Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover by Ally Carter

side of the bleachers, advertising www.winters-mchenry.com , and I watched it blow
in the breeze, a corner flapping free, banging against the aluminum posts, but
no one noticed the sound. No one saw the gap. No civilian would have
appreciated that sliver of access, and what it meant. But the guy in the cap
walked toward the banner. He slipped through the tiny crack, and that's when I
knew he was a pavement artist.
    I knew he was like me.
    "No,"
I felt myself scream; but with the band and the crowd and the chatter of agents
securing the rope lines, the word was lost. And he was gone.
    I
followed, pushing through the gap myself, but all I could see was litter and
the tangled wires and rods of the metal stands.
    For
such a sunny day, it was dark under the bleachers; for such a screaming crowd,
the noise seemed very far away. A warm breeze blew red, white, and blue
confetti across my feet, while the band played and the people cheered.
    And I felt someone behind me.
    And
for the second time that month, a strange hand grasped my shoulder.
    I
forgot all about Mr. Solomon's assignment as I reached back and grabbed the
offending hand, stepped into the move, and swung the guy smoothly through the
air, watching him crash onto a red balloon with a pop.
    But
suddenly I was the one who was breathless as I stared down at the guy who lay
beneath me, and I heard the only words I totally wasn't prepared to hear.
    "Hello, Gallagher
Girl."
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Zach
was there. Zach was staring up at me through the shadow of the bleachers, lying
on his back, his shoulders pinned beneath my knees.
    He
was real this time. This wasn't spy genes and teen hormones running away with
me. I wasn't hallucinating or daydreaming or the victim of some freaky
hologram-based countersurveillance diversion.
    I was just looking…
    At Zach.
    "Hey,
Gallagher Girl," he said after … I don't know … an hour or something,
"you gonna let me up now?"
    But
I totally didn't want to let him up because A) I had the superior position, and
with any boy—much less a Blackthorne Boy—superior position is something you
should hang on to when you get a chance, B) if I didn't let him up, there was a
lot less chance of him retaliating by flipping me through the air like a rag
doll (which I totally wouldn't have
    put
past him), and C) I kinda liked knowing where I stood with Zach. For once.
    So
instead of moving aside and pulling him to his feet like a good girl, I just
leaned over him like a Gallagher Girl and said, "What are you doing here?"
    But
Zach didn't answer right away. Instead, he did that Zach thing he always did.
He gave me a look that was so deep—so intense—that it was as if he were trying
to send the answer to me over some cosmic, psychic thread or something.
    Then
he smirked and said, "I'm very interested in Ohio
politics."
    I
scooted backward, stumbling to my feet as I blurted, "You can't
vote."
    "Yeah,
but I can campaign." He pointed to the winters-mchenry button on his jacket as
if to prove his point. And then it hit me—the feelings of panic that cute boys
and kidnapping attempts have probably been prompting inside Gallagher Girls
for a hundred years.
    I'd
thought about seeing him about a billion times. I'd imagined what I'd be
wearing and what cool thing I would say, but I can assure you that in none of
my fantasies had I been wearing my most uncomfortable jeans and a T-shirt that
was two sizes too large. I'd thought about what kind of girl I was going to
be—interested but indifferent, lovely but amused. And yet I was none of those
things as I looked down at him and muttered, "You're a long way from
Blackthorne."
    "Yeah."
He smiled. "Well, I heard that Macey McHenry was going to be making her
first post-convention public appearance here today"—he stood and brushed
some stray confetti from my hair—"and where there's one Gallagher Girl,
there are usually others."
    His
smile deepened, and at that moment I seriously thought I would scream