Emily
Present day, Trinity Grove Girl's Boarding School, Maryland, USA
Trinity Grove Boarding School is just like any other boarding school in North America, with mean girls, nice teachers and disgusting cafeteria food. Oh yeah, and weapons training, ex-military soccer coaches, and the usual review of our lesson on what to do if you're poisoned, with the addendum of Mrs. Thurner's 'chicken' nuggets. Whether they're actually some form of chicken or not is open for debate.
Right now, you're probably like 'woah, Emily, want to backtrack?' Sure—my name is Emily Weiss ('Weiss' rhymes with 'nice', by the way). I'm 13 years old, and I go to the previously mentioned Trinity Grove Boarding School, an all girls high school run by a joint team of FBI and NSA agents. Yes, I truly meant the last four words I just said. That FBI, you know, the Federal Bureau of Investigation? I'm sure you've heard of it.
I live in a dorm room with two other girls, Macie Craven and Harper Stallings. We share two sets of bunk beds (I'm on the top, Macie's on the bottom), and one bathroom, that is often crowded with an assortment of hairbrushes and lip gloss. Despite being agents in training, we do like to keep our appearance up.
Our schedules include all the normal things you'd find at a traditional school. English, math, science, art and history. But when we're not doing geometry homework, we're learning how to save the world from crime bosses in the middle of the night with only a roll of duct tape and an umbrella. Maybe I'll tell you how to do that later. Maybe.
Macie Craven is a computer genius, who happens to have straight A's in every single academic subject at Trinity Grove, and barely passing grades in almost every spy-related class we have. She's spectacular at hacking, and equally good at mathematics, but her lock picking and self defence skills leave a lot to be desired. It doesn't help that she's extremely afraid of heights. She also failed the duct-tape-and-umbrella test.
Harper Stallings is the actress of our clan. Acting skills make for great spy skills, so by default, Harper is an excellent sleuth. She's popular, and pretty, and looks like your classic girly-girl, rocking a curly Afro, blue eyes, and red lipstick. She's the kind of person I would put under the "Looks like a cinnamon roll, could actually kill you" category. She may be the most petite member of our group, but she's extremely strong and fierce.
But, you came to hear about me, and buckle up. It's a long story.
When I was about 2 months old, I was abandoned. I don't know where, and I don't know when, I just know I was. Then I was adopted by an older lady and her daughter. Six years ago the lady passed away, then, 1 year ago, the police and FBI found that the daughter was doing some very criminal things. I can remember exactly what happened
1 year, 3 months ago, Hopewell, Virginia, USA
I grumble to myself, trying sort out my grammar homework. "Maybe...." I scribble something down, then just as quickly cross it out. Ridiculous grammar. I'm about to try again when there's a hard pounding at the door.
"FBI!" A voice hollers. "Is Catherine Weiss in there?" The same voice demands. I dash downstairs, and even though I know I didn't do anything wrong, I'm worried. I open the door tentatively.
"Can I help you?" I ask quietly of the woman standing at my door. Her face softens, and she nudges her partner.
"Sorry sweetheart, I'm Agent Marla Phillips, is Catherine home?" I nod. "I'm surprised she didn't hear you." I add. Agent Phillips' partner bites his lip.
"Sorry about that." I shrug in response, "You want me to go get her?" Agent Phillips thinks this over. "Do you mind if we go talk to her ourselves?"
"Go ahead. She's in the basement," I nod my head toward the door. "Second door on the right." "Thanks," she nudges her partner forward, muttering something to him. He nods, then steps through the threshold.
Agent Phillips turns to me, "Could you come with me?" I think this over, remembering my grammar homework, but decide the FBI is probably more important, then follow her down the steps. "Well, I did have homework." She chuckles. Then I turn to a more important subject.
"Did I do something wrong?" I suddenly panic. She shakes her vigorously "No!" She exclaims.
I stand watching the chaos unfold before me. I try to follow what's happening, but fail miserably. All I know is that after Agent Phillips told me what was what, she went back into the basement with her partner, and other people, who I assume are other agents. Next, they were leading Catherine out, and I remembered gasping audibly. She was in hand cuffs, under the careful supervision of Agent Phillips.
A man dressed in a sharp suit and tie approaches me. "Are you Emily? Emily Weiss?" I nod, of which I've done a lot of today. "I'm supposed to let you know that Catherine has been arrested." "I figured." He nods, "I suppose so." He smiles. Amid all the chaos in front of me, my brain is flooded with thoughts, questions, and many 'What If's. But one thought, well one question, comes to the forefront, and I say it out loud. "What next?" "Well," he says, "we could put you in a foster home, or I suspect someone will come by with a very interesting option." He chuckles to himself, then turns away. I call after him, "What do you mean?" I exclaim. He just laughs again. "You'll see, Emily, you'll see." And he walks away, leaving me in suspense.
15 minutes, which feels like forever, passes. A woman behind me clears her throat, and I turn around, startled. When you (well, most people) think of FBI agent, you think tall athletic, usually dark hair, dark suit and tie. Well, the woman behind me was the exact opposite. She was stout with ginger hair cut short and wearing a baby blue University of North Carolina sweatshirt and black leggings, so imagine my surprise when she told me who she was. "I'm Agent Lory Carmichael, of the recruitment division, and I'm also the dean of Trinity Grove Boarding School."
