“They do, but the team somehow always find out about it beforehand,” I explain. “With just enough time to bribe or threaten some freshman into pissing into a cup they can smuggle in.” No one outside the select few are supposed to know of this practice, but Warren, meathead that he is, is the kind of drunk who will blurt out anything if he’s liquored up enough.
“Maybe you can work that angle,” Andy says. “Just rat him out or something.”
“Maybe,” I say uncertainly. “But I need to be careful. What I need is for Lowell to fall on his own sword without getting my hands dirty.”
“I stand by the pot brownies plan,” he says. “Feel free to take artistic license with that idea, by the way. Maybe you can work it into something that fits your newfound ethical code.”
Artistic license. I’m struck with a sudden thought. No, not just a thought. A plan. Oh, my God. “Oh, my God.”
“Oh, my God, what?”
“You gave me the perfect idea.”
Andy beams. “You’re going with the pot brownies?”
“Not that,” I say, “but something else. Something so much better. This is legit.”
I divulge my plan to Andy, and at the end of it, he offers his hand in a high five, which I gladly indulge. After he’s battered up the brownie mix, poured it into a glass pan and set it in the oven, he turns to me and says, “I can’t lie. I’m sort of flattered.”
“Flattered?”
“That I was your second-and-a-half.” He smiles, just a little. “That you came to me for this.”
“Oh, really?” I say, skeptical. “Because if I remember correctly, not too long ago you called me—and I quote—‘pathetic.’”
“I was talking about the vow. Not you,” he says evenly.
I shrug, not sure if I believe that, but still wanting to. “Anyway. It made sense. I knew you’d get it. I’m not sure Sam would…you know. Approve. He’s not the vengeance type.”