Cheating Lessons: A Novel (8 page)

She gaped at Nadine, who was not looking at her. McAss had a brother?

Asst. Mgr. Vince took the soggy napkins and stuffed them in the trash can, talking the whole time. “Man, Anthony’s all hyped about that book thing with Pinehurst. I hope your team smashes them. If you’re in the market, I know a guy giving three to two.”

Bernadette’s forehead creased.

“On Wickham,” he added helpfully.

Nadine came out of her trance. “You mean, like, a bookie?”

Her rough voice seemed to fascinate him. “You got it. But the minimum bet’s twenty.” He shouted over the counter for a fresh coffee, then looked at their baffled faces. “Dollars, that is. In case you’re thinking pesos.”

Oh, joy. Another Cirillo smart aleck. He did look like Anthony, in a way, tall and athletic, with the black curly hair Nadine had already noticed. But Vince was clearly older, with an air of worldliness Anthony lacked. He had a crooked wise-guy smile
some
people might find attractive.

“Thanks.” Nadine purred. “We’ll think about it.”

Bernadette found her voice. “Hey, Vince?”

“Yo.”

“How’d you know who we were?”

“Anthony said. He just came on drive-thru.” Vince motioned toward the counter. Sure enough, there was Anthony’s curly head with an earphone stuck in one ear. He looked up from the soda machine and waved.

Vince eyed Nadine. “You girls mind if I sit with you a minute?”

“Actually, we’re in the middle of—”

“Sit here.” Nadine patted the bench beside her.

Vince gave her a smile that probably sold a lot of meal combos and went to fetch Bernadette a new coffee.

“What are you doing?” Bernadette kept her voice low with an effort. “He’s a
Cirillo.”

“He’s cute,” Nadine said, and then it was too late. Vince came back with two coffees, one for himself. He dropped a pile of creamers on the table. Bernadette dumped all of them into her cup, with four sugars.

“You know what? We just hired a Chinese kid. I bet you could talk to him better than me,” Vince said.

Bernadette stirred busily so Nadine would not see the grin spreading across her face. He might as well have offered them chopsticks.

Nadine’s smile vanished. “I am not Chinese,” she said icily. “I was born in Korea.” She did not call him a cretin, but it was in her voice.

He heard it. “Korea, huh? That’s cool. I’m terrible at telling what people are just by looking at them, unless they’re black, and then they could be Jamaican or Puerto Rican or . . .” He trailed off. Or Cuban or Kenyan or really tanned—Bernadette almost felt sorry for him. “I guess Korean’s a lot different from Chinese, am I right?”

“Right,” Nadine said shortly. She paused. A smidgen less coldly, she said, “Well, I think it is. I don’t happen to speak either one.”

Vince’s nose twitched like a beagle’s at her defensive tone. He leaned toward her. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He tapped his chest with one finger. “Me neither.”

Nadine choked on her drink, and even Bernadette’s lips twisted. Vince
was
kind of funny.

Nadine thought so. Bernadette slunk down in her seat as her fellow National Honor Society officer tittered like a bad actress in a Tennessee Williams play, tossed her ruler-straight hair, and took off her glasses every few minutes to gaze into Vince’s eyes.

Vince lapped it up.

Bernadette finished her chicken sandwich. And the remaining fries. And the scraped-off fish-coating on Nadine’s tray. She was seriously considering the beige sludge in her cup when Vince finally said something of interest.

He wanted to know what kinds of questions they’d get in the Classics Bowl.

“Oh, stuff like who wrote
Tristram Shandy
. What was the setting for Thoreau’s most famous book, how many syllables in an iamb. That kind of thing.” Nadine started to flick back her hair, caught Bernadette watching her, and dropped her hand into her lap. “Like
Jeopardy!
Only all the categories will be literature. You know—books.”

Vince nodded. “I love that show.” He spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “You get guys on there who don’t know sh— much, and they’ll bet the farm on Final Jeopardy and get lucky.” He shook his head over gut-clenching finales of the past. “No offense, but it’s always your men players who take the biggest risks.” He tore his eyes away from Nadine. “So, Bernadette. My little brother says if you get run over by a truck, the Wizards are dead meat. I guess you know your Shakespeare, huh?”

Bernadette was flattered in spite of herself. Anthony might toss margarine pats up on the cafeteria ceiling so they’d melt and fall down on people’s heads, but he knew smart. She shrugged. “I know some.”

Vince waited. Nadine nodded encouragement.

Honestly. “ ‘ . . . foul deeds will rise, / Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.’ ”

“Cool,” Vince said. “What is it?”

“Hamlet.”

“Bet’s got a photographic memory,” Nadine boasted.

“Yeah, that’s what Anthony said. But can she remember enough to beat Pinehurst’s butt one more time?”

From Vince you expected “butt.” That wasn’t what made Bernadette quiver as though an invisible spitball had glanced off her neck. As though his words had triggered them, other voices set up a clamor in her head.

“She’ll look fine at the Classics Bowl, giving ’em hell.”

“Glenn Kim. Uriah Heep. What I wouldn’t give to humiliate him.”

“I’ve never won anything for brains.”

“This team can have The Power, Bernadette.”

“The superintendent called twice. A private school—ha!”

