Jake uncrosses his legs. "What is is my position?" my position?"

The headmaster hesitates. "Well, Jacob. Unless you have a change of heart about what you've expressed in this essay, I do not see how you can continue attending this school."

Jake doesn't exactly sit up straight, but he takes most of the slack out of his slouch. "You're expelling me?"

"That's what it would come to, yes."

"Whoa, whoa," I say, "hang on a second. n.o.body got shot, n.o.body got stabbed here. A few opinions were expressed, that's all."

"This was more more than just a few opinions, Mr. Sullivan. This was an indictment of the system that's worked at this school since 1732." He holds up Jake's essay. "With concepts this subversive, he becomes a potential threat to the rest of the student body." than just a few opinions, Mr. Sullivan. This was an indictment of the system that's worked at this school since 1732." He holds up Jake's essay. "With concepts this subversive, he becomes a potential threat to the rest of the student body."

"Oh, come on, on, man!" I say. "If anything this essay helps you man!" I say. "If anything this essay helps you sell sell the school's ideology!" the school's ideology!"

"I'm afraid we don't see it that way."

When a man is cornered, I've noticed, he'll often turn to the collective noun for comfort.

"If there's a 'we' involved in Jake's fate," I say, "I'd like to meet the people who compose it."

The headmaster is about to say something, but Jake speaks first.

"Subversive," he says, "is the very word they used throughout the McCarthy hearings. Funny we should be studying that in history cla.s.s just now."

The headmaster doesn't much like being compared to Senator Joseph McCarthy, and my son clearly does not think much of the headmaster, who gazes at Jake for a moment before turning back to me.

"I am the final word on these matters," he says calmly. "The 'we' refers to those on the school board, with whom I confer on all key decisions. But the final decision is mine."

"And the key to everything is an apology from my son?"

"That's right. A sincere sincere apology." apology."

"Otherwise, he's out."

"I'm afraid so." He holds his hands up appeasingly. "No rush. Take the weekend and think things through."

What he means, really, is that we should let Jake's mother get involved in the matter, and she'll straighten it out to everyone's satisfaction. He's trying to buy time, but my son won't let him.

Jake gets to his feet. "You can have my apology right now," he begins. "I'm sorry, truly sorry, that a man in your position can be this frightened and freaked out by words on a page. I'm also sorry you dragged my father into this mess. He never liked this school in the first place, and not just because it's ridiculously expensive. Am I right, Dad?"

I lick my dry lips. "I've had some issues with it."

I'm sweating from places I never even knew I had. The headmaster's face looks as if it's been dusted with flour. He manages to force a slight smile as he says, "Is there anything else, Jacob?"

"Yes, sir. I just hope that somehow you manage to develop a sense of humor. But it's probably too late. It's not really the kind of thing you learn. You're pretty much born with it, or you're not."

The headmaster gets to his feet, which leaves me as the only one still sitting. "All right, Jacob," he says. "Go and clean out your locker."

There's the tiniest of grins on Jake's face, as if he's on the opposite side of a chessboard and just suckered his opponent into the very move he'd been hoping for. Slowly, oh so slowly, Jake reaches for the knot in his tie, undoes it, pulls it from around his neck, and tosses it on the headmaster's desk before walking out. A heartbeat later he pokes his head back in, looking only at me. Peter Plymouth no longer exists, as far as Jake is concerned.

"Meet you in front in five, Dad."

"Okay, Jake."

The headmaster picks up the tie, rolls it into a coil, and hands it to me, as solemnly as they hand folded flags to the mothers of dead soldiers. "I'm very sorry it had to happen this way, Mr. Sullivan."

I stick the coiled tie in my pocket. I'm obviously expected to leave the office, but I don't budge. We still have business to conduct, but Mr. Plymouth doesn't seem to realize this.

"What about my refund?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The tuition. The school year just started and you're kicking him out. You owe me my deposit, plus the first installment. I figure it's about seven grand."

His eyes widen in what appears to be genuine surprise. "Oh, no, no, no," he says. "That's not how it works, I'm afraid."

"You're afraid?" afraid?"

"Mr. Sullivan, read your contract. The money is nonrefundable."

At last, it's time for me to get to my my feet. I don't want to be looking up the man's nostrils at a time like this. "Do you actually think I'd let you kick my son out of this place feet. I don't want to be looking up the man's nostrils at a time like this. "Do you actually think I'd let you kick my son out of this place and and keep my money?" keep my money?"

"Mr. Sullivan-"

"Do you have any idea of how much I love money? I love money almost as much as this school does."

"We do not love money."

"You don't exactly hate hate it, do you?" it, do you?"

"The school takes the loss as well."

"The h.e.l.l it does. The school year just started! Some poor slob on the waiting list will be here on Monday morning. When he gets here, give him this."

I take the coiled tie from my pocket and throw it at his chest. Now we've taken it up a notch. Technically, I've a.s.saulted him, but even a tight-a.s.s like Peter Plymouth would be too embarra.s.sed to file charges against a man who's attacked him with a sc.r.a.p of cotton-blend fabric.

In fact, he doesn't even flinch. He picks up the tie and puts it in his jacket pocket. "Again," he says, "I urge you to read your contract."

Suddenly he's oddly calm about the whole thing. He's such a Caucasian that it's almost laughable. In his head, it's all over. He figures he's got the law on his side, and that's that.

I breathe deeply, force myself to remain calm. It's time for me to roll out the heavy artillery.

"I'm not going to read the contract," I say. "But if I don't get my money back, you're going to be reading something you won't like very much."

"What exactly does that mean?"

G.o.d, am I glad I haven't told this man that I was fired an hour ago!

