Con Academy

by Joe Schreiber

  “Okay.” Then I pause, as if a last-minute thought has just occurred to me. “Oh, by the way. Speaking of humiliation, it’s too bad about the Gutenberg.”

  Dr. Melville glares at me. “What?”

  “I’m just curious. When your father sold it to the school in exchange for your getting a full ride, did he know it was a fake?”

  Dr. Melville says nothing. His mouth sags open, just a little. All the color drains from his face, leaving it dead-white, and I can see the muscles twitching in his throat as he struggles to breathe.

  “You.” Dr. Melville manages to recover a little bit of his composure. “You stole that Bible.”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  “I’ll search your room. I’ll find it. I’ll have you arrested. You’ll go to jail.”

  “Considering what I know about you, Dr. Melville, I don’t think any additional publicity would be wise at this point, do you?” I wait a moment for that to sink in. “Now, I will offer you a deal.”

  “You . . .” Now he’s apoplectic, trembling, a vein pulsing in the side of his head. “You’ll make me a deal?”

  I nod. “Let me stay here at Connaughton, and I won’t tell anyone how you paid for your education.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Sorry.” I spread my hands, palms upturned in the universal gesture of someone who’s not hiding anything. “That’s my best offer. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee you’ll ever see it again.”

  Dr. Melville sizzles. He stews. He squirms in his seat, and a vein in his temple throbs like it’s about to bust loose and run a 5K. Those last words hang there for a long moment, until he reaches over, picks up the phone, and dials. “Yes, Sergeant, it’s Dr. Melville at Connaughton Academy.” Throughout the whole conversation, his eyes never leave mine. “There’s been a misunderstanding. No, we won’t be needing the officers any longer.”

  And he hangs up.

  “You’ve made the right choice,” I say.

  Dr. Melville’s hands are still trembling slightly. He looks like he’s about to come vaulting over the desk to grab me by the throat. In a small, tight voice, he says: “You’re going to regret this, Mr. Humbert. I can guarantee that.”

  “Maybe so.” I shrug. “But considering what’s at stake, you’ve got a lot more to lose than I do, don’t you think?” Just in case he’s still missing the point, I count off on my fingers. “The school’s integrity. Your personal reputation. Your job here. You really want people finding out the truth about any of this stuff?”

  He’s still just sitting there clenching his fists as I walk out of the office, down the hall, and outside into the afternoon light. Then I start to run. I’ve got so much to think about that I don’t know where to start. First, though, I’ve got to get back to my room and hide the Gutenberg somewhere more secure than inside my box spring. No doubt Dr. Melville’s probably already on the phone to security, sending them over to my room to shake it down from top to bottom, and that includes flipping my mattress.

  Sprinting across the lawn in front of the admin building, I make my way toward the tall oaks on the side of the quad. A brightly painted banner hangs between them: connaughton academy supports the island of ebeye and the marshall islands!

  The clock tower strikes ten with its resonant chimes as I cut through the crowds. There are students hurrying, late for class. I run faster, pushing between them, no longer noticing the looks that I’m getting. My dorm is up ahead, just around the corner. I can make it. I’ve got time.

  That’s when I see the security truck pulling up in front of my building. I stagger to a halt as George jumps out and goes through the door, no doubt headed right for my room. I can’t move—I’m just standing there, trying to catch my breath.

  Whatever I do now, it’s too late.

  Somewhere off to my right, a shadow emerges from behind a tree.

  And that’s when the fist comes flying out of nowhere, knocking me into darkness.

  Twenty-Eight

  “YOU WANT A COFFEE?” BRANDT RUSH ASKS.

  When I open my eyes, I’m sprawled on my back on the floor of his triple-size suite in Crowley House, and my right cheekbone is throbbing and numb where Carl hooked into it with a fist the size of a parking meter. I smell freshly brewed coffee, something dark and rich and European. Lifting my head, I look around. I’ve seen this place only when it was full-on Casino Night, and now the room looks huge and silent and weirdly anonymous, like a hotel room. The green velvet blackjack and poker tables rise up on either side of me, and Brandt just stands there, looking down at me, sipping coffee from a Las Vegas mug.

