Con Academy Read Free Page A

“You mean to tell me your great-great-grandparents didn’t change their names at Ellis Island?” I hold up my hands. “Oh, wait, your great-great-grandparents probably
owned
Ellis Island . . .”
    â€œMy ancestors . . .” she starts, and her voice trails away. “Again, that’s not the point. What you did is different.”
    â€œHow?”
    Andrea changes her approach. “What about
your
parents? Your
real
parents, I mean. What do they think about all of this?”
    â€œLet’s just say . . .” I glance at the framed photo of the three of us on the desk. “When it comes to family, sometimes the myth is better.”
    And to my surprise, she nods as if that makes some kind of sense to her. “I’m assuming you’ve got some kind of long-range plan, at least?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” I say. “As rich and ambitious as your fellow classmates are, some part of them is dying to help a poor, disenfranchised missionary kid from the Pacific Islands find his way in the big, scary world. Which is why, by winter break, one of them is going to invite me to spend the holidays with his family in Davos, or St. Barts, to show off to Mummy and Daddy how he’s learning to help those less fortunate than him. And by next summer, I’ll practically have been adopted into the family. I’ll do a summer internship at somebody’s law office, maybe a clerkship on Capitol Hill. A year from now I’ll be applying to Harvard with everybody else. After that, law school or business school, and a job at one of the white shoe firms in Manhattan. Hello, Fortune Five Hundred.”
    â€œImpressive,” she says. “You’ve really got us all figured out, don’t you?”
    I shrug. “If there’s one thing more reliable than greed, it’s pity.”
    â€œWhat is that, your family motto or something?”
    â€œHey, I’m a realist.”
    â€œAnd how old are you, again? Forty?”
    â€œLook,” I say, “if I can help tomorrow’s captains of industry sleep soundly at night with their white liberal guilt, then I call it a win.”
    â€œMeanwhile, you’ve got no sense of guilt whatsoever . . . ?”
    â€œWhy should I? I’m not hurting anybody.”
    She’s just looking at me, and I can’t read her expression anymore.
    â€œOkay.” I let out a sigh. “If you’re going to rat me out, I’d appreciate a little advance notice so I can pack my stuff. I mean, this is a great school and everything, but it’s not worth getting sent to juvenile detention over.”
    â€œWill?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œRelax,” she says, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You’re just about the most interesting thing that’s happened to this place in sixty years. I’m not going to rat you out.”
    I feel the way she’s holding on to my shoulders and realize she’s right. Things around here just got a lot more interesting. “So I hear there’s a Homecoming dance coming up in a couple of weeks?”
    Andrea doesn’t say anything at first, just slips me a smile in return as she turns and starts toward the door.
    â€œOne step at a time,” she says. “Meanwhile”—she pauses to take one last look at the framed photo of the happy family on my desk—“your secret’s safe with me.”

Three
    I ’M TOTALLY ASLEEP, BURIED UNDER THREE LAYERS OF BLANKETS , when a fist pounding on the door shoots me fifty stories straight up into stark reality. It’s late, or really early—I can’t tell. The glowing blue numerals next to my head read 1:11.
    â€œWake up, Mr. Humbert,” a harsh voice orders from out in the hall. “Open the door. Right now.”
    I sit up, kicking off the blankets, and swing my legs around, still half asleep and dreaming of room service at the Ritz-Carlton.