Schwarz jumped up and grabbed his coat, shooting Eric a rescue me look on his way to the door.
"Remember, eight thirty a.m., on the steps outside the school," Max said, gazing at his reflection in the back of his iPod.
"Maybe," Eric said. "Maybe not."
Max dropped his voice two octaves. "'I'm trying to free your mind, but I can only show you the door. You're the one that has to walk through it.'"
" SpaceQuest? Eric guessed, trying to place the quote.
Max smacked his forehead. "The Matrix. Do you live in a cave?
"I live in a permanent state of denial that I voluntarily spend
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my time with you," Eric said. "And that time generally involves a lot of darkness and bad smells--is that cavelike enough for you?"
"Eight thirty a.m.," Max said again, tugging Schwarz out the door. "You know you can't resist. This one's too sweet."
Eric hated it when Max played the mind reader, acting like Eric couldn't possibly think, say, or do anything that Max hadn't already anticipated.
He hated it even more when Max was right.
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October 1 * THE BET
Objective: Agree on terms, select an applicant
Colleges are always on the lookout for students who love to learn and whose passion takes them to the highest level of challenge and achievement.
--Peter Van Buskirk, Winning the College Admission Game
Elton Broussard wore a hat made out of aluminum foil to school every day. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, without fail, he added a matching aluminum foil belt and suspenders. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he wore a white T-shirt and white pants, completely covered, toga-style, in reams of flesh-colored Saran Wrap. On the first Tuesday of junior year, he had arrived wearing only flesh- colored Saran Wrap, and had subsequently disappeared from school until that October, when the first white T-shirt and pants ensemble made its debut. No one knew why Elton Broussard dressed as he did, largely because whenever anyone ventured to ask, Elton growled.
Which is not to say he responded in a growl-like manner.
He growled.
Low and guttural, like a dog chained to a stake who knows from
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past experience that it can't leap far enough to bite its target but is willing to try again, believing that, just this once, it might snag a mouthful of flesh.
And, ever since the debut of the aluminum foil hat and Saran Wrap toga junior year, that growl was the first and last sound anyone had heard Elton Broussard make.
"Veto," Max said firmly. "Not a chance in hell."
From the front steps of Wadsworth High, it was possible--if you could stand the nicotine haze--to watch the student body roll in like the opening credits of a bad teen movie. Freaks, geeks, punks, rich girls pulling up in Daddy's Jag, Game Boy warriors with their heads down and their thumbs flying, PDA couples sneaking in one last hookup before the bell, nobodies who thought they were somebodies, slackers, stoners, misfits, and the rest, a faceless mass of Abercrombie and American Eagle swarming up the stairs, unmemorable masses greeting another unmemorable day.
Max, Eric, and Schwarz perched at the top, scouting their prey. Beside them sat a pair of gangly sixteen-year-olds with spiky brown hair, tragically hip emo T-shirts, E PLURIBUS MODEM buttons, and identical sneers: the Bums. One was named Gerald, the other Ash; both were assholes.
"What do you care who we pick?" Ash asked. "It's not like you're going to be able to pull this off, whoever you end up with."
"Foetes ergo vincimus," Gerald sneered.
At Max's questioning look, Eric leaned in with a whispered translation. '"You stink, therefore we win.'" He leaned back against the concrete wall, tipping his gaze up and away from the depressing procession into the school.
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So he wasn't looking when Gerald pointed across the parking lot and, with a steely certainty, announced, "Him."
Eric looked down again, following Gerald's extended middle finger. The first thing he took in was the car. It was a '94 Buick LeSabre with a scuffed maroon paint job, the driver's side door painted black. Rusty hubcaps, tilted fender, mud-spattered windshield, a broken left taillight, and a lavish skull and crossbones painted across the hood. Its owner, wearing oversize jeans so worn that they'd lost all their color and so low that a thick strip of black boxers shadowed the waistline, was a perfect fit. His expression said Fuck off, just like his T-shirt. Watching the guy climb out of his car, lean against the hood, light a cigarette, and run a hand through his oily black hair, Eric's face went pale.