  “I’m telling you, this is good stuff.” He takes another sip. “I brew freshly ground beans every morning, get ’em flown up from Guatemala each week.” Without looking over, he snaps his fingers at Carl, who’s sitting at the blackjack table, reading a textbook. “Get him a cup of coffee.”

  Carl looks up. “I’m studying, Brandt.”

  “What, trigonometry? Why bother?” Brandt snaps his fingers again. “Coffee, now. Let’s go.”

  Carl starts to stand up.

  “I’m fine, Carl,” I say, and look back at Brandt. “What am I doing here?”

  “I heard Melville called you into his office, having done some research into your file. Andrea told me all about your ‘history’ after that fiasco at the Homecoming game on Saturday. I just wanted to make sure that Melville hasn’t figured out what’s really going on.”

  I rub my jaw. “And that required my getting punched in the face?”

  “Nothing personal. I just needed to get your attention.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I rise to my feet. “Why are you bothering to donate all this money to the orphanage, if you know I’m a fraud?”

  “It was Andrea’s idea, something about how it’s going to look on her Harvard application. Besides, if you get tossed out now, I’ll never get a chance to nail McDonald. So this way, everybody wins.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?” Brandt says, but it’s not really a question. “This Friday, we’ll do one more test run for ten thousand just to make sure there aren’t any more surprises. If that works, I’ll talk to my accountant and get the full two million.”

  I can’t think of any way to persuade him that this needs to happen sooner without blowing the whole deal. “And you’re still donating the fifty thousand to Ebeye?”

  Brandt shrugs. “Sure—why not? You gotta give back somehow, right?” He picks up a deck of cards and starts shuffling them absently, doing small tricks with his fingers while he talks. “Anyhow, fifty grand is nothing in my family—it’s like a rounding error. It’s not like I’m gonna notice either way. It’s probably enough for those poor losers to build a bunch of mud huts or whatever it is they live in down there, you know what I’m saying?” He smirks. “Not that you’d know.”

  “Where is Andrea, anyway?”

  “Funny.” Brandt looks up. “I was gonna ask you that same question. She missed our breakfast date. That’s not like her.”

  “How long has she been out of touch?”

  “A couple hours.”

  I think of my dad saying, We take the girl out of the equation, and turn to walk out. Carl is standing by the door, blocking the exit.

  “Where are you going?” Brandt asks.

  “I’ll be back in touch with you about Friday,” I say, and squeeze past Carl through the doorway. “I’ll let you know if I see Andrea.”

  “You do that,” Brandt says.

  It’s too late to go back to my room for the Gutenberg, but I’ve got something more important to take care of now.

  By the time I hit the hallway, I’m running.

  Twenty-Nine

  AN HOUR LATER, I’M STANDING OUTSIDE DAD’S ROOM AT the Motel 6 with my ear to the door. There’s a do not disturb sign hanging on the knob, and I can hear the TV blasting inside.

  I pound on the door and wait, but there’s no answer. I pound harder, the

n turn and go back up the hallway to where a housekeeping cart sits outside another room.

  “Excuse me?”

  The housekeeper looks at me warily.

  “My dad forgot to give me the key,” I say. “Could you by any chance let me in?”

  She walks back up the hall, pulls out a master key, and unlocks the room for me, stepping aside while I go in and let the door shut behind me.

  The place is a Chernobyl of bachelor living run amok. Fast food wrappers clutter the unmade bed, and Dad’s clothes, dirty and clean, are scattered across the table and onto the floor. A sock dangles from a lampshade. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table and the TV is louder than ever. I reach down to switch it off, and that’s when I hear the noises from inside the bathroom.

