A Gallagher Wedding Read online

  A Gallagher

  a s h o r t s t o r y

  a l l y c a r t e r

  d • H Y PERION BOOKS

  N E W Y O R K

  DISNEY/HYPERION Trim = 4.5 x 7.5 Wedding Special PB

  CARTER—Gallagher Girls/United We Spy_1ST PASS

  Copyright © 2013 by Ally Carter

  DISNEY/HYPERION Trim = 4.5 x 7.5 Wedding Special PB

  CARTER—Gallagher Girls/United We Spy_1ST PASS

  My mother didn’t get married during

  springtime in the gardens; Macey had gotten

  that part wrong. That spring, the Gallagher

  Academy had other priorities.

  Massive holes covered the grounds. Hazmat

  teams had spent weeks digging through the con-

  tents of Dr. Fibs’s labs and all three Sublevels

  (what was left of them). The pits were hundreds

  of feet deep, and they covered the campus. I

  knew the people in town must have thought we

  were crazy. But I didn’t care. Let people judge

  you. It never changes the truth.

  The trustees had called together a spe-

  cial team of retired Gallagher Girls to collect

  and archive all of the surviving artifacts and

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  memorabilia. Even the crumbling walls had

  been catalogued piece-by-piece, stone-by-stone

  in preparation for the inevitable job of putting

  them all back together.

  And they would go back together. Eventu-

  ally. My time at the Gallagher Academy had

  taught me that there are some things that can

  never, ever be pulled apart.

  By seven P.M. on the Fourth of July the

  scaffolding was going up, and the sun was going

  down. I stood in the loft of the P&E barn, look-

  ing out a window at the white tents and folding

  chairs that covered the lawn. Down below, Bex

  was fixing Liz’s hair. My mom and Abby were

  tucked away in one of the offices. And someone

  had given Macey a headset.

  “Beta team, you are a go for canapés. I

  repeat. Beta team, canapés are a go!” When

  Madame Dabney carried a box full of bouquets

  into the P&E barn, Macey spun on her. “Are

  those daylilies?” Macey snapped. “Tell me those

  aren’t daylilies!” Macey bolted across the barn,

  shouting, “Where are my orchids?”

  I started down the stairs as soon as Macey

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  opened the door. Through the doorway, I could

  feel the hot summer breeze and hear the sounds

  of a four-piece orchestra. Waiters walked by car-

  rying silver trays, and a few limos were coming

  up the drive.

  “If I see a carnation, I swear I’m going

  to hurt somebody!” Macey shouted, and ran

  outside.

  “Well, at least she’s not overreacting,”

  Bex said, then patted Liz on the back. “You’re

  finished.”

  Liz spun and checked the back of her hair

  in the massive mirror that lined one wall of the

  barn. It was the very place where we’d learned

  to perfect our form and land our punches; but

  on that day, Liz stood and smoothed her silky

  skirt and patted her updo. In her frilly, delicate

  dress, she looked like something Renoir might

  have painted. I smiled at her, almost wistful.

  It was like I’d stepped into another reality. We

  were primping in the P&E barn. I wondered if

  our school’s founder would have been horribly

  offended or extremely proud. But somehow I

  knew the answer: Gillian Gallagher had killed a

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  man while wearing a hoop skirt. Gilly wouldn’t

  have minded one bit.

  “Cammie, are you okay?” Liz asked me.

  “Because it would be okay, you know . . . not

  to be okay.”

  “I’m fine, Lizzie,” I told her. “I swear.”

  Sure, Macey had told (correction: warned)

  me that as maid of honor, it was my responsibil-

  ity to see to the bride’s every need. But, thus far,

  my mother had mostly just needed someone to

  keep her from killing Macey. I was feeling pretty

  good about my job when I heard a voice behind

  me say, “Cammie?”

  Aunt Abby looked like an angel. Her dress

  was long and flowing. A dramatic strap covered

  one shoulder, hiding the scar from the time she’d

  gotten shot saving Macey’s life. I don’t know

  if Macey had chosen that particular dress for

  Abby’s benefit or her own. My hunch was the

  latter. It wasn’t the type of day when Macey—or

  any of us, really—wanted to be reminded about

  our scars.

  “What?” Abby asked. She spun around.

  “Do I have this thing on right?”

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  “It’s perfect,” I said.

  She took a step and swept her arms toward

  the small, private office.

  “The bride will see you now.”

  My mother’s back was to me when I came into

  the room, but I could see her eyes reflected in

  the lighted mirror at the table where she sat.

  She looked like she was getting ready to take

  the stage on Broadway.

  “Well, here’s my maid of honor,” Mom said,

  then glanced at her sister. “Abby, do you mind?”

  “I’m going to go check on the groom. If I

  can find him,” Abby said and slipped outside,

  leaving Mom and me alone.

  Mom and me.

  Alone.

  I stopped for a moment, pondering how

  that sentence would never be strictly true again.

  Not really. After that day, it would always be me

  and Mom and Joe.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “How you doing, kiddo?” she asked.

  “Great. I have something for you,” I said,

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  taking off the necklace that had hung around

  my neck every day for more than six months.

  Once upon a time it had belonged to Gilly her-

  self, but that was before my father had found it

  and locked it away safely where it had waited

  for me for years.

  I held the necklace out toward my mother.

  “Here,” I said.

  “I can’t take that, sweetheart,” Mom said.

  “It’s yours.”

  “It’s something old,” I told her. “And

  something borrowed. And it’s already Macey-

  approved, so you might as well go ahead and . . .
”

  “Put it on me?” Mom asked, pulling up

  her hair, so that I could clasp the chain around

  her neck.

