business-like rap on the door the next morning woke me from a fitful sleep. I staggered out of bed to admit my chaperone.

“Here.” Karen thrust a garment bag and a gorgeous Louis Vuitton tote into my hands. “Hit the shower. Breakfast will be here in thirty, and we leave at ten-hundred.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I groused, stumbling to the bathroom. My body might be living in New York, but my internal clock insisted it was still in Karachi. Add in the fragments of stress dreams assaulting me throughout the night, and I was like the walking dead. One squint into the bathroom mirror confirmed I looked like it, too.

The coffee from my breakfast tray kicked in about the same time I tried using a bit of makeup to stave off further zombie comparisons. The shade was pretty good, but the clothes were another story. For years my wardrobe had been chosen to hide my femininity with the pleasant side effect that everything was worn loose, so I didn’t die from being cooked alive.

The clothes Karen dropped off were like a stage costume. The flirty wool crepe skirt made my thighs itch, the cropped sweater outlined boobs never before seen, and the high-heeled boots were like walking on stilts. If this was what the natives wore, this was a society in decline.

I teetered downstairs to find Sutton, the black-suited driver, wrestling my duffle and the fancy new tote into a trunk already jam-packed with several expensive pieces of matching luggage. Karen looked up from the sheaf of papers in her hands.

“Stop looking like you sucked a grapefruit for breakfast,” she commanded.

I glared at her flowing tunic and relaxed trousers before gesturing to my outfit. “Wanna trade?”

“Hell, no,” she retorted. “Now get your skinny ass into the car. Your new life begins in two hours.” She wasted no time. “It’s time for a final rundown of the players.”

My father had weeks to get familiarized with the key political figures of a region before a transfer went through. A boarding school didn’t hold the same potential for an international incident—hopefully—but the blinding speed of my recruitment and deployment had the air of last minute planning.

The car lurched into traffic, practically throwing me to the floor. Climbing back on my seat, I reached for a seatbelt.

“The Head of School, Mrs. Gretchen McKenna, is a real piece of work.” Karen flashed me a color photo of a starched woman in her early sixties, her silver hair cut short in a style framing her angular face. “It took a mandate from Harrington’s board of directors to get her to allow the upgrade to her school’s security team. We didn’t dare tell her you worked for us. Getting you in was a minor miracle.”

Surely McKenna had seen my excellent transcripts, which hopefully noted my fluency in Arabic and French, as well as my ability to curse in six different tribal dialects.

“Don’t take it personally,” Karen said, catching my scowl. “When they say this place is exclusive, they mean it. Besides, McKenna doesn’t think security is a problem because no one would dare enter her hallowed halls without an engraved invitation.”

Benson had shown me a patient and creative approach could breach even the most sophisticated of defenses. Each time we landed at a new posting, he always delighted in poking holes in the security protocols. I wondered if he realized it was his training that allowed me to discover ways to sneak out of each embassy without ever getting busted. After all, those places were built to keep people out, not in.

We skidded to a stop, and Sutton leaned on the horn. If he ever got tired of driving limos in New York, he’d fit right in as a cabbie in Cairo.

Karen reached into her handbag and came up with a white envelope, plain except for my name typed across it. “Here, this is your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

I ripped it open and found an ID card bearing my name and picture. It also said I worked for the State Department. “How did you pull this off?” I couldn’t imagine too many people my age running around with one of these.

She shrugged as if it were none of her concern. “Your father made it part of the deal. Now raise your right hand and repeat after me.”

Something told me I’d regret this, but I obeyed.

“I, Riley Collins,” she prompted, which I dutifully repeated, “do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and I will well and faithfully discharge my duties. So help me God.”

My final words hung in the air. I recognized the oath as a version my father and his entire staff took when they entered service, but the gravity of it suddenly struck me.

Next came a transparent zippered pouch, the kind you kept pencils in, but its contents were a whole lot more interesting.

“There’s five thousand dollars in there, and a platinum American Express card.” She dropped it in my lap.

“Holy shit,” I murmured.

“Yeah, I know. I could pay my rent for almost two months with that kind of cash,” she said. “It’s for show so spend it only when someone is looking. Don’t let me find any charges for pizza delivery or Hulu, and save your receipts.” She did everything but wag a finger in my face.

As the car swerved in and out of Manhattan traffic, she filled me in on my cover story. “Your father and Stephen Frasier are old friends. Frasier did some work for the defense department years ago, so it’s plausible. That should help break the ice with Hayden. Here’s her file.”

