"The lucky ones comehome, even if it is in a box."

Although he hadn't mentionedme by name, I felt my classmates watching me. They all know what happened to mydad—that he went on a mission, that hedidn't come home. I'll probably never know any more than those two simplefacts, but that those two facts were all that mattered. People call me TheChameleon here—if you go to spy school, I guess that's a pretty good nickname.I wonder sometimes what made me that way, what keeps me still and quiet whenLiz is jabbering and Bex is, well, Bexing. Am I good at going unnoticedbecause of my spy genetics or because I've always been shy? Or am I just thegirl people would rather not see—lestthey realize how easily it could happen to them.

Mr. Solomon took another step,and my classmates pulled their gazes away just that quickly—everyone but Bex, that is. She was inching toward theedge of her chair, ready to keep me from tearing out the gorgeous green eyes ofour new hot teacher as he said, "Get good, ladies. Or get dead."

A part of me wanted to runstraight to my mother's office and tell her what he'd said, that he was talkingabout Dad, implying that it had been his fault—that he wasn't good enough. But I stayed seated, possibly outof paralyzing anger but more probably because I feared, somewhere inside me,that Mr. Solomon was right and I didn't want my mother to say so.

Just then, Anna Fettermanpushed through the frosted-glass doors and stood panting in front of the class."I'm sorry," she said to Mr. Solomon, still gasping for breath."The stupid scanners didn't recognize me, so the elevator locked me in,and I had to listen to a five-minute prerecorded lecture about trying to sneakout of bounds, and…" Her voice trailed off as she studied the teacher andhis very unimpressed expression, which I thought was a little hypocriticalcoming from a man who had been five minutes late himself.