“Think,” she said, looking down, letting her forehead touch mine, her lips moving inches from my lips. “Nigel and John are the talkers. You and I-we’re the brains. Pair the talkers with the brains, you have a competition. Maybe I have a good day, maybe you have a good day, who knows… But…” She met my eyes and smiled. “Put the two brains together, and the talkers have nothing to say. We crush them. They’re just two puppets with their hands up each other’s asses.”

I saw it. “We take two spots, they fight over the third,” I whispered.

“I knew you were smart,” she said, letting her lips graze mine. She pressed me against the door, her body pushing into mine. I felt points of warmth all down my front, her breasts on my chest, her stomach on mine, her thighs hot against my legs. God I wanted her. I wanted her like I’ve never wanted anyone. I wanted to pull her dress up over her waist right here in the hall, slide into her right here. “I read your article,” she said in that husky, teasing voice. She let her thighs slide back down against the bulge in my pants, then up again. “You did?” She let her hand trace lazily down my stomach, over my belt. “A little superficial,” she murmured, her nails grazing up the zipper of my pants, “otherwise, it was pretty good.” I grabbed her hand and jerked it away. “How many articles have you published?” I snapped.

She pulled herself off me, swept her hair from her eyes. “Think about it,” she said. “It’ll be a good chance to get to know each other.”

I watched her walk away down the hall, swinging her ass and taunting me.

When I got to my room, not sober, not fulfilled, horny and furious and thrilled and bewildered, I found another envelope on my bed. This time, I didn’t even bother to feel surprised that my doors and windows had been locked. I’d seen bigger tricks tonight. I tore it open and read it quickly.

It said, simply, in typed letters:

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH. SEVEN THIRTY P.M.

And below it, a quick, handwritten addendum:

Get a new suit.

9

I threw myself into the mock trial. Daphne’s logic was appealing. Her eyes, her lips, her rosewater scent were overwhelming. I would guarantee our entry into the V &D. I would win her admiration. I would win her. Did it matter that I knew, on some level, that these were exactly the ideas she wanted rolling around in my brain?

The case was fascinating: a war hero had suffered a terrible head injury and come home changed. Suddenly, this mild-mannered husband was capable of murdering his coworker in cold blood. It would all come down to mens rea: what had really caused this violent crime-was it the war hero? Or was it the injury that changed him?

Word had already spread across the class: this year, the judges’ panel would include a retired Supreme Court justice, a former United States Attorney, and, as always, the famous professor Ernesto Bernini. Dozens of students were drafting briefs, hoping they would be selected to compete in the final trial, to show off their skills in front of this stratospheric panel. Daphne and I spent weeks in the library, revising our motions and studying trial tactics. Outside, the days got darker and colder.

I passed the ancient man who worked the front door at the library. As usual, it seemed that if I breathed too hard, he’d blow away like sand.

Moments later, I was back at my favorite table, watching Daphne read my section of a new brief, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail, a pen tapping against her mouth. She didn’t make a single mark. She read the entire thing and looked up.

“Start over,” she said, and went back to work on her own section.

I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours in days. I’d developed a searing headache I couldn’t shake. Twice in the last two weeks, when I stood up too quickly I felt the world go blurry. Between the trial prep and the endless research for Bernini’s opus, I wasn’t even attending class anymore. What did it matter? I asked myself. I’ve discovered the real channel to success in this place, and it has nothing to do with the straight A’s and summer jobs my classmates are pursuing like lemmings.

Around midnight, I was in one of the darkest corners of the library, looking for a rare volume. But on the shelf, I found an empty space where the book should’ve been. I felt a surge of panic, then anger: was someone using my book? Or worse, had someone hidden it?

I started walking the deserted floor, searching for the book.

That’s when I heard the strange sound of crying.

I followed it to a deeper recess, and through a crack in a shelf of books, I was shocked to see Nigel bent over a table, his eyes red, his hands slamming a stack of books off the table onto the floor. The crash was jarring. Without thinking, I walked toward him. He looked up, and a wave of humiliation and anger spread across his face.

“What do you want?” he snapped at me.

“Nigel, what’s wrong?” I took a step toward him.

“Don’t patronize me,” he said.

“Nigel, we’re friends, right?”

His eyes burned right through me.

“Friends.” He turned the word over like a moldy peach. “I thought you and Daphne were friends now.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

He ignored me and turned back to one of the books he hadn’t knocked to the floor.

What the hell, I thought. “Say, you don’t have Goldman’s Theory of Criminal Justice, do you?”

Nigel laughed bitterly. “Like it would help.” He smirked. “I’ve already read it.”

“Look, Nigel, it’s after midnight. Let’s call it a day. We can grab a beer. Get some food. Sal’s is still open.”

Nigel shook his head without looking up. His movements were quick, jerky. What happened to the suave, graceful gestures of Nigel Manning, son of an ambassador and a movie star?

“How can I call it a day,” Nigel said, “when it takes an hour to read a case, and I’ve got a hundred more cases to go?”

I did a double take.

“Why does it take an hour to read a case?” I asked.

He looked wounded. “How long does it take you?”

“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Twenty?”

“That’s impossible. Half the time it’s not even apparent what they’re talking about. Who taught these judges to write? It’s all gibberish.”

He sounded frantic. All the pressure and strain of three months of law school was pouring out of him like bile.

And that’s when I realized, at this moment, Nigel was Humpty Dumpty: infinitely fragile, a web of invisible cracks running through his handsome face. He was crushable. Motions were due in a week. All I had to do was turn around and walk away, and he and John were finished.

Instead, I sat down. I didn’t say a word as he wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and composed himself.

Then, I taught him how to read a case. I showed him how to skim through the pages of words and tease out the key elements-the issue, the posture, the holding, the rationale. I showed him how meaning could emerge from the chaos, the way constellations emerged from a dispersion of stars.

When we were done, Nigel frowned at me.

“I envy you, you know.”

“Are you kidding me? I’d give anything to have your life. You’ve traveled the world. You go to parties with Oprah and Bill Gates. You envy me?”

“You’re a nobody,” he said matter-of-factly. “You never have to wonder if you’re here because some professor loved your mom in Last Affair.” He smiled lightly. “You’re white, so you never have to entertain the thought that you’re here to populate the cover of an admissions brochure-you know, the one with the smiling rainbow coalition sitting under a tree?”

“Nigel, that’s bullshit. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. The only reason I can read a case is because I spent the last four years living in my parents’ basement, practicing for law school. While you were out having a life.”