I was skeptical as she passed me a thick manila folder. Opening the cover, I quickly thumbed past the photos I’d already seen online. Photographers stalked Hayden Frasier like prey, in part because she was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed clone of her famous actress mom, Tory Palmer. Like her mother, Hayden had perfected that faintly bored, untouchable look mere mortals could never hope to achieve. She was famous for stepping coolly out of a limo with the season’s must-have handbag on her arm and strolling the streets of New York as if she’d come straight from the pages of Vogue. Compared to her, with my Irish-Italian heritage, I was the guttersnipe Eponine to her angelic Cosette.

It was in the middle of the file where things got interesting. About a dozen tabloid pages were clipped together, all stamped UNAUTHORIZED. One shot captured Hayden dancing, arms thrown out in abandon; another showed her gazing off with the unfocused look of a girl who’d had one too many. A quick skim of the other photos revealed similarly private moments showing the heiress more human and more alive than anything snapped by the paparazzi.

“What are these?” I asked.

“A problem. Those were all taken at school functions with no sanctioned photographers. Someone is selling unauthorized photos of her to the tabloids.”

I didn’t see what the big deal was. Seeing her like that made me like her better.

Noticing my bemusement, she explained, “Whoever is following Hayden Frasier around with a camera could also be selling pictures of the campus grounds, the security systems, the schedule of the guards’ shift changes… are you getting it now? We need to find out who’s playing paparazzi.” She left no doubt when she said we, she meant me. Handing over a school schedule with Hayden’s name at the top, she said, “This should help you keep track of her.”

The car picked up speed on the Parkway, leaving Manhattan behind. I glanced out the window as the city faded from view, wishing there’d been time to visit the Empire State Building or take in a Broadway show. There was zero nightlife in Karachi. The city’s only entertainment at night was eating, giving it the totally disgusting nickname of the “city that eats itself to sleep”.

Karen pulled out another glossy photo from her stack of papers, and I reminded myself to pay attention. “You won’t be alone at Harrington. This is Major Grace Taylor. She’s the school’s new head of security. She alone knows you’re coming, so you should meet up with her ASAP.”

The picture showed a dark-haired woman in an army uniform posed stiffly in front of the American flag. Her steely-eyed gaze made her look as if she could reach through the lens of the camera and beat you to a pulp. The career military women I’d met attained their rank by being twice as sharp as the men around them. I had no doubt Major Taylor fell into that category.

All signs of city life disappeared, and we traveled down two-lane country roads. I had never seen so many trees. Before long the car made a sharp right turn and braked. In front of us was an imposing entrance of ivy-covered walls, faded brick, and boatloads of wrought iron. Karen expelled a shaky breath as if she was the one facing down her worst fears. “This is it.”

We’d reached Harrington Academy way too fast. My fingernails left divots in the soft leather seat as a uniformed guard scanned an electronic tablet for my name while a German Shepherd sniffed around the outside of the car. It was like entering a foreign embassy.

Massive gates swung open, and another guard waved us through. I twisted in my seat to watch the portal slam shut on everything I’d ever known. Reluctantly facing forward, I was immediately struck by the impression we were driving into a postcard, the kind you’d send to the friend who was always trying to outdo you.

The sprawling campus ahead appeared warm and inviting. Lining the road were leafy trees decked out in the earthy colors of Benetton’s fall catalogue. On one side, a gently flowing river peeked through the foliage, and as if on cue a uniformed rowing team streaked past. On the other, an endless white picket fence fronted a distant barn as sleek horses lazily nibbled at the emerald grass.

So why was my heart racing? Why could I not accept my fate and try to make the best of it? Maybe because it was all so radically different from everything I’d ever known. And maybe it was because just like Pakistan and Yemen and Cairo, I would once again be an outsider, never allowed to reveal my true self to anyone. The trendy outfit I wore here was as foreign to me as the hijab back home.

My growing panic verged on full-scale hyperventilation. Karen must have noticed the sheen of cold sweat on my face because she none-too-gently grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face between my knees.

“Breathe,” she ordered.

“I don’t think I can do this.” My words fell flat on the plush carpeting between my feet.

“You can, and you will. You’re going to put one foot in front of the other, and you’re going to get through this. You are now a sworn agent of the United States of America. Don’t you forget that.” She pinched the back of my neck for emphasis. No sympathy there.

