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fish-coating on Nadine’s tray. She was seriously considering the beige sludge in her cup when Vince finally said something of interest.
    He wanted to know what kinds of questions they’d get in the Classics Bowl.
    “Oh, stuff like who wrote Tristram Shandy . What was the setting for Thoreau’s most famous book, how many syllables in an iamb. That kind of thing.” Nadine started to flick back her hair, caught Bernadette watching her, and dropped her hand into her lap. “Like Jeopardy! Only all the categories will be literature. You know—books.”
    Vince nodded. “I love that show.” He spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “You get guys on there who don’t know sh— much, and they’ll bet the farm on Final Jeopardy and get lucky.” He shook his head over gut-clenching finales of the past. “No offense, but it’s always your men players who take the biggest risks.” He tore his eyes away from Nadine. “So, Bernadette. My little brother says if you get run over by a truck, the Wizards are dead meat. I guess you know your Shakespeare, huh?”
    Bernadette was flattered in spite of herself. Anthony might toss margarine pats up on the cafeteria ceiling so they’d melt and fall down on people’s heads, but he knew smart. She shrugged. “I know some.”
    Vince waited. Nadine nodded encouragement.
    Honestly. “ ‘ . . . foul deeds will rise, / Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.’ ”
    “Cool,” Vince said. “What is it?”
    “Hamlet.”
    “Bet’s got a photographic memory,” Nadine boasted.
    “Yeah, that’s what Anthony said. But can she remember enough to beat Pinehurst’s butt one more time?”
    From Vince you expected “butt.” That wasn’t what made Bernadette quiver as though an invisible spitball had glanced off her neck. As though his words had triggered them, other voices set up a clamor in her head.
    “She’ll look fine at the Classics Bowl, giving ’em hell.”
    “Glenn Kim. Uriah Heep. What I wouldn’t give to humiliate him.”
    “I’ve never won anything for brains.”
    “This team can have The Power, Bernadette.”
    “The superintendent called twice. A private school—ha!”
    A plastic knife jabbed her arm. Nadine was glaring at her.
    “Sorry. What’d you say?”
    “Vince wants to know if you think we have a chance—”
    “Of a snowball in hell,” Vince put in.
    “Of winning. I said we were just talking about that.” Nadine put her glasses back on and stared meaningfully through them. “Weren’t we?”
    Bernadette hiccupped. She had no proof the scores had been fixed. And no intention, now, of looking for any.
    The Power surged through her veins. “Vince?” she said. “Do you own any cropland? Wheat futures, soybeans? ’Cause we can help you triple your investment.”
    Nadine gurgled. She turned to Vince, and her black eyes glistened. “My partner is saying you should bet the farm—on the Wizards.”

    Nadine drove the long way home without being reminded.
    The day was cool but sunny. Mr. Malory was out in the parking lot of his apartment complex, waxing the Porsche.
    They drove by, and Bernadette hid her face in the shoulder harness. They’d passed Kmart before her insides returned to normal. “Did he see us?” she demanded.
    “I don’t think so.”
    He’d had on an old T-shirt. It was surprising what you could notice in two seconds. His bare arms had rubbed the gleaming hood over and over, his muscles visible (to the keen eye) from the highway.
    Oh, that she might be a fender on that car.

CHAPTER NINE
    Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things.
    —Robert Browning
    M r. Malory scheduled their first strategy session for Thursday night.
    Not so fast, was the reaction he got. Sure, they wanted to win, but Thursday was a bad night. Lori had dance class, Anthony had to work, Nadine had some commitment she didn’t identify, Bernadette had to meet some freshmen debaters at the Creighton library. David had nothing to do but joined