“You have thirty minutes,” announces Ms. Brown. The way the other students race to begin, you’d think she just fired a starter’s pistol.
I’m not the first to the finish line. I’m still pondering the second-to-last problem when I hear a buzzer. Ms. Brown has turned her computer monitor toward the class. Its screen lights up.
Julian 96%. I feel a stab of envy as I swivel around to check out the competition. Caleb’s little buddy is sitting directly behind me, dressed in a shiny black jacket. I bet he spent most of the morning crafting his super-cute hairdo. It’s the sort of spikey, multi-layered mullet favored by anime characters, faerie kings, and Asian pop stars.
I refuse to be beaten by a wannabe member of a Japanese boy band. Still, I’m not going to rush through the test. A second buzzer breaks my concentration, but I don’t look up. Another. I go back to the start of the exam and double-check my answers. Another buzz. Another. Less than a minute remains when I hit enter. My result is posted, and I hear an angry snort. 100%. I’ve trounced Julian’s score.
Most literature bores me. Foreign languages baffle me. But math I can do.
“Time is up. Turn in your test, Frances,” the instructor announces. The last student working clicks enter. Her grade flashes on the screen. 35%.
It’s not the worst. She beat four other kids. So there must be something I don’t know, because everyone in the class whips around to see what the girl will do. They seem to be expecting a spectacle, like bystanders watching someone who’s considering a leap from a tenth-story window. Frances doesn’t appear to notice the attention. The look on her face says she’s already jumped.
“This will be your second attempt to pass this class, Frances. I realize you don’t have a gift for mathematics, but you should know enough by now to make it through the first test. You’ll need this course to complete your major,” Ms. Brown tells her. “I suggest you work harder. I want to see significant improvement by the end of the Immunity Phase.”
“Yes, Ms. Brown.” Frances’s face is whiter than the wall behind her.
The instructor studies the other scores on the monitor. “It appears that one of the academy’s newest students has already taken the lead in this class. Where did you learn calculus, Flick?”
I shrug. I’m not about to reveal my academic history. No one here needs to know what I’ve got in my toolbox. “Math has always felt like second nature to me.”
“You’re very fortunate,” Ms. Brown says. “But it took more than luck to earn a perfect score. There’s a lesson here for you, Julian. Attention to detail is much more important than speed. If you can’t resist the urge to show off, you’ll never reach any higher than second place in my class.”
“Right as always, Ms. Brown,” Julian says with chilling good humor. “I’ll be sure to find out if Flick has anything else he can teach me.”
I don’t need to look at Julian to know he’s furious that a newbie stole his prize. I can practically hear his teeth grinding away.
• • •
The bell rings, and I gather my books. I can see Julian loitering outside the classroom. I’m preparing to give him the lesson he requested when I realize he’s not alone.
“Hi, I’m Gwendolyn.” Maybe she arrived at the academy with a terrible accent. Or a set of buckteeth and a hunchback. But it’s hard to imagine that this girl was ever anything other than physically perfect. I’ve seen the results of enough plastic surgery to know that only nature produces such beauty. Full lips, glossy blond hair that looks soft to the touch, and those brilliant blue eyes. Still, she’s a little too Disney princess for my taste. Some guys like perfection, but I’ve never been interested in playing with dolls.
She shakes my hand, and her grip is surprisingly firm.
“Flick,” I say, though I know it’s unnecessary.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” Gwendolyn says, dismissing Julian. I don’t think she catches the sneer he shoots me before he hurries away. “I hear you’re number one in the class.”
“It’s only the first day,” I point out.
“It never hurts to have a head start. What course do you have next period?”
“The Art of Persuasion.”
“Me too!” she exclaims, but I’d be willing to bet she already knew that. “Why don’t you walk with me?”
It would be easier than finding the class on my own—as long as that’s where she’s planning to lead me. “Last night, I took a walk with one of your schoolmates, and I nearly got locked out of my room.”
“Don’t take it personally. Caleb’s just jealous,” Gwendolyn assures me. “If you live up to your hype, you’ll have to get used to that sort of thing.”
“My hype? I’ve been a real student for less than twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I have a very big mouth.”
And it smiles so sweetly.
• • •
The Art of Persuasion must be a required course for all majors. The classroom is the biggest I’ve seen so far, and there are only two empty seats when we enter. As luck would have it, they’re side by side. My next-door neighbor, Lucas, is three rows behind Gwendolyn and me. I give him a nod, but he doesn’t respond.
The course is taught by yet another blandly named instructor. I can tell from one glance that Mr. Martin is a “backslapper.” A few of his kind always showed up whenever my father threw one of his parties. Jude and I liked to sit in the dark at the top of the stairs and pick them out of the crowd. They were the ones who smiled a little too broadly and laughed just a little too loudly. They answered to the nicknames they were issued at prep school and acted like overgrown boys. But each time one of them reached out to deliver a hearty slap to a fellow man’s back, you could tell he wished he had a knife in his hand.
