Dropping Like Spies - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Five

The girls around us gave a giggle, very much getting what Alice was saying.  Alice practically soared.  She lived off of making the room laugh.

Except I didn’t laugh.  I watched the old man at the back of the room.  He stood oddly on his left foot, almost like he didn’t quite know where the ground was.  I couldn’t tell if he was looking at Alice through his thick glasses or if his eyes were wandering, completely oblivious to her as she went on to say, “The most important part is to develop a character.  Add scars to make onlookers as questions.  Add a limp to invoke pity.  Create a story and then you can—”

“How d’you know all this, young lady?” asked the old man in a dry cockney accent, cutting off the girl who looked like she could have gone on a lot longer than she actually had.

Next to me, my best friend gave Woods a sideways glance, seeming to ask what sort of clearance level the man had.  Our professor gave a firm nod and Alice stood tall, pride in her thin stature.  “My aunt is a D.A.—that’s a Disguise Artist,” she told the man.  “I’m sure you’ve never heard of her work,” she added, just as proudly as before, because, in this business, that’s one of the highest compliments someone can receive.

The old man smiled.  He seemed especially youthful in that moment.  "Your aunt ain't just a Disguise Artist," he said.  And then—get this—the man peeled off his face.  Yeah.  He peeled off his face.  Or, I guess, she peeled off her face.  That's right.  The old man was a girl and this time when she spoke, we could hear it.  "She's the Disguise Artist."

The woman straightened her back and flattened her foot.  "Ladies," Professor Woods began as the woman pulled back a stiff grey wig.  "Eleanora Sutton.  Top disguise consultant for the FBI, CIA, MI6, and Scotland Yard."

Each of us watched in amazement as the old man transformed into a woman who couldn't be any older than Woods was.  It was like watching the ugly duckling grow into a beautiful swan right before my eyes.  She chucked the cane aside and stripped herself of the fraying maroon sweater.  Her real hair (or, well, I'm pretty sure it was her real hair) was blonde and bouncy.  Her smile was far less crooked than the old man's had been and when she put her hand on her hip, I noticed that she had stopped shaking.  

“Eleanora is my great-grandmother’s name,” she said in a perfectly appropriate southern accent, fluffing up her curls.  “Everyone calls me Ellie.  Ellie Sutton.”

I looked from Ellie to Alice, then back to Ellie again.  The blonde curls and the smile straight from the heart of Dixie.  The tiny frame and the exact same nose.  “Alice,” I whispered through the side of my mouth.  “Isn’t Sutton your mom’s maiden name?”

“Oh.  my.  god.  Oh my god,” was all she said, so I took that as a yes.  “If we get any more Suttons in here we might as well call Grandma and skip Thanksgiving this year.”

“Ah,” Ellie said with smile fit for the belle of the ball.  “So I take it you’ve seen Lizzie already—I've got to be honest, A.  I didn't think you listened when I went on about disguises, but clearly I was wrong.  Guess who's getting an extra present at Christmas this year."  Alice always got extra presents at Christmas, especially from her Aunt Ellie, but I didn't think that this was the right time to point that out.  Not while Agent Eleanora Sutton was standing right in front of us saying, "Here, Char.  Hold this, would you?”

Ellie handed the end of an ace bandage to Professor Woods, spinning herself out of it until the shape returned to her body.  She took a deep breath in.  “That’s so much better—I tell you what, girls.  Go under cover as a girl whenever possible.  Brest binding blows.”