The Fingertips of Duncan Dorfman by Meg Wolitzer Page B

truth.
    He wasn’t sure that he’d be able to convince her it wasn’t cheating, and he wasn’t sure he could even convince himself. Now, on top of that, Duncan had to convince himself that it was okay to pose for an ad for Smooth Moves. There was no way his mother would ever sign that release form. With a sick feeling, he realized he would have to forge her signature.
    Duncan would have liked to sit down on one of the lawn chairs that were for sale in aisle four of Thriftee Mike’s, and talk to her. Back when they lived in Michigan, it seemed that they talked so much more.
    Here she was now, after a long day of work. I’M THRIFTEE CAROLINE was printed on the name tag on her red smock. After glancing at it for a few seconds, Duncan mentally moved the letters in CAROLINE, and saw that they formed COLINEAR. That was a word he had heard in math class. You didn’t only learn Scrabble words by reading dictionaries or word lists or being tutored by a better player. A lot of the words you knew just from living in the world.
    Duncan’s mother smiled when he walked up to her, though he could see how tired she looked. “How was your day?” she asked. “Everything okay?”
    “Fine. You?”
    “Oh, not too bad. A customer had a screaming fit in Ladies’ Shoes—her head basically spun three hundred sixty degrees—but otherwise it was quiet. Did you have a nice time with Carl?”
    “Yes.” Duncan hesitated, wanting to tell her what was on his mind. “You know what, Mom?” he said instead. “Guess who lives right down the street from Carl?”
    “Who?”
    “Thriftee Mike.”
    “What?” said his mother.
    “Yeah, he lives in one of the other mansions in The Inlet. Carl said he’s actually not very thrifty at all. Of course, he’s never actually met him. The guy apparently doesn’t come out of his house a lot, except when he goes to the store at night.”
    Duncan’s mother’s mouth was tight, and she didn’t say a word. Duncan realized he probably shouldn’t have said something even slightly negative about the owner of the store while they were in the store. Maybe none of the employees ever talked about Thriftee Mike. Maybe it was forbidden. He was sorry he had brought it up.
    Chimes sounded over the loudspeakers, and a voice announced, “Thriftee Mike’s will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring all your thriftee purchases up to the register.”
    “We’d better make it snappy,” his mother said. “I picked out some nice shirts. They’re just like the mustard-yellow one I bought you, but in different colors. One is the color of ketchup, and the other one’s like relish. It could be a set.” Duncan rolled his eyes.
    She motioned toward the nearest counter, which had a dumb sign over it that read, THIS COUNTER IS FOR CUSTOMERS WITH UNDER THRIFTEEN PURCHASES.
    Thrifteen?
    But this wasn’t the time to complain about his shirt, or make fun of the “word” thrifteen. This was the time—if he was a much braver person, which he wasn’t—to say: Mom, I have to tell you something. I know you’ll be mad, but I told everyone in school about my fingertips even though you warned me that something bad would happen. And now I’m supposed to use them at the tournament on December twelfth, which is basically cheating.
    And by the way, the whole trip costs eight hundred and eighty-five dollars, but don’t worry, because I’m going to pay for it by posing for a cigarette ad.
    Oh, and I’m planning on forging your signature on the release form.
    Mom, Duncan wanted to say, that bad thing you warned me about seems to be happening.
    But even so, Mom, I’m going to the tournament, I’m really going . And even though I’m dreading it in many ways, I also have to tell you this: I am so excited I am jumping out of my skin.

PART TWO

Chapter Nine
    DECEMBER 12th
    W elcome to the Grand Imperial Hotel, the finest hotel in all of Yakamee,” said the friendly woman behind the desk in the marble lobby. “How may I