“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. “Did you remember where you were?”
“Of course,” I teased. “I love New Jersey.”
He grinned and passed over a bagel. I started picking off the sesame seeds with my fingernails, yawning hard. “So what’s the word? What’s the deal? What are we up to?”
My parents exchanged glances. My dad’s hair was starting to go a little gray at the temples, but it was still mostly dark brown, just like mine. My mom’s hair was black and just barely touched her shoulders, but she and I had the same pale skin.
“Uh-oh,” I said around a mouthful of dough and sesame seeds. “Does Mom have to clean offices again?” That hadn’t been a popular assignment for her, to say the least.
“No, thankfully,” she said, then passed my dossier over to me.
We each had one, manila envelopes that had probably been left in our new place a minute before we walked through the door. That’s how it’s always been; we move and our new identities are there to greet us.
Colton Hooper is the reason we have new identities every time. He’s been in charge of our safety since before I can remember, moving my family and me to secure locations and slipping shiny new passports under the door. Angelo may forge them, but Colton puts them into our hands.
Neither my parents nor I have ever met Colton. It’s safer that way, not knowing what people look like or where they are. Colton seems like he’d be cool to hang out with, though. Over the phone, he always sounds smooth and relaxed, like some playboy billionaire without a care in the world. He calls me “the infamous Maggie,” which I like. It sounds like he trusts me as much as he trusts my parents, and since our lives are often in his hands, we trust him right back.
I opened up my folder and flipped through it. “Ooh, I get to keep my first name!” I said as soon as I saw the school ID. “Maggie Sil—wait, what?”
My parents exchanged another glance.
“I get to go to high school?” I said. “No more homeschooling? Do I … do I finally get an assignment?”
“All last summer, you kept saying that you were bored and wanted to talk to people who didn’t remember being at the fall of the Berlin Wall,” my dad pointed out.
“Holy crap!” I said. “Hallelujah, it’s a miracle! I finally get to do something besides watch everyone else have fun!” I raised my bagel in the air like an award, then pretended to wipe away tears. “This just means so much to me! I’d like to thank all the little people that I crushed on my way to the top.”
“You are ridiculous,” my mother said, her smile tight.
I took a bite of bagel, then washed it down with coffee. “These high school kids won’t know what hit them. Who do I get to emotionally destroy?”
I shook the rest of the manila folder, waiting for some piece of crucial information to fall out, but there was nothing. Just my new birth certificate, social security card, school ID, all with the name Maggie Silver, and a cell phone that I knew was for speaking with anyone not in the Collective. My last name was completely new—I’d have to get used to it.
“So am I breaking into lockers and looking for drugs?” I asked. “Is it a performing arts high school? I don’t know that I’m good with singing and dancing. It might be hard to assimilate.”
“No singing and dancing,” my dad said. “But please remember that that’s exactly what a spy does. We assimilate.”
“Like I had any say in that decision,” I muttered. “What if I have to go to a pep rally?”
My dad raised an eyebrow. “It’s a private high school in Greenwich Village,” he pointed out. “Do you really think there’s a football team?”
“I’m sure they have pep about something!” I cried.
And then it hit me.
“Wait. Did you say it’s private?” I asked. “Are there uniforms?”
My parents’ faces went decidedly blank.
“I have to wear a uniform?” I screamed. “Are you serious?”
“The blouse is so darling,” my mom said.
I whirled around and ran back to my room, throwing open the closet doors. I hadn’t even looked at my clothes yet, but sure enough, there were five identical private school uniforms: white blouses (who even says “blouses” anymore?) and dark blue plaid skirts. There were also some jeans, sweaters, and really cute gray suede boots, but I couldn’t focus on them. I grabbed a uniform off the hanger and carried it back to my parents.
“Look at this!” I said, shaking it in front of them. “I’ve waited my whole life to go to high school and now I have to wear this?”
My mom spread cream cheese on her bagel. My dad sipped his coffee and nodded.
“Are you okay with me walking the streets of downtown New York looking like Lolita?” I pressed on. I could feel my argument going nowhere, and for the first time in years, I felt nervous. If this didn’t work, I’d be starting high school the very next morning showing more leg than I had ever shown before. “This looks obscene. Someone should call Dateline.”
“You’ll probably need a sweater,” my mom replied. “It’s a little chilly out.”
“Cheer up, buttercup,” my dad added. “It’s your first job. You’ve got bigger and better things ahead.” He pushed the envelope at me. “Here, sit down. Time to work.”