Early Decision Read Free Page B

them?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI hope not. That would suck,” he said.
    â€œIt would.”
    â€œBut what’s the deal with the essay?” Hunter asked.
    â€œWell, forget about the essay for a moment,” Anne told him. This was the best way with boys—try to make them forget they were writing at all. Girls preferred to drill down; boys needed to be distracted. It made using their voices safer. “Can we just think of writing a—I don’t know, let’s say an e-mail, from Montana? To . . . Nicole. Is that right?”
    â€œYeah.” He dropped his head so fast it was as though he’d sustained a blow. He really liked this girl.
    â€œSo you’re writing to her, to tell her about the stuff you’re seeing in Montana. And why it’s cool. And why you don’t want to come back to Winnetka, and why you wish you could just send for your stuff and mail farewell postcards to all your teachers. Right?”
    â€œTotally.”
    â€œSo just write that e-mail. But send it to me. Okay?”
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œJust an e-mail. To me. And I’ll see you next week.” Anne began packing up her bag.
    â€œUm, oh-kay. Whatever,” he sang at her.
    But it was a false challenge. Hunter had taken off his hat and was working the brim again; he was already thinking. This was keen distraction in the guise of apathy. A classic teenage feint. He didn’t look up to say good-bye, and Anne let herself out the wide front door. Through the window she saw him lower his head to the shiny dining table and rest it there, as though exhausted. Hunter Pfaff was in agony. It was a very good sign.
    Â 
    T HE OFFICES OF Blanchard, McHenry, Winsett & Blair formed the anchor tenant of a landmark building on Grant Park, overlooking the long, low roof of the Art Institute and, to the east, the bright crescent of Lake Michigan. August heat silvered the city. Anne wore a dress. Three secretaries passed her back into the labyrinth, through doors they unlocked with sliding cards. She settled outside the big door with a fresh Vanity Fair and lemon water from a glass pitcher.
    â€œAnne?” asked a voice.
    She looked up. It was a very young man. For a moment she was so puzzled her mind went blank, and she felt her arms begin to prickle with nerves. But then the picture snapped back into focus: this was not Gideon Blanchard but a colleague, must be a very junior assistant, whom Anne had known—where? In high school. Must have been. She scrambled for his name.
    â€œOh, hi!” she replied.
    â€œDon’t get up,” he said. “I’m just running somewhere. But I thought that was you and I wanted to say hi. Listen, what are you doing here?”
    Anne thought that an impertinent question to ask in a high-powered law firm, but she must not have looked terribly distressed—or high-powered. “I have a meeting with Gideon Blanchard,” she told him. Her mind was flipping through files, trying to pull up anything at all. He was tall and very lean, with a sharp chin and oddly angled cheekbones that she remembered from the long afternoon class they’d shared. Some elective, senior year. He’d been younger by a year. Ian? Liam?
    â€œOh, the big man!” he replied, openly impressed. “Well, have fun with that. He’s a great guy. I really admire him. You a lawyer?”
    â€œNope, no. Are you?”
    â€œYeah, second year. It’s a grind, what can I say? But this is as good a place as any, so it’s cool. You a journalist, then?”
    The question smarted. She had no interest in law, but journalism was a sometime dream. “Ah, nope. Just working with Mr. Blanchard on a private project.” She always protected her clients’ confidentiality, though Gideon Blanchard’s feelings weren’t the ones at stake here.
    â€œGot it. Okay, well, cool. Good to see you! You look great, by the