Dropping Like Spies - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Two

"Charlotte!" Hughes cried, so surprised that he nearly dropped the supplies he was carrying to the storage room.  He, Will, Bill, and I were cleaning up the supplies from that afternoon's drills (because, evidently, that is the responsibility of the Captain and the Junior Captain, which no one tells you when you sign up for the gig).  Mr. Hughes stopped in his tracks when he saw my CoveOps teacher standing in the doorway.  He looked like a love-struck teenager. 

But there was nothing love-struck about Charlotte Woods.  "Hello, Blake."

"I didn't— " he cleared his throat and then looked over his shoulder, perhaps checking to see if we were still there.  We were and we were watching every sickly moment of this encounter play out before our eyes.  "I didn't know you were getting in today," he said, looking at his watch as if the mere hour would make the difference.  Then again, maybe when he was with Woods, it did.

"Yes, well."  She glanced at the three of us and her words were frigid, but not like she was angry or anything.  It was more like she was trying too hard to be indifferent.  As if the relationship between the two of them were this big secret that she was determined to keep, which, let me tell you.  The secret was totally out.  Especially to those of us who had trained over the summer.  At the start of the summer, Woods had spent, like, every other day at Blackthorne.  And a few nights.  Listen, it's none of my business, but I'm pretty sure that Woods has probably... played a few notes on Mr. Hughes' piano, if you know what I mean. 

"All of the teachers got in about three hours ago," she said in a hushed tone.  Too bad for her, I had a real knack for hearing that specific sort of tone.  "I came to, um, see you, but you were running drills and I didn't—"

"Sorry Professor," I cut in, not realizing I was intruding until the words were already out and Woods was already glaring at me.  "Um, sorry," I said again.  "But did you say that all of the teachers were here?"

At this, her expression softened just a bit.  "Yes, Goode."

"Have you by any chance seen—?"

"He's in his room."  Ah, yes.  The good ol' mindreading powers of Charlotte Woods were making their valiant return.  Oh, how I hadn't missed those.

But I didn't have time to debate the possible clairvoyant cyber chips in my professor's brain right then because I was already running—taking off through the doors of that training room and down Blackthorne's largest hallway, past the displays that read Pen Cameras Through the Years and Blackthorne's Contributions to Communications.  Past the flyers that advertised going "all the way" with the NSA to this year's exiting seniors.  Past the headmaster's office as he called out, "Hello, Morgan."

"Hi Grandpa Joe," I responded, not bothering to stop, which was fine because he hadn't been expecting me to.  "Bye Grandpa Joe."

Over the past few months I had come to know Blackthorne pretty well.  After all, there were perks to being the only girl at what was essentially an all-boys camp.  While everyone else was boarded up in their usual rooms, I was bunking in the guest quarters with no supervision and pretty much no rules.  There was nothing stopping me from sneaking out of my room in the late hours of the night to go exploring.  There was no one to tell me not to go down hallways that I was clearly not supposed to or into chem labs that stored more biohazards than area 51.  I knew which entrances led where, which hallways did what, and which doors squeaked when you pushed on them.

Which is exactly why, when I reached my father's door, I didn't push.

I slowed as I got closer, listening to whatever was playing over my father's speakers.  "This is Agent Rebecca Baxter," said the recording.  "And you should know that I'm not very tolerant of anything, much less people who fly too close to my Queen, so I suggest that you—"