Mr. Martin ignores the podium at the front of the room and perches on the edge of his desk instead. We’re supposed to find this endearing. He’s trying to appear approachable. I bet this guy’s watched Dead Poets Society five hundred times. But his act still needs a little more work.
“Over the course of your careers, you will each encounter individuals who’ll try to make your lives difficult. It could be an employer who refuses to promote you—or a politician who wakes up one morning and decides to have principles. You may even stumble across the occasional law-enforcement official who isn’t interested in supplementing his pitiful salary. When you meet these people, you’ll quickly discover that all the sweet talk in the world won’t alter their attitudes. If you intend to persuade them, you’ll need to start digging for information.”
Mr. Martin picks up a remote control from his desk, and a large television screen descends from the ceiling. It’s displaying a static image of a man. He has a rugged, weather-beaten face, and his shirtsleeves have been rolled past the elbow. Everything about him screams Average Joe. But he’s not.
“Let’s start with a hypothetical situation.”
The situation may be hypothetical, but the man is real. He’s a congressman from Illinois. His name is Glen Sheehan, and he’s a rising star. Last time I had access to a proper Internet connection, his speeches were all over YouTube. Sheehan’s supporters call him the “voice of the people.” I scan my classmate’s faces. I wonder if they recognize him too. It’s hard to tell.
“This man is a politician,” Mr. Martin announces. “For the sake of today’s discussion, let’s imagine that you own a business that’s about to launch a profitable new product. The politician thinks he can look like a hero by convincing the country that your product is dangerous.”
Lucas raises his hand. “Why does he believe that the product is dangerous?” he asks.
Mr. Martin frowns. “This is a hypothetical situation, Lucas. There’s no need to dwell on the details right now.”
“You just said persuasion is all about information. The reasons he’s opposed to the product seem like fairly important information to me.”
“Then let’s say that the congressman believes your product ha
s not been thoroughly tested. And he’s been informed that it may threaten the health of those who use it.”
Lucas sits back with his arms crossed. I get the sense that he’s determined to make a point. “Then we should try to address his concerns. I say we do some more tests. The results will either convince the politician that he’s wrong—or help us make changes that might satisfy our critics without making our product unprofitable.”
“Easier said than done,” the instructor responds dismissively. “Anyone else have any thoughts? What’s the best way to persuade our congressman?”
Gwendolyn lifts a hand. “He’s popular with the voters?”
“Extremely,” Mr. Martin confirms. “He’s up for reelection next year, and so far no one has stepped forward to challenge him. He thinks he’s invincible.”
“Wasn’t there another famous politician who bragged that he couldn’t lose an election unless he got caught ‘with a live boy or a dead girl’? Maybe we could arrange a little date for the congressman.” She says it so pleasantly that I almost miss her point.
The instructor laughs. “A wonderful thought, Gwendolyn, but let’s save that option for a last resort. Anyone else?” He points at me. “Flick, right?” I nod. “What do you think?”
I’m not going to pretend that I’m a factory owner or that the politician is fictional. “You should hire someone to steal Sheehan’s phone. There are a bunch of other things you could do, but that’s a good place to start. It’s fairly risk-free. People lose their phones all the time. If you plan everything right, no one will get suspicious.”
“And what would you hope to learn by stealing his phone?” Mr. Martin won’t stop playing his stupid little game.
“I’m not all that interested in Representative Sheehan from the great state of Illinois. But if you steal his phone, you should have a look at the photos first. Even old guys snap pictures of themselves in compromising positions. It’s like the Achilles’ heel of the male brain. If all the photos turn out to be puppies and flowers, then check out his emails, texts, and web-browser history. A lot of phones even store GPS tracking information that will give you a map of every place that the owner’s been. And don’t forget to scroll through the sent and received call logs. Do all of that, and you’re bound to find something you can use against Sheehan. The moment politicians start believing they’re invincible, they stop being careful.”
Mr. Martin is wearing his backslapper grin, but he’s far from amused. He needs to prove that he knows more than I ever will. “That’s why his aides will have made sure that his phone is password-protected.”
I shrug. “And that’s why the world has hackers. But a good thief could snag a phone right after the guy uses it—before password protection has a chance to kick in. I could show you how if you’d like.” I begin to rise out of my seat.
“Sit down, Flick,” he barks. Then he takes a breath and slips back into character. “We’ll be putting your impressive skills to the test later this semester.”
Second period just started, and I already have five enemies, a pretty blond stalker, and zero friends. It’s a record, even for me.
• • •
My third class, International Politics, deserves a much snappier title. If I were in charge of writing the Mandel Academy course catalog, I’d call it Making a Killing: The Profitable Business of Bloodshed. I learned more about war in the past hour than I did during my entire stint at military school. Apparently it’s not just about fighting bad guys anymore. You can peddle machine guns to Afghani warlords (as long as you don’t mind being paid in opium). Or you can start a black market in a refugee camp and sell antibiotics at ten times what they’d charge at your neighborhood Walgreens. Hell, you can even form your own private army these days. Does some poverty-stricken country have something you want (bananas, water, diamonds, cheap labor)? Don’t bother bargaining with the local honchos—just hire a bunch of mercenaries to go in and get it! If you don’t, someone else certainly will. Poor people’s lives are going to suck no matter what you do. You can’t fight fate. But if you hold your nose and step over the corpses, you can make your own life a whole lot richer.
