The Adventures of Jack Lime by James Leck Page B

I apologized and promised to stay on the straight and narrow. Then I kissed my grandma good-bye and headed back to Iona High. I needed to see Tyrone, and fast.
    Tuesday, June 3, 12:31 p.m.
Iona High, The Cafeteria
    Tyrone was about as hard to find in the cafeteria as a wolf at a sheep convention. Except in this case, he was the sheep, and somewhere in the crowd there was a wolf who was ready to bite the head off little old Carver if I didn’t watch my step. Tyrone was sitting at the back with two empty trays of food in front of him and a physics textbook jammed under his nose. I tossed the essay onto the table.
    He grimaced at the stink before he realized what it was. “What are you doing!” he cried. “If that’s not in the can, Carver’s a goner!”
    â€œRelax,” I said, sitting down. “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I think we’re dealing with a fakeloo artist who’s just blowing a lot of hot air.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI talked to my English teacher today. We don’t even have a copy of
The Old Man and the Sea
at Iona High. The teacher who used to torture his students with this particular essay retired two years ago. Plus, Leoni collects the garbage on Mondays. I don’t think your hamster- napper ever intended on making off with this essay or any of your work. It all just got collected with the trash.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” he said and pounded the table with his hands. The two trays jumped six inches and landed with a crash. The cafeteria got quiet, and quick. I think they were expecting Tyrone to rip my head off.
    â€œNothing to see here,” I said, turning to face the room full of slack-jawed gawkers. “There’s nothing to see here, kids.” For the time being, everyone went back to their business.
    â€œWhy would someone get me to write an essay that was never assigned and that they’d never pick up?” Tyrone hissed.
    â€œThat’s why I’m here. I need to pick your brain. Who would get a kick out of you doing a whole bunch of projects? Why would someone do that to you?”
    â€œWell,” Tyrone started, “it’s kept me pretty busy. I mean, it’s kept me up late, and I don’t have much time for my own homework. It’s made my grades slip a little.”
    â€œThat’s a start,” I said. “What kind of grades do you get?”
    â€œPerfect grades.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, perfect?”
    â€œPerfect. One hundred percent.”
    â€œYou always get one hundred percent? On everything?”
    â€œI used to, until Carver disappeared. The extra work has hurt me. I think I’ve got a ninety-eight average now.”
    â€œA ninety-eight average? And you take pre-cal, physics, chemistry and biology?”
    â€œAdvanced chemistry and biology. Unfortunately, there’s no advanced physics here.”
    â€œJeesh, I guess I thought those kinds of grades were reserved for fairy tales.”
    â€œNo fairy tale,” Tyrone said. “I need those grades so I can win the Luxemcorp Prize. If I don’t win that, I’m not going to university.”
    FYI — When Luxemcorp was done creating this little slice of suburban heaven called Iona, they needed to convince city slickers to move into their gated metropolis. So they threw in the kinds of perks that only a gazillion- dollar multinational conglomerate is able to offer; things like free Segways, golf course memberships, a high-speed train to zip them into the city, a sprinkling of classy boutiques and a smattering of hip restaurants. Plus, one gigantic scholarship for the top high school graduate. In honor of themselves, they called it the Luxemcorp Prize.
    â€œHow much is that worth?” I asked.
    â€œThirty-five grand each year you’re in university,” he said, and then slammed his hand down on the table, sending the trays flying again.