Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,1

I broke into a sprint. Twenty-four hours earlier, I would have crashed into a dozen students wearing Wheaton blazers as I raced across campus, but finals were over, and my classmates were winging their way to Aspen, Taos, and the Caribbean for the holidays. I was spending Christmas in the comfort and splendor of my dorm room, but that hardly mattered because in a few short months I’d be going to Princeton. With Claire.

Or at least I would be if Claire completed her application. She had been putting off writing her personal essay for weeks, and her lack of anxiety about it was giving me anxiety. Not that she had anything to worry about. As a third-generation Princeton legacy with a 3.95 GPA and outstanding SATs, Claire Benson was as close to a slam dunk as there was. Still, legacy or not, all applications had to be postmarked by January first. No exceptions.

I was obsessing over this when I approached the dorms and spotted Claire standing in the parking lot surrounded by suitcases. As a young girl Claire had studied ballet, and with her dancer’s poise and brown hair pulled back tight she still resembled the ballerina she’d wanted to be in grade school. God, she was beautiful. And smart. And rich. What she was doing with a scholarship student like me, I had no idea. But I wasn’t complaining. Well, except for her not finishing her essay. Otherwise, she was like one of those flawless and dazzling specters you met on the highest level of a video game.

I vaulted over a hedge and was about a hundred yards away from her when the biggest Mercedes I’d ever seen glided into the parking lot, and Ken and Barbie hopped out. Okay, so maybe Claire’s parents weren’t really named Ken and Barbie, but that’s who they looked like—only older and with better skin.

Claire claimed her parents wanted to meet me, but one look at their car, clothes, and diamond-crusted accessories, and I was so intimidated I hid behind an azalea bush. Yes, I know this was 110 percent pathetic, but I’d spent zero time around people like the Bensons, and something told me they would not be impressed by my floppy hair, chipped-tooth smile, and JCPenney attire. Not to mention that at five foot nine, Claire was an inch taller than me—three if she wore heels. Claire swore this wasn’t a big deal, but I knew it was the first thing people noticed when they saw us together. I kept hoping her parents would dash off for a quick game of tennis and give Claire and me some time alone, but this did not happen. Instead, they loaded up their Mercedes and drove off without so much as a glance in my direction.

Embarrassed at myself and despondent, I climbed out from behind the azalea bush and watched as their taillights grew smaller in the distance. By the time they disappeared, my heart had turned to Jell-O, and there was nothing left to do but trudge back to my room and endure the passing hours until classes resumed in January. I counted every crack in the tiles as I moped down the hallways and every step on the stairs as I climbed to my floor. I was so caught up in my misery I failed to notice that the door to my room was open.

Then I did and froze.

I was certain I had locked it that morning, and there was no reason for someone from Student Services to be inside. But someone was inside, and I looked around for a weapon. My only options were a pizza box and an old brass fire extinguisher. Neither would help if the person inside had a gun, and I figured my best bet was the element of surprise. I decided to kick open the door, grab my lacrosse stick, and impale whoever was in there.

It was an excellent plan, and would have worked if my lacrosse stick had been where I’d left it. Unfortunately, it was not, and before I could think of a Plan B, my legs were knocked out from under me, and I landed on my back with a thud.

“Hello, Skip.”

I looked up, and Uncle Wonderful was standing over me with my lacrosse stick in his hands.

“What’s this thing?” he asked, pressing the business end of the stick against my throat.

“It’s a lacrosse stick,” I sputtered.

“What’s that? Some fancy new game rich kids play?”

“Lacrosse is actually the oldest team sport played in

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