6 hours later, Parkton, Maryland, USA
Dean Carmichael pulls up in front of a very old looking gate.
"Welcome to Trinity Grove Girl's Boarding School." She says, and rolls down her window to speak into a small intercom. As if on cue, the gated swung open with a loud creak.
We continued to drive down a path, shrouded in trees, and pulls up in front of a picturesque building, that looks like a castle. Maybe it is a castle.
The dean parks, and gets out of her car. I follow her into the building, into a tall, open foyer. The first thing I see are at least 15 huge, colourful portraits of different women, all painted in the same art style. They must be at least 6 feet tall. Dean Carmichael must see me staring at them.
"Those, Emily, are what we call out muses. The first women in their field." She motions to one, "Virginia Hall, the first female CIA agent." She nods at another, "and Avril Haines, the first woman to serve as Director of National Intelligence. She's also the current director, if that says anything about sexism."
"They're beautifully done portraits, Dean."
"I believe so too. I love how they span such a long period of time, as well. We have Kate Warne from the 1850s and Gina Haspel from the 2020s."
I shake my head in awe, "Wow."
The Dean turns down a hallway, and I follow her. What I'm guessing are classrooms line the hallways, some doors are numbered and lettered, and some simply labeled with subjects like art, music, law, and science.
We arrive in front of a non-descript door with the a sign stuck to it that reads "Dorms & Commons". She taps a badge that's hanging from her lanyard onto the scanner beside the door, and it makes a click noise, before Dean Carmichael pushes the door open. We enter a room with a couple cozy-looking chairs, a TV, and a small kitchen. To the right of the TV, there's an elevator and a set of stairs.
She presses the button for the elevator, and it dings open almost immediately. We enter the elevator, and the dean presses the button for the second floor. We sit in uncomfortable silence for the 30 second ride, before the elevator dings again, and we step out. She leads me down a hallway of doors, before stopping in front of one labeled 107. "This is your dorm, Emily. You'll be here with a few other girls."
Already standing in the tiny room are a tall man and who I assume is his daughter. Dean Carmichael seems to know who the man is. "Agent Craven!" She exclaims.
He turns.
"Dean." He says coolly, obviously not reciprocating the dean's excitement. His face is expressionless, showing off just how pale his skin is.. Dean Carmichael rests a gentle hand on the other girl's shoulder. "It's nice to see you again, Macie." The girl, Macie as it turns out, ducks her head. Her emotionless father taps her chin, and says something in a language I can't recognize. "Muista käytöksesi, Macedonia. Leuka pystyyn." Russian? Maybe Swedish?
She lifts her chin, though obviously not happy about it. I wonder if that's what her father said to her.
Dean Carmichael's hands fly to her mouth. "Oh, where are my manners? Emily, this is Macie Craven and her father Agent Tiitus Craven."
Ignoring all social guidelines ever to exist, Agent Craven interrupts, and sharply corrects her. "Dean, Macedonia and I are trying to eliminate nicknames, especially after Jodie's passing. So if you would seize from calling her 'Macie'? You'll do that too, of course, Amelia." The last bit he gives as more of an order than a request.
"Um," I stutter, "it's Emily, sir." I try my best to be polite. "Whatever." He says dismissively.
Interrupting the silence, a phone begins to ring loudly. Very loudly. Agent Craven pulls it out of his pocket, and answers.
"Yes?" Pause. "No, I'm not busy." Pause. "I do hope you're joking, Maxwell." Annoyance. "Ugh. I'll be right there." He puts the phone back in his pocket, and leaves without a word, or even a backwards glance.
There's a moment of silence as Dean Carmichael tries to find something to talk about. Macie—Macedonia?—tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "That's just my dad."
More silence. "So, Dean Carmichael, is it just, um, Macedonia and I?" Macedonia/Macie mutters something I can't hear. "Sorry?" I ask, "Please call me Macie." She says, almost pleadingly.
"Oh, uh, sure." I'm a little confused, but I'll call her whatever she wants me to call her of course.
After a few minutes of polite, all be it awkward, chatter, there's a knock at the door.
"That would be your other roommate." The dean says, opening the door.
A short African-American girl stands in the doorway, arm resting on the handle of her suitcase.
"The name's Harper."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Dean Carmichael. These are your roommates, Macie Craven and Emily Weiss." The girl Harper extends her hand to me, and I shake it.
"I'll leave you three to get acquainted and unpacked. I'll be back to give you a tour in an hour and a half."
Present day, Trinity Grove Girl's Boarding School, Maryland, USA
Since then I've been here, at Trinity Grove Girl's Boarding School. To everyone else it's an elite private school, known for our practically unbeatable basketball, swimming, and softball teams. But to all 174 Trinity Grove students, it's the best thing that ever happened, and our passion in life.
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A/N:
Thank you so much for reading this far! I truly appreciate it.
First draft/unedited