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 school, 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]
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!