Con Academy by Joe Schreiber Page B

mind is a blank. It’s probably ironic that I have no trouble fleecing somebody like Brandt Rush for untold hundreds of thousands or more while I still can’t make up a decent story to explain why I’m late to English class, but right now I’m too stressed out to appreciate the distinction.
    Ducking into the deadly silence of Mr. Bodkins’s class, I’m instantly aware of the eyes of the entire class leveling themselves on me. Mr. Bodkins is hunched, red-eyed, and disheveled behind his desk, and fortunately he looks too hung-over from the weekend to notice me sliding in behind my desk.
    â€œPass your papers to the front,” he’s saying, and I feel my stomach do a triple axel as I just now remember the assignment that Gatsby reminded me about yesterday, the five-page critical analysis that we were supposed to do on Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown.” Throwing a desperate glance straight back over my shoulder, I see my classmates already passing forward their papers. In the midst of it all, Gatsby gives me a quick once-over, and I’m guessing she already knows from my reaction what the problem is. As awkward as it may be, now is probably the time to go up and hit Mr. Bodkins with whatever sob story I can come up with and plead for mercy. I’m just hoping he won’t try to stick my tie into the shredder.
    The girl behind me hands up a stack of papers and I start to stand, figuring I’ll carry them up to Mr. Bodkins along with a story about my dead grandmother. On my feet, I glimpse down at the paper on the top of the pile.
    Â 
    GRAVEN IMAGES:
STARING DOWN THE DEVIL IN HAWTHORNE’S
“YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN”
    by Will Shea
    Â 
    I flip through five pages of perfectly cogent literary analysis, typewritten and double-spaced with my name on it, then glance back at Gatsby, stunned. She’s not even looking at me.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Shea.” Mr. Bodkins walks by and takes the stack of papers from my hand, and when I look around at Gatsby again, she’s writing something down in her notebook, still not looking at me.
    Â 
    â€œYou didn’t have to do that, you know,” I tell her later.
    We’re sitting in the dining hall over lunch—shrimp quesadilla for me, garden salad for her, along with some kind of veggie burger that actually smells amazing considering there’s no meat in it. Through the giant wall-size windows, the last swarms of orange leaves are chasing one another in late-October dust devils. The weather’s already changing, tilting into winter.
    â€œWhat makes you think it was me?” she asks.
    â€œThe fact that you know what I’m talking about even though I haven’t said it yet. Anyway, it really wasn’t necessary.”
    â€œRight,” Gatsby says, taking a big bite of her salad. “Because you had it all worked out.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t say
that
 . . .”
    â€œYou didn’t have to.”
    â€œThanks for the vote of confidence.” I take a bite of my quesadilla, which is crunchy yet tender and bursting with fresh cilantro, and realize that she’s still looking at me. “So why did you do it?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWrite that paper for me.”
    She ponders the question, or pretends to. “Maybe I figured you could use a break after ‘falling down the stairs’ and busting up your face,” Gatsby says, using air quotes for the little white lie I had tried to pass over her in the library yesterday.   
    â€œI’m not joking,” I say. “You could get suspended for this, or worse. Why would you take a risk like that for somebody you hardly know?”
    She looks at me for a long moment and then sits back, crossing her arms. “I wanted to help you. Is that so hard to swallow?”
    â€œI mean, it’s just—you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re pretty.” My face is starting to get