  I walk over and look inside, pulling aside the shower curtain.

  Andrea’s sitting there, tied to a chair inside the bathtub, her wrists and ankles wrapped in black electrician’s tape with what looks like about a half roll of it around her mouth. When she sees me, her eyes get really big and she starts to thrash around, stomping her feet on the floor and jerking her head up and down.

  “Take it easy,” I say. “I have to find something to cut through this tape.” I go back out to the main room and dig through Dad’s suitcase until I find a pocketknife tucked into an outside compartment, then bring it back into the bathroom. “Hold still, okay?” She grunts and snorts and rolls her eyes. “Sorry. This is going to hurt.” I peel the tape off her mouth. “Are you all right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Nice to see you too.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to cut me loose?”

  “Just calm down, and—”

  “After your stupid father and that floozy girlfriend of his kidnapped me and taped me to a chair?” She jerks her arms and shoulders back and forth. “Cut this off me!”

  “Okay—just try not to move.”

  “You think I have a choice? I’ve been sitting here for three hours—I’m claustrophobic, and I’m going out of my mind in this tiny space!”

  “Just hold on a second—I have to think.”

  “What is there to think about? Cut me loose!”

  I glance down. There’s a sheet of paper sticking out of her sweatshirt pocket, and I reach down and pull it out.

  The letterhead reads: ebeye children’s health clinic, republic of marshall islands. And below it:

  Dear Ms. Dufresne:

  Thank you for your great kindness in flying our family to Connaughton Academy to receive the money that you have collected for our new orphanage. My wife and I cannot begin to express our gratitude for what you have done for the orphans of our country.

  We are looking forward to seeing you soon.

  God bless you.

  Nathan Stanley, MD

  Director, Ebeye Children’s Health Clinic,

  Republic of Marshall Islands

  “Wow,” I say. “This is really convincing.” I hand back the fax. “Nice job on the letterhead—it actually looks real.”

  “That’s because it is, you idiot,” Andrea says.

  “Wait—” And now I’m just staring at her as she’s holding up the paper. “This guy is really coming here?”

  “After Brandt told me about your online poker plan,” she says, “I had to step up my game, make sure I got his money before you did. Stanley and his wife and kids are flying in tomorrow from Ebeye for a long weekend. There’s going to be reporters and TV news crews up from Boston to cover the whole event. The alumni of Connaughton are going to present him with one of those big checks with the name of the clinic on it and everything—it’s up to almost a hundred thousand now. Of course, the actual money will be going into my pocket, but hey, I don’t think I’ll be hanging around to finish the semester anyway.”

  “But I thought our bet was about who got to stay.”

  “Come off it, Humbert. People like us don’t belong here and we both know it. You’re telling me you were actually planning on sticking around if you won?”

  “Andrea . . .” Suddenly I can’t move. This whole thing has gone too far.

  “Hey, don’t look at me. You’re the one who never bothered to learn your country’s national anthem.” Her eyes narrow. “But I think Gatsby is starting to suspect something.”

  “Gatsby already knows,” I say.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The truth.” I start backing away.

  “Wait—” Andrea starts thrashing around in the chair. If she’s not careful, she’s going to fall over. “Will, what are you doing?” she shouts. “You can’t leave me here like this! Get this tape off me!”

  “I can’t right now,” I say, still backing away. “If I cut you loose, Dad will know something’s up. I’m sorry, but if you just hang in there, I think we can both get what we want.”

  “That’s impossible!” she shouts. “What I want is for you to die a slow, painful death!”

  “I’m sorry—I’ll be back, I promise. My dad is harmless.” I think, I add silently.

  “Will, you idiot!” Stepping out of the bathroom, I hear the chair legs rattling around in the tub. “I’ll kill you for this!”

  She’s still yelling at me as I duck out the motel door.

