shown on my face anyhow.
“Exactly,” said Natalie.
Eight
“Quinn wouldn’t have,” I said. “He couldn’t have.”
“Why not?” said Natalie.
I searched for a response. “He sucks at math.”
“Why would he need math?” she asked. “It’s not like he was writing the code or keeping the books — he could always delegate the menial tasks. No, what he needed was imagination and charisma, and you know Quinn has plenty of both.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Quinn was always doing things that weren’t part of the program for a typical Upper East Side guy, like surfing and experimental theater, which definitely showed imagination. As for charisma, nobody else gave me brain paralysis just by walking into a room.
And that’s when the realization hit me, like a wave of freezing water: The launch of the poker site coincided almost exactly with when Quinn had stopped asking about T.K.
It took a moment to process what that could mean, but once I did, I wished I hadn’t. Because maybe Charley was right — Quinn wasn’t being apathetic or losing interest — he’d had something else on his mind. And that something else was being the brains behind a gambling scheme that could get him expelled.
Which was disturbing all on its own, but it also led to the most disturbing thought yet: Simply put, if Quinn was the brains behind the operation, then he was actually a moron.
I mean, it would be one thing to find out he had an entrepreneurial streak. But he should have known better than to involve himself in something that might not be legal and to do it here at school to boot. It wasn’t like he needed the money, either, and nobody had mentioned anything about how the proceeds were being used to shelter a homeless family or fund an arts program for underprivileged children.
And Quinn being moronic was a huge problem. Getting my head around that would throw everything I knew and thought and wanted into question.
Getting my heart around it might be impossible.
I put down my half-eaten grilled cheese and pushed the plate away. I’d lost my appetite.
I knew without asking how Charley would tell me to handle this situation, which was to ask Quinn directly instead of spinning imaginary scenarios and getting increasingly upset. So, gathering up what little courage I had, I spent the remainder of my lunch period trying to track him down.
But he was nowhere to be found. Not in the senior lounge, which I’d never set foot in before but was nearly empty today, and not on the stairwell landing where he sometimes hung out between classes. And then, last period, he wasn’t even in drama.
It wasn’t just Quinn, either. When I arrived in the auditorium, most of the seniors were missing, some because they’d been suspended pending further disciplinary action and others because they were sequestered in the library, waiting their turn to be called into Mr. Seton’s office for interrogation. The ones who did make it to class were either confirmed loners who might be plotting other forms of mayhem but would never be associated with something as mainstream as gambling, or the type who’d trip over themselves to be the first to report anybody doing anything the slightest bit suspicious.
And, of course, Gwyneth, who seemed to think we were best friends now that her actual friends were unavailable. As Alliance members, they’d all been either implicated already or swept up in Mr. Seton’s dragnet.
“Hey,” she said, plopping herself down on the patch of stage right next to me. Even weirder, the corners of her lips angled the tiniest bit upward, almost like a smile.
Class, meanwhile, turned out to be a lecture from Mr. Dudley on parallels between The Crucible and “the machinations of a rigid establishment intent on crushing the creative spark,” not that he mentioned Mr. Seton or anyone else by name. It was better than having to sit alone in a corner again doing Lady Macbeth, but it also made me wonder if Mr. Dudley
“Exactly,” said Natalie.
Eight
“Quinn wouldn’t have,” I said. “He couldn’t have.”
“Why not?” said Natalie.
I searched for a response. “He sucks at math.”
“Why would he need math?” she asked. “It’s not like he was writing the code or keeping the books — he could always delegate the menial tasks. No, what he needed was imagination and charisma, and you know Quinn has plenty of both.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Quinn was always doing things that weren’t part of the program for a typical Upper East Side guy, like surfing and experimental theater, which definitely showed imagination. As for charisma, nobody else gave me brain paralysis just by walking into a room.
And that’s when the realization hit me, like a wave of freezing water: The launch of the poker site coincided almost exactly with when Quinn had stopped asking about T.K.
It took a moment to process what that could mean, but once I did, I wished I hadn’t. Because maybe Charley was right — Quinn wasn’t being apathetic or losing interest — he’d had something else on his mind. And that something else was being the brains behind a gambling scheme that could get him expelled.
Which was disturbing all on its own, but it also led to the most disturbing thought yet: Simply put, if Quinn was the brains behind the operation, then he was actually a moron.
I mean, it would be one thing to find out he had an entrepreneurial streak. But he should have known better than to involve himself in something that might not be legal and to do it here at school to boot. It wasn’t like he needed the money, either, and nobody had mentioned anything about how the proceeds were being used to shelter a homeless family or fund an arts program for underprivileged children.
And Quinn being moronic was a huge problem. Getting my head around that would throw everything I knew and thought and wanted into question.
Getting my heart around it might be impossible.
I put down my half-eaten grilled cheese and pushed the plate away. I’d lost my appetite.
I knew without asking how Charley would tell me to handle this situation, which was to ask Quinn directly instead of spinning imaginary scenarios and getting increasingly upset. So, gathering up what little courage I had, I spent the remainder of my lunch period trying to track him down.
But he was nowhere to be found. Not in the senior lounge, which I’d never set foot in before but was nearly empty today, and not on the stairwell landing where he sometimes hung out between classes. And then, last period, he wasn’t even in drama.
It wasn’t just Quinn, either. When I arrived in the auditorium, most of the seniors were missing, some because they’d been suspended pending further disciplinary action and others because they were sequestered in the library, waiting their turn to be called into Mr. Seton’s office for interrogation. The ones who did make it to class were either confirmed loners who might be plotting other forms of mayhem but would never be associated with something as mainstream as gambling, or the type who’d trip over themselves to be the first to report anybody doing anything the slightest bit suspicious.
And, of course, Gwyneth, who seemed to think we were best friends now that her actual friends were unavailable. As Alliance members, they’d all been either implicated already or swept up in Mr. Seton’s dragnet.
“Hey,” she said, plopping herself down on the patch of stage right next to me. Even weirder, the corners of her lips angled the tiniest bit upward, almost like a smile.
Class, meanwhile, turned out to be a lecture from Mr. Dudley on parallels between The Crucible and “the machinations of a rigid establishment intent on crushing the creative spark,” not that he mentioned Mr. Seton or anyone else by name. It was better than having to sit alone in a corner again doing Lady Macbeth, but it also made me wonder if Mr. Dudley
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