"Charlotte!" Hughes cried, so surprised that he nearly dropped the supplies he was carrying to the storage room. He, Will, Bill, and I were cleaning up the supplies from that afternoon's drills (because, evidently, that is the responsibility of the Captain and the Junior Captain, which no one tells you when you sign up for the gig). Mr. Hughes stopped in his tracks when he saw my CoveOps teacher standing in the doorway. He looked like a love-struck teenager.
But there was nothing love-struck about Charlotte Woods. "Hello, Blake."
"I didn't— " he cleared his throat and then looked over his shoulder, perhaps checking to see if we were still there. We were and we were watching every sickly moment of this encounter play out before our eyes. "I didn't know you were getting in today," he said, looking at his watch as if the mere hour would make the difference. Then again, maybe when he was with Woods, it did.
"Yes, well." She glanced at the three of us and her words were frigid, but not like she was angry or anything. It was more like she was trying too hard to be indifferent. As if the relationship between the two of them were this big secret that she was determined to keep, which, let me tell you. The secret was totally out. Especially to those of us who had trained over the summer. At the start of the summer, Woods had spent, like, every other day at Blackthorne. And a few nights. Listen, it's none of my business, but I'm pretty sure that Woods has probably... played a few notes on Mr. Hughes' piano, if you know what I mean.
"All of the teachers got in about three hours ago," she said in a hushed tone. Too bad for her, I had a real knack for hearing that specific sort of tone. "I came to, um, see you, but you were running drills and I didn't—"
"Sorry Professor," I cut in, not realizing I was intruding until the words were already out and Woods was already glaring at me. "Um, sorry," I said again. "But did you say that all of the teachers were here?"
At this, her expression softened just a bit. "Yes, Goode."
"Have you by any chance seen—?"
"He's in his room." Ah, yes. The good ol' mindreading powers of Charlotte Woods were making their valiant return. Oh, how I hadn't missed those.
But I didn't have time to debate the possible clairvoyant cyber chips in my professor's brain right then because I was already running—taking off through the doors of that training room and down Blackthorne's largest hallway, past the displays that read Pen Cameras Through the Years and Blackthorne's Contributions to Communications. Past the flyers that advertised going "all the way" with the NSA to this year's exiting seniors. Past the headmaster's office as he called out, "Hello, Morgan."
"Hi Grandpa Joe," I responded, not bothering to stop, which was fine because he hadn't been expecting me to. "Bye Grandpa Joe."
Over the past few months I had come to know Blackthorne pretty well. After all, there were perks to being the only girl at what was essentially an all-boys camp. While everyone else was boarded up in their usual rooms, I was bunking in the guest quarters with no supervision and pretty much no rules. There was nothing stopping me from sneaking out of my room in the late hours of the night to go exploring. There was no one to tell me not to go down hallways that I was clearly not supposed to or into chem labs that stored more biohazards than area 51. I knew which entrances led where, which hallways did what, and which doors squeaked when you pushed on them.
Which is exactly why, when I reached my father's door, I didn't push.
I slowed as I got closer, listening to whatever was playing over my father's speakers. "This is Agent Rebecca Baxter," said the recording. "And you should know that I'm not very tolerant of anything, much less people who fly too close to my Queen, so I suggest that you—"
"Bex."
I've been hit hard before. Plenty of times, right in the chest. But something about hearing that voice made me breathless. It was my mother's voice and I hadn't heard it in almost a year.
"Cam?" Aunt Bex sounded shocked. Rightfully so, I suppose. At the time of recording, my mother had been missing for months. But then, like a switch, Aunt Bex sounded really, really angry. "I promise you that when I get you out of that plane I'm going to—"
"Bex, you have to listen to me."
"What," Aunt Bex snapped. "What is it, Cam? What could possibly—"
"You have to take care of them, Bex. You have to take care of them for me."
After that, the only sound coming from the speakers was an occasional crackle and the sound of distant static. "What are you talking about?" Aunt Bex said finally, all traces of anger having vanished.
A third voice joined in and it took me a moment to realize that it wasn't coming from the speakers. "You weren't supposed to be done for another hour."
It was Dad and for a second I was confused. I thought that maybe he was on the phone with someone. Maybe he was even talking back to the speakers. But then I realized that he was probably talking to me.
I peaked my head in through his door, feeling the creak of the hinges. Dad was looking at me and I noticed that he couldn't hold back a smile, even if it was a weak one. He was sitting at the top of his bed, leaning up against the wall. The speakers were still playing just beside him, but there wasn't a whole lot being said. Just the crackle, crackle, pop of the radio.
"How did you know I was there?" I asked him.
"I saw your shadow," he said, nodding towards the ground at my feet where, sure enough, my silhouette mirrored me. "You're getting sloppy."
He patted the sheets next to him and I didn't have to be told twice. It is, after all, a girl's right to curl up with her father every now and then. Especially when she hadn't seen him in so long. He wrapped one of his arms around me and I leaned up against him, both of us silent as we listened to the speakers.
There were muffled sounds of chaos and sharp beeps that cut into everything else. I could almost picture it—Aunt Bex in a control tower overlooking London with her hand over her mic, screaming out orders to anyone who would listen. Papers scattering through the air as multiple members of MI6 tried to understand why Aunt Bex was suddenly cooperating with someone who, five minutes ago, had been considered a terrorist threat.
"Isn't this classified?" My voice was quiet. I couldn't risk speaking over something important. I couldn't risk missing a thing.
"Yep," was Dad's only answer.