  Thirty

  BACK AT CONNAUGHTON, I MAKE MY WAY ACROSS CAMPUS and to my dorm. My room has definitely been searched and my stuff has been rummaged through—clothes, books, and papers strewn everywhere as if by some clumsy-fingered hurricane—but when I crawl underneath my bed, the Gutenberg is still there, taped up snugly inside my box spring.

  I pull it out and walk to the library, carrying it up to the circulation desk.

  “Gatsby.”

  She turns around and looks at me, her face blank, as I place the Bible on the desk in front of her. She doesn’t say anything.

  “I just came here to say I’m really sorry. I was so wrong. I never meant—” I stop myself, cutting short the urge to somehow justify or explain. “I did a really crappy thing by lying to you.”

  She still doesn’t say anything. I’ve stood in front of suspicious cops and angry gamblers and hostile caseworkers, but those were all situations that I’d eventually managed to weasel out of or avoid completely. The only way out of this one is to go through it. I take a deep breath.

  “And the worst part is, I really like you. You’re different from everybody else here.”

  “No,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I said no.” Gatsby shakes her head. “I’m not different,” she says. “If I were, I wouldn’t have been so eager to swallow your stupid, pathetic, made-up story.”

  “You trusted me,” I say. “Faith is a good trait to have.”

  “Not in losers like you, it’s not.”

  “Okay,” I say, “valid point. But I just—”

  “Stop, Will, okay? Just . . . stop.” She’s holding up both hands. “You’ve only been here a couple weeks, and it turns out now that I never really knew you at all. Honestly, I’d prefer to just leave it at that.”

  I look at her. And now I know what I have to do.

  “I need to show you something,” I tell her.

  She turns away, shaking her head. “What makes you think—”

  “Please.” I catch her eye. “I’ll be back.” I look down at my hand and see that it’s resting on the Bible. “I swear.”

  Two hours later, we’re standing by the helipad at the corner of campus while a high-pitched whine gets louder, the leaves and branches whipping around us. As a helicopter descends, there’s too much noise to speak, but that’s probably a good thing. The conversation at this point would undoubtedly be a little awkward anyway.

  “Whose helicopter is that?” Gatsby shouts.

  “It belongs to the Rush family.”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  That’s a more complicated answer. Essentially it involved my going back to Brandt and telling him that I needed to borrow his family chopper and pilot for the afternoon and evening. I made it sound like our scam depended on it and I didn’t leave him a choice, and Brandt hardly even hesitated. I’ve discovered that when dealing with the very rich, reasonable requests only make them suspicious. Ask for the moon and you’re golden.

  “Where are we going?” Gatsby shouts as she climbs inside.

  “Just get in, and—”

  “Don’t tell me to trust you.”

  I don’t say anything, just climb in behind her, and we strap the harnesses over our shoulders and laps. We’re already climbing, rising up over the trees and the statue of Lancelot Connaughton, and as the chopper tilts, I look down at the grounds from an angle that I’ve never seen before, watching it shrink below me, first the lacrosse field and the dorms, then the pond and, farther out, the Atlantic coastline, until it’s all gone beneath the orange and red blanket of New England foliage.

  “We’re heading south,” Gatsby says, gazing out the window. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  She looks at me suspiciously for a moment, huddled on her side of the seat, as far away from me as she can get. I don’t want to tell her any more because I’m afraid I’ll change my mind, even now. I promised myself I wouldn’t go back, ever. The truth is, my palms are already starting to sweat.

  An hour later, we’re crossing high above Manhattan, still heading south. When I look down again, the skyscrapers have been replaced by clusters of low buildings, warehouses and factories along the Delaware River. Heavy manufacturing. Urban enterprise zones. Neighborhoods of public housing. The world couldn’t be more different from the one we just left behind. As the helicopter skims lower and lands on top of an abandoned warehouse, I can already see the sign on the Lower Free Bridge, and I hear her reading the words out loud.

  “Trenton Makes,” Gatsby reads, “the World Takes.” She looks at me. “What are we doing here, Will?”

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