“Tyler?” Sam says. “Tyler who?”
“Tyler Richland. Jeez, Sam,” Heather says.
“Yeah, jeez, Sam,” I repeat, smiling.
“Julep’s going to have Tyler identify the guy in a lineup or something.”
I refrain from banging my head on the table. It would only draw more attention to this fiasco of a conversation.
“I’m not putting anyone in a lineup, and I’m not calling any cops, Sam, so just forget it.”
Sam, who opened his mouth to interject the bit about calling the cops again, closes it in favor of a reproving frown.
“What I am going to do is track down our homicidal Pied Piper of Hamlin and tie what’s left of the rat carcass around his neck.”
They both stare at me like I’ve gone nuclear, but I’ve had it with the peanut gallery for the day.
“And how do you plan to do that, exactly?” Sam’s the first to recover because he knows me best. He knows I don’t bite. Usually.
“Tyler’s going to give me whatever he can on rat boy, and I’m just going to … keep digging, I guess.” I don’t want to mention my dad’s note with Heather sitting right here, and Sam knows better than to bring it up.
Heather looks disappointed, but I’m not responsible for entertaining her, just defrauding her mom.
“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” I ask.
“Not really, no.”
We study each other in silence for a moment.
“Why not?”
“I have an appointment with the dean in half an hour.”
I freeze, alarmed. But after taking a breath, I realize the dean can’t possibly know what’s going on with Heather’s NYU scam. It doesn’t involve the school in any way.
“What for?”
“I’m interviewing for the student-assistant position. My mom insists it will beef up my NYU admissions profile.” She huffs and twists a long, maple-colored curl around her finger. “I wish I could tell her that I’m guaranteed to get in.”
“Don’t even think it,” I say, suddenly nervous for a whole different reason. “Early decision doesn’t go out for another four months.”
“I know,” she says, annoyed, like she’s the one who told me in the first place. “I’m not going to blow it.”
“Good.”
“So I’m stuck with this dean interview, hoping like hell I don’t get the job.”
Then it hits me—the gift-wrapped opportunity I’m being handed here.
“Yes,” I say quickly, finally warming to the conversation. “I mean, yes, take the job. It’s perfect.”
“Uh … am I missing something?” Heather says.
“I’m calling in my favor.”
Later that evening, I let myself into my apartment. I keep my eyes downcast as I cross the room and drop my bag onto a kitchen chair. I’m afraid that if I put my bag on the floor, the mess will swallow it whole.
I start clearing the kitchen, putting chipped dishes back in the cabinets, throwing the shards of broken plates in the newly scooped and bagged garbage. I mop twice to get rid of the congealed-chicken smell.
Sam offered to hang out at home with me when his attempts to cajole me into staying at his place again failed. It was sweet of him to offer. Also unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of stuff strewn around an empty room. It doesn’t mean anything.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t think he bought it, either. But bagging the remains of one’s broken life is sort of a solo endeavor.
As I trash the gutted chair stuffing, I run down a mental list of costs: rent, utilities, tuition, food … All of it adds up to well over what I make conning for rich kids. I need a new angle. Something that will keep me afloat until my dad gets back. Something I can work in my off hours that rakes in enough money to cover costs. Something low-profile, steady, and easy to maintain. Something different.
An idea strikes me, and I take a break from cleaning to go on a hunt for my dad’s ID-forgery equipment. I unearth the printer from beneath an avalanche of books. The diffractive film and lamination pouches are on the floor of the bathroom, for no discernible reason. The laminator is upside down behind the laundry basket. The camera is nowhere to be found, though that is hardly surprising. I can use my phone’s camera, anyway.
What I’m talking about is making—and, more important, selling—the one thing every teenager under the age of twenty-one would give their eyeteeth for: a grade-A, on-the-level, better-than-bona-fide fake ID. At a hundred bucks a pop, I could make a significant amount of cash in a small amount of time. Not enough, but, you know, every little bit helps.
I take a break from forgery planning and head back to the kitchen. I pick up my bag from the chair and sink into it, setting the bag in my lap. The ID job is a good idea, but it doesn’t get me any closer to finding my dad. I wrestle with the doubt that’s been dogging my heels all day, but my gut tells me that nothing I’ve considered so far is even close.
I scroll through my phone contacts list to Sam’s name. I’m about to push the Call button, if for no other reason than to listen to him tell me about his latest StarDrive victory—anything to distract me from the darkness creeping out from the corners of the room—when just above Sam’s name, I see Ralph’s. My dad’s bookie. If anyone would know about my dad’s “field of miracles,” it would be Ralph. And just like that, everything clicks into place.
Field. Miracles.
I jump up, dumping my bag on the floor. The racetrack. That must be it. I have to talk to Ralph. I call his number, but it’s the store, and his voice mail picks up. He must already be home for the night. I’ll have to go see him tomorrow after school. But finally—a win in the Julep column.
I feel like celebrating, so I go in search of the coffeemaker. Nothing says victory like late-night java. Besides, I have three chapters of reading for AP lit, a section review on quadratic equations for pre-calc, and a five-page French paper due by—I check the syllabus on my phone—the end of the week. Looks like it’s going to be another all-nighter.
