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"Why? Who knows why? Because I'm a crazy person. It's impossible to explain to
a guy who's got talent, but if I'd have tried to do something serious, it
wouldn't have come out any better. No matter which department I was in, the
best I could have been was a guy who tried. I told you the first time we met.
I show potential, and that's all. Me being at Nassau Arts was a lot like our
whole Antiflux thing temporary. I could keep my head above water on any
given day, but the long-term result was never in doubt."
The words were out before Simon could think. "I don't know what to tell you,
Phil."
"And that's why tonight it's getting to me more than it ever has. I mean, what
have we accomplished in these three months? Antiflux is going down the drain,
you lost the Vishnik Prize, and I'm marking time waiting for someone to hand
me a one-way ticket to Greenbush High. Wendy was a disaster, Barbara was a
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bigger disaster, and I didn't even have anyone to have a disaster with. Even
Sam, who won himself a prize, isn't that happy about it because he's still got
a serious hang-up about painting camels. We didn't do so hot, Simon. "
Now Simon was genuinely depressed, as he wracked his brain for something
positive to say, and found nothing. If the irrepressible Phil Baldwin, who
could be depended on to find a silver lining to the blackest cloud, was down
and out, what could neurotic Simon Irving do but throw in the towel?
Phil stopped walking again. "I mean, think about it, Simon. What have we
accomplished? Really!"
Simon shuffled uncomfortably. "Not much, I guess."
Phil looked at him. "Then why was it so good?"
The notice of the expropriation was waiting for Simon first thing Monday
morning. It came, opened as usual, through Wendy. It was the first time he'd
seen her since the last shoot of Omni, and he studied her face anxiously for a
clue as to her mood.
"It's bad news, Simon."
Simon nodded. "I've had some advance warning."
Wendy shrugged. "What can I say? I'm sorry. You guys did a great job."
There was a long awkward silence, during which time Simon ransacked his mind.
He'd been searching for her all week. What had he been planning to say? Why
couldn't he say it now? As she looked as though she were about to walk away,
he blurted, "I thought you were really terrific in Nathan's movie the other
day."
She smiled, and for one fraction of a second, Simon was at least forty percent
positive that he saw a flush in her cheeks. Suddenly she said, "I've got to go
to class. See you later."
She hurried off, leaving him in no position to ponder the symbolic meaning of
their meeting. The town letter was in his hands, and it took priority over
everything.
Well, here it was, the divine word of Interflux, via the Town of Greenbush,
all in black and white. At noon Friday, Lot 1346B once again became town
property. And at 12:05, Simon knew, the Interflux bulldozers would be rolling
over the spot where the Antiflux Cultural Center and Worm Shop had once been.
Good old Cyril Irving never reneged on a promise. Four short months ago it had
brought Simon a new car; now it was bringing him possibly the biggest problem
of his life how to break the news to Antiflux's fifteen hundred-odd faithful
that it was all over. One look at Dave Roper, heading dutifully out to his
worm store, served to drive home the message that there were a lot of students
who weren't going to take this well.
A meeting would be the only way. Otherwise, it would spread through the school
like gossip and end up blown all out of proportion. At a big assembly, he
could let everyone know at the same time. The question remained: Would he be
able to find the right words to soften the blow of what was bound to be a
major disappointment? And would there be any trouble?
He sat through a couple of classes with the result that it only clogged up his
brain with too much input, threatening an overload. This was no time for
education. He had to think. Maybe he'd go out to the Cultural Center and think
there.
There was a play in progress outside behind the big tent, an all-Nassau Arts
production, written by one of the school's top playwrights and performed by
the Acting Department. The audience consisted of three classes of bussed-in
seventh graders, and a sprinkling of adults, some of them teachers. Reaction
seemed very positive. There was laughter and some applause from the students,
and the adults were chuckling at some of the better one-liners. But the best
response of all was coming from one man in the back row, doubled over with
mirth, clapping wildly and cheering between guffaws. He was a handsome young
fellow, with a touch of the dashing hero look, very stylishly dressed. Simon's
breath caught in his throat. It was Kyle Montrose. What was The Flake doing at
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the Antiflux Cultural Center?
Simon rushed over. "Mr. Montrose hello. What brings you here?"
"Simon!" Montrose exclaimed in sudden recognition. "How are you? You've grown
up into quite a lad!" Simon noticed a hint of champagne on the billionaire's
breath.
"I'm fine, Mr. Montrose. How are you?"
"Never better. I'll be with you in a minute. I must see the end of this
absolutely brilliant piece of satire."
Later, when the play was over, and he had "Bravo'd" himself hoarse and
congratulated all the cast, Montrose walked with Simon back to the school
building.
"Does my father know you're here?" Simon asked.
"Certainly not. If he'd known I was coming, he would have done his utmost to
prevent it. Quite a bully, your father. I came because I received a call from
someone here that Interflux was having trouble with a group called Antiflux.
So about a month later, I caught the first plane out of Auckland to New York,
and told the cab driver to take me to Antiflux in Greenbush, and he dropped me
here. I didn't find Antiflux, but there was this terrific play going on. Then
you came along, and here I am."
Simon held the large fire door open for the Interflux president. "I think we
should find a pay phone and alert I mean, tell my father the good news that
you're here."
Mr. Irving had to be called out of a meeting, so while Simon waited on the
phone, Montrose lost interest in the call and began to browse around the
halls, viewing exhibits of the students' work, and peering inside open doors.
"Son? What's the emergency?"
Simon grinned. "Hi, Dad. You'll never guess who's here with me at school right
now."
"Simon, I don't have time for guessing games. My secretary said this was
urgent. What's going on?"
"Mr. Montrose is here."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You mean The Flake? Oh my
God! How? Never mind. I know how. One of my ninnies must have panicked and
phoned him about your Antiflux! I knew this was going to happen! I'm surprised
he didn't show up a month ago!"
"Do you want me to bring him over to Interflux, Dad?"
"Good God, no! Under no circumstances is The Flake to come anywhere near this
office!"
Simon chuckled. "If you let me keep my land, I'll consider not bringing Mr.
Montrose over right now."
"That's not funny, Simon. Don't be an idiot. Now, ease him out of there before
he starts something. Has he been drinking at all?"
"I think it was a champagne flight."
"Terrific. Bring him home to our place. Under no circumstances are you to
allow him to check into a hotel or to go anywhere except our house. I'll phone
your mother and tell her to be ready with the coffee, and I'll be home myself
as soon as I can get away. Hold the fort, son."
"What about my classes?"
"Tell them you've got a terrible disease! It'll be the truth! Tell them your
father's out on the ledge of his office window! That'll be the truth, too!
Tell them anything, but get him out of there!"
"Okay, Dad. I'll do my best." Simon hung up and hurried out into the hall.
Montrose was gone. In alarm, Simon ran up and down the long corridor, looking
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