I’m hoping a strong cup of coffee will wash away the taste of death in my mouth, so I ride an elevator to the sixth-floor cafeteria. The state-of-the-art dining facility is bright and white. One wall is dominated by a giant black screen. The other walls are bare. The long steel tables with attached stools are exactly what you’d expect to find in a high school lunchroom. But someone bought far too many. There are at least six seats for every student, which actually seems to suit most of my schoolmates. Almost all are eating alone. Only two tables in the far corner are filled. Gwendolyn is sitting at one, wedged between Caleb and the angry, adorable little creature named Leila. Gwendolyn doesn’t notice when I enter, but Leila does. I have a feeling the girl doesn’t really like anyone—but she seems to hate me most of all.
I grab a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I’m searching for a place to eat when I spot Aubrey sitting on her own with an untouched salad in front of her. I’d given up all hope of having a private chat in this place. But Aubrey is close enough to the two chattering tables that our conversation will probably be drowned out by the noise. When I slide onto a stool across from her, she doesn’t even blink.
“Hello,” I say, and her head jerks up.
“You can’t sit here,” she growls.
Her hostility catches me off guard. And yet I’m still hell-bent on helping her. “I’ll move,” I say softly. “But you have to promise to go to Pitt Street if you ever get expelled from this place. It’s a short walk from here. Find a girl named Joi. She’ll know what to do.”
An emotion flickers across Aubrey’s face. It vanishes before I can read it. “I’m not leaving the academy,” she insists. “Now go away.”
I pick up my tray and hunt for another spot. Gwendolyn waves me over to her table. Her friends are all smiles now. I see they’ve added a new member to their crowd. With his bruises still purple and fresh, he stands out like an eggplant in a rose bed. Ivan.
“So Aubrey’s a friend of yours?” Caleb asks bluntly. He must have bet against her after the Beauty Pageant. I doubt he’d know her name otherwise.
“Mind your own business, Caleb,” Gwendolyn says, but I have a hunch that the question needs to be answered.
“I thought Aubrey was comatose. I wasn’t expecting a chat.”
“Well, you should eat with us from now on,” Gwendolyn insists. “Caleb—move over and let Flick sit down.”
Caleb may be the only person I’ve ever met who can look bored and furious simultaneously.
“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “I’m not here to make friends.”
• • •
The coffee and sandwich were barely enough to keep me alive and alert through Wealth Management (money-laundering, tax loopholes, offshore accounts, and insider trading) and Human Psychology (which appears to be a remedial course that draws from the works of Ayn Rand and reruns of Wild Kingdom). Fortunately, I was blessed with a second wind or I might not have survived my final class of the day, Hand-to-Hand Combat.
Gwendolyn and I share this course as well. She rocks a pair of shorts better than any girl I’ve ever seen. And I’m in awe of her right hook. Her sparring partner is twice her width and wearing protective headgear, but she’s on the verge of taking him down when the instructor blows his whistle. There was a time when a girl with skills like Gwendolyn’s would have driven me wild. And she’s been making it pretty obvious that she’s interested. Just now, she’s pulled up her shirt to wipe her brow, and I can see a little bead of sweat trickling toward the cleavage rising out of her sports bra. I know the show is meant for me, but I pretend not to notice. When the bell rings, I make a beeline for the exit.
“Hey, Flick!”
She’s not going to let me escape. She must know she looks great like this. Hair coming loose from her ponytail. Forehead damp, cheeks rosy. Wearing formfitting gym clothes instea
d of prim designer dresses. She’s less Cinderella now—more Lara Croft.
“Where did you learn how to fight like that?” She’s stuck to my side.
“Military school.”
“Do you think you could teach me a few moves?”
She’s bolder than she looks. “I think you’re doing pretty well on your own.”
“You know this no-friends policy of yours . . . maybe you should consider making an exception.” Her voice is sugary enough to draw a whole swarm of flies.
“Why would I want to do that?” I ask.
We reach the elevators. There’s a crowd of students waiting for the next car to arrive. When it does, they all step aside to let Gwendolyn and me board alone. The gates close, and I press the button for the eighth floor. Gwendolyn keeps her attention focused on me.
“That’s why. Being friends with me has certain advantages.” The way she’s looking at me right now, I know she doesn’t mean cutting elevator lines.
“You’re the top student. The Dux. And the last time I checked, Gwendolyn, you were also my competition.”
Her smile is angelic, yet her tone is anything but. “Which is all the more reason you should get to know me a bit better.”
I do like a girl who can get straight to the point. “Isn’t there some kind of rule about sleeping with your schoolmates?”
“The rules only apply to the less gifted students. Those of us at the top can do whatever we like. In fact, it’s encouraged. It gives the others something to strive for.”
Finally, a way out. “This was my first day. I’m nowhere near the top yet.”
How to Lead a Life of Crime Page 12
