“Crazy, isn’t it?” said Gwyneth.
I assumed this was in reference to the crowd and not to the fact she was still standing next to me or to the way she could speak without moving her lips. “I don’t know if it’s crazy or not, because I have no idea what’s going on,” I admitted.
“You didn’t hear?” she said.
“Hear what?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
“You really don’t know?”
“No, I really don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“I don’t know how I don’t know, but I’d like to know.” I managed to say this politely, but the conversation was getting a bit frustrating.
“They’re probably going to get kicked out,” she said.
“Wait — who’s getting kicked out?”
“All of them.”
“All of who? Or whom?”
“Everyone involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“The poker thing,” she said.
To her credit, she didn’t actually say “obviously” — she just implied it. And though it took a while to get it out of her, she ultimately did tell me the whole story, and she was right: It was crazy.
It turned out that a bunch of seniors, including Grey and several other Alliance members, had started up their own online business. And when Gwyneth first told me this, I didn’t understand what the problem was. If anything, it showed a level of initiative that seemed like a healthy departure from their usual lack of productive activity. So this shouldn’t have been a big deal.
Except for the part where their business was targeting underage poker players, and the other part where they’d been operating the whole thing from the Prescott campus.
Apparently there was an old server the school no longer used, and it had been gathering dust in the computer center’s storage closet. I didn’t want to know what Grey and his friends had been doing in the closet, but they found the server and decided it would be perfect for hosting a gambling site. And in another genius move, they neglected to arrange for their own Internet connection and piggybacked on Prescott’s broadband network instead.
The insane thing was that they might have gotten away with it if they’d been less successful. But within a few hours of launching, the site was generating hundreds of hits, and by the second day they had thousands of kids logged in and playing poker around the clock, using their parents’ credit cards to place their bets. And the more people played poker, the more bandwidth the site sucked up, and that’s what did them in.
The site went live on Friday, and by Monday, Prescott’s Internet service provider was calling, because the huge amount of bandwidth being used on campus was compromising service to everyone else in the neighborhood. By Tuesday morning, the administration had located the server, still in the storage closet but plugged in and humming with so much activity it was practically smoking, and by Tuesday afternoon, they’d started identifying the students involved and alerting their parents.
As school scandals went, this was pretty major — it definitely accounted for the whispering the previous day. It also explained Patience’s bizarre behavior. She hadn’t been on her way to see Dr. Penske — she’d been on her way to see Mr. Seton, the headmaster, to try to prevent Grey from being expelled.
And the scandal was still unfolding. Mr. Seton was determined to root out anybody who’d had even the slightest involvement.
“It’s like a total witch hunt,” Gwyneth told me. “Seton interrogated me for an hour yesterday, but Grey and I haven’t been speaking since he stepped on my Tom Ford sunglasses, so I was completely out of the loop.”
Meanwhile, the two guys in the black suits were from a computer security firm. The site had already been shut down, but they were supposed to be analyzing the network traffic and data logs and all of the other digital evidence to see if they could identify additional culprits.
The bell rang then, and we headed off to our separate classrooms. The whispering in the hallways continued between classes, but now that I knew what it was about, it didn’t bother me. Only when Natalie and I got to lunch and were talking the whole thing over did I give it any more thought.
I had to admit, I never would’ve guessed Grey was capable of something like this. I could count the interactions I’d had with him on one hand, and I didn’t need more than part of another hand to count the total number of words he’d said on all of those occasions put together. And while getting the poker site up and running might not require a lot of speech, it would definitely require more than staring idly into space.
But as Natalie pointed out, Grey was probably only a follower in this situation. “And it’s not just Grey,” she said. “The dubious legality of online gambling, particularly targeting the high school demographic, and the decision to use Prescott resources were substantial design flaws, but otherwise this was a well-conceptualized operation. The reason Headmaster Seton is still rounding people up is that nobody they’ve caught so far has the intellect and personal magnetism to pull this off.”
“Who does?” I asked. “Have the intellect and personal magnetism, I mean.”
“I can’t say for sure, not without proof, but I have a theory,” said Natalie.
“What’s your theory?”
She gave me an odd look. “Can’t you guess?”
“No,” I said.
“You can’t?” “I can’t.”
“You’re absolutely certain you can’t?”
I felt like I was talking to Gwyneth again. “Absolutely certain.”
“Think about the people who’ve already been caught. What do they all have in common?”
“I don’t really know any of them, except Grey, and I wouldn’t know him if we weren’t related. And I have my doubts about that, but nobody will let me test his DNA.”
“You don’t need to know them well or be related to them — you just need to know there’s only one person who’s sharp enough to think this up and who they’d all follow off a cliff, and you must know who that is, because you’d follow that person off a cliff yourself.”
I could hear Charley’s voice in my ear, asking what following someone off a cliff actually meant — was it a real cliff, and if so, what was at the bottom, because if it was water or a stack of mattresses or a trampoline that was one thing, but if it wasn’t, that would be something completely different — but I tried to concentrate. I couldn’t imagine following anybody at Prescott anywhere, except Natalie, and, obviously, Qui —
I didn’t consciously finish my thought, but the answer must have shown on my face anyhow.
