“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Yes it is.” She holds up her hand to stop me from interrupting. “Will, look at me. You’ve seen poverty and privation that none of us can imagine. You grew up in the poorest area of the Pacific, and your parents literally gave their lives to serve others. You’ve got every right to be bitter and discouraged, but instead you’re decent and optimistic and fair. When I think about it, you’re the perfect antidote to the Brandt Rushes of the world.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “It’s great.”

“It is,” she says. “And okay, I know Andrea’s the one who initiated the fundraiser, and it’s exactly the sort of project that she’d undertake just to pad her college application, but with the money that’s coming in to help your island—”

“It’s not my island.”

“Well, yes, obviously it’s not your island, but it is your home. You grew up there, and—”

“You’re not listening to me,” I say, a lot more sharply than I had intended. “It’s not my home.”

Across the table, Gatsby regards me peculiarly. “What are you saying?”

The silence between us stretches out for an unreal amount of time. Far off, I hear the clink of silverware and ice. Deep inside, I can already feel something rising into my throat. It’s sharp and angular and unpleasant, and that’s when I realize that it’s the truth. A cowardly voice pipes up from inside me.

If you tell her this, you’ll ruin everything.

Too late for that now.

“What if I told you”—I take in a breath and let it out, making myself look her in the eye—“that I wasn’t really from some island in the Pacific?”

And everything stops. Gatsby blinks and shakes her head a little. “What?”

“What if I told you that I’m really just a kid from New Jersey, and this whole thing about my parents being missionaries and dying in a plane crash was just a story that I made up so that I could go to school here?”

“I don’t understand.” Now Gatsby’s just staring at me. “You’re saying you’re not from the Marshall Islands?”

“I’m from Trenton, New Jersey. My real name is Billy Humbert. This is the third school that I’ve sneaked into in two years.”

“You’re from . . . New Jersey,” she repeats slowly, like she’s just trying to get the facts straight in her own mind. “How did you . . .”

“I forged my transcripts. Faked my letters of recommendation. Hacked into the school’s database and gave myself a whole new history.” I pause. “Gatsby, look, I know it was wrong. I never wanted to lie to you about all of this, I swear.”

She’s already pushing herself back, standing up, leaving her tray on the table. She doesn’t say anything. The look on her face is the worst part. The way that she just keeps staring at me.

“Gatsby, wait.”

But she’s walking away. I go after her, following her out of the dining hall. “I can explain everything,” I say, but that’s just another lie, because no amount of explanation is going to excuse what I did or help her understand why, and it’s far too late anyway.

Running around the corner, I almost collide with George the Kant-reading security guard.

“Shea,” he says. “Come with me.”

“Not right now.”

“Right now.” He reaches down and takes hold of my arm. “Dr. Melville wants to talk to you. He says it’s important.”

Twenty-Seven

I’D NEVER BEEN UP TO THE PRESIDENT’S OFFICE. THE OUTER reception area is a large, two-hundred-year-old drawing room on the third floor of Connaughton’s administration building. It’s absolutely silent up here and smells so much like old money that you’d almost expect the hallway to be wallpapered with it. Rich brocade carpeting covers the hardwood floors, and stained-glass windows on both walls depict the illustrious history of the school from 1866 onward. When George leads me down the length of the room, I see Dr. Melville’s secretary glance up and nod.

“He’s inside,” she says. “Go on in.”

I look at George for some hint of what I’m walking into, although I suppose I already know. George, for his part, shows me no glimpse of what’s going on behind those pale blue, philosophy-reading eyes.

“Thanks,” I say.

Without a word, George opens the door and I step through it.

The inner office smells like pipe tobacco, rich and faintly cherry-scented. Its walls are lined with bookshelves, row upon row of dusty leather-bound hardcovers, the complete works of Shakespeare to John Updike to whatever guys such as Dr. Melville read when they’ve exhausted the classics. Off to my right, a fire roars in a huge fieldstone hearth, with Dr. Melville’s dog, Chaucer, sprawled on the rug in front of it, paws twitching from the depths of some rabbit-chasing dream.

“Mr. Humbert,” Dr. Melville says. “That is your real name, isn’t it?” He’s seated behind a varnished oak slab of a desk that looks only slightly smaller than the state of Rhode Island, his broad shoulders and imperious head backlighted by the open window behind him. He points to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Sit.”

“Sir—” I begin, because it seems like a decent place to start.

Dr. Melville holds up one hand. “Not a word. Not unless you have an attorney present. I assure you, you’re going to need one.”

I don’t say anything. I just look over at Dr. Melville’s dog stretched in front of the fire, dozing without the slightest notion of what’s going on. Right now I’d happily trade places with him and spend the rest of my life at the end of a leash.

“After what happened on Saturday,” Dr. Melville says, nodding at a stack of documents piled on his desk, “I started to look more closely at your transcripts. And your letters of recommendation. And your life. I’m sure you won’t be surprised by the ease with which your web of lies began to unravel.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve been instructed to stay quiet and I’m determined to follow orders, at least in this one small aspect.

“What you’ve done here at Connaughton over the past weeks,” Dr. Melville says, “is an embarrassment to yourself, to the board of directors, and to the reputation of this school. In my wildest dreams I can’t imagine the circumstances under which you thought this was a good idea.” He rises to his feet so fast that he sends his swivel chair rolling backwards, and it’s the first time that I see just how angry he is. “Are you delusional? Do you have any idea the magnitude and implications of what you’ve done?”

I open my mouth and close it again, then reconsider. He seems to really want an answer. “Sir, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry. How wonderful.” Dr. Melville glares at me thunderously from across the desk. “Thank you for that. You’ve humiliated me and left a permanent stain on the reputation of one of the finest preparatory schools in the country, and you’re sorry.”

I don’t say anything.

“The police are on their way.” He drops back into the chair and plants his elbows on the desk. “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I’ve arranged for them to meet you outside the front gates, which is a small mercy, sparing us the additional indignity of seeing a Connaughton student led away in handcuffs.” He looks at his watch. “I recommend that you spend the intervening time getting your things together.”

“Sir . . .”

“Just out of my own morbid curiosity,” he says, “exactly how long did you expect to keep up this charade? Obviously long enough to swindle our alumni into funding this fictitious orphanage of yours. Are you aware that they’ve already donated more than eighty thousand dollars to your so-called charity? Eighty thousand, with no sign of slowing down. Tell me, did you plan on running off with the money yourself or splitting it with Ms. Dufresne?”

Andrea—I hadn’t even thought about her. Suddenly my tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of my mouth. This is my opportunity to rat her out, to expose her for the fraud that she is, and we’ll both be thrown out of Connaughton. All I have to do is tell the truth and she’s as dead as I am.