The Select

'They don't care. My father went to Yale and Yale Law, my grandfather too, and I hadn't realized how much the place means to him. And my mom...I think she just wants me closer than Maryland.'

Tim felt bad. Hot. Suddenly the sun was getting to him. Hell, he was so comfortable with Matt, and now the guy was dumping him, which he knew was not really the case.

Tim tried to imagine his folks telling him to kiss off over a hundred thousand bucks worth of tuition, room and board just to attend NYU where his father had gone to night school. Fat chance.

'What did the Ingraham folks say when you told them?'

'Haven't yet,' Matt said. 'I've been trying to figure a way to slip Quinn into my spot. Think I could demand that they substitute Quinn for me?'

'Yeah, right,' Tim said. 'That'll work. They'll jump her over ten names on your say so.'

'You got a better idea?'

'I might.' A half-formed scenario had been lurking in the back of his mind since the spring.

'Well, let's have it. I need the input of that devious mind.'

'Give me a minute.'

Tim lay back and closed his eyes.

The Ingraham...he'd really been looking forward to having Matt around, even finagling him as a cadaver partner. All down the tubes now. But that did leave...

Quinn.

He'd spoken to her twice this summer. She'd seemed a little friendlier each time, but still reserved. Perhaps on guard said it better. He'd tried to wrangle a date but she'd always been too busy with her jobs or her tuition hunting. If he could come up with a way to get her into The Ingraham...

What had she said during that last call? Something about how she'd become best friends with the Admissions Office staff, how they were all pulling for her.

He bolted upright on the lounge.

'I've got it!'

Matt opened his eyes, squinting up at him.

'Yeah? What do we do? What do I tell The Ingraham?'

'The first thing is you tell The Ingraham nothing. The second is hand me that phone. I have to call Ms. Quinn Cleary.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Quinn felt awkward, uncomfortable, scared too about this off-the-wall scheme, yet she felt she had no choice but to accept Tim's offer to drive her down to Maryland. He raced along 95 in a gray 1985 Olds Cierra that he seemed to love. He even had a name for it.

'Griffin?' she said when he told her the name. 'Why a griffin?'

'Not a griffin. Just 'Griffin.' The gray 1985 Olds Cierra is the invisible car. GM sold a zillion of them, or Buicks and Pontis that look just like it. I've parked this car in some terrible neighborhoods and it's never been touched. Nobody wants to steal it or bother it—nobody even sees it. So I named it Griffin, which, if you know your H. G. Wells, is the—'

'Name of the Invisible Man.' She smiled. Griffin—the Invisible Car. She liked that.

After checking Tim's name on a list, the guard in the gatehouse raised the gate and admitted him to The Ingraham's student lot. Stiff and achy as she was after almost six hours of confined sitting, Quinn didn't move from her seat when they pulled into a parking slot. She stared ahead at the tight cluster of beige brick and stone buildings that made up The Ingraham. She hardly recognized the place. The trees had shed most of their leaves the last time, now the oaks and maples were lush and green. She watched a couple of new students hurry up the slope to register.

They've got to take me, she thought. They've just got to.

'Here we are,' Tim said, glancing at his watch. 'Right on schedule.'

'Do you think this has even a slight chance to work?'

'Of course. The plan was designed by the Master Plotter. It cannot fail.'

'If you say so.'

Quinn didn't want to hope, couldn't allow herself to hope.

Matt had said Tim had cooked up this whole scheme. Why? What was his angle? She'd actually cried when Matt told her how he was trying to help her get his spot at The Ingraham, but she hadn't been all that surprised. This was the sort of thing Matt would do.

But Tim...What was Tim Brown getting out of this?

'All right,' Tim said, gathering up his papers. 'Registration's in the class building. That's where I'll be. You head for the Admissions Office and do your thing. I'll catch up with you there.'

Quinn still couldn't move. Now she was terrified.

'What if this doesn't work?'

'It will. Ten to one it will. But even if not, what have you lost? By tonight you'll either be registered here or right back where you were two weeks ago when we cooked this thing up. And you haven't risked a thing.'

'But I'll feel awful.' And I'll have to hustle back to Connecticut and sign my life away to the Navy.

'Yeah, but you'd feel worse if you never gave it a shot.'

Quinn nodded. He was right. Pass this up and she risked being plagued the rest of her life wondering if it would have worked.

As she made herself step out of the car, Tim said, 'Good luck, Quinn.'

'Thanks. I'll need it.'

She walked up the slope to the Administration Building and followed the little black-and-white arrows planted in the grass to the Admissions Office. She paused in the empty silent hallway outside the oak door. Her heart began to pound, her palms were suddenly slick with sweat. Intrigue was not her thing. How on earth was she ever going to pull this off?

Quinn shook herself. How? Because she couldn't afford not to pull it off. She stepped inside.

The Admissions Office turned out to be a small room, fluorescent lit, with a dropped ceiling. A long marble counter ran the width of the room, separating the staff from the public. A woman sat at a cluttered desk just past the counter. She appeared to be in her fifties with a lined face, a prominent overbite, and graying hair that might have been red once. A plastic name plate on her desk read Marjory Lake.

'Are—' The word came out a croak. Quinn cleared her throat. 'Are you Marge?'

The woman looked up, fixed her with bright blue eyes, wary, not welcoming. 'Some people call me that. If you're looking for registration it's—'

'I'm Quinn Cleary,' she said, reaching her hand over the counter. 'It's nice to talk to you face to face for a change.'

Marge bolted out of her seat. 'Quinn? Is that you, sweetheart? Oh, you look just like I imagined you! Claire! Evelyn! Look who's here! It's Quinn!'

Two other women, both short, plump brunettes, left their desks and crowded forward, shaking her hand, welcoming her like a relative. Quinn was sure if the counter hadn't been there they'd have been hugging her.

When all the greetings and first-meeting pleasantries had been exchanged, Marge looked at her with a puzzled expression.

'But what are you doing here? We didn't...I mean...no one's...'

'I know,' Quinn said. 'I just decided I wanted to be here in case someone doesn't show up.'

Claire and Evelyn went 'Aaawww,' and glanced at each other. Marge gripped her hand.

'I don't know how to say this, Quinn, honey,' Marge said, 'but that sort of thing just doesn't happen around