“Exactly,” said Natalie.
Eight
“Quinn wouldn’t have,” I said. “He couldn’t have.”
“Why not?” said Natalie.
I searched for a response. “He sucks at math.”
“Why would he need math?” she asked. “It’s not like he was writing the code or keeping the books — he could always delegate the menial tasks. No, what he needed was imagination and charisma, and you know Quinn has plenty of both.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Quinn was always doing things that weren’t part of the program for a typical Upper East Side guy, like surfing and experimental theater, which definitely showed imagination. As for charisma, nobody else gave me brain paralysis just by walking into a room.
And that’s when the realization hit me, like a wave of freezing water: The launch of the poker site coincided almost exactly with when Quinn had stopped asking about T.K.
It took a moment to process what that could mean, but once I did, I wished I hadn’t. Because maybe Charley was right — Quinn wasn’t being apathetic or losing interest — he’d had something else on his mind. And that something else was being the brains behind a gambling scheme that could get him expelled.
Which was disturbing all on its own, but it also led to the most disturbing thought yet: Simply put, if Quinn was the br
ains behind the operation, then he was actually a moron.
I mean, it would be one thing to find out he had an entrepreneurial streak. But he should have known better than to involve himself in something that might not be legal and to do it here at school to boot. It wasn’t like he needed the money, either, and nobody had mentioned anything about how the proceeds were being used to shelter a homeless family or fund an arts program for underprivileged children.
And Quinn being moronic was a huge problem. Getting my head around that would throw everything I knew and thought and wanted into question.
Getting my heart around it might be impossible.
I put down my half-eaten grilled cheese and pushed the plate away. I’d lost my appetite.
I knew without asking how Charley would tell me to handle this situation, which was to ask Quinn directly instead of spinning imaginary scenarios and getting increasingly upset. So, gathering up what little courage I had, I spent the remainder of my lunch period trying to track him down.
But he was nowhere to be found. Not in the senior lounge, which I’d never set foot in before but was nearly empty today, and not on the stairwell landing where he sometimes hung out between classes. And then, last period, he wasn’t even in drama.
It wasn’t just Quinn, either. When I arrived in the auditorium, most of the seniors were missing, some because they’d been suspended pending further disciplinary action and others because they were sequestered in the library, waiting their turn to be called into Mr. Seton’s office for interrogation. The ones who did make it to class were either confirmed loners who might be plotting other forms of mayhem but would never be associated with something as mainstream as gambling, or the type who’d trip over themselves to be the first to report anybody doing anything the slightest bit suspicious.
And, of course, Gwyneth, who seemed to think we were best friends now that her actual friends were unavailable. As Alliance members, they’d all been either implicated already or swept up in Mr. Seton’s dragnet.
“Hey,” she said, plopping herself down on the patch of stage right next to me. Even weirder, the corners of her lips angled the tiniest bit upward, almost like a smile.
Class, meanwhile, turned out to be a lecture from Mr. Dudley on parallels between The Crucible and “the machinations of a rigid establishment intent on crushing the creative spark,” not that he mentioned Mr. Seton or anyone else by name. It was better than having to sit alone in a corner again doing Lady Macbeth, but it also made me wonder if Mr. Dudley was involved in the poker ring himself. He seemed to be taking the whole thing sort of personally.
Anyhow, he was so wrapped up in his speech — pacing and waving his arms around — that it was easy to reach into my bag and send Quinn a quick text, though it was a struggle to figure out what to say. I settled on the bare minimum:
Where r u? What’s happening?
This seemed more diplomatic than asking him if he was, in fact, a moron and also more likely to preserve the potential for a relationship if it turned out he wasn’t. Then I just sat there on the stage next to Gwyneth, pretending to listen to Mr. Dudley while in reality I waited for Quinn to text back and tried to shush the competing voices in my head.
It’s not like I have a split personality, and I do have one continuous mental voice that’s entirely mine, but a lot of the time it gets drowned out by the voices of other people that occasionally take up residence, all talking at once and buffeting my thoughts in different directions.
Charley was the loudest today, telling me I had nothing to worry about, but she might definitely be done discussing Quinn. Natalie came in second, making her neatly reasoned case against Quinn and lining up the evidence in an orderly row. Madonna was there, too, singing “Holiday,” and Quinn himself put in a cameo. So all in all it was pretty noisy.
Then, suddenly, the noise stopped, and a single voice took over. It was my mother, and she was telling me to keep my eye on the ball.
This was a strange thing for her to say since she’s not exactly the athletic type — the only sneakers she owns are white leather Tretorns she has polished at the shoe place whenever they get scuffed. She does like hiking, but that’s more about communing with nature than exercise. Ash was my athletic parent, though he was never big on sports metaphors, either, maybe because he grew up in India, where they mostly play cricket, and maybe because he always preferred extreme sports like ice sailing and parkour to baseball or football or anything like that.
