The Con Code

by Shana Silver

  “We’re actually in need of another piccolo player for our band next year. Our last players are graduating in two months.”

  “How lucky is that?” He forces a chuckle, and I think he somehow already knew this information. Perhaps recon on me isn’t the only research he did before day one at Amberley. “Do you think if I practice a bunch this summer, I’d be good enough to make the band in the fall?” He sounds so hopeful, so devoted. She buys every damn word of it.

  Mrs. Caldwell nods. “If you start right away, you have a real chance.”

  His eyes quickly flick to me in the doorway, and I use the opportunity to thrust my middle finger high in the air at him. Anything to try to trip him up.

  “Would it be possible to change my schedule to add music class to my electives? I want to start today.” He covers his mouth to hide a giddy smile, as though this is a secret, and it’s one he can’t wait to reveal.

  “The office will need to make that change with my approval.” Her eyes fly to the clock, checking that she has exactly ten more minutes before the warning bell rings. “If you wait right here, I can talk to them quickly to see if I can get you into my second period.”

  “Oh my gosh! That’s so amazing of you! I really, really appreciate it.” He circles around to a desk in the front row, taking a long route, but one that forces her to brush past him on her way out the door. As she does so, he quickly plucks her keys from her belt with a sleight of hand so smooth, Vegas magicians would be envious.

  My breath rattles out of my throat. I’d been hoping he was bluffing. That this was all a ruse to get a rise out of me. But he’s so damn charming, so good at the kind of cons I’ve never excelled at: the ones that require you to talk people into doing your bidding rather than doing it yourself behind their backs.

  Though judging from the volume of his voice in the hallway and his too-public antics, he may have a thing or two to learn in the stealth department.

  Mrs. Caldwell hustles out the door and toward the office, and a few students squint in confusion when she doesn’t bother to scold them for minor dress code violations. As soon as she’s gone, Colin flies into action, twisting the key into the desk drawer and plucking a yellow permission slip from the top of the pile. He locks the drawer and then slides her keys into her purse. Before he exits the room, he scrawls a quick note on her desk.

  He steps outside and presents Olivia the permission slip with a flourish and, damn it, he looks incredibly sexy doing it. She squeals in delight as she hands him the fifty bucks.

  “Guess I’ll be upgrading to the new iPhone sooner than I thought.” He shoots me a wink and starts to brush past me.

  “Wait!” I yell, then immediately clamp my mouth shut when several people whip their heads toward us. Damn him for making me forget to be quiet. I lower my voice. “What did your note say?”

  He leans toward me. So close I can smell his amazing musky cologne. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” he says in a volume so low that I have to drift even closer to hear him better.

  “I’ll just go into the room and read it myself after you leave.”

  He purses his lips together as if considering this. “It was an apology.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’ve regretfully changed my mind about the piccolo.” The expression on his face morphs into one of sadness, as though he truly feels terrible about what just happened.

  “Oh.” I blink, trying to make sense of this. For a minute there, I thought there was a small chance he actually wanted to play and had just been using the fifty bucks as bonus incentive. But of course, it was all part of the con. Of course.

  “Anyway.” He backs up a step. “Hope I see you around, though I’m sure you’re hoping for the opposite.”

  He brushes past me, and when I straighten up, I realize I was leaning toward him, falling right into his trap.

  I stumble back to my locker and bury my head in my hands. “Crap. This is bad, Nat. He’s bad news, but of a totally different kind than we thought.”

  She aims a death stare down the hallway at his retreating back. “I’ll say. I’ve never seen you so thrown off your game.”

  I thought I needed to watch out for him catching me stealing … not that he’d be stealing clients from me.

  CHAPTER 3

  A few days later, I race into school just as first period lets out, covering my mouth to catch a yawn. I was up way too late last night working on one of the forgeries and overslept. Thankfully my dad didn’t hesitate about calling me in tardy. School always comes second to criminal activities.

