“Do you want to stop, Zak?”
“I’m fine. Just a minor spinal injury.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to dance. Maybe he isn’t enjoying himself.
The music ends and Zak slowly pulls away. When the next song starts, I wonder if he’ll want to dance again. Or maybe he’d rather keep searching for Clayton. It’s his choice. What do I care?
“Mind if I cut in?”
It’s Gypsy, that bald-headed girl from registration. She’s now wearing a dress that shows off her willowy neck, the cute freckles on her shoulders, and her ample cleavage. All things I don’t have.
And I don’t have Zak, either. She’s leading him away. At least she’s trying to. I think he’s momentarily stunned.
“C’mon, Duke, you promised me a dance.” Already, she’s trying to put her arms around his neck. She doesn’t look in my direction.
And so what if he wants to dance with Uncle Fester? She’s known him a long time, and it’s obvious she has a thing for him and I’ll be damned if I’m going to just let her waltz off with him.
I’ve elbowed my way between them before I lose my nerve.
“Excuse me!” snaps Chrome Dome.
I refuse to back down. “You’re excused. But I’m with Zak at the moment. Have a good evening.”
Her forehead wrinkles all the way to the back of her neck. She’s about to say something, but instead we both turn to Zak. This is his decision.
For a horrible moment I think he’s going to choose the human bowling ball, and I’ve just made a fool of myself. Instead, to my great relief, he takes my hand. “Another time, Gypsy.”
We’re back on the dance floor. He’s grinning. I fully expect him to make a wise-ass comment about having two women after him. But he just smiles. Wow, that smile.
I do a quick survey of the room, but my brother’s still not here. Strawberry’s gone, too. I look back at my partner. He’s still smiling. I should tell him we should leave. I should tell him we’re wasting our time here.
Instead, I keep dancing. Only we’re not really dancing. We’re both just kind of standing here, slightly swaying, our faces not too far from each other.
Zak moves slightly closer to me. I can just feel his hot breath on my mouth.
Oh, God, he’s going to kiss me.
Wow. That smarmy, self-centered jackass. Just because I let him dance with me a couple of times, he thinks he has the right to smash his lips up against mine?
But . . . he doesn’t. He just kind of hovers there for a minute, then leans away.
Oh, God, he’s NOT going to kiss me. Here we are, together on the dance floor, me chasing away other girls, and now he’s just going to stand there. What the hell?
Okay, maybe I did slap him and scream at him and call him an idiot. But that was hours ago.
He moves closer again, his smile shy.
C’mon, Zak. Make up your mind.
Our noses are nearly touching. His hand moves a strand of hair back behind my ear.
What are you waiting for, Duquette?
And he takes the plunge. It’s awkward and it’s beautiful.
My first kiss.
ZAK
12:30 AM
She let me kiss her. Son of a gun, Ana Watson is letting me kiss her.
Oh, hell, she’s kissing me back. We’re kissing.
It’s so warm and soft and beautiful. I never want it to end.
Speaking of which . . .
I pull away before things become too awkward. I have to take this slow, I can’t risk coming on too strong. Not with Ana. I can’t risk scaring her off.
She bites her lower lip and ducks her head, while still looking up at me shyly. She’s utterly cute. I wish I could tell her that. I wish I could tell her that I think she’s amazing. I wish I could run my fingers through that forest of frizzy dark hair. I wish I could kiss her again.
Instead, I lay my head next to hers and we stand there, not dancing, holding each other.
To think, I almost spent the evening playing cards.
Should I say something? Savor the moment? Tell Ana we need to keep looking for her Clayton? Tell Ana that I feel . . . what?
Someone’s phone rings. Ana pulls away from me with an apologetic smile, which collapses when she sees who the text is from.
“It’s my brother!”
We both lean in to read the message:
LOOK BEHIND YOU
We slowly turn toward the door, scanning the room for Clayton. I don’t see him. Just a bunch of vampires. I notice Arnold, the T-shirt guy, attempt to kiss his dance partner, and I chuckle when she leans away. And there’s Kevin, a con security guy. And . . .
