“This is a rip-off, dude.” Shelton scooped up a sheet. “Twenty pages, and I still don’t know what these people do. But here’s a JPEG OF A DIAMOND RING. VERY HELPFUL.”
“You sell their products or something,” Hi said. “‘Just as good as available in stores.’ I pay a small start-up fee and find three people to work for me. Then those people—you guys—each find three more people—”
“That’s a pyramid scheme, you dope!” Ben smirked. “It’s a scam.”
Shelton shook his head. “Oldest trick in the book.”
Hi flipped through his index cards, selected one from the back.
“I’m sensing you might be hesitant to embark on this new phase of your life,” he began. “But don’t let fear of the unknown—”
Hi ducked as his folder sailed inches above his head and exploded against the far wall. “Hey!”
Coop shot to his feet, startled, growling everywhere at once. I arm-wrapped his neck to calm him.
“Great.” Hi began gathering the strewn papers. “You just ruined our marketing department. That’s more overhead.”
“Oops,” Ben said.
“It’s a classic rip-off, Hi.” I corralled the last few pages. “We won’t make any money. Get-rich-at-home programs never pan out.”
“Fine.” Red-faced, Hi pulled off his tie, untucked his shirt. “But we need to raise cash somehow.”
“We need to make money,” Ben said, “not lose our own in the process.”
“And we need a lot of it,” I muttered, stroking Coop’s back. “Millions.”
I told the others what Kit said over breakfast. “What about bank robbery?” Hi scratched his chin. “I mean, how hard could it be? We’re pretty good at breaking into places, sneaking around. Plus we have superpowers. Sort of.”
“Try again.” Ben.
“Bank heists are a little out of our league,” Shelton agreed. “I don’t want to move away, but a prison cell? No thanks.”
“Well we need some kind of plan,” Hi said. “We can’t allow ourselves to be split up. I don’t want to be a freak alone. Been there, done that. I like having friends.”
His voice dropped. “And this virus terrifies me.”
For a moment, I felt as hopeless as Hi sounded. What could four teenagers possibly do?
“Stop whining, hippie.” Ben crossed to Hi and mussed his hair. “We’ll figure something out. But no spazzing inside the bunker. I won’t allow it.”
Hi swatted Ben’s hand away. “Why, because that’s your specialty?” But he was grinning. Sometimes, Ben knew exactly what to do.
“I got an email from a Nigerian prince.” Shelton kept his face straight. “Apparently I just send him my bank account info, and he deposits a bunch of money. Can’t see how it could go wrong.”
“The lottery,” Ben said. “Let’s just play Powerball.”
“Vegas?” Hi suggested. “I’ve got forty bucks and a fake moustache.”
“Great ideas all around,” I deadpanned. “But we do need to come up with something. We have to fight this.”
The others nodded, but offered no serious suggestions. They were just as stumped as I was.
“And now I have to go.” I sighed. “Keep me in the loop.”
“Now?” Shelton asked. “You just got here.”
My eyes rolled on their own accord. “I have a cotillion event. Some yacht-club charity fundraiser thingy. Whitney is insisting, and Kit took her side.”
Three wide smiles.
“Oh shut up.”
HALF AN HOUR later, a surprise waited at the dock.
Ben. With Sewee primed and chugging.
“I’ll give you a ride.”
Unexpected. When I’d left the bunker, Ben hadn’t indicated any interest in my afternoon. But he’d readied the boat while I changed.
Down the pier, Ben’s father sat in a lawn chair beside his vessel. With Kit at work, Tom had agreed to ferry me into town.
But now Ben was here. For some reason.
“Fine by me.” A wry smile crossed Tom Blue’s lips. “But you don’t have to ride with my boy if he’s bothering you, Tory.”
Ben scowled, reddened, but kept quiet.
“No, that’d be great,” I said quickly. “Thanks, Ben. Thanks anyway, Tom!”
Ben cast off with more haste than usual. I could hear his father chuckling as we began to pull away.
“Where to?” Ben asked.
“Palmetto Yacht Club. On East Bay.”
“I know where it is,” he said curtly.
Okay then.
We rounded Morris Island and motored into Charleston Harbor. As we passed the point, I tried to spot our bunker among the sand hills. And failed, as always. Good.
Ben picked our way through a tangle of sandbars. Since he practically lived in his boat, I let him choose the route. He seemed to know his way around every islet in the Lowcountry, and there were dozens. Hundreds.
It was midday, and blazing hot, so I was thankful for the ocean breeze. The sharp tang of saltwater filled my nose. Seagulls circled over us, squawking. A pair of dolphins cavorted in Sewee’s wake. God, I love the sea.
“You look nice,” Ben said stiffly, keeping his eyes on the horizon.
“Thanks.” Awkward.
I was wearing the Katey dress by Elie Tahari. White, with golden metallic floral embroidery. Trendy, expensive, and not mine. Another designer number I could never afford.
What can I say about the grand southern tradition of cotillion? Defined as a social-education program for young people, it’s really a suffocating nightmare engaged in by elitist brats. At least, that’s been my experience.
We were supposed to be learning the fundamentals of courtesy, respect, communication, and etiquette, along with the art of social dance. Instead, silver-spoon prigs lounged around comparing price tags and munching pâté.
Cotillion also presented endless wardrobe problems, and I lacked the necessary firepower. Kit’s insufferable girlfriend, Whitney Dubois, had so far solved the dilemma by borrowing dresses from her friend’s boutique. The accompanying jewelry—this time a sterling silver charm bracelet and matching Tiffany necklace—belonged to the salon-tanned wonder herself.
I hated playing dress up, but at these fêtes it was best to blend in. Even if it meant accepting Whitney’s pricey, stylish attire.
Blargh.
Ben throttled down to pick up speed. “How many of these events do you have, anyway?”
“Not sure. I think maybe two or three a month.”
As part of the nightmare, I was scheduled to make my debut next fall. Thanks to Whitney, my fate was sealed. I was doomed to rub elbows with the city’s junior elite not just at school, but also on my own time.
Double blargh.
As we shot across the harbor, passing Fort Sumter on the right, Ben kept a careful watch for larger vessels. Sewee is a sturdy boat—a sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout—but against a cargo ship she’d be kindling.
We reached the peninsula in just under half an hour.
“There’s your snob warehouse.” Ben pointed to the yacht club. “I’ll drop you as close as I can get without a trust fund.”
Wonderful. If this ticked him off so much, why offer me a ride in the first place? I didn’t want to be here, either.
Ben was being even more moody than usual. Sullen. Almost angry. I couldn’t understand why. If I hadn’t known better I’d have said he was jealous, but Ben Blue had zero interest in attending a lame cotillion party. So why the attitude?