"Veto." It came out nearly inaudible, a wheeze. He sucked in a deep breath. No fear, he thought, furious with himself. "Veto."
"Sorry, three strikes and you're out," Ash jeered. "You used up all your vetoes. Either take him or forfeit."
Forfeiting would mean paying the Bums a hundred bucks--each. More than that, it would mean giving up before they'd even tried. But accepting would mean . . . Clay Porter.
I'm not afraid of him, Eric told himself.
This wasn't third grade. He wasn't some twerpy eight-year-old too chicken to stick up for himself. He was Eric Roth, a guerrilla warrior who had scaled buildings, evaded cops, cracked safes, caused chaos, made mayhem, defeated danger, all in the name of righteousness, destabilizing monolithic systems, striking a blow for the underdog. Clay Porter was no longer his tormentor; he was just another enemy, just another easily squashable cockroach in the house of justice.
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And that was why Eric couldn't agree to be his ally.
Not because of all the times Clay had left him bruised and humiliated in the muddy patch beneath the jungle gym, or the day he'd watched Eric gulp down his juice for several minutes before mentioning, "I peed in your thermos." Not because of the time he'd called Eric a turd-eating shithead and stuffed a fistful of dirt in his mouth. Not because of the wedgies or the flushies or the recess when Clay had pantsed him, then laughed as Eric, running away with his jeans flopping around his ankles, tripped, wiped out, and skidded headfirst across the basketball court, his bare legs and arms grinding into the cement, his Pikachu-covered ass in the air.
Not because, ten years later, he was still afraid.
"What's in it for me?" Clay leaned back against the low brick wall that bordered the far edge of the parking lot, took one last drag on his cigarette, then squeezed the burning tip between his thumb and forefinger and tossed it over the edge.
"A college education?" Max suggested, in the same whisper-tight voice he'd used to lay out their proposition. Schwarz and Eric hovered a couple feet behind, Schwarz's face pale, Eric's fists clenched tightly and shoved into his coat pockets.
"More school?" Three alarming, low-pitched barks issued from Clay's mouth like machine-gun fire. He gave his thigh a sharp smack, and the band of thick metal links around his wrist clanged against the chain strung from the pocket to the waistband of his low- slung jeans. It took everyone a moment to realize that this was the Clay Porter version of laughter. "Think I'm crazy?"
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"More like psychotic," Eric muttered. Max kicked his instep.
Clay's wolfish smile shrank down. "What'd he say?"
"Nothing," Max said quickly. "Nothing. So school's not your thing. Fine. Great. How about bragging rights?" The used-car- dealer sheen seeped back into his voice. "You'd be free to tell your story--I'm seeing morning talk shows, SNL skits, a New Yorker profile--"
"You want me"-- Clay's lips turned upward again--"to brag about hanging with youV
"Well, for obvious reasons, we'd prefer to stay anonymous," Max said. "But once we expose the hack, you'll be free to--"
"Pass." Clay slid off the wall, his baggy jeans sliding even farther down his waist as gravity took over. "Later."
"Running late to flush someone's head in the toilet?" Eric asked under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing," Max said. "Ignore him. I do."
Clay fingered the chain hanging from his
waist, wrapping the metal links around his knuckles. He glared at Eric. "You wanna say it to my face?"
"I said ..." Eric paused. He took a deep breath. "Nothing. Forget it."
Clay cleared his throat, leaned over, and hocked up a wad of spit. It splashed on the ground a few inches from Eric's feet. Then he straightened up and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, slipping out one for himself and--as an afterthought--one for Max.
Max gripped the slim white cylinder like a pencil. Clay flipped open a black lighter and held it out, but Max waved him away.
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"Trying to quit," he said, holding the unlit cigarette to his lips. "I just like the taste of them. You know how it is. The, uh, feel of it in your hands and all that."
