Cross my heart and hope to spy* by Ally Carter* (bill gates book recommendations .TXT) 📕

a lot of our doors are protected by NSA-approved codes or retinal scanners, but
they're never just…locked. (Because, really, what's the point when there are entire
sections of our library labeled Locks: The Manipulation and Disabling of?) "I'm afraid the security department spent the winter break fixing a series of … shall we say … gaps in the security system." Professor Buckingham eyed me over the
top of her reading glasses, and I felt a guilty lump settle in my gut. "And they
discovered that the wing had been contaminated with fumes from the chemistry labs.
Therefore, this corridor is off-limits for the time being; you're going to have to find
another way to your rooms." Well, after three and a half years of exploring every inch of the Gallagher mansion, I knew better than anyone that there are other ways to our rooms (some of
which require closed-toe shoes, a Phillips-head screwdriver, and fifty yards of rappel-a-
cord). But before I could mention any of them, Buckingham turned back to us and said,
"Oh, and Cameron, dear, please make sure your alternate route doesn't involve crawling
inside any walls." This whole fresh-start thing was going to be harder than I thought.
Bex and I started toward the back stairs, where Courtney Bauer was modeling the boots she'd gotten for Hanukkah. When we passed the sophomore common room we
saw Kim Lee showing off the derivation of the Proadsky Position she'd mastered over
break. We saw girls of every size, shape, and color, and I felt more and more at home
with every step. Finally, I pushed open the door to our suite and was halfway through
the throw-your-suitcase-onto-the-bed maneuver when someone grabbed me from
behind. "Oh my gosh!" Liz cried. "I've been so worried!"
My suitcase landed hard on my foot, but I couldn't really cry out in pain because Liz was still squeezing, and even though she weighs less than a hundred pounds, Liz
can squeeze pretty hard when she wants to. "Bex said you had to go in for questioning," Liz said. "She said it was Top Secret!" Yeah. Pretty much everything we do is Top Secret, but the novelty has never worn off for Liz, probably because, unlike Bex and me and seventy percent of our
classmates, Liz's parents drive Volvos and serve on PTA committees and have never
had to kill a man with a copy of People magazine. (Not that anyone can prove my mom
actually did that—it's totally just a rumor.) "Liz, it's okay," I said, pulling free, "It was just a debrief. It was normal protocol stuff." "So…" Liz started. "You aren't in trouble?" She picked up a massive book. "Because article nine, section seven of the Handbook of Operative Development clearly
states that operatives in training may be placed on temporary—" "Liz," Bex said, cutting her off, "please tell me you didn't spend the morning memorizing that book."
"I didn't memorize it," Liz said defensively. "I just…read it." Which, when you have a photographic memory, is pretty much the same thing, but I didn't say so. Down the hall, I heard Eva Alvarez explaining how Buenos Aires on New Year's Eve is awesome. A pair of freshmen rushed by our door talking about who would
make a better Gallagher Girl: Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Veronica Mars (a debate
made much more interesting by the fact it was taking place in Farsi). Bright sunlight shone through our window, bouncing off the snow. It was a new semester and my best friends were beside me. All seemed right with the world.

