Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover

Bex cried, "You guys are never going to believe who’s here! Eyes," she said again. "I have eyes on—"

But then there was nothing but static as my roommate’s voice faded away. My first thought was to bring my hand to my ear and scream like a total amateur, but I didn’t.

"Now, I just know we’ve met before," Preston went on, oblivious to the panic I was feeling. "Come on. Help me out." I could have lied. I could have fought. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so I took a chance and called upon a Gallagher Girl’s weapon of last resort. I flirted.

"I’m sorry," I said, batting my false eyelashes. "I just get a little tongue-tied anytime I’m around such a handsome man."

"Um…" Preston swallowed hard. "Handsome?" Instantly, I felt the tables turn.

"Yes," I replied, reaching to grip his bicep. "I swear, you are even stronger than you look on TV."

He swallowed again and somehow managed to mutter, "You know I lift…things."

"Oh, I can tell." In my ear, Bex’s voice was drowning in static, but my mission at that moment was to get away from Preston Winters without him realizing that the girl in the black dress was also the girl on the roof. "You know, this is my favorite of your suits. I also like the navy pinstripe, of course, but you were wearing that one in Boston, weren’t you? So now this is my favorite. …" I started to chatter on about which of Preston’s ties went better with his eyes, but before I could say a word, Preston was already pointing to his parents across the room.

"Wait. Oh, you know, I think they need me for … stuff."

"Oh, but—" I said as he started to walk away.

"Thank you for your vote," he called, turning back.

But I was already gone.

"Duchess," I tried as I inched closer to the train tunnel. "Duchess," I tried again, with one glance back at the party, at Macey and Aunt Abby, and I knew I had two choices. One, I could wave down my aunt, which would result in reinforcements and the possibility that she would tell my mother what I was doing. Or two, I could follow a person of interest in a kidnapping attempt into a dark tunnel, without backup, without help.

So I did the second one because, at the time, it was the least scary of my options.

As I stepped inside the dim space, the sound of the crowd faded behind me while, in my ear, my comms unit began to crack and buzz.

I strolled down the darkened tunnel, my (totally uncomfortable) shoes as quiet as a whisper against the cold concrete. But that was before a hand clasped over my mouth, an arm gripped me tightly around my waist, and someone pulled me out of my shoes.

"Hey, Chameleon, how’s it going?" Bex’s voice sounded strong in my ear.

My first thought was to struggle against the arms that were holding me. My second was, Hey, how can Bex be talking in my ear if my comms unit is out?

But then the arms released me and I spun to face my best friend. "What are you doing in here?" I asked.

She smiled. "Guess who else made the drive up from Roseville?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"Bex, it’s Saturday. I’d really rather not take a quiz if I can help it."

Then she gripped my shoulders and turned me around. "Look."

The first time I ever saw Joe Solomon, he was strolling into the Grand Hall during the welcome-back dinner of my sophmore year. None of us knew where he’d come from or why he was there. Standing in the shadows, it wasn’t hard to remember how that had felt.

"He’s hot in a tuxedo," Bex said, and I started to snap because…well … it kind of went without saying, and also we had other things to worry about. Some seriously important other things. Because just then Mr. Solomon wasn’t alone anymore.

"Ooh, he has a hot tuxedoed friend," Bex teased. But I knew better—I’d seen that man and his wild white hair and crazy eyebrows before. I’d seen him. In Boston.

The two men spoke for a moment, then Mr. Solomon turned and started to walk away, varying his pace in order to hear the footsteps of anyone who might be following in the dark tunnel, a textbook countersurveillance procedure if ever there was one. Bex winked at me, more than up for the challenge, then slipped into the tunnel a safe distance behind our teacher. But I just kept staring at

the guy left in Joe Solomon’s wake.

Someone Mr. Solomon knew.

Someone Mr. Solomon seemed to respect.

Someone who had a knack for being where Macey—and I—happened to be.

Maybe it was some inherent hotness that Bex had seen and I’d missed. Maybe it was the way the man with the white hair had straightened in the dark tunnel and moved with grace that didn’t belong with the rest of his body. But for some reason, I thought back to the way Mr. Solomon had stood in "Art’s" uniform and told us how the art of deception and disguise isn’t complex—it’s simple: just give the eyes something new to look at so that the mind doesn’t truly see.

My mind flew from Boston and back again, the deja vu growing stronger, the pieces of a puzzle falling into place. I closed my eyes and saw eyes and not eyebrows, a mouth and not a mustache. I stripped away the cover piece by piece until I stood in the dark, finally seeing.

"Zach."

I have to admit that at that moment I had seriously mixed feelings about the situation. I had seen Zach! Sure, he was wearing a disguise. Sure, all boys (much less Blackthorne Boys) are probably experts at the art of deception!

But that didn’t change the fact that I’d thought I’d seen him a dozen times before actually coming face-to-face with him in Ohio. And at that moment, I knew better. I breathed, realizing that, on the one hand, I hadn’t had Zach on the brain in Boston. My mind hadn’t been playing tricks on me. I wasn’t boy—or any kind of—crazy.