“No,” I say.
Sam gives me a meaningful look, which Heather correctly interprets to mean that I’m holding out on her. I’d say he’s getting sloppy, except I think he’s done it on purpose.
“But you know why it was put there?” Heather leans forward.
“Just a prank,” I say, adopting the defense I should have used with Tyler.
“Pfft.” She waves a hand. “Val said Tyler saw the guy who put it in your locker.”
Fabulous. Valerie Updike, Heather’s BFF, is only the world’s most proficient gossip. I would know, since I’ve used it to my advantage a time or two. So much for keeping it between us.
“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.