A Gallagher Wedding
Ally Carter
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
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CARTER—Gallagher Girls/United We Spy_1ST PASS
Copyright © 2013 by Ally Carter
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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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