The audio snapped to life again and I knew that Aunt Bex's hand was off of her microphone. "Cam," I heard my aunt say. I'd never heard Aunt Bex sound so cautious. For a second the picture changed in my mind. Suddenly, it was like Aunt Bex and Mom were on a roof in some big city somewhere, Mom on a ledge and Aunt Bex trying to talk her down.
But then I heard a distant voice ask, "Should we get somebody in the air?" reminding me of the fact I knew too well. Mom was flying and any moment now, she'd start to fall.
"No," Aunt Bex told the confused man, but then she focused back on Mom. "Cam, tell me what's going on."
"Bex," Mom said. My mind flashed back to the last time I'd spoken to her. To our last phone call. She had sounded the same then as she did now—a thousand miles away and desperate to come home. "You know I would never do anything to hurt you, right?"
"Land the plane, Cam," Bex snapped.
"You have to look out for them." Mom went on. "My mom and Joe and Zach—keep the kids safe, Bex. Matt and—and Maggie." At the sound of my name, I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Not now. I had to listen. "Keep them safe, Bex."
"Land the bloody plane!"
"You know I can't do that, Bex," she said, her voice broken and torn. There was a moment when the radio waves were only filled with static, but then Mom spoke again. Stronger. "You're too smart not to know that if I could land this, then I would have done it by now. Is Green Park cleared?"
"Why?"
"Is it cleared?"
At least four different voices started yelling at Aunt Bex, shouting out statistics and progress reports, filling her with necessary information for her op. It was an op. Just another op.
Dad spoke over the voices. "I've been thinking," he started, as if Mom's last words weren't playing behind him. I wondered how many times he had listened to the tape. Then I wondered how many times he'd do it again. "When your mom was in school, she and Grandma would have dinner together once a week."
"That sounds nice," I said.
He looked down at me and I could honestly say that he looked good—or, well, better. We had seen each other a couple of times over the summer, the longest of which was just after Mom's funeral. Closed casket, I remembered. Not enough of a body left to have it open. On that particular day, Dad looked like he was next on the grim reaper's list. "Is that something that you'd want to do with me?"
A kind of warmth filled me that I hadn't felt in a long time. "Yeah, Dad. I'd love that." He smiled at me and turned away again, staring at the blank wall across from his bed, listening in on a frantic MI6 surveillance team. "We could do Fridays," I suggested. "I'll be here training anyway."
"Right," Dad said. "Charlotte mentioned something about that. How's that going?"
"Just got promoted to Junior Captain," I told him proudly.
He smiled. "Attagirl."
But then the smile vanished when we heard Aunt Bex's voice again, towering above all the others. "Cam, just tell me what's going on."
"I can't!" Mom snapped. "Don't you get it? I can't tell you. And more importantly you can't hear it. Listen to me, Bex. You have to stop looking. And tell the others to stop too. No one can come looking for me after this, got it?"
"After what, Cam?" There was no question in Aunt Bex's voice. It was like Mom had said. Aunt Bex was too smart. She had known what would happen next. "Please don't do this."
"Tell them I love them," Mom said.
"Tell them yourself."
"I have to do this"
"Think about your family, Cam. Your mom. Zach—the kids."
"I am thinking about my family." Mom breathed. "They're all I can think about."
"Cam stop—"
But Aunt Bex had been cut off by an audible click, followed only by the stunned silence of my aunt watching as my mother crashed herself into the ground. If you listen closely to that recording, you can actually hear it happen. Not the actual crash, of course—that happened too far away. But you can hear it in Aunt Bex. The way she holds her breath when Mom hangs up. The way she gasps as the plane flies back. "She's not..." I could hear her whisper to herself, and then finally a powerful, "No," as I imagine my mother running herself into the ground. As if Aunt Bex could stop it just with a single word. As if she herself could turn back the clocks.
And then slowly, uncertainly, Aunt Bex started to wail. It was the most terrifying sound I'd ever heard and I was glad dad reached out to his stereo and clicked off the recording.
He turned to look at me again, seeming unsure of how I would react, but to be honest, his guess was as good as mine. I didn't know how to feel. What was a girl supposed to feel after listening to her mother crash her own plane? Maybe this was it—maybe I was supposed to feel numb, because if I didn't, I just might've died.
Dad nodded, reading my expression—or rather, lack thereof. He didn't look surprised and I realized that it was because he felt it, too. The numbness. The heartbreak. The great, merciless absence. "I love you, kid."
"I love you, too," I managed.
He wrapped me up even tighter in his grip and I almost couldn't breathe. To be honest, I almost didn't want to. I wanted to stop right there—forever stuck in my father's arms. Was that how it worked? When a person died, would they just be stuck forever in the moment they went? Was Mom's ghost somewhere in London, forever being torn apart by cold, unforgiving metal?
"Oh, "Dad said, suddenly remembering something. He tore me away from my thoughts, which was probably for the better. "Happy Birthday, Mags."
Right. My birthday. I had forgotten about that. "No present?" I teased. "Too busy in... Singapore?"
This was the joke. Dad had been gone for pretty much the entire summer and, spy that he is, wouldn't tell me where he had been. "Good guess," he said with a smile. "But no. I did, however"—he leaned forward, pulling open the top drawer of his dresser—"get you something in Rome."
He pulled out a shimmering snow globe from inside. It was such a dad thing to get—a globe with the Pantheon in the center, sitting atop of the Colosseum. Glitter sparkled when you swirled it. Rome. Dad had gone to Rome.
But, then again, I couldn't imagine that there was any place left in the world that he hadn't touched. I wondered how long it would be before I would be the next Goode on every continent. "Thanks, Dad."
He took me in his arms again, squeezing me even tighter than before. "You're welcome, kid," he said, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him. I wondered what he was thinking. Who he was thinking about. "You're welcome."