The Con Code

by Shana Silver

  “So listen. I had an idea.”

  “Was it to transfer schools?” I bat my eyelashes in hope.

  He rolls his eyes. “Admit it. You’d miss me too much.”

  My phone vibrates, and when I glance at my smartwatch, a text from Jessica Sanchez appears.

  Jessica: Sorry, Fiona, but I need to cancel later.

  I stop dead. Jessica Sanchez is one of my best customers, but I can’t help but think back to what Colin said a few minutes ago. It’s mine now. Along with another one of your clients.

  That’s the third thing this week he beat me at. In debate class, he took me down with an eloquent speech about why the driving age should be raised that even had our licensed classmates cheering. In biology, he finished dissecting his frog 2.7 seconds faster than me. At least in gym he trailed behind me in number of pull-ups and get-out-of-class excuses.

  I don’t even care about my grades, I only care about getting better grades than him. But that’s probably impossible, considering the way he has the teachers eating out of his hands. They’re already clamoring over him because of his goody-two-shoes bullshit and how he twists his uniform tie into fancy European knots. He even started a trend of looking prim and proper. I prefer to give a big ol’ eff you to the administration by testing the limits of what they deem appropriate for the dress code. Red lipstick? (Check.) Safety pins added to lining of plaid skirt? (Check.) Ironing a drawing of my teacher’s face in effigy on the back of my blazer? (Detention.)

  “Oh good,” Colin says, reading over my shoulder. “You got Jessica’s text. That makes this easier.”

  Mr. Linker shuffles by us and nods hello.

  “We could keep doing this,” Colin says without dropping the volume of his voice. “Stealing from each other. Or we could—”

  I balance my tray in one hand and clamp my other palm over his mouth. “Shut up. We’re in the middle of the cafeteria. Are you trying to get us caught?”

  He shrugs and pries my fingers off him. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone already knows.”

  “Our classmates, yes. Our teachers, no.” I let out a huff. “If you want to talk to me about this, you have to find a way to be discreet.”

  I storm off, my knuckles turning white as I carry my tray toward Natalie’s table. For someone supposedly acing his classes, he sure sucks at being smart.

  “What did Colin want?” Natalie asks when I slide my legs onto the lunch table bench. Today her lips are plumped to Hollywood collagen standards using contouring techniques, not prosthetics, giving her a stung-bee appearance. She’s chosen blue contacts and a long blond wig that grazes her waist, making us look like twins. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

  “To remind me how much he sucks.”

  She snickers, and when Colin doesn’t try to ambush me in an empty hallway by the end of the day, I consider him defeated. But a few hours later I’m sitting at the dining room table with Dad, going over the plans for the last three heists while I sew the newly acquired book pages into the distressed cover I made out of a mix of clay and fabric, when the doorbell rings.

  We bolt upright and look at each other. Dad slides the notes we’ve made and the book forgery off the table and flies down to the basement to hide them with the rest of Mom’s stuff in a locked cabinet. I head to the door.

  It’s probably just a delivery man, but when I swing open the door, Colin’s brilliant smile greets me. “This discreet enough?”

  I slam the door in his face.

  The doorbell rings again, but I make no move to answer it. When Dad comes up from the basement, he squints at me. “Who is it?”

  “The school douchebag,” I say, even though Colin can’t hear me make fun of him, then add, “Our friendly neighborhood FBI agent’s smarmy son.”

  Dad scratches his chin. “Well then. Let him in. Everything’s hidden now, and I’m curious what he wants.”

  “I’m sure whatever he’s here for, it’s bad news.”

  “If Ian O’Keefe sent him over here to snoop, then I want to make sure he leaves without anything to report back.”

  I groan. “Can’t we pretend we’re not home? I mean, I realize I just opened the door and he saw me, but we’ve dealt with worse ruses before.”

  Dad gives me a look, and I sigh. He shuffles back to the living room.

  I crack open the door again, and Colin shakes his head at me while wearing an amused expression.

