Seventeen Against the Dealer Read Online Free PDF Page A

because—he’s decided I’m his swan-song student. The last best one. He really wants me to be brilliant for him. If I’m not—he’ll feel as if he’s failed, too.”
    â€œCan you do that well in it?” Jeff wondered.
    â€œSure. I can see how he’s thinking. It’s not even as if I’m sure he’s wrong. I just don’t look at it the same way.”
    â€œBut to do that,” Sammy said, “you’d have to lie about what you think is true. You can’t do that, James.”
    â€œWhy not? People do it all the time.”
    â€œNot you.”
    â€œBut if I don’t, I’ll fail. I’ve never failed anything, in school.”
    â€œYes, you have, in tenth grade, when you turned in that kid for cheating off of you, when you turned yourself in for helping him cheat. You failed that assignment with a zero.”
    â€œThat was different. And besides, it was only one assignment, not the whole grade. I don’t have anything lower than an A on my record, except for that one B. Ever.”
    â€œThose are just grades,” Sammy said.
    â€œGrades mean something. You know that.”
    â€œMaybe, but I don’t care because—just because you get A’s doesn’t mean you’re the best person. All it means is you’re good at going to school. You can’t use grades to mean anything, James.”
    â€œSo you think I should fail it,” James concluded. “Jeff, what do you think?”
    â€œCan’t you talk to your faculty adviser?”
    â€œBut I don’t want to make any trouble for Professor Browning. It’s not as if he doesn’t work, or care, or isn’t thinking about what he’s doing; it’s not as if he’s a bad teacher.”
    â€œWell,” Jeff summarized the situation, “it looks then as if you can pass, and belie yourself; or you can fail, and disappoint someone you would rather please, and lose your scholarship as well.”
    â€œThat’s it,” James said. “I’ve never failed a course.”
    â€œThen pass it, get the A,” Sammy advised.
    â€œBut I know how awful it feels to pretend to think what you don’t,” James protested. “It’s like—like selling yourself into slavery, or—worse—selling your brothers and sisters, maybe, or your own children. I dunno, I don’t have children—”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that,” Gram said.
    â€œBecause, if you can’t be true to what you think . . .” James’s voice faded away.
    â€œFlunk,” Sammy advised.
    Dicey didn’t have any opinion about what James should do. She rolled over onto her back. Behind the sofa, the top half of the Christmas tree rose, looped around with strings of popcorn mixed with cranberries. The strings looked like jewelry, like long necklaces around a shaggy throat, like rubies set in among some strange undiscovered gem that was part pearl, part sea foam.
    â€œGram?” James asked. “What do you think?”
    â€œI’m sorry, James, I just don’t seem to have any ideas.”
    â€œI wish I knew,” James said. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees. Dicey looked at the way his fingers laced together, and the bone of his jaw rested on the bones of his fingers. He really was worried about this. James looked at her and she shook her head—she didn’t have any idea. He turned to ask Maybeth.
    Maybeth sat curled up, her long legs under her, her hazel eyes dark with worry. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    James smiled. “It’s not your fault.”
    â€œIt’s not anyone’s fault,” she said. “But I’m still sorry. Because—but—I wish I could think. If I could think—because—people who think keep thinking of things, when it doesn’t seem as if there’s anything but one way or the opposite.