  I stop short as soon as I round the corner into the wing that contains my locker. The hallways of Amberley Academy are usually kept sleek and pristine, but today posters containing the smiling face of Colin O’Keefe and his stupidly chiseled cheekbones worthy of Renaissance sculpture follow me down the school hallway. He hasn’t even been here for a full week, and already it seems like my hold is slipping, my world tumbling. I swear his smoldering brown eyes watch me as I weave through the crowd. Each poster contains a simple phrase written in bold block text: I WILL GO AN EXTRA MILE TO MAKE YOU SMILE. Combined with the cocky smirk, it looks more like a pickup line than a campaign slogan. In smaller letters, so tiny I have to step up close to one of the posters to read, it says VOTE FOR COLIN O’KEEFE FOR STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT.

  I can’t catch a break.

  I hustle my pace to outrun his glorious smile as it follows me to the end of the hallway, but I freeze a few feet away from my locker.

  His assigned locker’s nowhere near here, and yet he’s standing right beside mine, holding court among a crowd of students surrounding him in a semicircle as though he’s telling ghost stories at a campfire. Football players, cheerleaders, burnouts, and even middle-of-the-road gals like Jessica Sanchez unite as one to listen to him.

  I march up to him and cross my arms. “Move.”

  He scoots over an infinitesimal amount, and the crowd follows suit to clear the area in front of my locker. Jessica uses the opportunity to take a step closer to him so that she’s no longer part of the audience, she’s beside him. He turns back to his fans. “This one time, I posed as a valet car parker at a swanky restaurant. Got some idiot to give me the keys to his Ferrari.”

  I shoot him a death glare and catch him staring at me. Is he seriously bragging about a con in the middle of a hallway with an audience of gossip-happy teens? Someone needs to give him a firm lesson in Criminal 101: You fly under the radar, not show off.

  But of course, he’s not bragging to Jessica or the crowd of lapdogs.

  He’s bragging to me.

  “Wow.” Jessica is breathless. Her red lips part, and she glances up at him like he’s a celebrity she follows on Instagram, beside her in the flesh. “Did you drive it?”

  “Took it out for a spin and”—Colin whistles through his teeth—“it was sweet. Had it back in the parking lot before the guy even finished his entrée.”

  “That’s so cool,” she says, and Vance Whitford nods in awe.

  Vance Whitford, resident burnout, owes me twelve different favors thanks to all the parental signatures I’ve forged for him, but he doesn’t seem to be doing me any favors right now.

  I slam my locker so hard, I startle all of them.

  Colin swivels his head to grin at me. “It’s so exhilarating to get away with something, isn’t it?”

  His words sing in my heart. He’s speaking my language.

  I hate him for it. “Fuck you.”

  “Fiona!” Mrs. Caldwell snaps as she passes by me on her way toward her room. Of course she hears that and not his dumb humble brags. “That’s two days’ detention!”

  I resist the urge to scream while Colin and his cronies sing out the requisite “OoooOOOOoooh” song when someone gets in trouble.

  I storm into the bathroom, my hands curled in fists, whispers of all the girls wondering if he’s single or not echoing in my head. My breaths come fast and hard, whipping through my chest with the force of a tsunami. I haven
’t been this rattled in a long time. Not since my mom fled.

  Hiccups and sniffles resonate from one of the bathroom stalls. There’s a quick flush of the toilet, a clear attempt at covering the sound of a sob.

  “Hey, you okay in there?” I knock on the stall.

  “Yeah,” a meek voice sounds back. “No.” The door opens, and Amelia Thomas steps out, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. They’re foggy from her heavy breathing. She shudders again, and my heart tumbles. Until this morning, she was the front-runner for the student council election, running on a platform of delegating money to arts and sports. It was a platform everyone cared about, but my guess is they’ll soon care more about certain perfectly coifed bangs.

  “He’s not going to win,” I assure her. “No one’s stupid enough to vote for him.”