Uh-oh.
Kevin. He worked the Mazes and Monsters game. Ana gasps. She pulls her hood up over her head, but I’m sure we’ve been spotted.
“That guy was at the tournament,” she hisses. “He must have seen me pull the alarm.”
He’s wheezing his way over to us, but there’s only one door and he’s blocking our exit.
Ana is attempting to hide behind me. Geez, if she thinks her parents are going to flip out because she lost Clayton, imagine what they’ll do if she gets busted by the con police.
Do something, Duquette! Think!
No, that always gets me into trouble. Time to act.
Arnold is next to me. He’s talking to his dance partner, a masked woman who seems to be trying to edge away. I lean in and put an arm around both their shoulders.
“Um, hello?” says the woman, with a pronounced Indian accent.
“You!” hisses Arnold, who has clearly had enough of me.
I glance over at Ana. Kevin has cornered her. She’s rapidly shaking her hood. I’m out of time.
I remove my hand from the girl’s shoulder. “Arnold, forgive me. It’s for the greater good.”
I then drive my fist into his flabby gut. He collapses to his knees with an agonized wheeze, a disbelieving look on his face.
It’s the first time I’ve ever violently punched anyone, and I feel terrible. But my ploy is working. Half the people in the ballroom turn to look at us. Including Kevin.
Arnold rises to his feet, a dangerous look on his face. I may have landed my only blow of this fight. But the commotion will be enough to distract Kevin and give Ana a chance to escape.
Arnold raises his fists. I’m going to have to let him have a free punch. Hopefully it won’t be in the nose.
“Get your hands off of him!”
I don’t see her face, but judging from the accent, it’s Arnold’s date. A second later, she leaps onto my back, raking my cheeks with her nails. I stagger forward. Arnold’s not expecting this, and my forehead connects with the bridge of his nose. He yelps and tumbles backward into the DJ’s table. The music skips, then stops.
“Fight, fight, fight!” I scream as the girl pulls me to the ground by my hair. Our flailing legs trip up several children of the night. People shout, confused. Someone hits the lights, transforming the smoking European tomb into conference room B11. Kevin is waddling in my direction. Ana stands indecisively near the doorway. I gesture for her to leave. I try to stand, but someone leg tackles me. Down I go. Arnold, his date, Kevin, and some seriously pissed-off vampires tower over me.
And I left my garlic in my other pants.
“Hey, lady! Put your shirt back on!”
It’s Ana’s voice. Arnold and Kevin turn toward her.
“Both of you girls! It’s not that kind of con! Don’t take off your clothes!”
I scuttle backward like a crab. Ana is standing by the door. Every man in the room is shoving toward the exit, desperate to see what Ana is describing. As soon as Kevin is distracted, I rush over to her. Clutching hands, we . . .
We have nowhere to go. The crowd is blocking the exit. And as soon as they realize there’s no orgy going on in the hallway, we’re sunk.
“Come with me if you want to live.”
A short man in a trench coat has appeared behind us. His voic
e has a buzzing, mechanical quality. He’s wearing a top hat, which obscures his face.
“What?”
He places an artificial voice box against his neck. “This way. Now.” Without waiting to see if we’re following, he rushes behind the DJ’s chair and pulls back a decorative curtain.
There’s a hidden door marked HOUSEKEEPING.
There’s no time to think. I yank it open and practically drag Ana through with me. Just before the door swings shut, our guide tips his hat to me.
Clayton. That little creep was watching us the whole time.
Ana is momentarily stunned by the sight of her brother, but I know we don’t have a moment to lose. Leading her by the hand, I go tearing through a maze of stacked chairs. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings, but I finally lead us to a stairwell. Down we go.
After three flights we reach the subbasement. A heavy door blocks the way. I approach the keypad and enter the code: 12345.
We enter the Bowels. The Pit. Shelob’s Lair. The Undercomplex.