  “I love it,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Then Mom turned and took me in, head to

  toe. I wore a floor-length gown of indetermin-

  able price by a designer who owed Macey’s mom

  a favor. But I refused to put on my heels until

  the last minute, so I had three-dollar flip-flops

  on my feet. Mom smiled.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Then her smile faded,

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  her voice cracked. “You look so much like your

  dad.”

  Then she straightened, forced a new smile.

  “Do you think . . .” My mom couldn’t finish.

  She had stared down terrorists and extremists

  and spies who were angry about their genius

  daughters’ midterm grades. She shouldn’t have

  been afraid of anything, but she cracked under

  the weight of those words.

  “Dad loved you. And he loved Joe. He

  would love this.”

  Mom nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “We

  should have eloped.”

  “No.” I shook my head forcefully. In the

  mirror I saw myself and was confused for a

  moment, because I was looking at my mother

  in exactly the same way she always looked at

  me. That day, at least, it felt like our roles had

  reversed.

  “No,” I said again. “This is right—you have

  to marry Joe. Here. Now. This is our fresh start.”

  Just then Macey called, “Knock-knock,” and

  rushed into my mother’s private room. “You’re

  not dressed!” she said. “We have thirty-eight

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  minutes until sunset. Sunset is when we get

  good light. Good light is when we get good pic-

  tures. This day will be over in a few hours, but

  the pictures . . . the pictures last forever!”

  “Cam,” Mom said, her voice a warning—so

  I grabbed Macey by the arm and pulled her out

  the door.

  “Hey, Mace,” I said, “did you see that the

  caterer was using that canned squirty cheese on

  the appetizers? I love that stuff.”

  And with that, Macey was yelling into her

  headset and darting off again. I might have fol-

  lowed if I’d been capable of moving. Maybe it

  was the overall emotion of the day: my mother’s

  happiness mixing with the sadness of our bro-

  ken school. Or maybe it was just because Zach

  was standing in the middle of the P&E barn.

  And he was wearing a tux.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “That depends,” I told him. “My knees just

  went a little weak—does that count?”

  I thought back to the boy who had showed

  up on our grounds during the spring semester of

  my sophomore year. He had pulled at his tie and

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  tugged at his blazer. But now he was perfectly

  at home in Armani. He wasn’t playing dress-up.

  He didn’t look like a kid on the way to prom.

  He was a man at the start of his career—of his

  life. And he was looking at me.

  There was a time when I thought I knew the

  Gallagher Academy and its grounds better than

  I knew the back of my own hand. That time, I

  guess, was over.

  I held on to Zach’s arm and, together, we

  walked around gashes in the ground that were

  hundreds of feet deep, following a path between

  hazard tape and stakes that had been carefully

  laid out by surveyors and architects. It was like

  walking through the ruins of a city.

  On the other side of the grounds, white

  tents filled the gardens. One held a dance floor.

  One was for caterers. There were two trailers

  that served as bathrooms. (Which, according

  to Macey, were the best mobile sanitation units

  money could buy.)

  Where was Mr. Solomon getting ready? I

  didn’t know. I didn’t ask. It would be just like Joe

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  and Townsend to materialize out of thin air, all

  tuxedoed-up and perfect.

  “The builders have made a lot of progress,”

  Zach said when we reached the construction

  site.

  I slipped between the bars of the scaffold-

  ing, held my arms out wide, and spun around.

  It felt like playing make-believe.

  “This is going to be the new Grand Hall,”

  I told him.

  “Isn’t this where the old Grand Hall was?”

  he asked.

  I smiled. “Exactly.” Then I ran through a

  pair of imaginary doors. “Foyer. Staircase. Hall

  of History. Library. Of course, there will be a

  few changes. Sublevel One is going to be more

  secure than it was before. And they’re talk-

  ing about enlarging the chapel and adding a

  secondary staircase to the western residential

  floors.”

  “And the secret passageways?” Zach asked.

  “Will they be back?”

  “Maybe a few,” I teased. “It would be a

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  shame for future generations of Gallagher Girls

  not to have . . . options.”

  I had to stand on my tiptoes in my bargain-

  bin flip-flops to kiss him underneath an imagi-

  nary chandelier. His arm slid around my waist,

  pulling me tightly against him.

  I was faintly aware of the changing light.

  A shining, shimmering glow seemed to cover

  the scaffolding and the woods, the P&E barn,

  and the white tents that caught the fleeting bits

  of sun.

  All that was left of the mansion was stone

  and ash, but my home was there. Forever.

  “Cammie!” Liz yelled. She held up a hand

  to shield her eyes against the setting sun. “It’s

  time.”

  I saw my mother in her ivory gown, Bex

  and Aunt Abby carrying the train as they

  walked from the P&E barn toward the gardens

  where people waited in white folding chairs.

  Mr. Solomon and Townsend stood at atten-

  tion at the front of the crowd. Even in July and

  on his wedding day, Joe looked cool, like he

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  had planned every possible outcome for that

  moment, and things were going exactly accord-

  ing to plan.

  “The bride and groom have requested that

  their maid of honor and best man join the cer-

  emony,” Liz said, holding out my high-heeled


  shoes. “Besides, you guys have the rings.”

  “What do you say, Gallagher Girl?” Zach

  offered me his arm. “Do you want to join them?”

  I turned into the light.

  “I do.”

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  Ally Carter, A Gallagher Wedding

  (Series: Gallagher Girls # 6.50)

 

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