Thirty minutes later I was in my uniform, making my way down the spiral staircase, toward the Grand Hall with the rest of the student body. Well, most of the
student body. "Where's Macey?"
"Oh, she's back already," Liz said, but I knew that much. After all, it was kind of hard to miss Macey's closetful of designer clothes, her stash of ridiculously expensive
skin care products (many of which are legal only in Europe), and the fact that someone
had very recently been sleeping in her bed. The last time I'd seen our fourth roommate, she'd been preparing for three weeks in the Swiss Alps with her senator father, her cosmetics-heiress mother, and a celebrity
chef from the Food Channel; but Macey McHenry had come back early. And now she
was nowhere to be seen. Bex was looking around, too, staring over the heads of the seventh graders walking in front of us. "She said she had a bit of research to do in the library, but that
was hours ago. I thought she'd meet us down here, but…" she trailed off, still looking. "You guys go eat," I said, stepping away from the crowd and starting down the hall. "I'll find her." I pulled open the heavy library doors and stepped inside the massive bookshelf- lined room. Comfy leather couches and old oak tables surrounded a roaring fire. And
there, in the center of it all, was Macey McHenry. Her head was resting on the latest
edition of Molecular Chemistry Monthly, pink highlighter marks were on her cheek, and
a puddle of drool had run from her mouth to the wooden desktop. "Macey," I whispered, reaching out to gently shake her shoulder.
"What? Huh…Cammie?" She struggled upright and blinked at me. "What time is it?" she cried, jumping up and knocking a stack of flash cards to the floor. I bent down to help her pick them up. "The welcome-back dinner is about to start." "Great," she said, sounding like someone who didn't think it was great at all.
Her glossy black hair stuck out at odd angles, and her normally bright blue eyes were dazed with sleep. Even though I knew better, I couldn't help but say, "So, did you
have a nice break?" She cut me a look that could kill (and will—just as soon as our head scientist, Dr. Fibs, perfects his looks-can-kill technology). "Sure." Macey blew a stray piece of hair away from her beautiful face and pulled the last of the flash cards into a pile. "Right up until my parents saw my grades." "But you got great grades! You covered nearly two semesters' worth of work. You—" "Got four A's and three B's," Macey finished for me.
"I know!" I cried. After all, I had personally tutored Macey in the finer points of macroeconomics, molecular regeneration, and conversational Swahili.
"And according to the Senator," Macey said, keeping up her unspoken vow never to call her father by name, "there's no way I am capable of earning four A's and
three B's, so therefore I must be cheating." "But …" I struggled to find the words. "But…Gallagher Girls don't cheat!" And it's true. Not to sound dramatic or anything, but a Gallagher Girl's real grades don't
come in pass or fail—they're measured in life or death. But Senator McHenry didn't
know that. I looked at the gorgeous debutante who had flunked out of every prep
academy on the East Coast and was now earning A's and B's at spy school, and I
realized the senator didn't know a lot of things. Not even his own daughter. The library was empty around us, but I still lowered my voice as I said, "Macey, you should tell my mom. She could call your dad. We could—" "No way!" Macey said, as if I never let her have any fun. "Besides, I already know what I'm going to do." We'd reached the heavy doors of the library, but I paused for the answer. "What?" "Study." Macey cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Next time I'll get all A's." And then she smiled as if, after sixteen years of practice, she'd finally found the ultimate
way to defy her parents. I heard voices in the corridor outside, which was strange because at that moment the entire Gallagher Academy student body was waiting in the Grand Hall. Something
made us freeze. And wait. And despite the heavy doors between us, I could clearly hear
my mother say, "No, Cammie doesn't know anything." Well, as a spy (not to mention a girl), there are many, many sentences that will make me stop and listen, and, needless to say, "Cammie doesn't know anything" is
totally one of them! I leaned closer to the door while, beside me, Macey's big blue eyes got even wider. She leaned in and whispered, 'What don't you know?" "She didn't suspect anything?" Mr. Solomon, my dreamy CoveOps instructor, asked. "What didn't you suspect?" asked Macey.
Well, of course the whole point of not knowing and not suspecting is that I neither knew nor suspected, but I couldn't point that out because, at the moment, my
mother was on the opposite side of the door saying, "No, she was being debriefed at the
time." I thought back to the long, quiet ride from D.C., the way my mother had stared at the frosty countryside as she'd told me that she hadn't watched my interrogation—that
she'd had things to do. "We can't tell her, Joe," Mom said. "We can't tell anyone. Not until we have to."
"Not about black thorn?"
"Not about anything." And then Mom sighed. "I just want things to stay as normal as possible for as long as possible." I looked at Macey. Normal had just taken on a whole new meaning.


After they left, Macey and I slipped back to the Grand Hall and the sophomore table. Mom had already taken her place at the front of the room. I know that Liz
whispered, "What took you so long?" as we sat down. But beyond that, I wasn't sure of
anything, because, to tell you the truth, I was having a little trouble hearing. And
talking. And walking.

CHAPTER 3

There are many pros and cons to living in a two-hundred-year-old mansion. For example: having about a dozen highly secluded and yet perfectly inbounds places where you can sit and discuss classified information: PRO.

The fact that none of these places are well heated and/or insulated when you are discussing said information in the middle of the winter: CON.

Two hours after our welcome-back dinner, Macey was leaning against the stone wall at