Barking Up the Wrong Lead - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

If the Gallagher Academy is the epitome of 19th century architecture, then Blackthorne is that of the 21st. Where we had stone and wood, they had glass and chrome. Where we had high, tipped arches, they had crisp, ninety-degree angles. Everywhere I looked, frosted glass doors marked the start of another room, each labeled neatly by the silver plaques that hung on the walls. Natatorium. Headmaster's office. Then, finally, the library.

Size doesn't matter. Not in most cases anyway. Hell, my best friend is a whole foot shorter than I am and she could—and frequently does—kick my butt. But there were occasional instances, like those concerning libraries, during which size was everything and, let me tell you, Blackthorne's library left much to be desired. If the sleek, modern chairs and smooth, silver bookshelves weren't enough to remind you that Blackthorne lacked the same hundred-fifty-year history of the Gallagher Academy, then its limited collection of text surely would.

Grandpa Joe instructed all of us to take a seat and when I did, I realized exactly why there were so few shelves in that library. The tabletops were made of glass. Touch screens, I realized. Massive, tabletop tablets that, presumably, held any book that a Blackthorne Boy could ever want. Faith was going to explode when she saw these.

Top CIA agent Zachary Goode (A.K.A. my father) stood at the front of us, joined by the Joe Solomon, headmaster of the Blackthorne Military Academy for Boys (A.K.A. Grandpa Joe). "Good to see you again, ladies," Grandpa Joe greeted. "I trust that you've all had a restful break."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, remembering just how non-restful my break had been, but Grandpa Joe didn't look my way. Not even for a second.

"Last semester we played an awful lot on your home turf," he continued. "This semester, you get to be the visiting team. You and your Research and Development classmates will all be spending a lot of time as guests here at Blackthorne."

I expected some sort of reaction. A jubilant cheer or a collective groan—something. But none of it came. When Joe Solomon spoke, people listened. "But," he went on. "That's not the only change you'll have this semester. You should recall that last year, I filled the position of the Clandestine Fieldwork professor."

Of course we remembered. It had been completely awesome. Sure I had been learning from Grandpa Joe for my entire life, but learning from him in a professional setting? When he didn't hold anything back? That was cool, to say the least.

"It was a privilege to teach you all, but unfortunately I can't keep doing that and being headmaster. I'm good, but I'm not that good.  Therefore, we've recently filled our Clandestine Fieldwork position and I can resume my duties as headmaster." He put a hand on Dad's shoulder. This made Dad stand up a little taller. "I assume you've all heard of the work that Agent Goode has done?"

Well, yeah. I'd heard of the work that Agent Goode had done. In fact, I'd probably heard more about Agent Goode than I was ever supposed to. But when I looked at the faces of my classmates, I knew that they weren't looking at the same man I was. They didn't see that dad that told bad jokes or gave hugs comparable to those of a boa constrictor. They saw Agent Zachary Goode, CIA. They saw their textbooks from our eighth grade Studies in Terror class. They saw the spy.

And they were impressed.

Even Alice who, I kid you not, has seen him with his foot stuck in the toilet (twice) was having a hard time seeing him as the goofy father I knew him to be. Like many around her, she sat up straighter, paying just a little more attention than before.

But Grandpa Joe talked on as if the jaws of three girls hadn't just fallen open. "Mr. Goode will be replacing me as your teacher, but you will otherwise continue your training as usual."