true performer, preaching and whooping and imploring the audience to better themselves. There was music. There were light shows. There were more chants and tears. A new product was unveiled, MyTality™ Gro-Rite, a pill that promised stronger, healthier hair and nails after only one week of use.
I heard more than I ever hoped to about the myTality™ product line. Supplements, vitamins, powders. Shakes and juices. Skin creams for aging, for acne, for radiance. Products that made you healthier. Made you happier. And most important, products that turned back the clock.
“Maybe people shouldn’t fight acne if they want to look younger,” I whispered to Mother.
She shushed me.
“Now I wanna ask you something, and I’m lookin’ for an honest answer,” Oswald drawled. “How old would you guess I am?”
People shouted numbers, as if they were taking the moment very seriously, though I was 84 percent sure they’d seen the skit before.
“Thirty-five!” someone called.
“Forty!”
“Thirty-eight!”
“Thirty-four!”
Oswald held up his hands for quiet. “Listen to this and hear me well: I turn fifty years old this year.”
The crowd went wild.
There was absolutely no way J. Quincy Oswald was fifty. No way.
“You wanna know why I look so good?” he asked.
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
He waited until the room fell silent, drawing out the moment. “Because I faithfully use myTality products!”
I sighed deeply. The seminar was even more nauseating than I’d imagined.
And yet, I thought, yet…
Yet I was mildly intrigued by J. Quincy Oswald. By the way he held people rapt, made the crowd hang on his every word. I thought of the hoax, my own massive con. A small, dark part of me wondered if I might be able to learn something about trickery from Oswald.
The seminar shifted focus from health products to myTality™ being a “prepackaged, proven business opportunity.” With myTality™, Oswald claimed, you worked when you wanted, where you wanted, and how you wanted.
Was anyone listening to his words? Or was it the cadence of his speech that captivated people? Was it the confident set of his shoulders? Was it the way he peered at the audience, as if trying to make eye contact with each individual attendee?
“You’ve heard the old saying,” Oswald went on. “Money doesn’t buy happiness. And that’s true. But I’ve been dirt poor. I know what it’s like to watch bills stack up, to wonder where my next meal is gonna come from.”
Some audience members nodded in acknowledgment. A few sniffled. I glanced at Mother and raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that she’d never had to worry about money. She ignored me.
“So no,” Oswald continued, “money won’t buy happiness. But I’ll tell you what it can do: it can buy you freedom—freedom to better yourself and seek out the happiness you deserve.”
As the seminar drew to a close, Oswald made a big production of giving awards to our region’s top-ten distributors. I nearly fell out of my chair when Mother was acknowledged as number seven.
When she got back from traipsing across the stage, where she received a wooden plaque directly from Oswald, I turned to her.
“Number seven out of how many?” I asked.
“Thousands.”
“Huh,” I replied, grudgingly impressed. “Congratulations.”
“I’ve told you this is a real business venture for me.”
She had. Yet I’d assumed she was bleeding our finances with all the products she had stocked in the barn. It never occurred to me she might be bringing money in.
Despite the new respect I had for Mother’s business skills and my slight curiosity about Oswald, I was relieved when the seminar finally ended. As we filed out of the conference room with the rest of the crowd—most people shuffling along with expressions of dazed wonder—I pulled out my phone and skimmed my shopping list.
“We might have to make two stops, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine,” Mother said agreeably. “But first we’re going backstage to meet Oz.”
I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose. “Please don’t make me do that.”
“It’s a perk of being in the top ten,” Mother replied. “It’s an honor.”
I knew from her steely expression that her mind wouldn’t be changed. I let her lead me backstage, where J. Quincy Oswald held court among a bevy of adoring fans.
“Jane Hofstadt,” he said with a grin when he noticed her.
Mother looked like she’d been personally recognized by Jesus Christ. “You remembered!”
“I’d never forget a distributor with the drive and dedication you have,” he said.
Mother blushed.
“And who do we have here?” Oswald asked, glancing at me.
“This is my son, Gideon.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oswald,” I said politely.
He grabbed my hand,