But it was still pretty obvious what T.K. meant. It was embarrassing, too, because in her no-nonsense way she was asking me to confront an ugly truth.
And the ugly truth was that I’d completely lost track of what I was supposed to be doing. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have my eye on the ball — I wasn’t even on the field or at the stadium, or whatever the right sporty metaphor might be.
Because instead of focusing on the evildoers, I’d been obsessing over a guy, like one of those awful girls Charley had warned me about, and reacting to others rather than making the plot unfold myself. And while it probably wasn’t realistic to expect I’d give up on obsessing over Quinn anytime soon, I couldn’t deny my priorities had gotten totally messed up.
After all, it had been nearly forty-eight hours since Charley, Rafe, and I had discussed the next phase of the investigation. I’d promised myself then I’d take action, even if Charley told me to sit tight and eat spaetzle.
But in the time that had elapsed I’d accomplished exactly nothing. If anything, I’d accomplished less than nothing, since I’d lost two days’ worth of potential progress. I’d been too wrapped up in myself to pay attention to what was really important.
So, while Mr. Dudley lectured on, I resolved that now I would plunge into the investigation with laserlike focus. And I also realized who could point me in exactly the right direction — I’d reach out to her as soon as I possibly could.
Though given who it was, I shouldn’t have been surprised when she reached out to me first.
Nine
I tried to lose Gwyneth after class, but it was like I’d accidentally adopted a stray puppy that didn’t have any endearing puppy qualities.
Under normal circumstances I would’ve felt sorry for her — she wasn’t used to being on her own. But today I needed to put Charley in an accommodating frame of mind, and that was much less likely to happen with Gwyneth around.
So when class was over, I gave Gwyneth my sunniest smile, hoping so much positive feeling would send her fleeing. And to make it clear I thought we were parting, I said, “Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” she said, like she understood.
Except then she followed me out of the auditorium and down the corridor. She even waited while I made an unnecessary stop at my locker in an attempt to shake her.
By the time we reached the steps out front, I’d resigned myself to her presence. In fact, I was thinking I might be able to use it to my advantage, because there was someone I wanted to see, and I couldn’t let Charley know. But if I got rid of Charley by telling her I’d be hanging out with Gwyneth, she’d only worry about me losing my mind and not that I might be up to anything she’d prefer me not to be up to.
Anyhow, I was so busy planning what I’d say to Charley that it took me a moment to notice she wasn’t there. She’d sent a text instead.
sorry sorry sorry — still hunting Dieter
don’t take subway alone — not safe
ask Q 2 take u or put u in cab?
$ in drawer/menus on counter/90210 next 2 TV
sorry again
I returned my phone to my bag, marveling at how conveniently everything had worked out. Of course, I’d still have to get rid of Gwyneth before heading to the Lower East Side.
But when I looked up, I saw I wouldn’t even need to make the trip: Carolina Cardenas was waving from the sidewalk.
“Why do you have the surprise? You are wanting to see me, sí?” said Carolina. Psychics tend to be a few steps ahead
of other people, and sometimes Carolina forgot others lacked her special gifts. “Your auntie, she is not coming, so I will be your músculo today.”
“What’s a músculo?” I asked.
“Muscle,” said Gwyneth, who I guessed took Spanish. For reasons I won’t go into except to say they weren’t mine, I’d always taken Latin, and that didn’t help with Carolina. She was newly transplanted to New York from Ecuador, and her English could be spotty.
Carolina flexed her biceps, which, like the rest of her, were tiny. “Power yoga.”
“Impressive,” said Gwyneth. Then she turned to me. “Why do you need muscle?”
Just about everyone at school, including Gwyneth, thought the Range Rover incident had been random rather than part of a broader web of events. And Charley and I had also carefully kept Patience uninformed — she was convinced T.K. was dead and I was in denial, and she was still making noises about my being in need of psychiatric help — so I wasn’t about to tell Gwyneth why I wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere alone. “It’s hard to explain,” I said, which was true.
“Okay,” said Gwyneth. And she wandered away.
Carolina yawned. “The cousin, I am looking in her head, and it makes me sleepy.”
“I think it makes her sleepy, too,” I said.
“You and I, we have no time for sleep,” she said, motioning for me to follow her. “We have much to do.”
Rafe on bodyguard duty was one thing — he did claim he knew karate, though I had a feeling he might be exaggerating about the black belt — but Carolina’s psychic powers would be her only weapon if things turned violent. She was even shorter than I was, and while she liked to compensate by wearing five-inch heels, they just made her look like a little girl playing dress-up. Her brown hair hung in loose waves down to her waist, and she seemed to do most of her shopping (except for the shoes, obviously) in the children’s department at Target. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“To your auntie’s house,” she said, teetering along in pink stilettos. “She will not be home until late, and her televisión is superior to my televisión. There is a program you must see.”
And Then I Found Out the Truth Page 5