Beside me, my mother fingeredthe soft denim. "Yes, I used to have a pair like this, but they got ruinedat the cleaners."
And then the saleslady pointeddown a narrow hallway. A hint of a smile was on her face. "I believedressing room number seven is available." She started to walk away,then turned back to me and whispered, "Good luck."
And I totally knew I was goingto need it.
We walked together down thenarrow hall, and once we were inside the dressing room my mother closed thedoor. Our eyes met in the mirror, and she said, "Are you ready?"
And then I did the thing weGallagher Girls are best at—I lied."Sure."
We pressed our palms againstthe cool, smooth mirror and felt the glass grow warm beneath our skin.
"You're going to dogreat," Mom said, as if being myself wouldn't be so hard or so terrible.As if I hadn't spent my entire life wanting to be her.
And then the ground beneath usstarted to shake.
The walls rose as the floorsank. Bright lights flashed white, burning my eyes. I reached dizzily for mymother's arm.
"Just a body scan,"she said reassuringly, and the elevator continued its descent farther andfarther beneath the city. A wave of hot air blasted my face like the world'sbiggest hair dryer. "Biohazard detectors," Mom explained as wecontinued our smooth, quick ride.
Time seemed to stand still,but I knew to count the seconds. One minute. Two minutes…
"Almost there," Momsaid. We descended through a thin laser beam that read our retinal images.Moments later, a bright orange light pulsed, and I felt the elevator stop. Thedoors slid open.
And then my mouth went slack.
Tiles made of black graniteand white marble stretched across the floor of the cavernous space like alife-size chessboard. Twin staircases twisted from opposite corners of themassive room, spiraling forty feet to the second story, framing a granite wallthat bore the silver seal of the CIA and the motto I know by heart: