love their pets?"

He grabbed the corners at the bottom of the plastic and then jerked, upturning the bag in one fluid motion that was part birthday-party magician and part executioner. Garbage went everywhere, bursting free, taking up every inch of the long table. The stench was overwhelming, and for the second time in two weeks, I thought I might throw up within that classroom, but not Joe Solomon—he leaned closer, fingering the filth.

"Is he the type of person who does crosswords with a pen?" He dropped the paper and picked up an old envelope that was covered with pieces of eggshell. "What does she doodle when she's on the phone?" Finally, he reached deep within the pile of garbage and found an old Band-Aid. He held it toward the light, studying the semicircle of dried blood that stained the square of gauze. "Everything a person touches tells us something—pieces of the puzzles of their lives." He dropped the bandage back onto the pile and slapped his hands together.

"Welcome to the science of Garbology," he said with a grin.

Thursday morning it was raining. All day, the stone walls seemed to seep moisture. The heavy tapestries and great stone fireplaces didn't seem up to the challenge of fighting the chili. Dr. Fibs had needed Liz, Bex, and me to help him after school on Monday, and we'd had to trade Driver's Ed days with Tina, Courtney, and Eva. So instead of a sunny Indian summer afternoon, we were going to go driving under a sky that matched my mood. I stood waiting for Bex and Liz downstairs by the French doors that lead to the portico. I traced my initials into the condensation, but the water only beaded and ran down the pane.