Actually, it’s nothing but a lot of storage cages, the generator, access to the plumbing, and other mundane crap. But looking into the emergency-lit tunnels and cubbies, it does seem kind of magical. I remember the countless games of flashlight tag, live action role-playing, and scavenger hunts I’ve participated in down here.
Ana removes the hood. “Are we safe? No one followed us, right?”
I listen, but the only sound is the buzzing of the generator, interrupted by a trickling sound when someone flushes upstairs.
“We’re fine.”
“Well, what about Clayton? Do you think that guard—”
“No. He’ll be okay.”
We sit on a bench. I rub my neck where Arnold’s date scratched me. When I pull my hand away, my fingers are dotted with blood.
“Pretty fast thinking there, Ana. Nothing empties a room like the prospect of a naked girl.”
“I saw it in a movie once.” She stares straight ahead, holding her bow between her knees.
“I thought we were dead back there. When—”
She turns to me, frowning. “Why did you punch him?”
“Who?”
“Arnold!” Her voice is screechy, angry. “What the hell did you hit him for?”
“You were about to get arrested! I had to create a distraction!”
“By beating up that poor guy?” Her voice is judgmental. “What the hell, Duquette?”
“Excuse me? I did that to save your ass! What do you care about him, anyway?”
She opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything for a moment, as if she can’t believe what I just said. “He’s a nice guy. He gave you that shirt, and that’s how you repay him?”
“He’ll live. I made him look like a brawler in front of that girl.”
Ana shakes her head. “Not everyone’s a meathead like you.”
“So I’m a meathead now? And hey, while we’re on the subject, why the hell does he have your blouse?”
Ana turns away from me. “Just don’t talk to me. Just . . . don’t.”
She folds her arms and I’m looking at her back. I almost get up and storm off. Almost.
Really, Ana Watson? After all we’ve been through, you’re going to get pissy now? Who cares about Arnold? Does it even matter that I did that for you? You think I want to be hanging around in this basement with you? You act like you like me, you act like you hate me. Do you know how nervous I was when I kissed you? I think I deserve better. I think—
Slowly, without facing me, Ana’s hand creeps toward me. It stops, halfway across the bench, palm up.
Does she want me to touch her? I can’t see her face. What do I do? I wish I had a D20 to roll to help me decide.
Risking everything, I place my hand on top of hers. Still not facing me, she closes her fingers around mine.
“Ana?”
“Shut up, Duquette. I’m not done being angry with you.”
We just sit there in the silence, holding hands, not talking, not looking at each other.
But holding hands.
Over the years, I’ve taken eight girls down here to the basement, or equivalent places at other conventions. Eight for eight at first base, and one time, second.
Sitting here on this bench, with Ana Watson pissed off at me but gripping my fingers . . . it’s better. So much better.
ANA
1:16 AM
It’s not supposed to end like this. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss out on the dance floor. Yes, I have nothing to compare it to, but that moment with Zak—it was so unexpected and confusing and great. And instead of being able to enjoy the moment, instead of being able to relax for one second, that stupid security guard barges in, Zak turns into a barbarian jerk, my brother shows up dressed like Mr. Hyde, and now we’re hiding in a dungeon.
Because that’s how Ana Watson’s first kiss goes. Of course.
It would be nice to stay down here for a while, to avoid the police, the Vikings, Boba Fett, the Tribute, and Cyrax, but it’s not feasible. Besides, I’m still angry with Zak for punching Arnold. I release his hand.
“Zak? We’ve missed curfew.”
He nods grimly.
“Do you have money for a cab?”
“No. You?”
I shake my head. “Do you know anyone who could drive us back to the hotel?”
He nods. Of course he does. Because he’s Zak Duquette and he always has a plan.
“I know a guy. He’s not here, but he always gets up crazy early. He’ll take us.”
I stand. Zak follows.
“This way, Ana. The tunnel goes under the building. It’ll take us back to the lobby. I’ll call from there.”
