“Why can’t we just go ahead with the scam?” Dad asks him.

“Because she’ll tip off the mark,” Roy says abruptly. “Haven’t you been paying attention?” He swivels to glare at me. “That was the deal, wasn’t it, William? The part that you didn’t feel compelled to tell us? First one to fifty thousand wins? If she gets the Rush kid to pay out first, she ruins it for us.”

“So what?” Dad shrugs and glances at Rhonda, who’s sitting across from him, painting her fingernails. “So we take the girl out of the equation.”

“Take her out . . . ?” I look at him. “Wait a second, what are you talking about? You can’t—”

“Look,” Dad says. “Let’s get something straight. I know you have a soft spot for this girl, but I’m not allowing your little high school crush ruin our shot at two million bucks. If you think I’m going to let that happen, you’re reading all the wrong books.”

“It’s got nothing to do with—”

“I don’t care. I’m just saying, we take care of her.”

Uncle Roy gets up and walks over to Dad. “What are you saying?”

“We send her packing,” Dad says. “This is our deal. She wants to keep trying to fleece these millionaires for some made-up charity for a bunch of orphans, then that’s her thing, but we’re going to finish this.”

“She’ll tip off Brandt.”

Dad shakes her head. “Then we don’t give her that chance. We shut her down. Hard.”

I stand up. “No.”

“No?” He’s getting that look now, darkness gathering across his face, falling over his eyes like the shadow of an object dropping fast. Seeing him like this gives me a bright coppery taste in my mouth that I associate with early childhood, the old familiar panic of powerlessness.

“Nobody’s getting hurt,” I say. “This isn’t that kind of deal.”

Dad moves right up close to me and stands directly in front of my face. Whiskey fumes stream invisibly from his nostrils. Everybody else in the office has stopped what he’s doing to watch us. When Dad speaks, the words are little more than a snarl.

“Listen to me, junior. I taught you everything you know about the long con. We’re all here because of what you promised us.”

“No,” I say, “you’re here because you’re a drunk and you’re too irresponsible to make it on your own. I didn’t want you here. Ever since you showed up, all you’ve done is ruin everything.”

“Easy, boy.” Dad’s voice is ominously quiet. “Don’t say things that you’re gonna regret when we get back home to Trenton.”

“I’m never going back to Trenton,” I say, and for a long second, the words just hang there.

“What?”

“You heard me.” My heart is pounding and I force myself to stand my ground. “I can fix this situation myself. I worked too hard to get where I am now. This is my life. I’m not going back.”

Dad shoves me backwards. I don’t see it coming, and the thrust propels me into an empty desk, where I whack my skull on the arm of a chair before hitting the ground. I start to shake off the pain, but Dad is lunging again, landing on top of me with his fist cocked back, and it’s only because of Uncle Roy pulling him off that I don’t catch his knuckles across the bridge of my nose.

Roy’s old, but he’s tough. He tosses Dad aside like a sack of dirty laundry. Dad starts to stand up, and Roy fixes him with a look that says: Try it.

“You come at me like that again, Roy,” Dad says in a low voice, “you better bring a gun.”

“Shut your cake hole,” Uncle Roy says. “Nobody’s doing anything with guns.” He pronounces that last word with the disdain of a man who regards such things as the last resort of the desperate and incompetent, guys too knuckleheaded to handle themselves any other way. Pausing to collect himself, Roy tucks in his shirt, pulls out a comb, and runs it through his hair. “Okay, now, listen. Everybody just breathe. We all know the situation isn’t optimal. That doesn’t mean it’s hopeless.” He points at me. “William, your dad’s right about one thing. You got us into this, you’re going to get us out.”

“Damn straight,” Dad says.

Roy holds up a hand. “Today’s Monday. Now, my understanding is that the Rush kid isn’t writing his fifty-grand check for the orphans of Ebeye until Saturday, am I right?”

I nod. “That’s right.”

“So all we have to do is get him back here in this office, cash in hand, sometime before then.”

“He wants another ten-thousand-dollar trial run,” I say.

Uncle Roy shakes his head. “That’s impossible—we’re out of time. You need to convince him that if he’s going to take down McDonald, then he needs to place that big bet before Saturday.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Hey, you’re a smart kid,” Uncle Roy says cheerfully, gesturing at the textbooks and notes I’ve got scattered around the floor. “You’ll figure something out.”

Twenty-Six

I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING FEELING EXHAUSTED. I DIDN’T sleep well at all—I know it’s my imagination, but I swear I can feel Dr. Melville’s counterfeit Bible tucked under my box spring like some fractured fairy tale version of the princess and the pea. Imaginary or not, the lump wouldn’t bother me so much if it didn’t remind me of Gatsby, who I haven’t heard from since the lacrosse game. Meanwhile, it’s seven a.m., and I’ve got a U.S. Diplomacy midterm in an hour that I couldn’t feel less prepared for. I grab a coffee from the Starbucks in the arts center, take a big gulp of French roast, and head off to class.

The exam goes even worse than I had feared. From the moment I look down at the essay question on Wilson’s Fourteen Points, my mind goes blank. People around me are already scribbling fiercely, the room full of the sound of scratching pencils, while I spend an hour staring at the empty page, wondering how on earth I ever thought I could fit in here.

With five minutes left on the clock, I toss the blue book onto the teacher’s desk and walk out the door.

I’m sitting in the dining hall, staring out the window, when Gatsby takes a seat next to me.

“Will, we need to talk.”

“Look,” I say, “it’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.”

“Just let me explain, okay?”

I look at her and nod.

“I’ve never been invited to Homecoming before,” Gatsby says. “When you invited me, I was really excited. I had been hoping you’d ask me.”

“So . . . ?”

She closes her eyes, opens them again. “There was this boy back on the Vineyard. His name was Del James. He was a baseball player, and I had this huge crush on him. We had this middle school Valentine’s Day dance, and he invited me. At first I couldn’t believe it—it seemed too good to be true. My friends all told me that I had to say yes.”

I don’t say anything. I can already see where this is going and I don’t want to hear it, but it’s too late.

“I got a new dress and new shoes,” Gatsby says, “and my dad paid for me to get my hair done at this fancy salon in Boston. I remember looking in the mirror and feeling so grown up.” She stops and swallows and looks up at me. “But when I got to the dance, Del just looked at me and started laughing. He told me he’d only done it on a dare. His friends had bet him that he wouldn’t ask out the ugliest girl in the class. They all thought it was hilarious. The worst part—” Gatsby stops and takes in a little breath. “He convinced my own friends to encourage me to go. Everybody was in on it except for me.”

“Gatsby,” I say, and my mouth feels as dry as sand, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says, “it’s not your fault. As I was getting ready the other night, I just kept thinking, What if it happens again?” She reaches over and touches my hand. “But you’re different, Will. I see that.”

I can’t look at her.

“I know how well things are going for you,” she says. “With Rush making that donation to your orphanage, and all the increased awareness that’s going on about the situation in Ebeye, you’ve got to be so excited.”