Andy Dent was dressed the same as the four boys with him. Each wore a nice button-down shirt and a solid-colored tie. The group’s lone girl, Hilary Eichel, wore stylish white-rimmed eyeglasses, plaid skater skirt with dark leggings, and underneath her white button-down blouse-Hilary adhered to the school dress code as well-a fitted T-shirt that read: THINK LIKE A PROTON AND STAY POSITIVE. The words on her T-shirt were barely legible through her overshirt’s fabric. However, the near-frantic look on Hilary’s face, and those of her friends, said nobody was in a particularly positive mood.
In the background, a sea of students, most carrying backpacks, ambled from one building to another. They chatted easily with friends, or buried their faces in their smartphones. It was a normal March scene at Pepperell Academy; but for The Shire, things were far from normal. They looked away from each other, as no one felt comfortable being the first to break the silence.
Rafa spoke up finally.
“We have to get this over with,” he said. “I have track practice.”
Two of the six members of The Shire were on school-sponsored sports teams. Rafael Dufoe, who had curly, black hair, olive skin, and the whisper of a mustache, could run an 800-meter race in two minutes, eight seconds, which was not the best in the state, or even at The Pep, but it did put him a few strides ahead of some other runners. “Rafa,” the nickname his friends in The Shire gave him, was exceedingly thin. Some thought he had an eating disorder or digestive problem, but neither was true. Rafa simply had the metabolism of a hummingbird.
Andy seethed and his face went red. He addressed Rafa through gritted teeth. “Your track practice can wait,” he said. “I think this is just a little bit more important.”
Andy was the group’s founder and de facto leader, and it was his text message that had brought them all together. “It’s been over a week since it went missing. One of us has it,” Andy said, his voice shaky, “and one of us better fess up. Solomon?”
Solomon Burke was the other athlete in the group. As the captain of Pepperell Academy’s bowling team, Solomon had led the school to a championship two years running. While few students at The Pep considered bowling a sport-most would call it a recreational activity-Solomon had a different opinion. He was a cranker, which meant he created as much spin as possible by using a cupped wrist with his delivery. Spin was what made the bowling ball hook, and it was also the reason Solomon had recorded two 300 games and bowled a 274, 258, and 279 at his last tournament. Somewhat fittingly, Solomon’s physique matched the shape of the ball with which he had crushed the school’s bowling record.
“I told you, I don’t have it,” Solomon snapped. “I don’t.”
Solomon looked close to tears.
They were all on the verge of tears. Pallid complexions. Bags under the eyes because there hadn’t been a good night’s sleep among them. Shoulders hunched, weighted down with dread.
Hilary Eichel gave Solomon a hard stare, but she couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Hilary often referred to her friends Rafa and Solomon as “Abbott and Costello.” It was a joke few at The Pep could appreciate; most students knew nothing about Abbott and Costello, and would not understand the reference.
As a self-proclaimed geek, Hilary embraced the Geek Chic style with flair. An attractive girl, Hilary got a lot of attention from the boys because of her looks. When they tried to flirt, she’d intentionally yawn. This usually sent them away. She had hazel eyes, long-layered brown hair, with ginger-colored strands, and a pert nose. She was in good shape, and could probably beat Rafa in a race if they ever went head to head, but Hilary was more mathlete than athlete. She already had taken two semesters of AP calculus and was currently acing her college-level statistics and probability course.
“We’re all just going to deny it,” Hilary said as if it were a matter of fact.
A cool wind kicked up and mussed Hilary’s hair. She brushed the strands away from her face as her gaze retreated back to the dusty ground. March was not a particularly beautiful time of year at The Pep. Today the sun was a cool pale disc brushed upon a cloudless blue sky, but The Quad itself was an ugly shade of brown, and the tree branches were barren. In a few more weeks, nature would work its magic and everything would bloom and change and look like the pictures on the website and brochures, the ones that lured prospective students to the campus for a tour.
The brochures did a nice job of showcasing the western Massachusetts campus, but it wasn’t the natural beauty and the historic buildings that inspired parents to fork over $45,000 a year for tuition and board. It was what they got for the money that had most students (and their parents) salivating.
A diploma from The Pep might not guarantee admission into an elite college, but it sure didn’t hurt. A lot of graduates went on to prestigious schools and to do big things in life, which was exactly what The Pep counted on. While the average amount spent per pupil in Massachusetts hovered around $14,000 per year, The Pep blew that figure away by investing $52,000 annually to house and educate each of its twelve hundred students. To bridge the gap between tuition and costs, The Pep relied heavily on its endowment, which, thanks to a wealthy alumni base and shrewd investments, had topped $1 billion last year.
Some students depended on scholarships to cover their elite education, but most of The Shire came from privilege. Not Andy, though. He was in a special category. Because his father worked at the school, Andy got free tuition-tuition remission-and it came with some self-imposed pressure to do well. His GPA never drifted below 3.8, an impressive feat considering most of his classes were AP or high honors. Andy’s father worked what Andy thought was a dead-end job to get him this education, which made Andy grateful for that sacrifice and determined to succeed.
At the moment, however, what mattered most to Andy wasn’t his stellar academic record. It was an answer to his question.
“David, did you take it?”
Andy was glaring at David Townsend, who hailed from Chicago, and was the best (and only) bassoon player in the school’s orchestra. David preferred to be called by his hacker name, “Dark Matter,” and his eyes narrowed in displeasure when Andy used his given name. David was a tall, gangly boy, with a gap in his front teeth and freckled skin that reddened quickly in the sun. While not exactly handsome, David attracted a lot of attention because of his long hair, which descended well past his shoulders. David often wore his hair down, as if to invite ridicule from fellow students who would call him a girl and think they were being clever. Unlike Hilary, who ignored the attention of boys she found tiresome and juvenile, David embraced the taunts, maybe even trolled for them, as a way of proving they didn’t really matter.
“I don’t have it. I told you a million times. It’s just gone.”
Rafa began to pace. His breathing turned shallow.
“We’re dead. We’re all dead.”
“Calm down,” Andy said. His voice had a hard edge, almost scolding. “It’s not going to do us any good to panic. We just need to get honest with each other and not be greedy. Nobody will be in trouble. But the money has to be given back.”
Rafa put his hands on his knees and breathed as if he’d just run a race.
Andy looked up at the sky to clear his head and calm his nerves. He blinked away the sunspots and regarded Troy Cranston with suspicion. At fifteen, Troy, a sophomore, was the youngest member of The Shire. He also had the highest IQ of a group comprising high-IQ people.
Troy had on his favorite ratty, gray hooded sweatshirt over his school-mandated shirt and tie, and the dark sunglasses he wore anytime, day or night, outdoors or indoors. Troy didn’t like it when people knew what he was looking at. He also didn’t want anybody to see how scared he was. Troy shook his head back at Andy.