I rescue the coffeepot from under my bed, untangling the curtain from the broken lamp in the process. But as I pivot away from the window, something catches my eye. Or rather, someone.
My window has a street view, and there are quite a few people on the sidewalk. But there’s only one person staring up at my window. One person in a long black coat with black boots and light hair. One person leaning against a black Chevelle with white racing stripes, the same Chevelle I saw parked outside the Ballou yesterday. One person who has definitely noticed me noticing him, broken lamp or no.
I race out of my apartment and fly down the stairs and out of the building just in time to see the Chevelle’s taillights disappear around a corner. The roar of the engine drowns out the rest of the street noise for half a minute as my stalker accelerates through all five gears and cruises out of sight with all my answers.
THE ID JOB
“Julep, what did you do?”
Sam slides his lunch tray onto the table and sits down facing me. The rows of highly polished oak tables don’t allow for much in the way of private conversation, but Sam and I tend to tuck ourselves on the outskirts of the sophomore row, almost under the mantel of the gigantic fireplace on the far end of the dining hall.
I stare at my tray with contempt, pushing at the mound of shapeless pasta slop with a fork. “I made the profound mistake of choosing the lasagna.”
“I mean about Murphy. The poor kid has a permanent red face, and all the girls are staring at his crotch.”
“Oh, that.” I sniff at my plate and make a face. At least I managed to finagle another free latte from my good buddy Barista Mike—too much vanilla this time, but free. “I got him a date to the formal.”
“You mean you got him every date to the formal. You’d better hope he doesn’t get Dumpstered by the end of the day, or he might demand a refund.”
“Once you give him his geek-chic makeover, he’ll be good to go. You’re meeting up with him after sch
ool, right?”
“I still don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know anything more about fashion than you.”
“Yeah, but you manage to get to school looking better than an unmade bed, and that’s what we’re going for. Just glam him up enough to pass.”
Sam sighs. “All right. We’ll ditch seventh and go to the mall.”
“Great.” I give up on the lasagna and fish around in the salad instead for a piece of lettuce that isn’t too wilty. “I’m having coffee with Tyler, so we can meet up after that to—”
“What?” Sam interrupts. “Why are you having coffee with Tyler?”
“To get a better description of what he saw.” I find and spear a likely-looking tomato.
“Didn’t he say he only saw the guy from the back?”
“Yep,” I say. “But he wants to help.”
I chew on both the tomato and the thought. With time and space, it seems weird to me that Tyler was so insistent. In the moment, it made sense to agree to meet him. But now that I’m telling Sam about it, I realize how thin Tyler’s argument was, and how ridiculous I sound now repeating it.
“I think he wants something,” I add.
“Like what?” Sam lowers his fork, his expression disapproving.
“I don’t know, Sam. I’ll find out when I have coffee with him. Maybe he has a job for me.”
“Another job? I don’t think it’s a good idea to take on another job right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s for a job, you should just blow him off.”
“I’m not blowing him off. Look, this job thing is important. You’d better not be telling people I’m on hiatus.”
“I haven’t been telling anybody anything, but you can’t do everything, Julep. You’re supposed to be going to school—not fixing everybody’s problems so you can pay the rent. And why not? Blow off Tyler, I mean.”
“Because he may know something important. And if I don’t pay the rent, I’ll lose the apartment. Without the apartment, I’m a sitting duck for foster care. Plus, I pay tuition by the semester. I owe the balance for the year in a month.”
“We can find a way to fudge the records—”
“No,” I say with more force than I mean to. After a breath, I continue more calmly. “No.” I need St. Aggie’s to get to Yale. I won’t base my new life on a lie from the old one. At least, not directly.
“Then I’ll get you the money. Or I’ll have my dad talk to the president. And anyway, what could Tyler want with you if not your services?”
Okay, that is just offensive. “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe it’s all part of some diabolical plot to get me expelled. And the hell you will. I’m not a homeless dachshund or something.”
“None of that is what I meant. I’m just trying to help. And I’m not saying Tyler is a bad guy. I guess I’m just surprised.”
“Well, thanks, but I don’t need that kind of help.” I chomp a carrot that utterly fails in the crunch department. “And I’m not saying Tyler is a good guy. I just need to find out what he knows. End of romance.”
Sam manages to keep his mouth shut under my acid glare. He knows when he’s stepped in it, and he knows when to back out quietly. After a few minutes of furious nibbling, I relent and decide to keep talking to him.
“So I had a thought.”
“Why do I always get nervous when you say things like that?”
“Can you at least hear me out before you start with the negativity?”
He shoots me a flat look.
“I was thinking about getting into a little forgery,” I say, ignoring his insolence. It’s so hard to find good minions these days.
“That’s not really your style,” he says, tipping his chair onto its back legs and crossing his arms.
“True. But it’s a regular inflow of cash, which I kind of need at the moment.”