  I cross my arms. “Take off your shirt.”

  Colin tilts his head at me. “Whoa, okay. I mean, my abs aren’t that great, but if you really want to see them…” His fingers grip the bottom of his cool anime T-shirt. Gah, why can’t he be wearing something awful, like a shirt with a cheesy saying? FBI: Female Body Inspector.

  I roll my eyes. “Calm down. I’m making sure you’re not wearing a wire or anything. And leave your phone out here so you can’t record any convos.”

  He mock scoffs and places a hand over his heart. “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I step forward to intimidate him, but he doesn’t back down.

  He lifts his shirt quickly to give me a brief view of his bare chest, and I have to force myself not to stare. During my momentary distraction, he sets his phone on the porch swing and then brushes right past me into the house. His shirt falls back down, and he breezes right up to Dad with his hand outstretched. “Mr. Spangler, it’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Really?” Dad looks suspicious. “From Fiona or from your father?”

  “Fiona of course. She told me you two have a fantastic relationship and she loves you very much.”

  Dad beams, but I have to break up the party here. “I never said that.”

  Colin flicks his wrist dismissively. “She’s just embarrassed. She went on and on about how much she adores you today at lunch.”

  I start to interject again and remind him that the only thing we discussed at lunch was his ineptitude at all things covert, but when I see Dad’s smile growing larger, I can’t help it—I concede. Damn, Colin’s good.

  “Anyway, we’ll be in Fiona’s room.” Colin leans toward Dad. “Don’t worry—we’ll leave the door open, and you can check on us every few minutes if you’d like.”

  My feet stay planted. “We’re not going in my room.”

  Colin lifts a brow. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  “No—it’s—” I open and close my mouth but can’t seem to find the right words, if they even exist. “Let’s stay down here. Where there’s a chaperone.” I gesture my hand toward Dad and try to give him my best put an end to this right now glare, but he retaliates with a firm find out what he wants nod of the head. I imagine normal parents probably don’t encourage their teen daughters to spend time alone in their rooms with rebellious heartbreaker boys, but normal parents also don’t prioritize recon over everything else.

  I groan. “Give me one second to … clean up all the dirty underwear from my floor.” Or more accurately, hide any evidence about my mother from that room, too.

  I race upstairs and take a quick sweep of my room. The guitar’s already hidden in my closet and looks normal enough in the case, but the stack of postcards my mom sent me rests in my drawer. There’s also a notebook lying on top of my bed. It’s mostly filled with schoolwork, but I did write out my mom’s clue answers on one of the pages, because I’m a visual person and I like to stare at them every night to try to decipher them. I shouldn’t leave any evidence in this room at all.

  Pulse amping, I grab the notebook and postcards and run into the guest room next door. I shove the notebook under the guest bed mattress and the postcards on top of the closet, under a spare pillow. I let out a relieved breath. Coast’s clear. He has no reason to go in here.

  I smooth down my shirt and, okay, my hair, and then head back downstairs to beckon Colin. He swaggers toward me, shaking his hair out of his eyes in the same move shampoo models use in commercials. I have to fo
rce myself to look away from this, too.

  We take the stairs side by side, neither of us speaking, and something in my stomach starts twisting. I tentatively point toward my bedroom door, and he stops in the center and pivots on his heels to take in the three-sixty-degree view. Suddenly I wish I’d thought to yank my old childhood porcelain dolls—the ones Mom gave me—off my shelf and hide those, too. Colin nods approvingly at my Ocean’s 8 poster and the floor-to-ceiling mural landscape scene I painted on one wall, but squints questioningly at my frilly purple bedding and sequined throw pillows.

  “The pillows were a gift from Natalie,” I mumble.

  “She has good taste.” He plops down on the bed. “So do you.” He grabs a Funko figurine of Frida Kahlo from the shelf above my bed and turns it over in his hands. His eyes flick to the mural on my wall. “You’re a really amazing artist.”

  My cheeks ignite. When I hoist myself onto the bed, the mattress wobbles, and Colin shifts closer to me.