"Been there, man."
A moment of solidarity. Max grabbed it. "Look . . . man. What'll it take to get you in on this with us?"
"You want me to, like, take tests and shit? Dress up like some geek and act like I care? No offense." He was staring at Schwarz, who hastily shook his head. None taken.
Max glanced at Eric, waiting for another muttered retort, but Eric was silent, his eyes fixed on the ground.
"It's just not my thing. Later." Clay shrugged and began to shuffle away, the frayed cuffs of his jeans brushing the pavement.
Max looked queasy. If they lost Clay, they lost the bet. There was one last resort, a doomsday measure that went against everything Max believed in, but desperate times . . .
"Cash!" he finally yelled, sounding like he was in pain.
Clay froze, though he didn't turn back. "How much?"
"Five hundred."
Eric flinched, Schwarz paled, and Max ignored them both. "You in?" he asked Clay.
"A hundred up front."
"Fifty."
"Seventy-five."
Max extended a hand. "Done."
Clay didn't shake. "You for real?"
"Would I lie?" Max asked. "To you? Trust me, I'm smarter than that--as maybe you've heard."
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"I say yes, that means we got a deal. That means you pay up--no matter what." Clay took several steps toward him, stopping only when Max's nose was an inch or so from his chin. "You smart enough to get what that means?"
Max, all 630 of the underdeveloped muscles in his body clenched, could barely nod his head. But it was enough.
Clay shrugged. "Then I'm in."
"Great!" Max exclaimed as Clay walked off. "Cool. Good to be working with you, man. So we'll be in touch, right? Yeah. Okay. Talk to you soon!" He was still babbling as the car door slammed, the engine roared to life, and the LeSabre roared out of the lot.
"Congratulations," Eric said sourly. "You just made a deal with the devil."
"No thanks to you!" Max snapped. "What the hell was that?"
"What?"
"More like psychotic," Max simpered, his Eric imitation sounding more like a ten-year-old girl. "Were you trying to screw this up for us?"
"I just want him to know what he is," Eric said.
"And that would be?"
"A bully- Max sighed. "Look, that shit he pulled on you was a long time
"I'm not talking about me!" Eric took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Slightly. "This isn't personal. This is about the principle of the thing. He picks on people who are weaker than him."
"Picked," Max said. "Past tense. He's on our side now. I know
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you're the king of the grudge-holders, but just this once, let it go?"
Eric made a whooshing sound and flourished his hands like a magician. "All gone. Happy now?"
"I'll be happy when we win and I've got a big lump of cash in my pocket."
"Um, speaking of our most assured victory," Schwarz said nervously, "can you just clarify something for me, please?"
"Anything, Professor Schwarz!" Max said expansively, his mood on the rebound. "Perhaps you'd like a lesson in the sublime art of bullshitting? Sorry to say, what you've witnessed here is less of a learned skill and more of a . . . let's say a gift." His head dipped in mock humility. "But it's one I'm only too happy to share with my brothers, for the sake of the mission. Of course, if you should feel the need to thank me, tokens of appreciation are never declined. House policy."
"It is not the prevaricating," Schwarz said. "It is the five hundred dollars. We are paying Clay Porter five hundred dollars?"
"Not us . . . exactly." Max fiddled with the silver Harvard key chain on his backpack, a "gift" from Maxwell Sr. "The Bums."
"And how do you figure that?" Eric asked.
"Seventy-five up front, we can handle that. The rest, we pay him out of our cut, when we win."
"Schwarz, you're the one who won the International Math Olympiad," Eric began.
Schwarz blushed. "Second place."
"Whatever. Why don't you explain to Max how it's mathematically impossible for us to pay Clay five hundred dollars of our threehundred-dollar cut?"
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"Excuse me, Max, but it seems like if we each get a hundred dollars, then--"
"It's possible the bet may be slightly bigger than you think," Max admitted.
Eric gritted his teeth. "How much?"
