Read Online Con Academy by Joe Schreiber - Free Book Online Page A

Brandt. If you haven’t figured it out yet, he cheats.
—G
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    I peel the note off and stick it up on the corner of my empty bookshelf, then look at it for a second. Sometime later, the bell tower chimes again.
    It’s time to go.
    Â 
    Students at Connaughton have a strict eleven o’clock curfew on Fridays, so I check to make sure the coast is clear before slipping out the window with my jacket buttoned up to my chin. The temperature’s already plunged to what feels like single digits, and late-October starlight is so sharp that it feels like I could snap off whole chunks of it and suck on them like icicles. My breath smokes out behind me as I duck below the eaves of my building, keeping to the shadows.
    Crowley House is only three buildings away, but it still takes me ten minutes of island hopping to get there, since I’m trying to avoid stepping out into the open. When I reach the dorm, I stop outside the door and look in at the tall, red-haired campus security guard shooting me a look of dead-eyed indifference.
    I hold up the poker chip and tap it against the glass, and he opens the door without a word.
    â€œThanks.” Stepping in, I can’t help but notice the guard has a dog-eared paperback propped up next to his stool, along with a styrofoam cup of coffee. The book is Kant’s
Critique of Pure Reason.
The guard sees me looking at it and scowls.
    â€œIs there a problem?”
    â€œThat book,” I say. “It’s funny.”
    â€œI think you’ve got the wrong author.”
    â€œNo, I mean, somebody just recommended it to me.”
    â€œYeah?”
    I nod. “How is it?”
    He takes a sip of coffee and glances down at the cover. “Well, I can’t say I’m crazy about his implicit assertion of transcendental idealism denying the reality of external objects.” He flicks his eyes up at me. “I mean, I suppose that you could argue that he refutes it in his discussion that self-consciousness presupposes external objects in space, but I’m not totally convinced.” Turning, he sits back down on the stool and regards me coolly. “Now, did you want to keep talking about philosophy, or are you ready to go lose all your money to that joker upstairs?”
    â€œTough call, but I think I’m ready.” For the first time I get a look at his laminated ID badge, which reads murphy, george . “Hey, George?”
    His expression turns curious. “What?”
    â€œYou know much about him?”
    â€œKant?”
    â€œBrandt.”
    At the mention of that name, George’s whole face goes sour. “Put it this way,” he says. “I’ve sat here on this stool long enough to watch punks like you throwing your trust funds into his bank account in exchange for a few minutes of feeling like you’re some kind of postpubescent jet set.”
    â€œSo then how come you help him out like this? Serving as his personal doorman?”
    â€œYou’re new here, aren’t you?”
    â€œMy first week.”
    â€œLet me fill you in on a little secret. There are only two types of people here at Connaughton—the kind that play along with Brandt Rush and his clan, and the kind that don’t last.” He takes another sip of coffee. “I happen to need this job. Not that you’d know a whole lot about something like that.”
    â€œIt might surprise you.”
    â€œI doubt that,” George grunts, and picks up his book again, disappearing behind it until I turn and start upstairs.
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    Crowley House is even older than my dorm, but it wears its age well, like the cabin of a vintage luxury yacht. It’s eleven twenty as I head down the second-floor hall and realize that I’ve started walking faster, trying to keep time with my heartbeat. My pulse always speeds up when I’m getting ready to start a con. I used to worry about it, but at the last second I always cool off, so I’m