Elliot Allagash (22 page)

“Seymour!
Thank God you picked up!”

Ashley examined the car and then tossed it back into the box.

“You haven’t been getting reception. Listen, we need to speak at once. It’s urgent!”

She stuck her thimble on Go, and my father lined up the four pieces.

“I know I behaved rashly this week. I had to teach you a lesson—I know it was harsh, but it needed to be done. But you’ve got to understand, there’s nothing I did that isn’t totally reversible—as long as we act fast!”

My mother brought Ashley a plate, and my father served her a slice of brisket.

“Anyone can freeze in front of a camera! We can explain away every crime! Or better yet, frame someone! Multiple people! It doesn’t matter! Within three weeks, a month, tops, I can get it all back for you—I’ve got journalists! I’ve got public officials! Seymour, are you listening to me?”

My parents looked up at me.

“This is just a blip on the timeline! In twenty years, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh! Come over tonight. We’ll start planning. I’ve already taken care of all the preliminaries—Harvard, Bishop House, the press—all I have to do is say go and
they’ll move like lightning! We can get it all back and more, Seymour! More!”

“Sweetie?” my mom asked. “Do you need to take it?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

I turned off the phone. Four gleaming pieces stood on Go, like runners jostling for position on a starting line. I picked up the dice and shook them over the five-hundred-dollar bill my father had placed on Free Parking.

Then I stopped.

“Is it okay if we play a different game?”

The four of us looked at each other in silent agreement.

“I’ll get a puzzle,” my mother said.

My father cleared away the Monopoly board, while my mother poked around in the closet. We only had one puzzle—a thousand piece jigsaw—buried in the back. The top of the box had gone missing, but she dumped out the pieces anyway.

“What’s this a puzzle of?” Ashley said.

“I guess we’ll find out,” my dad said.

I reached for a piece and we started to put it all together.

A
SHLEY AND I WERE BUYING
supplies for a late-August road trip when we ran into Elliot Allagash. He was walking toward his limousine, shouting orders into his cell phone. A slovenly boy in baggy jeans and a wifebeater shuffled along beside him. I wasn’t going to say hello, but Ashley called out his name.

Elliot looked up, swallowed, and closed his cell phone.

“Well,” he said.

I followed Ashley down the sidewalk, and for the first time since we met, Elliot and I shook hands.

“This is Doug,” Elliot said, gesturing at the oafish-looking boy standing behind him.

“’Sup,” Doug said. He held out a fist and Ashley and I bumped it.

“Doug’s accompanying me to Harvard next month,” Elliot announced,
“despite a 2.3 grade point average and three arrests for public intoxication.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

Doug nodded.

“I’m going to smoke up behind that dumpster,” he said.

“Very well,” Elliot said.

He let out a long sigh as Doug lumbered off toward the alleyway.

“He might actually be retarded,” Elliot said. “But I’ve gotten him into the greatest college in the world.”

We all stood there for a moment in silence. Eventually, Ashley nudged me.

“So,” I said. “How…um…did you do it?”

“It’s none of your business,” Elliot snapped.

There was a brief pause.

“Although if you must know, I blackmailed a bunch of professors and tricked them into thinking they were blackmailing one another.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of paper.

“Here. Here’s the chart I made to keep it all straight.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s really clever.”

I looked around for Ashley, but she had walked over to a window display. She nodded at me and turned around.

I examined Elliot’s chart; it was impossible to follow, but I could tell it had required an incredible number of hours to produce. I carefully refolded it and handed it back to him.

“So…um…how’s your father?”

Elliot shrugged.

“Terry’s leaving New York.”

“Really?” I said. “Where’s he going?”

“Massachusetts,” he said, looking down at his feet. “Cambridge, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. He purchased an historic building near Harvard, a former statehouse. Completely gutted it, to spite some local professors. Anyway, I’ll be living there.”

“That’s nice that he moved all the way up there just to be closer to—”

“It’s a coincidence,” Elliot said. “His favorite hatmaker opened a haberdashery on Newbury Street. He followed him on a whim.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well that makes sense.”

“Yes,” Elliot said. “There are no good hatters in this city, so…”

“Of course.”

Elliot nodded.

“We’re…actually working on a little scheme right now,” he said, “Terry and I.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Terry came up with a plot to bypass my math and science requirements. It’s quite artful—but very complicated. We’ll have to put in a lot of hours to make it fly.”

“I’m sure you guys will figure it out,” I said.

“Yes. We’re already well on our way.”

Doug came out from behind the dumpster, walked past us and got into the limousine.

“I better go,” Elliot said.

“Okay,” I said. “Goodbye.”

He got into his car, and it immediately sped down the avenue.

I walked over to Ashley, took her hand and started off in the other direction. We were halfway down the block when I looked over my shoulder. Elliot’s limousine was disappearing down a hill, but I thought I could see his face poking out through the sunroof, gazing in my direction.

I remembered the rush of the wind in my hair as we bulleted down Park Avenue. A drink in my hand, the sun in my face, the entire world spread out beneath me! It was such a thrilling memory that I started to laugh out loud.

This novel would not have been possible without the help of a shocking number of people:

My agent, Daniel Greenberg, believed in this project from my very first manic email. Over the past two years, he’s given me valuable criticism and great advice, and talked me out of two separate panic attacks.

Jonathan Jao was a perfect editor. He backed me up whenever I was right and reasoned with me whenever I was wrong. His patience and insight dramatically improved this book and made me a better writer in the process.

My lawyer, Lee Eastman, took me on when I was a bewildered, unemployed twenty-two-year-old. I can’t imagine navigating the past three years without his constant support and counsel. He’s one of the first people I showed this novel to, and if he hadn’t said “Go for it,” I’m not sure that I would have.

My mother, the fabulous editor Gail Winston, read two early
drafts of this novel and gave me brilliant advice. Josh Koenigsberg helped me fill two separate plot holes, one of which I hadn’t even spotted.

My dad, stepmom, and brother cheered me on throughout the writing process. And my friends heroically bore with me during the periods in which I was insane. There’s not enough room to thank them all, but here are some: Azhar Khan, Monica Padrick, Josh Morgenthau, Brent Katz, Caitlin Petre, Steve Bender, Nick McDonell, Amanda Miller, Francesca Mari, David Herson, and Kathleen Hale.

Over the course of my short career, I’ve been lucky to collaborate with a lot of amazing writers. I’ve learned a lot from all of them and I wanted to list at least some here: Josh Koenigsberg, Bill Hader, Marika Sawyer, John Mulaney, Colin Jost, Seth Meyers, Bryan Tucker, Andy Samberg, Dan Menaker, Farley Katz, Zach Kanin, Andrei Nechita.

The writer Erik Kenward introduced me to the term “garbage animals.” And my father deserves full credit for the “Where’s the fish” story. He told it to me when I was eleven (and insists to this day that it is true!).

Thanks to Charles Dickens, P. G. Wodehouse, Evelyn Waugh, Roald Dahl, Terry Southern, David Sedaris, and the Simpsons.

Also: Evan Camfield, Simon M. Sullivan, Jennifer Huwer, Meghan Cassidy, Ben Wiseman, Caleb Beyers, Dustin Lushing, Lorne Michaels, Mike Shoemaker, Steve Higgins, Gregory McKnight, Shari Smiley, Forrest Church, Michael Hertzberg, and the park rangers of the Allagash Wilderness Waterway.

And finally…

Jake Luce provided criticism, advice, and encouragement at every stage of the creative process, from the novel’s inception to its publication. I dedicated the book to him, but he probably belongs on the cover. I consider this book his as much as mine.