We manage to walk silently for thirty seconds before Zak opens his mouth again. “You know, all is not lost. There’s actually an easy way out of our situation.”
I want to believe him. I want to think that Zak Duquette has a solution to our dilemma that doesn’t involve time travel or constructing robot doppelgängers.
“Yes?”
He grins at me, his old smarmy smile. “It’s so easy, I can’t believe we didn’t think of it earlier. I’ll just tell Mrs. Brinkham this was all my fault.”
“What?”
His smile widens. “It’s perfect. I’ll just say I dragged Clayton here and then you followed me to try to get him to come back. She’ll believe that. It’ll cover you and your brother. Problem solved!”
I swear, I almost slap him again.
“Duquette, are you stupid?”
His face falls.
“Do you honestly think I’m going to blame you for this mess? Do you think I’d just throw you to the wolves because it’s easy?” He must really not think much of me.
Zak shrugs. “Listen, Ana, you’ve been telling me all evening about how your parents are going to crucify you. Well, this way they won’t. My mom won’t care if I get in a little trouble, and if I fail health, so what? It’s not like I’m going to Harvard.”
I try to grab him by his lapels, but they’re just painted on his shirt. “Do you think that I think that you think—” I take a breath and start over. “You think I have that little regard for you? That you’re not important?”
His face takes on a confused expression.
“You’re an idiot, Duquette, but this is not your fault. And when we see Mrs. Brinkham, I’m going to face her, look her right in the eye”—I smile weakly—“and blame everything on Clayton.”
He starts to say something, but I turn and walk away. His request to play the hero really rattled me. Does he honestly see me as that self-serving? Does he really believe all he’s done for me tonight means so little?
I slow down and let him catch up. We glance at each other and quickly look away. God, just when I’m starting to tolerate him, everything goes nuts.
Maybe I’ll get to see him again. Not at school, but maybe I can take him up on his offer to hang out sometime. I’ll just explain things to Mom and Dad. They’ll un
derstand.
Yeah, that’s a very probable outcome. About as realistic as one of Zak’s movies. Whatever we almost had, it’s gone.
Which is too bad, because he occasionally has a charming, heroic side.
“Jesus, look at this damn mess!”
Sometimes.
Zak’s pointing to a pile of fast-food bags and other trash someone has left all over the floor. A Washingcon pamphlet shows that the mess was not made by a hotel worker.
“Raised in a barn.” To my surprise, he kneels down and begins gathering up the garbage.
“Zak, leave it. That’s not your job.”
He continues stuffing wrappers into a McDonald’s bag. “Ana, Washingcon isn’t exactly your typical convention. Warren tells me that the owners here would be happy if we stopped coming. And if they get enough complaints, they’ll have an excuse to kick us out. Then we’d have to meet in another city, like Portland. I’d really hate that.” He overstuffs the bag and the greasy bottom tears out.
I bend down to help him. “This convention really is the center of your universe, isn’t it?” I shudder to think what kind of Faustian bargain Brinkham forced out of him to get him to miss this.
Zak gathers the trash into a big, greasy ball and stuffs it into a bin. “When my father died,” he says, with his back to me, “I didn’t leave the house for two months, except to go to school. Sometimes not even then. But when Washingcon came around, I went. It helped me get on with things. This . . . this is my happy place.” He faces me. “Stupid, huh?”
I don’t think it’s stupid at all. “I wish I had a happy place.”
We look at each other for a long moment. I think we’re both waiting for the other one to make some sort of a move. Zak eventually winks, then gestures to a brown vinyl backpack that someone has forgotten on the ground.
“Check it out.” He picks something from the floor next to the bag. It’s the stub of a hand-rolled “cigarette.” That explains the slightly sweet odor in the air.
“Have you ever smoked one?” I ask.
He grins. “Once. Last year. Down here, actually.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that. “What was it like?”
“I . . .” He laughs. “I coughed so hard I threw up.”