When at last I hauled myself upright, we were nearing the main campus where stately buildings all shared a common bond of red brick, white trim, and weathered roofs of slate gray. Built more or less in a massive oval, the structures all fronted a welcoming, park-like space with graceful trees, a duck pond, and graveled walking paths.

The fall term started the following day. According to Harrington’s website, almost a thousand students attended the coed high school and of those, only a small number went home after class. The rest lived on campus during the school year.

Clusters of people darted about. Many carried boxes and backpacks with parents trailing behind. Others had already settled in and played a game of pickup soccer or lounged about the grounds.

We came to a stop in front of Harrington Hall, a particularly imposing building featuring quite a number of chimneys jutting into the midday sky, dating its origins to a time before central heating. Built in a T shape, white Georgian columns supported a graceful portico and sheltered the massive entryway. Casement windows shot up three stories and rambled endlessly in either direction, while French doors on the ground floor had been thrown open to admit the light breeze. It had probably been the showplace home of some Connecticut statesman when both it and the country were young.

Karen looked faintly ill herself as she stared at the great hall. Turning away, she reached into her bag and pulled out a sleek smartphone, an advanced model not on the market. I forgot for a moment to be freaked out. Mine was two years old with a cracked screen, and I coveted the device in her hands like Benson craved the next James Bond movie. I had to stop myself from reaching over to touch it.

Then a miracle happened. “This is for you.”

“Shut the front door! Are you serious?” All thoughts of death by social anxiety disappeared as I powered it up. I couldn’t wait to see what games had been preloaded, and check out the latest sites, and…

“Riley.” She laid a hand across the phone. “This is important. My number is in there under Aunt Karen.”

She returned my faint smirk with one of her own. I’d always wished for more family, but a less warm and fuzzy aunt I couldn’t imagine.

“It’s also loaded with photos, texts, and all the other stuff you’d be expected to have. You need to look like you had a life before you got here.”

“I did have a life before I got here,” I said.

She let out a humorless chuckle. “Not like these kids have.”

Unable to resist, I checked out the photo roll and found pictures of me Photoshopped with beautiful people I’d never seen in photogenic places I’d never been. A quick check of my texting history showed fabricated conversations with girls named Naomi and Becca. I was now Riley Collins, Rich American Teenager.

“Well,” Karen said, nodding once in farewell, “good luck.”

“Wait, what? You’re just leaving me here?” I didn’t expect her to hold my hand, but surely she wouldn’t just dump me on the curb.

“Your mission begins now. Go to McKenna’s office and pick up your schedule. Sutton will deliver your luggage to the dorm. Just remember who you are and what your objective is, and you’ll be fine.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself as well as me.

It was like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Or was it something else? After a few moments when neither of us had budged, I asked, “Why were you the one who got stuck with me?” I knew how things worked. Chauffeuring some kid to school wasn’t exactly a career-maker for anyone.

She stared out the window for so long, I thought she didn’t intend to answer. Abruptly she reached into her purse, coming up with a gold ring emblazoned with the Harrington Academy crest. She handed it to me.

“I don’t understand,” I said, turning it over to catch the light.

“It’s mine. I earned it,” she said, as if challenging me to disagree. “It was four of the most hellish years of my life, but it’s part of me now, and no one can take that away.”

I stared at her for a moment. “You graduated from Harrington?” Why was she just now telling me? There were a hundred questions I would have asked her.

“That’s why I drew this assignment. They wanted me to tell you this place is all kittens and rainbows,” she huffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “But I saw your file, and I know where you’re coming from. They may not kill you here, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to eat you.”

She must have seen my stricken face because she dialed it back a notch. “I don’t mean to scare you, but don’t trust anyone, especially McKenna. She was head of school when I was here, and she thinks she owns the place. Look, just watch over the Frasier girl, study until your eyeballs fall out, and you’ll get by. Understand?”

I thrust the ring at her, almost glad we were parting company. If she was supposed to be my handler, I sure didn’t feel handled. “That’s it? You went here for four years, and all you can tell me is if I’m lucky I won’t get my soul sucked out?”

She looked as if she already regretted being so forthright, but figured why stop now because she said, “Nothing I’ve ever done, before or since, has been as hard as getting through Harrington, but that’s not the point. What matters is who you are at the end of the day, and if you’re proud of the choices you’ve made. Just don’t drink the Kool-Aid, know what I’m sayin’?”

I took a deep breath. With a defiant glare at Karen, I opened the car door and stepped out into the light.