  “Hey,” he whispers in a velvety voice.

  I bolt to my feet and wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt. Colin lifts his brow in question. Oh God, I can’t do this. I can’t act normal around him.

  I need help from the one person who would know what to do. Natalie.

  “Can you give me a sec? I’ll be right back.” I swipe my phone from my nightstand and squeeze it tight in my palms.

  Colin nods and grabs another figurine from the shelf to study.

  I head (more like flee) to the doorway. Because the guest room is right next door and I don’t want him to eavesdrop on my conversation, I hole up on the third floor in my dad’s room. My throat tightens, and I correct myself in my head. My parents’ room.

  I stab in Natalie’s number with shaking fingers.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Hey, lady. What’s up?”

  “Colin’s in my room,” I whisper. Even just saying his name makes my pulse spike.

  “Bow chica wow wow.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not next to me, because you deserve a jab in the ribs for that.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Please. I need help here.”

  “Are you asking me for help because you don’t know what he wants and think he’s out to get you … or are you asking me for boy help?”

  My heart beats faster when she says that last part.

  “Because if it’s the latter, I should remind you I’m way better at girl help than boy help.” She tacks on a laugh.

  “It’s the former!” I say too fast, my voice too high-pitched. “I swear.”

  Natalie keeps laughing. “Sure it is. But either way, my advice here is the same. Just be yourself.”

  “So steal from him, then? Because being myself means being a thief.”

  Natalie clucks her tongue. “Talk to him. Flirt with him. Find out what he wants.”

  “I prefer to find out that sort of information via surveillance and spying.”

  “And you wonder why you’re single!”

  I scoff. “I don’t like him like that.”

  There’s a momentary pause before she whispers, “Then why did you call me?”

  I slam my finger down on the end call button. It takes me several seconds of deep breathing to calm myself enough to head back, not feeling any better about the situation. But I stop short when I get to my room.

  Colin’s not there.

  In a panic, I fly to the guest room, clutching my mom’s necklace for comfort, but he’s not in there, either. I fling myself at the mattress and lift it. The notebook remains under it. The postcards are still in the closet. I let out a breath.

  There’s a flush from the bathroom, and then the sink turns on. I wipe sweat from my forehead and coax myself to get it together.

  In my room, I flop onto my bed right before Colin returns. He settles in the spot beside me and shoots me a giant smile.

  It makes a smile wobble onto my face, too. Damn it!

  Talk to him. But what do I even say? My fingers itch to dial Natalie again and ask, but I know I have to strap on my big-girl panties and have a conversation with the one guy who can sweet-talk anyone.

  Flirt with him. I think back to how he waltzed in here and complimented my dad, then did the same thing to me in my room. So I start there. “You’re really good at charming people,” I say, and I can see the tips of his ears turn pink. “But seriously. Are you trying to get caught?” Okay maybe that flirtation attempt took a wrong turn.

  He lifts a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad’s an FBI agent. You’re practically shouting through the hallways that you’re a criminal. What if he catches you?” I know I’ve asked this before, but that was in the cafeteria when he was talking loud enough to show off. Maybe alone, he’ll give it to me straight.

  Colin swallows hard and scoots away a few inches. “Then maybe he’ll finally notice me.”

  He says it low. So low I’m not sure if he intended me to hear it. But I think it’s exactly what I needed to hear. He has a reason to do this, and that reason has nothing to do with me.

  Our eyes meet. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and my skin tingles. But then he breaks the moment by stretching his legs and rubbing his palms over his thighs. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that.”

  Whatever emotion he’d let escape in his confession vanishes. His voice comes out cool and calm. Collected.

  “Listen, I know we’ve got a game going here. I stole Olivia. You screwed me over in the election. I stole Jessica … which makes the next move yours.”

  I purse my lips, considering. “Okay, so you came to tell me you know you have to watch your back?” Also, probably not an appropriate flirtation attempt.

