Blowing My Cover by Lindsay Moran

Author:Lindsay Moran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

SIX

Alec and I are tromping around the pedestrian district of Colonial Williamsburg, licking our ice-cream cones and kicking up dirt. He is dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and white golfer’s slacks, and has ice cream in his pencil-thin mustache. I am about eight months pregnant.

We’re in disguise, masquerading in public as a tourist couple. In addition to this enormous pillow I’ve got strapped around my waist underneath a muumuu-style jumper, I’m wearing a frizzy red wig and large 1970s-style sunglasses. Glancing in a shop window, I realize that I look less like a pregnant woman than a fat, deranged clown.

Our outfits come courtesy of the Agency’s official disguise division, who arrived at The Farm earlier today.

“This here could make anyone look like a moo-hodge-AH-DEEN, ” says a woman who’s introduced herself as an “altered-identity engineer.” She proudly displays what looks to me like a typical Halloween mask that you could buy for twenty bucks at Toys “R” Us.

“These masks are handmade,” the woman goes on. “Each one takes months to manufacture and costs thousands of dollars.”

“The fleecing of America,” Ophelia whispers audibly. Ophelia is an acquaintance of someone who works in the disguise shop. During the break, while our classmates stroke and ogle the other multi-thousand-dollar masks, Ophelia and I retreat outside, where she gives me the inside scoop.

“It’s a bunch of would-be cosmeticians who can’t find work at the local Hair Pair,” Ophelia says. “The CIA is the ultimate boondoggle for them. My friend says all they do is fart around all day, giving each other pedicures and styling each other’s hair.”

When Ophelia and I return to the classroom, our fellow trainees have dispersed to the wardrobe, makeup, and accessories stations. We’re supposed to spend the rest of the day growing accustomed to whatever disguise has been engineered particularly for us. I wonder what gave them the idea I should be pregnant.

“Ahh! This is great for you,” the wigs woman says as she pulls a curly red mass of fake hair over my head.

Alec is now hamming it up: talking in a loud, midwestern accent and giving some halter-topped schoolgirls, obviously on a field trip to Colonial Williamsburg, the hairy eyeball. He could pass for a sleazy used-car salesman, or just a plain old-fashioned pervert. I put my arm through his and lead us into Ye Olde Tyme Museum, which is designed to look like a slave-quarter kitchen. Just beyond the butter churn, we spot Ophelia, with some outrageous hair extensions that make her look like Rick James, and Ethan, sporting a full beard that hangs lopsided off his reddened, sweating face. With his black suit and wide-brimmed black hat, he looks like an Amish man.

When Ethan’s eyes meet mine, we both burst out laughing. I can hardly believe I’m getting paid to have this much fun.

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