  She hiccups and clutches her books closer to her chest. “Ye-yes. They are. People have been telling me to my face they’re no longer voting for me. Even my sister!” She lets out a sob. “I need this on my résumé so badly. It’s my only shot at getting into Harv—” Her eyes light up. “Wait.” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  I straighten, my body on high alert. “What?” I half expect her to tell me she’s just realized her sister’s right, that Amelia herself is going to vote for Colin, too.

  She grabs me by the arm, squeezing tight. “You can help! You can rig this!”

  I wobble. My first instinct is to say no. I don’t accept cons that will hurt another student, either physically or emotionally. But it would be so easy, forging paper ballots for three hundred of my (least) favorite classmates. I’ve written all their names so many times, I can mimic their handwriting in my sleep. Then it’s just a matter of switching them out.

  Besides, Colin winning would hurt everyone. I don’t know how, but I know his motives are the ulterior kind.

  “But oh.” Amelia bites her lip. “I don’t have any money on me. I can bring it tomorrow, I promise.”

  I grin at her. “Don’t worry. This one’s on the house.”

  * * *

  I intended to go straight home and keep working on the remaining three forgeries for the heists, but instead Natalie and I march into the computer lab as soon as the final bell rings. Well, I march; Natalie flutters while simultaneously attempting to fix her turquoise wig and smooth down her uniform. She pops open the top button on her shirt, revealing just a little bit more cleavage than Mrs. Caldwell would like.

  A girl wearing oversize headphones, a fedora, and a fierce glare taps rapidly on the keys at one of the farthest desks. Tig Ramirez.

  She’s also a junior and sometimes helps us out with any cons at school that require the use of electronics … or lack thereof. Such as when we require a convenient blackout to shutter the security cams. I personally don’t think we need an electronics whiz to screw over my new best enemy, but Natalie insisted.

  “Hey, Tig,” I say.

  Natalie bats her eyelashes and ducks her head to hide her giggle. The corners of Tig’s lips quirk in the hint of a smile, but that’s as much of a greeting as we’ll get from her. She’s the strong-and-silent type.

  I wait a second for Natalie to kick off this convo, but she’s too busy trying not to make moon eyes at Tig. I clear my throat, and Natalie quickly shoots another smile in Tig’s direction before ducking her head again.

  I sigh and launch into it myself. “Need your help on a gig.”

  Tig leans back, studying us with her pursed lips, painted a distracting shade of violet. Another thing Mrs. Caldwell would freak over during school hours.

  “During Colin O’Keefe’s election speech at Thursday’s assembly, it would be awesome if there were a few”—I cough for emphasis—“audio problems.”

  She holds out her palm, and I place two twenties into it. Money well spent.

  Tig turns back to her computer, not giving us another second of her time. Natalie’s face deflates. After we exit, I nudge her in the ribs. “Girl, you’re really good at disguises, but really bad at flirting. Next time, I suggest actually speaking.”

  She rolls her fake-green eyes. “Like you’re any better. You practically melt whenever you’re in Colin’s presence.”

  I scoff. “I don’t melt! I fume!”

  I stomp out the door and to my car.

  At home, I set up my printer to spit out three hundred ballots and get back to work on the forgeries while they print. Last week Colin showed me his skills.

  Now it’s my chance to screw him over with mine.

  * * *

  In the auditorium the day of the student council election speeches, the crowd erupts in applause while Colin struts toward the podium. I snicker at the awkward way he readjusts the mic to his height after the squat girl before him had nearly brought it down to the level it belonged: his crotch. He waits a full ten seconds after the crowd’s applause dies down before he graces us with his speech (probably plagiarized).

  He sets his brown eyes on me, dark hair flopping into his face. Giant posters with his smiling face hang behind him, although these are unfortunately missing the devil horns that adorn the ones in the hallway (thanks to me). I fight back a groan at how effing gorgeous he looks up there onstage.

  “Homework,” he says. “I hate it. We all hate it. Am I right?”

  Teachers shift uncomfortably, but the students erupt in claps.