  “I could keep doing this. Turning every one of your clients over to my side, and then you try to retaliate…”

  “Please. I’m not trying to retaliate. I’m succeeding very well in retaliation. Plus, you only stole two of my clients. That’s hardly a majority.”

  “Fiona.” His brief gaze burns right through me. “Let’s end this once and for all.”

  I push a tangled blond strand out of my face, my chest stilling. I’m on edge, not sure where he’s going to take this. Not sure where I want him to take it. Suggest we ignore each other from now on? Suggest we work together?

  “How ’bout a challenge?” He raises his brow. “A competition to prove which one of us is the better con artist and thief. Winner gets all the student clients from now on. The other backs off empty-handed.”

  I flinch, and something inside me deflates. He’s not here to become friends. He’s here to become enemies.

  I scoot a few inches away from him on the bed. My body becomes all hard angles instead of soft, relaxed limbs. “What are we stealing?” I snap, the bitterness evident in my voice.

  “I have some ideas, but—”

  No. I’m not letting him control this. If he’s suggesting a challenge, then I’ll challenge every damn thing he says. “If we’re doing this, it has to be difficult. Dangerous even. It’s got to be something we can’t access easily.” Rule #6: A good con artist knows how to get people to do what they want by planting the idea in their heads.

  Colin snaps his fingers. “The principal’s office. He’s always in there, and whenever he’s not, one of the secretaries sits guard right outside the door. It’s on the second floor, so it’s impossible to get into from the outside.”

  Unless you’re me, of course.

  “His framed PhD diploma?” I wrinkle my nose the minute the suggestion comes out of my mouth. I need something small enough to fit in my pocket if I’m thinking in terms of exit strategies.

  Colin must be on the same page as me, because he casually throws out, “A USB drive.”

  It isn’t something I could forge, but it’s still small. “A USB drive containing what?”

  He doesn’t even hesitate. “This semester’s grades.”

  I narrow my eyes. This was the exact con Jessica wanted to hire me for but paid Colin instead. Fin
d out her grades before her report card travels to her house, so she can decide next steps: accept her fate or go for con number two and hire me to create a forgery. Or I guess now con number two might involve Colin talking his way into the school office, stealing a blank report card, and printing out new grades for Jessica. The final grades are due from the teachers today, and mailings won’t start until Friday, giving us a two-day deadline to complete the task. And if I’m the one to complete it, I’ll make my next con stealing back the pile of cash Jessica already paid Colin.

  “Whoever gets them to Jessica first wins,” I say.

  The two of us agree with nods of our heads and matching glares. And then he stands up and exits my room without another word.

  My dad pokes his head into my room a few minutes later. “What did he want?”

  “To get his ass whooped.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Part one of my plan to beat Colin involves Natalie disguising herself as a prospective new student coming to tour the school. My dad even agrees to act as a pinch hitter, letting Natalie color his slicked-back black hair into distinguished salt-and-pepper gray and alter his features just slightly—longer nose, plumper cheeks—to disguise him as her father. It’s nice to have a dad who understands the importance of an education, and he values nothing more than me learning how to orchestrate the perfect crime.

  He also understands the importance of screwing over the family who likely moved here to screw over my family.

  When I first suggested it, Dad cracked his knuckles as a devious smile quirked his thin lips. “I haven’t been this excited about a job in weeks. And that includes the nasty workplace-injury case I’m about to win.” He suddenly grew serious. “But, Fiona, I need you to promise that once you win this challenge, you’ll forget about Colin and focus on finishing the forgeries.”

  I waved him away dismissively. “That’s the plan.” The amusement park skull prop and the guitar are ready to go. Now that I have the proper material to work with, I can complete the ancient-book forgery in a week or two. And we have five weeks until we leave. Once school ends, we’re hightailing it out of San Francisco (okay, we’ll drive the speed limit to the airport so as not to cause suspicion) to take back what’s rightfully ours: my mom’s last three forgeries and the clues written on them. And then we’ll finally have all the tools to find her.