"It means that my newspaper has been sitting on a story about these 'rave-up' parties held at the homes of rich kids from schools like this one. Kids even younger than my son, boozing and drugging it up while their parents are away for the weekend, or running around Europe."

I pat my inner jacket pocket, where I still have my New York Star New York Star notebook. "I've got names and addresses. The police have been called more than once, and I've got details from a few emergency room reports, the kinds of details you never read about in the headmaster's monthly newsletter. For instance, did you know that one of the star players from your basketball team nearly flat-lined it at St. Luke's/Roosevelt after he swallowed Ecstasy a few weeks ago? Best part is, he bought the drugs notebook. "I've got names and addresses. The police have been called more than once, and I've got details from a few emergency room reports, the kinds of details you never read about in the headmaster's monthly newsletter. For instance, did you know that one of the star players from your basketball team nearly flat-lined it at St. Luke's/Roosevelt after he swallowed Ecstasy a few weeks ago? Best part is, he bought the drugs in this building, in this building, from a senior. An honor student, as I recall. But I'll have to check my notes to be sure." from a senior. An honor student, as I recall. But I'll have to check my notes to be sure."

I thought the headmaster had already turned as pale as he could, but I was wrong. Now he looks as if he's just donated a gallon of blood. He tries to lick his lips, and his tongue actually sticks to his lower lip.

"I don't believe you," he lies.

"Well, maybe you'll believe it when you read about it, and that phone on your desk starts ringing off the hook. Funny I should happen to have been the reporter a.s.signed to check out this story, huh? I checked it out, all right, but I p.i.s.sed on it to my bosses for the sake of my son. But that reason no longer exists. If I don't get my money back, the story runs in the New York Star. New York Star. With pictures." With pictures."

"Pictures?" The word leaps out of him as if he's been jabbed with a needle.

I nod solemnly. "These kids today have everything. Cell phones with digital cameras in them! Suddenly everybody's a photographer. Click, click. You throw 'em a few bucks, and they're happy to e-mail them over."

"Pictures of what?"

"Sixteen-year-olds being held upside down while beer from a keg is pumped into their mouths. Kids snorting something that isn't powdered sugar. Of course, we'll have to put bars across their eyes, because they're just kids. But some of them, Mr. Plymouth, are your your kids." kids."

"Was Jacob at these events?"

"Jake, as we both know, is no longer a student at this school. But I don't mind telling you that he wasn't there."

Of course he wasn't there. n.o.body n.o.body was there. I was making it all up as I went along. It's funny how imaginative you can get with that kind of money on the line. was there. I was making it all up as I went along. It's funny how imaginative you can get with that kind of money on the line.

Peter Plymouth slams his hand down hard on his desk, and for the first time, it dawns on me that I could be in physical danger. He's bigger and younger than me, and I know I'm pushing him in ways he's never been pushed.

He can take a poke at me if he wants, so long as I leave his office with a check. But he won't take a poke at me. He's. .h.i.t his desk in frustration because I've beaten him, and he's not used to losing.

He pulls open one of his desk drawers, takes out a leather-bound book, opens it up, uncaps a fountain pen with a shaky hand and starts writing almost frantically, as if he's just had a great idea he doesn't want to forget. It only takes a few seconds, and when he's through he puffs on the page to dry the ink, then tears it out of the book and holds it out to me.

It's a check for seven thousand dollars and no cents. It's actually slightly higher than the total I've paid so far for Jake's senior year. I reach for the check, but he pulls it back, c.o.c.ks his head, and narrows one eye at me.

"I a.s.sume I won't be reading anything disturbing in the New York Star." New York Star."

"Not from me you won't."

He hands over the check. "Good-bye, Mr. Sullivan."

I fold the check and slip it into my wallet. "I'll be back if it bounces."

"It won't bounce."

"Hand me Jake's essay, will you? I may have it framed."

He hands me the loose-leaf pages, which I carefully fold and slip inside my jacket pocket, next to my trusty notebook. I go to the door while Peter Plymouth returns to his chair. I turn to him one last time.

"You did the right thing here," I say, patting my wallet.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is. I can see why you're such a good sailor. The wind shifted, and you set your sails accordingly."

"Leave now or I'm phoning security."

I can't help laughing. "Funny, that's the second time today I've been threatened with security. Never knew I was such a dangerous person."

His secretary doesn't even glance at me as I go past her.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Jake stands outside the building, leaning against the wall as if he's waiting for a bus he's in no particular hurry to catch. He's got all his stuff jammed into a lumpy blue laundry-type sack, which he adeptly shoulders like a merchant seaman. I try to take it from him as we head toward Broadway, but he insists he can carry it. I'm treating him like a little kid, even though he's bigger than me.

"I'm sorry about all this, Dad."

"Don't be sorry. It's not the end of the world."

"Mom won't like it."

This may be the understatement of the century. Jake's mother, Doris Perez (B.A., Wesleyan College; M.A., Yale University; Ph.D, Columbia University), will probably have to be coaxed in off a high ledge when she hears this news.

"Let's face it," I say. "Your mother will kill us when she finds out."

"Think so?"

"Jake. Have you and your mother met? met? Do you know how she feels about matters pertaining to formal education?" Do you know how she feels about matters pertaining to formal education?"

"I have some idea."

"Well, then, I suggest we live it up in the little bit of time we have left. A last meal before we're executed." I point across the street. "Is that diner any good?"

"It's all right."

"Want to get a burger or something?"

"Burger'd be good."

We cross Broadway, and I wait until we reach the other side before saying, "By the way, I got fired today." Jake stops walking. "You're kidding me!"

"No, it's true. Quite a day, huh?"

"Dad. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Maybe we shouldn't eat out."