AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m pretty sure he’s missing the point. “Just, please—she’s not careful. Maybe she’ll listen to you. You were going to be the lawyer—”
“She’s an old lady,” Barron says. “And she’s been locked up for years. Let her have some fun. She needs to blow off steam. Seduce old dudes. Lose money at canasta.”
I laugh, despite myself. “Just keep an eye on her before she takes those old dudes for everything they’ve got.”
“Roger dodger. Mission heard and accepted,” he says, and I find myself relaxing. Then he sighs. “Have you talked to Philip recently?”
“You know I haven’t,” I say. “Every time I call, he hangs up on me, and there’s nothing I can—”
The doorknob starts to turn.
“Let me call you later,” I say quickly. It’s too weird to be talking to Barron and pretending everything is normal in front of my roommate, who knows what Barron’s done. Who’d wonder why I would call Philip. Who doesn’t understand what it means to have a family as messed up as mine.
“Peace out, little brother,” Barron says, and hangs up.
Sam walks in, duffel bag over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says with a shy smile. “Long time, no see. How was Toronto?”
“There was supposed to be an ice castle,” I say. “But it melted.”
Yeah, I lied to him about where I spent the summer. I didn’t have to—there was no really good reason not to tell him I went to Atlantic City, except it didn’t seem like a place normal people go with a parent. I told you I’m no good at this friends thing.
“That’s too bad.” Sam turns to put an aluminum toolbox on the rickety wooden dresser. He’s a big guy, tall and round. He always seems to move carefully, like someone who is uncomfortable with taking up too much space. “Hey, I got some new stuff you’re going to love.”
“Oh, yeah?” I unpack the way I usually do—by shoving everything under my bed until room inspection. That’s what happens when you grow up in a garbage house; you feel more comfortable with a little squalor.
“I have a kit to make molds of teeth and craft really perfect fangs. Like, perfect. They fit over your teeth as if they were tiny little gloves.” He looks happier than I remember him. “Daneca and I went into New York—to this special effects warehouse, and cleaned the place out. Resins. Elastomer. Poly foams. I could probably fake setting someone on fire.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Hey,” he says. “After last year I figured I’d better be prepared.”
* * *
Carter Thompson Memorial Auditorium is the place where, every year, all the students gather to listen while the rules are repeated for anyone too lazy to read the handbook. “Boys must wear the Wallingford jacket and tie, black dress pants, and a white shirt. Girls must wear the Wallingford jacket, a black skirt or black dress pants, and a white shirt. Both boys and girls should wear black dress shoes. No sneakers. No jeans.” Fascinating stuff like that.
Sam and I try to grab a seat in the back, but Ms. Logan, the school secretary, spots us and points out an empty row in the front.
“Boys,” she says. “We’re trying to be an example to all the new students, now that we’re seniors, aren’t we?”
“Can’t we be bad examples?” Sam asks, and I snort.
“Mr. Yu,” says Ms. Logan, pressing her lips together. “Senioritis is a serious condition this early in the year. Lethal. Mr. Sharpe, I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage him.”
We move to the new seats.
Dean Wharton and Headmistress Northcutt are already up at the lectern. Northcutt starts off with lots of rah-rahing about how we’re all one big family here at Wallingford, how we support one another through the hard times, and how we’ll look back on our years here as among the best of our lives.
I turn to Sam to make some crack and notice him scanning the auditorium. He looks nervous.
The problem with being a con artist is that it’s hard to turn off the part of your brain that’s always assessing the situation, looking for a mark, a sucker you can sucker out of stuff. Trying to figure out what that mark wants, what’s going to convince him to part with his money.
Not that Sam’s a mark. But my brain still supplies me with the answer to what he’s looking for, in case it comes in useful.
“Everything okay with you and Daneca?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders. “She hates horror movies,” he says finally.
“Oh,” I say as neutrally as I can.
