Writersoul didn’t have her dentist appointment for another half hour, so she decided to go log on for a bit to theyeshivaworld. She clicked on the serial story thread, waiting to see where the story had gone in her absence.
What she saw there made the very marrow freeze in her bones.
They were on to her!
Up til now, NOBODY had figured it out. Nobody. She’d been undercover for years and nobody had figured it out til now.
Okay, so they didn’t have the real picture. The Mafia had made her some offers, but she’d turned them down after a while. (And apparently that same poster thought she was a guy, so yeah.) And okay, so shed been with the Blob for a bit, but not for THAT long- it was just a stupid pre-teenage phase. Of course, it had left her with some very INTERESTING abilities, but still, the Blob had been ANNOYING. When everyone around you looks like jelly, you almost wish you were back in school where you belong.
ALMOST.
But now, writersoul had a new job and a new mission- with the NSA. Really, it had been Reuven’s idea. It was funny how stuff like that worked. He’d gone to yeshiva with writersoul’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s nephew and talked all about his sister’s cool undercover job, and, quite naturally and not yentaishly AT ALL, the news had traveled to writersoul, who heard this and wondered, is this my opportunity to truly transcend the eighth grade without resorting to either a life of crime or a life among Jell-O?
Two weeks later, as the rest of her class was on their senior trip, watching a movie about the Capitol building, writersoul had been secretly picked up and taken to NSA HQ, where she received her first job in their new genetics laboratory. And it had only escalated from there.
High school was cool. She always pretended she had fewer chesed hours than she did- didn’t want to freak ’em all out- and if she did read those Rashis a little bit too quickly, the teachers were always quicker to shep nachas than to wonder about it. But she always stayed focused on her real job- to figure out the genetics of the shidduch crisis.
(I bet you didn’t know that there WAS a genetic component to the shidduch crisis. But there is. And I’m not telling you what it is. Hush-hush.)
It was in the summer before twelfth grade that writersoul first encountered Rivky. It wasn’t face to face- it was simply writersoul trying to get Rivky off of her idea that high school seniors should get into shidduchim. She reasoned, she pleaded, she moaned, she begged. She even sent footage of her school’s seniors at lunch hour, and if that wouldn’t convince her NOTHING would.
But Rivky wouldn’t budge.
So writersoul, feeling defeated, went onto theyeshivaworld and became even more depressed, realizing that her cover wasn’t nearly as airtight as she and her handlers had thought it was- in fact, let’s face it, it was practically Swiss cheese.
But there was nothing she could do about it- she had her dentist appointment in ten minutes.
Shame the Blob hadn’t given her any anti-cavity powers.