Read Online Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover by Ally Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Ally Carter
Tags: Fiction, Humorous stories, Juvenile Fiction, Interpersonal relations, Girls & Women, School & Education, Mysteries & Detective Stories, spies, Kidnapping
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throwing us against the doors.
"Cam,"
Bex said as we hurtled at least a hundred feet further underground. "Is
this supposed to be—" she started, but suddenly we were plunging downward
again.
We
halted. "PRESENT DNA, PLEASE," a mechanical voice rang through the
car. A narrow slot appeared in the stainless-steel shell. It was exactly
finger-size, so I reached out to touch it.
"Ouch!"
I cried. A small pin had pricked me. Then it disappeared, and a fresh needle
replaced it. A small drop of blood bubbled at the top of my finger.
"No
way," Bex said, shaking her head emphatically. (And that's how I learned
that the girl who once bragged she'd taken on an arms dealer in a sword fight
in Cairo one spring break was actually afraid of needles.)
"PRESENT
DNA, PLEASE," the voice demanded again, this time sounding slightly less
patient, so Bex put her finger in just as the car stopped.
The
doors slid open…and I knew that nothing about Sublevel One had prepared me for
Sublevel Two.
It had
been almost exactly a year since Bex and I had first laid eyes on Sublevel One.
There the walls were made of stainless steel and frosted glass. Our footsteps
had echoed. I'd always brought a sweater. Everything about it was cool and
modern, like stepping inside the future—our future. But stepping inside
Sublevel Two was…not.
Around
me, other elevator doors were sliding open; other girls with bleeding fingers
were stepping onto creaking, wide-planked oak floors.
The
ceiling was a jigsaw puzzle of thick stone and heavy beams, and as I reached
out to touch the rock walls, I realized there were no seams. No mortar. Just an
indeterminable amount of limestone and earth separating us from the outside
world.
My
classmates stirred and turned, too busy taking in the dimly lit space to notice
the man who stepped out of the shadows and said, "Welcome to Sublevel
Two." He turned and started down the gently sloping floors, leading us in
a steady spiral. "I'd highly recommend paying attention, ladies," Mr.
Solomon instructed. "First day is the last day you get a guide."
Corridors
branched away from the spiraling walkway in a maze of stone. We passed arching
doorways, and the incline grew steeper. One wide corridor was labeled, simply, storage, but the doors that lined the hall were marked with everything from f, false flag
operations; h, hitler, attempted assassinations of. I'd always
heard about secrets being locked in stone, but I'd never seen it with my own
eyes until then.
We
walked for what felt like five minutes. The air around us was damp and cool,
and yet something told me that even in the dead of winter or heat of summer the
temperature would never vary more than three degrees.
And
then finally Joe Solomon came to a stop. As we stepped onto a floor of solid
stone, I looked back up the spiraling walkway—at the corridors that branched
like a maze—and suddenly I pitied the enemy agent who was ever foolish enough
to try to penetrate this store of covert knowledge. And finally I smiled,
wondering what on earth (or beneath it) could possibly lay in store on Sublevel
Three.
"Covert
operations." Mr. Solomon walked through a set of large double doors into a
room twice as large as the library in the mansion above us. As in the library,
a second-story walkway circled the room, and old-fashioned wooden tables were
arranged in a U-like shape across the floor.
"The
clandestine service…" our teacher talked on as the entire junior CoveOps
class rushed to claim seats. "It's a life of being where you're not
supposed to be—of doing what you're not supposed to do." There was a
wooden chair at the front of the room, but instead of sitting, he gripped the
back of it with both hands. It was the first thing about Covert Operations that
felt familiar. "It means getting in, ladies." He searched the room.
"And most important, it means getting out."
I
thought about hotels and laundry chutes, and for a second my head hurt. I felt
a little dizzy as our
"Cam,"
Bex said as we hurtled at least a hundred feet further underground. "Is
this supposed to be—" she started, but suddenly we were plunging downward
again.
We
halted. "PRESENT DNA, PLEASE," a mechanical voice rang through the
car. A narrow slot appeared in the stainless-steel shell. It was exactly
finger-size, so I reached out to touch it.
"Ouch!"
I cried. A small pin had pricked me. Then it disappeared, and a fresh needle
replaced it. A small drop of blood bubbled at the top of my finger.
"No
way," Bex said, shaking her head emphatically. (And that's how I learned
that the girl who once bragged she'd taken on an arms dealer in a sword fight
in Cairo one spring break was actually afraid of needles.)
"PRESENT
DNA, PLEASE," the voice demanded again, this time sounding slightly less
patient, so Bex put her finger in just as the car stopped.
The
doors slid open…and I knew that nothing about Sublevel One had prepared me for
Sublevel Two.
It had
been almost exactly a year since Bex and I had first laid eyes on Sublevel One.
There the walls were made of stainless steel and frosted glass. Our footsteps
had echoed. I'd always brought a sweater. Everything about it was cool and
modern, like stepping inside the future—our future. But stepping inside
Sublevel Two was…not.
Around
me, other elevator doors were sliding open; other girls with bleeding fingers
were stepping onto creaking, wide-planked oak floors.
The
ceiling was a jigsaw puzzle of thick stone and heavy beams, and as I reached
out to touch the rock walls, I realized there were no seams. No mortar. Just an
indeterminable amount of limestone and earth separating us from the outside
world.
My
classmates stirred and turned, too busy taking in the dimly lit space to notice
the man who stepped out of the shadows and said, "Welcome to Sublevel
Two." He turned and started down the gently sloping floors, leading us in
a steady spiral. "I'd highly recommend paying attention, ladies," Mr.
Solomon instructed. "First day is the last day you get a guide."
Corridors
branched away from the spiraling walkway in a maze of stone. We passed arching
doorways, and the incline grew steeper. One wide corridor was labeled, simply, storage, but the doors that lined the hall were marked with everything from f, false flag
operations; h, hitler, attempted assassinations of. I'd always
heard about secrets being locked in stone, but I'd never seen it with my own
eyes until then.
We
walked for what felt like five minutes. The air around us was damp and cool,
and yet something told me that even in the dead of winter or heat of summer the
temperature would never vary more than three degrees.
And
then finally Joe Solomon came to a stop. As we stepped onto a floor of solid
stone, I looked back up the spiraling walkway—at the corridors that branched
like a maze—and suddenly I pitied the enemy agent who was ever foolish enough
to try to penetrate this store of covert knowledge. And finally I smiled,
wondering what on earth (or beneath it) could possibly lay in store on Sublevel
Three.
"Covert
operations." Mr. Solomon walked through a set of large double doors into a
room twice as large as the library in the mansion above us. As in the library,
a second-story walkway circled the room, and old-fashioned wooden tables were
arranged in a U-like shape across the floor.
"The
clandestine service…" our teacher talked on as the entire junior CoveOps
class rushed to claim seats. "It's a life of being where you're not
supposed to be—of doing what you're not supposed to do." There was a
wooden chair at the front of the room, but instead of sitting, he gripped the
back of it with both hands. It was the first thing about Covert Operations that
felt familiar. "It means getting in, ladies." He searched the room.
"And most important, it means getting out."
I
thought about hotels and laundry chutes, and for a second my head hurt. I felt
a little dizzy as our
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