  “New research indicates that homework may be doing more harm than good. Too much of it can result in physical and emotional fatigue. This is a health risk, folks.” His words might be dry, but his delivery is infectious. He leans in and enunciates each syllable as if our lives depend on it, punctuating it all with a glorious smile. “And so, I propose we do away with homework entirely and take back our afternoons!” He slams his hand against the podium gavel-style.

  Whistles and whoops flood the air. Olivia Rossdale and Vance Whitford are the loudest. Olivia’s boyfriend slumps in the chair and looks like he wants to punch Colin.

  I notice Colin’s “research” doesn’t include any sources, just wild claims delivered with gusto. I also notice he doesn’t make any actual promises. If he’s elected, homework is going nowhere. I wish Natalie were here to witness this absurdity, but she’s currently huddled in a bathroom stall, transforming herself into someone else.

  “Even more important, the ban on students leaving campus for lunch is restrictive and unfair.” He paces the stage like a rock singer riling up an audience. “If I’m elected, I’ll try to convince the staff that we should be allowed to jet off to In-N-Out for a Double-Double on our lunch break.”

  More cheers erupt, and the claps increase. Vance Whitford leaps to his feet in an attempt to start a standing ovation. I aim a phallic gesture at Colin that earns me a sharp glare from Ms. Jensen. Every day for the last three years this lady has doled out my homework with equal parts algebra and disdain, and today’s no different.

  Right as he’s about to blab about more ridiculous school requirements he wants to stop, the audio screeches, a high-pitched wail bleating from the speakers. Everyone rushes to cover their ears at the nails-on-chalkboard sound. Colin stands there, palms flat on the podium, elbows bent, sleeves pushed up, staring me down. He waits patiently as the audio rises to a crescendo of uncomfortable screeches. He remains cool, calm, and collected, and my own screech wells deep in my chest that this didn’t manage to faze him. I clutch my necklace in a tight fist.

  When the audio problems cease—likely because someone came to check it out and Tig had to flee—Colin continues blabbing about more issues, all ones that seem to benefit him: new uniforms for the teams, bigger budgets to hire bands instead of DJs at dances, a school-sanctioned mental health day that’s just an excuse for students to play hooky. The clapping increases in volume and fervor.

  Colin’s dimples indent his cheeks from his ginormous smile. “And last but certainly not least…” The students quiet down, waiting for what would surely be the most exciting declaration yet. “I also propo
se Pizza Thursdays.” He checks his fancy, expensive smartwatch. “Oh look, it’s Thursday.”

  On cue, the back doors burst open, and several pizza deliverymen march down the aisles, balancing white boxes piled higher than their heads. One by one they deposit a box of pizza at the end of each row. The scents of gooey cheese and spicy tomato sauce drift to my nose, drowning out the overwhelming peony of Jessica Sanchez’s signature perfume. My stomach gurgles, and I grit my teeth against my own betrayal. Beside me, Jessica grabs the box from the boy next to her and lifts a steaming slice, hearts in her eyes.

  Join the club, girl.

  My jaw clenches. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was dead wrong. They should have replaced man’s with voting constituent’s.

  Jessica sets the warm box on my thighs, and it takes all my willpower not to indulge. Biting my cheek, I pass the box to the kid next to me, who’s practically slurping at the sight of it. I focus only on Colin and not the students chomping on garlicky goodness around me.

  He marches off the stage, and Amelia Thomas timidly takes her place behind the mic. She looks green, knowing if the voting today were actually counted, she’d lose. And lose big.

  After the assembly, everyone drops their ballots into Mrs. Caldwell’s wooden box located next to the doors. Sauce and grease drip onto their recently dry-cleaned uniforms. Mrs. Caldwell nods to each student as they drop in their ballots, guarding the box with her life. For an amateur con artist, this would be a deal breaker. But not for me.

  Because, thankfully, I have an advantage that Colin doesn’t have for his cons: I have Natalie.