A plastic knife jabbed her arm. Nadine was glaring at her.

“Sorry. What’d you say?”

“Vince wants to know if you think we have a chance—”

“Of a snowball in hell,” Vince put in.

“Of winning. I said we were just talking about that.” Nadine put her glasses back on and stared meaningfully through them. “Weren’t we?”

Bernadette hiccupped. She had no proof the scores had been fixed. And no intention, now, of looking for any.

The Power surged through her veins. “Vince?” she said. “Do you own any cropland? Wheat futures, soybeans? ’Cause we can help you triple your investment.”

Nadine gurgled. She turned to Vince, and her black eyes glistened. “My partner is saying you should bet the farm—on the Wizards.”

Nadine drove the long way home without being reminded.

The day was cool but sunny. Mr. Malory was out in the parking lot of his apartment complex, waxing the Porsche.

They drove by, and Bernadette hid her face in the shoulder harness. They’d passed Kmart before her insides returned to normal. “Did he see us?” she demanded.

“I don’t think so.”

He’d had on an old T-shirt. It was surprising what you could notice in two seconds. His bare arms had rubbed the gleaming hood over and over, his muscles visible (to the keen eye) from the highway.

Oh, that she might be a fender on that car.

CHAPTER NINE

Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things.

—Robert Browning

M
r. Malory scheduled their first strategy session for Thursday night.

Not so fast, was the reaction he got. Sure, they wanted to win, but Thursday was a bad night. Lori had dance class, Anthony had to work, Nadine had some commitment she didn’t identify, Bernadette had to meet some freshmen debaters at the Creighton library. David had nothing to do but joined in the protest companionably.

Mr. Malory watched them with lifted eyebrows. One by one the objections petered out. By Wednesday everyone had rearranged their schedules. The Classics Bowl was an American institution their teacher took very seriously.

Bernadette turned the key in the ignition. Nothing

“Oh, no.” This was the Suburban’s revenge on her for all the mean things she had said about it. “You’re a good little truck,” she crooned. “You’re not old and smelly at
all.
I’m proud to be seen in you.”

She turned the key again. From deep in the bowels of the engine came a tiny protesting whine, followed by a silence of pure malice.

“Be that way, you sorry piece of junk.”

She stared at the dashboard clock. Her parents were at a church meeting. She’d have to call someone on the team.

In the kitchen she grabbed the phone and cursed Mr. Malory for holding this first meeting in Ann Arbor. It was forty-five minutes away, for Pete’s sake. But he’d reserved a private conference room at the university library, with multiple copies of the books they’d need, plus temporary borrowing privileges. Courtesy of the Classics Contest research committee, whose chairwoman taught at U. of M. The perfect setup, he called it.

Would Pinehurst be there, Nadine wanted to know. Her new Korean-English dictionary had taught her how to say “your fly is open,” and she wanted to spring it on Glenn Kim.

Mr. Malory seemed glad someone had asked. No, Pinehurst had declined. Their coach had been offended at the suggestion that a university library might be superior to the Pinehurst collection. The ironic look that accompanied this sent a unifying ripple of disdain through the Wizards.

But now, frantically dialing Nadine, Bernadette didn’t think Pinehurst so dumb. If the meeting had been at her own school she could have jogged there.

Nadine had left an hour ago, Mrs. Walczak said, sounding surprised. “She said she had to stop at McDonald’s. I thought she was meeting you there, Bernadette.”

“Nope, not tonight.” Bernadette felt a flicker of annoyance. Nadine might at least have mentioned it.

She leafed through the school directory.

David, too, had already left. To pick up Anthony.

At the Besh’s she got Lori’s voice on the answering machine.

Her blood pressure rose. She would rather take an extra semester of gym than miss this meeting.

She dialed a number she knew by heart, though she’d never called it. It answered on the second ring. “You’re there!” she said in a squeak.

“I live here, Bernadette.”

He knew her voice! “I meant, I thought you’d have left by now. The thing is, my car won’t start. I can’t make it.”

“I’m just out the door,” Mr. Malory said crisply. “Where do you live?”

Bernadette gulped and told him. She grinned fiendishly at the refrigerator. Wait till Nadine heard.

The carpeting in the little car had been freshly shampooed. Brown leather seats gleamed with recent buffing. Bernadette sniffed appreciatively. Mr. Malory’s car smelled as good as he did.

She could have stretched out her left arm and touched the driver’s side window. The thought of what else she might touch made her dizzy.

“What kind of car is this?” She practically had to yell over the engine roar. She saw Mr. Malory’s disbelieving glance. In Michigan, kindergartners knew Chryslers from Fords.

“I know it’s a Porsche,” she said quickly. “I meant what kind of Porsche.”

“Oh,” he said. “A ’75 911 Carerra. My first major purchase in America, I’ll have you know.” He patted the leather-wrapped steering wheel affectionately. “What do you think of her?”

“She’s fast.”

He laughed, but they didn’t slow down.

He wore jeans tonight, and a plain black shirt that turned his skin paler and made his eyes greener. No seat belt. Probably considered them sissy. But they were going at least eighty-five in a sixty-five zone and that was zippy even for Detroit. Exciting, yes. Nonetheless, Bernadette tightened her shoulder strap and offered a quick prayer to St. Christopher.