"You know what they say, size doesn't matter. It's not like we'll ever have to pay. We're going to win."
"How much?"
There was a pause.
"Twenty-five hundred."
"Dollars?" Schwarz yelped.
"No, pesos." Max rolled his eyes. "Of course dollars."
"You bet those goons twenty-five hundred dollars?" Eric pressed his hands to the sides of his head, like he was trying to prevent his brain from leaking out of his ears. "I don't have that kind of money--and I know you don't. Just tell them to forget it. Bet's off."
"I guess I could, but . . ."
"But what?"
Max gestured at the skid marks Clay's tires had left behind. "You heard our friendly neighborhood thug. Do you want to be the one to tell our new best friend that he doesn't get his money?" He smiled, scenting victory. "Your funeral. But you better leave me your sound system in your will."
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October 15 - CA:
Objective: Preliminary
Apparently, a whole lot of people got together one day and decided they would pick the prom king and queen of higher education.
--Ten Things You Gotta Know About Choosing a College, ed. SparkNotes
The admissions officer's pit stains were growing larger by the minute. "Of course there's no magic formula," he drawled, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping it across his forehead. Outside, winter had already arrived, with the first pre-Halloween snow Boston had seen in years. But in the wood- paneled conference room, which was stuffed well beyond its capacity, the heater burped and hissed, leeching moisture out of the stale air and turning wool sweaters into a distinct sartorial liability. "We examine each applicant's file and base our evaluation on any number of factors, ultimately"--he paused again, this time using the same handkerchief to blow his nose--"ultimately striving to create a balanced, unique, well-rounded freshman
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class that can most fully take advantage of the incredibly opportunities we have to offer."
Twenty-eight pairs of eyes tracked his every move, noting the color of his socks and the part in his thinning hair, boring into him like they could, through sheer force of will, dissect his Harvardian brain and uncover the secrets that lay inside. Twenty-eight hands scribbled down every word on twenty-eight well-worn notebooks, frantically flipping pages, preparing to fly into the air as soon as he uttered the magic words: "Any questions?" And twenty-eight nervous overachievers turned their questions over and over in their minds, massaging the phrases, polishing them until they reeked of erudite desperation, certain that this would be their one shining chance to make their mark.
Then there was the twenty-ninth hand, which was idle. The twenty-ninth pair of eyes, which, as often as possible, flicked away from the gray-suited admissions of
ficer and scanned the room. The twenty-ninth mind, which, instead of rehearsing a pointless question, was comparing each face with the dossiers he had at home, the folders of stats, surveillance data, and skeletons in the closet he had spent two weeks compiling.
There was plenty of work to be done, but Eric had been charged with the first and perhaps most important task: spying on the competition.
It was a special session for Cambridge-area students, half of whom came from Wadsworth High. Cambridge kids had a somewhat better chance of getting in than the rest of the country--it never hurt to butter up the locals--but that meant twice as many of them applied.
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And since applicants were evaluated by region and by school, local competition mattered, to the school, to the applicants--and to Eric. His MP3 player's microphone was taking everything in, while his cell phone was perfectly positioned to snap periodic shots. But no digital photos could reflect the full flavor of the meeting, and no recording could take the full measure of the competition. That was all up to Eric. So he watched. He listened.
He tried not to throw up.
Bernard Salazar had snagged a seat at the conference table and was typing everything he heard into a shiny new Sony VAIO. According to Eric's research, Bernard had a 3.6 GPA, mediocre SAT scores, and a father who'd just gotten out of prison for embezzling funds from his bankrupt public relations firm. The file didn't note Bernard's shifty eyes, chewed nails, and proclivity for eating--not gnawing on, but eating-- pencils, but Eric had made a mental note of it all.
Bernard, who usually dressed like a gangsta rapper but today was decked out in a Harvard-appropriate three-piece suit, never missed an Ivy League info session. Rumor had it that his father had offered him a Lexus SUV if he could get into Harvard.