“I’ve got eyes.”
“I meant about him being the lawyer, and in the old folks’ home.”
“Take a guess.”
“Your dad told you.”
“Bzzz,” Greer said. “You win the prize. Claim it at any time. First, you’ve got to move your butt.” She ripped off the covers.
“Hey!”
“Can’t be late for school.”
“School?”
“It’s a school day. Accusations of screwing up your academic life-I’m taking them off the table.”
Wyatt drove to school, calling his mom on the way. “Mom? The thing is the school here’s a lot better, and all this changing back and-”
“Wyatt? Where are you?” In the background he heard Cammy asking for more sugar.
“In Silver City. I-”
“When are you leaving? The weather’s supposed to turn nasty this afternoon.”
“That’s what I’m calling about, Mom. I’ve decided to stay a bit longer.”
“But we’ve been through this. Rusty left last night. I called the office at the high school and told them you’d be back tomorrow.”
“Sorry.”
“Wyatt? What’s going on?”
“I just think it’s best for now.”
“I don’t understand. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I’ll call later. Everything’s all right. Bye, Mom.”
Wyatt parked in the student lot at Bridger High, got one of the last spaces. He grabbed his books and hurried to the door, was almost there when his phone rang. He checked the number: home.
“Wyatt?” his mom said. “I just had a very disturbing conversation with Hildy.”
“Look, Mom, I can’t-”
“It’s not clear to me that she’d even let you come back to stay there, if half of what she says is true. What were you thinking?”
Through the big glass door, a teacher was tapping his watch and motioning Wyatt to come inside. “C’mon, Mom. I’ve got, you know, a girlfriend. So what?”
“So what? You were a guest in Hildy’s house. And from what I hear about this girlfriend-” His mom swallowed whatever was next. At the same time, the door opened and the teacher came out.
“Don’t want to have to write you up,” the teacher was saying, “but if you’re not inside this building in-”
Wyatt missed the time element, because his mom was speaking again. “I want you home today,” she said.
“No,” Wyatt said.
“No?” said the teacher. “You’re telling me no?”
“Mom? I’ll call you later.”
“But-”
Wyatt shut off his phone, went inside.
“Who,” said Ms. Grenville, “do you think is the smartest person in the play?”
“Shakespeare,” said the funny guy at the back.
“We can’t really say Shakespeare is in the play, now can we?”
“He made up all the others, so he has to be the smartest. I read his IQ was 203.”
“Where did you read that?”
“I didn’t read it, exactly. Omar texted me.”
“Who’s Omar?”
“This kid in India. Don’t know his last name.”
Ms. Grenville sat down, a bit heavily, as though her legs had gotten weak. She adjusted her neckerchief. Anna raised her hand. Ms. Grenville looked relieved. “Yes?”
“Hamlet,” Anna said. “He’s the smartest. Isn’t that the whole point? Sometimes he’s so smart he overthinks.”
“Can you give an example?”
Anna gave a bunch of examples.
“Anyone want to argue the case for another character being the smartest?” said Ms. Grenville.
No one did. For a moment, Wyatt thought of the grave-digger-he’d skimmed ahead, read that scene, not really understood it, maybe until now. And maybe not. He kept his mouth shut.
Anna’s hand was up again. “But his smartness serves him well, too. He figures out a test to establish Claudius’s guilt once and for all.”
“The play within the play,” said Ms. Grenville. “Act Three-that’s our reading for tomorrow.” The bell rang. “Please be prepared for a quiz on-” But the subject of the quiz was drowned out in the end-of-class din.
After school, Wyatt picked up Greer at the bowling alley. She was waiting outside, hands in the pockets of her short leather jacket. A sign on the front door read: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. CONTACT PRESIDIO BANK AND TRUST, SAN FRANCISCO. “They changed the goddamn locks,” Greer said, getting into the car. “No notice, no call, nothing.”
“Is there anything inside you need?”
Greer turned to him, looked angry for a moment, then smiled. “Guess not. I was going to try to sell the popcorn machine.”
“What’s it worth?”
“I don’t know.” Greer sat back, reached for his hand without looking, held on.
Wyatt drove to Hillside Breeze, the old folks’ home. It was an old brick building behind the hospital, also an old brick building but taller-in fact, the tallest building in Silver City-so Hillside Breeze stood in its shadow.
Inside, Hillside Breeze smelled like the bathroom at home after Wyatt’s mom had cleaned it. The phone was ringing at the desk in the small, poorly lit lobby, but no one was there. Greer went behind the desk, studied a chart- looking at it upside down, Wyatt saw rows of numbered squares with names inside-and motioned toward the stairs.
They went up. The carpet was musty. The smells in general were now more like the bathroom at home just before the cleaning. At the top they turned right, passing some rooms and a lounge where old women were sitting in front of a television, a few with their eyes closed, to a door at the end. The name strip read WERTZ/COFFEE. Greer knocked. No answer. She opened the door.
There were two beds in the room. A bearded man slept on his back in the nearest one, toothless mouth open. The other bed was empty. A second man sat in a chair, back to the room, facing the window. An oxygen tank stood beside him.
“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said in a half whisper.
No answer.
She went closer and called the name again, louder this time.
“If you’re selling, I’m not buying,” the man said, not turning.
Wyatt and Greer approached him, stood on either side. He glanced at one, then the other, but with no interest. One of his eyes was droopy and teared at the corner. He had an oxygen tube under his nose, liver spots on his face, and breath Wyatt could smell from where he was standing.
“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said again.
“I told you-the money supply is cut off.”
“We don’t want money, Mr. Wertz,” Greer said.
“No? What makes you so special?”
“It’s not that,” Greer said. “We just want to talk to you. If you are Mr. Wertz, that is.”