“Is it worth the risk? You could get into real trouble for this—not just school trouble.”
“I need the money, Sam.”
“I know,” he says finally. “But I don’t have to like it.”
Before I can respond, someone’s shadow falls across our table. An enraged Murphy is looming over me.
“Julep, what the hell did you do?”
After ditching my lunch tray, I liberate a few pastries from the teachers’ lounge and head to the computer lab. Or rather, the room that passes for a computer lab at St. Aggie’s.
It’s not that there aren’t computers. There are. Rows and rows of them. But the decor makes the room look less like a lab and more like a French bordello. Red velvet drapes and lush Victorian armchairs make the clean, sleek lines of the screens and wireless keyboards seem unusually sharp.
Ms. Shirley, the pixie-spinster computer science teacher, doesn’t bother acknowledging my entrance. I’m only a minute or two late. If she noted everyone who arrived less than five minutes late, we’d all have failed from lax attendance in less than a month.
A few students squeak in behind me and scurry to empty seats, slinging their designer backpacks onto their chair backs. Some of them pull out notebooks, as if they actually intend to take notes rather than surf celebrity websites.
Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to conduct any incriminating business on a school computer. That’s why god invented smartphones. I whip out mine and open a new email.
Subject: Driver’s License
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
BCC: 12 recipients
Good news! I found your driver’s license. You must have dropped it when you were at band practice yesterday. I’ll leave it in your locker and you can pick it up next week. Just leave me a finder’s fee of $100. ;-) Remember to email me with your info for the group project. Have a great time in the Hamptons!
If I’ve lost you, let me break it down. The twelve recipients I’ve blind-copied are representatives of St. Aggie’s criminal element—drug dealers, hackers, truants, thrill seekers, party animals, and instigators.
The message isn’t exactly in code, because you really don’t have to take it that far. The recipients know enough to recognize my alias email address by now. And if that isn’t enough to clue them in, the “Good news!” opener is a mutually agreed-upon signal that the message has a hidden agenda. The rest is decipherable enough, if you know to look for something.
The only other part that’s in code is the reference to the Hamptons. That’s what we St. Aggie’s crooks call the rest of the students. My reference to the Hamptons will, I hope, clue the guys in that I want them to spread the word to their entourages, customers, and classmates.
That task done, I send a quick text to Heather, asking her to meet me in the music room after sixth period. There are no classes there for seventh, so we’ll have the room to ourselves. I want to find out if she got the job with the dean. Plus, it gives me the chance to plant the marker for where to drop the cash.
“Dupree?”
Ms. Shirley is frowning at me through the bedazzled black frames of her reading glasses.
“Putting it away now, Ms. Shirley. Just checking the stock market.”
One of Ms. Shirley’s weaknesses is her obsession with the health of her investment portfolio. Her right elbow twitches as she considers going for her own phone. But she places her hands with purpose on her keyboard instead.
I slide the mouse around for effect, as if I’ve just been finishing up the CSS web-design project that’s due. Since Sam taught me CSS in middle school, I had my project done a week ago.
After sixth, Heather is waiting for me just inside the music classroom.
“I got the job. Apparently, I was the only idiot who applied. I know you’re shocked,” she says.
“Congratulations,” I say as I draw a small star on a cabinet in the corner. “I had every faith in you.”
“I also got what you wanted,” she says, pulling a thick manila folder from her bag and handing it to me.
“This i
s a copy, right?” I ask, noting the absence of a name on the folder’s tab. Good girl.
“I do know how to work a copy machine.” She tosses her head like an offended filly. “And what’s with the graffiti?”
I smile at her as I slide the folder into my bag. “It’s a drop-box. For payment.”
“What do you need a drop-box for? Don’t people just hand you cash?”
“This is for a higher-volume gig. I think the dean might get suspicious if students start flagging me down in front of god and everybody.”
“And it won’t be suspicious if those students start loitering around the music room?”
“You and I are loitering in the music room, aren’t we? Besides, it’s all about plausible deniability. Worse comes to worst and the dean finds the drop-box, I’m out a couple hundred bucks. But she catches me with a bag full of black-market merchandise, I get a one-way ticket to public school.”
“What black-market merchandise?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now, about your next assignment.”
“I already paid you my favor!”
My smile turns wicked. “This is less a favor and more a performance opportunity.”
She considers me for a second before responding. “I’m listening.”
As I outline her new role, her expression morphs from mildly irritated to amused.
“All right,” she says. “But you can’t tell him it’s coming.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I check the lock on the cabinet. Easily pickable, but sturdy enough. Plus, there’s still the thick layer of undisturbed dust I discovered last year when I needed to stash a phone I’d filched for another job. Mr. Beauford, the music teacher, is older than Methuselah and legally blind in at least one eye, so this is as safe a place as any. And it has a handy slot on the front.
“So have you gotten your dress yet?” Heather asks.
“You mean for the dance I’m not going to?”
“Why aren’t you going?” Her face shows sincere puzzlement, as if bypassing the social event of the season is simply beyond her comprehension.
Trust Me, I'm Lying Page 4