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“I have met him,” Mrs. Wasserman says. “He came to dinner.”
“Oh,” I say slowly, because I bet he told her something bad enough to explain her discomfort around me. “Barron came here? To dinner. Here?”
“I just want you to remember, Cassel, I know how hard things can be for worker kids. For every kid like Chris who finds a place to call home, there are lots of other kids who are kicked out onto the streets, taken in by crime families and then sold off to the rich—forced to endure continual blowback so that other people can line their pockets, or forced to become criminals themselves. And it must be even worse to be raised to believe you had to do those things. I don’t know what you’ve done or what your brother’s done, but—”
“What is it you think we did?”
She glances at my face, like she’s searching for something. Finally she says, “Daneca called here earlier today. She said that you didn’t approve of her going out with your brother. I know you’re worried about Daneca. You’re Sam’s roommate, and I can see that you want to protect her. Maybe you want to protect both of them. But if you expect to be forgiven for your past mistakes, then you have to see that your brother deserves a second chance too.”
“What the hell did he say about me?”
“That’s not important,” she says. “It’s in the past. I am sure you want it to stay there.”
I open my mouth and close it again. Because I want to defend myself, but it’s true that I’ve done bad things. Things that I want to stay in the past. But I also want to know what he told her, because I really doubt he told her the whole story.
The problem with people like Mrs. Wasserman is exactly this. She’s kind. She’s good. She wants to help people, even people that she shouldn’t. Like Barron. Like me. It’s easy to take advantage of her optimism, her faith in how the world should work.
I should know. I’ve already done it.
When I look into Mrs. Wasserman’s face, I know that she’s a born mark for this particular kind of con.
9
IF YOU ARE A CRAZY person who needs to have clandestine meetings, then, just like in real estate, what matters most is location, location, location.
You want to control the situation, so you better control the terrain. No surprises. No buildings, no trees, no shadowy corners where your enemies can hide. You want only those hidden spots that will be occupied by your people. But the place can’t be so open that a passerby would have a clear sight line. Clandestine meetings have to stay clandestine.
The baseball field isn’t a terrible choice. Far from other buildings. A nearby wooded area is the only place to hide, and it’s not that close by. The time’s good too. Six in the morning is too early for most students to be up, but there’s no rule against it. Mina won’t have to sneak out. And there’s enough time for an exchange of goods before classes start. The blackmailer could get the money, take their sweet time stashing it, and still make it to breakfast.
On the other hand, six in the morning seems way too early for girls pulling a prank to be anywhere but in bed. I figure they’ll be in their pajamas, leaning out of the windows of their dorm, jeering, when Mina returns from the baseball field after no one shows to the meeting. If I’m right, that’s what’s going to happen. Then the real negotiation starts, because I still have to somehow convince them to give up the camera and its contents. That’s when we’ll find out what’s actually going on.
* * *
Sam’s alarm goes off like a siren at four thirty in the morning, an hour I hope I never see from this end again. I knock my phone onto the floor trying to turn it off, before I realize the sound is coming from a totally different part of the room.
“Get up,” I say, and throw a pillow in his direction.
“Your plan sucks,” Sam mumbles as he lurches out of bed and heads for the showers.
“Yeah,” I say softly to myself. “Tell me one thing that doesn’t suck right now.”
It’s too early for there to be any coffee. I stare dully at the empty pot in the common room, while Sam picks up a jar of instant grounds.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
He scoops up a heaping spoonful and, heedlessly, shoves it into his mouth. It crunches horribly. Then his eyes go wide.
“Dry,” he croaks. “Tongue… shriveling.”
I shake my head, picking up the jar. “It’s dehydrated. You’re supposed to add water. Good thing you’re mostly made of water.”
He tries to say something. Brown powder dusts his shirt.
“Also,” I tell him, “that’s decaf.”
He runs to the sink to spit it out. I grin. There’s nothing quite as funny as someone else’s misery.
By the time we’re outside, I feel a little more awake. It’s so early that the hazy fog of morning is still settling over the grass. Dew has crystallized on the bare branches of trees and on piles of fallen leaves, turning them pale with frost.
