“There’s a difference?” I asked.

Tara lowered her voice. “Brooke is a legacy,” she said, the other half of her mouth completing the smile. “Her mom was on one of the original Squads. There’s a big, big difference.” Then she pressed her lips together, and I knew as well as if she’d told me that I wasn’t going to get another piece of information out of her.

“HWAs, anyone?” Bubbles popped out of nowhere to stand by my side. Tara reached past me to grab some papers from the tiny, peppy one, who then turned to me. “Here are yours,” she said. “History, math, chemistry, Spanish, and computer science.” She paused. “Didn’t you do any homework last night?” she asked.

It was freaky—Bubbles Lane, two parts contortionist, one part professional airhead, sounded bizarrely like my mother.

“I was busy,” I replied, pulling the last rhinestone off my shirt with my free hand. Then I thumbed through the papers she’d handed me. “Number three’s wrong,” I said, scanning over my math homework. “And how in the world did they match my handwriting so well?” Even the chicken scratch in the margins was identical to my own.

“You have a ninety-seven in math,” Tara said (did everyone on the Squad know my GPA?), and then she nodded toward the papers in my hand. “Number three is wrong because if you get number three wrong, you’ll get a ninety-seven on that assignment.”

I wondered if this meant my history homework was going to be yet another C-.

“The HWA program is designed to let you keep your current average. It doesn’t help you or hurt you. It keeps things the same.”

I gave Tara a look of mock dismay. “Are you trying to tell me I’m not going to be on the honor roll?”

Tara rolled her eyes back at me. The exchange felt normal—more normal than I would ever have imagined any Toby–God Squad exchange capable of being, and definitely more normal than my interactions with Tara before she’d worked it out in her mind that the agents in danger probably weren’t her parents.

But, I reminded myself, the operatives were still someone’s family, and their lives were in the hands of Brooke Camden and Zee Kim. I had to work to remind myself that Zee was more or less a teen prodigy when it came to the human mind, and that Brooke, according to what Tara had just told me, was a legacy. She was born for this, she was bred for this, she was raised for this. She was this.

“Come on, people,” Chloe said. “Need I rehash my ‘appearance is everything, appearances are important’ speech? Cafeteria. Now.”

“Power trip,” I coughed into my hands. Tara stifled a smile and elbowed me in the stomach.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s head up.” Bubbles and April followed. Less than a minute later, the four of us were in the high school cafeteria, which, for reasons that continue to elude me to this day, was the place to hang out before first period, assuming you weren’t otherwise occupied with “cheerleading practice.” The moment we walked into the room, the entire school turned to look at us. It was like they’d choreographed it or something. In deference to our superior social status, a few of the wiser and more observant JV cheerleaders excused themselves from the central table.

Our table.

I hung back as the others went to take their seats. How much did I want to be skulking in the shadows right now? A lot.

“Well, I heard that she’s totally loaded, and before she came here, she dated Paris Hilton’s ex.”

At least in the shadows, I might have had a chance at avoiding the rumors that were still making their way through the student body detailing the supposed reasons I’d been chosen for the varsity cheerleading squad.

“Really? Which ex?”

When no one answered this question, I was overcome with an insane urge to say “That information is classified.”

“Well, I heard that she’s a complete lezbo who’s sleeping with one of the other girls on the squad. Can you say casting couch?”

I had to hand it to Hayley Hoffman. She was creative, and she must have had an excellent command of acoustics, because she pitched her voice just loud enough so that I could hear her, but not loud enough that Tara, Bubbles, or April could. I thought about just sucking it up and taking my place at the center table, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to turn the other cheek, because the fact that Hayley was using that particular term as an insult meant that her words weren’t just insulting me. With that in mind, I walked toward the JV table, ready to draw blood, metaphorically speaking. Probably.

I leaned toward the mass of chattering girls. “Well,” I said. “I heard that April Manning’s having a party and that people who start small-minded rumors about the other girls on the Squad aren’t invited.”

I’ve never seen mouths snap shut that quickly.

“Then again, April’s your friend, so you already knew that, right, Hayley?”

I could tell from the look on her face that she’d known nothing about the party. I should have felt sorry for her then—she and April had been friends for years, and the moment April had made varsity cheerleading, she had quite willingly left Hayley in the dust. Yup, I should have felt sorry for Hayley, at least a little.

Oh well.

“Toby,” one of the other girls said. “I love your boots. You always have the best boots.”

I purposely didn’t look down at the blue-green atrocities on my feet, half because my feet hurt more when I paid attention to them, and half because I couldn’t stomach the idea that anyone would compare my combat boots to something with a heel this high. Driven by my desire to get off my feet, I turned and walked back toward the central table, and with one last deep breath, I sat down, taking my place between Bubbles and Tara.

I retreated inside my head, careful to keep a smile on my lips and a vacant expression in my eyes. In less than half an hour, I’d be well on my way to my first official Squad-sponsored hack. Chloe would provide the technology, the twins and Bubbles would plant it, and I would do my thang.

I snapped out of it like that. I’d been on the Squad for just over twenty-four hours, and I’d actually thought the word thang. That was worse than pizzazz. It was even worse than Caboodle. At that exact moment, a handful of guys joined us, and I remembered that Infotech was only one-third of this mission. Another third of the mission had just sat down at my table. He was six foot three, his hair was a deep chocolatey brown, and it fell in his face just enough to give his chiseled features something of an edge.

Jack Peyton. School heartthrob. Former boyfriend to not one, but two cheerleaders. Fourth-generation scumbag.

“Well, if it isn’t Everybody-Knows-Toby.”

Well, I thought, if it isn’t Smirky McJerkface.

Out loud, I censored myself. A little. “Well, if it isn’t…you.”

“It is indeed me,” he said.

I couldn’t stand the look on his face. “Congratulations,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “It must be a great honor.”

He broke into a grin then, and it changed his face in a way that I had to admit wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Jack milked that gorgeous smile for all it was worth. “You going to the God Squad party tonight, Ev?”

Ev. Short, I had to assume, for Everybody-Knows-Toby.

“Of course she’s going,” Lucy answered on my behalf, her voice as bright and bubbly as ever. “She’s on the squad.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, and the thought of the party—loud music, low-cut jeans and lower-cut tops, alcoholic beverages served from large and suspect containers that I wouldn’t touch with an eighty-foot pole—made me physically grimace.

“You’ll be there under protest.” Jack interpreted my scowl.

“Why would I protest?” I asked dryly. “I’m a cheerleader, aren’t I?”

Jack raked his eyes up and down my body. “That shirt used to have sparkly things on it, didn’t it?” he asked, amusement playing around the corners of his mouth.

Postmakeover, I might have looked like Malibu Toby, but Jack Peyton saw straight through it.

At least somebody did.