Barking Up the Wrong Lead - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

NORMAL PROM

VERSUS

SPY PROM

(Comparison by Morgan Goode)

NORMAL PROM: is a fun social event—sometimes with punch—that usually includes dancing and hanging out.

SPY PROM: is a cumulative exam of everything you’ve ever learned, accompanied by dancing, high-stakes observation, and an entirely different sort of punch.

NORMAL PROM: requires formal wear.  Nice hair.  Possibly a corsage.

SPY PROM: requires all of the above in addition to at least two defensive tools, a lock pick set, a pair of exceptionally lethal high heels, a bullet-proof bra that they totally don’t sell in Roseville, and an advanced knowledge of all things espionage.  Plus, you have to conceal it all under your dress.

NORMAL PROM: is over at midnight.

SPY PROM: is over whenever the undercover arms dealer sings.

NORMAL PROM: consists of your dad poking fun at your date and possibly making him wet himself.

SPY PROM: consists of your dad being too busy that he doesn’t even notice that you have a date until you walk in with someone on your arm.

Okay.  So I felt beautiful.  So what?  A girl was allowed to feel beautiful.

Except, apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, because when I stood atop of the grand staircase that led down to the Blackthorne ballroom, heads turned.  And not in the her-mom’s-missing sort of way either.  It was the oh-my-gosh-look-at-that-girl sort of way.  That’s right.  You read that correctly.  Even with the tuxedoed kitchen staff passing around little triangular sandwiches and the sound of the world-class ensemble bouncing off all eight walls of that massive room, people were stopping to look at me.  Forget about the twenty foot chandelier hanging over their heads or the completely cliche ice sculpture of swans making a little heart with their necks.  Morgan Goode was the sight to see.

The spy in me was terrified.

The girl in me really, really liked it.

“You know, Goode,” whispered my date, our arms interlinked.  “I believe the point is to blend in.”

“What’s the matter, Jasons?”  I teased back.  “Can’t spy when people are watching?”

“Oh, I do my best work while people are watching,” he insisted.  “It’s you I’m worried about.”

I smiled at him as smoothly as I could, trying to channel my inner Bond Girl—hell, trying to channel my inner Bond.  “Oh,” I said.  “You don’t ever have to worry about me.”

He huffed, looking amused, but for a split second there was something in his expression.  It reminded me of Matt.  It was the same kind of look in his eye.  The one that said he knew he didn’t have to worry, but he would anyways.

All at once, my James Bond vanished and I started to turn as red as my dress.  At this, Scout smiled even wider.

The Blackthorne ballroom looked like the Gallagher Academy and Blackthorne got together and had a baby.  It was made up of smooth grey brick alternating squares and rectangles, but the room formed a very nontraditional octagon.  The stairs were made up of glass that shone in the grand chandelier.  It had the class and elegance of my mansion, but the chic modernism of their building. 

A fully suited man stood next to us at the top of the magnificent staircase.  I was fairly certain that he’d once served me mashed potatoes in the mess hall.  He cleared his throat in a particularly purposeful manner.  “Oh,” said Scout, suddenly remembering everything he’d learned about proper etiquette.  He leaned over into the mashed potato man’s ear and whispered something, then stood tall once more, straightening his already perfectly straight tie.