I cut her off. “I appreciate your interest, but I’m good to go. Let’s do this again some time.” I stand, glad to end the conversation.
“Sit down.” Her normal, tittering, flighty voice is suddenly gone. I return to my seat, surprised.
“Was there something else? Ma’am?”
She does not smile as she passes a paper to me. I recognize it—it’s my semester report on dysentery. Or diphtheria. Some D disease.
My Spidey-sense is tingling. “Um . . .”
“Zak, this whole essay is copied from Wikipedia.” She’s upset. She never gets upset. This is bad.
I play innocent. “I used it as a source, sure.”
“You cut and pasted almost the whole thing. You didn’t even take out the hyperlinks!”
Yikes, I thought I caught all those. Fortunately, this is Mrs. B we’re talking about. Surely there’s a way out. “I’m sorry. I was kind of in a time crunch myself. I’d be happy to do it over.” I give her a smile.
She doesn’t return it. “This is cheating, Zak. Academic dishonesty. I know most of you don’t take this class very seriously, but it’s a real course just the same. I’m going to have to take this to the principal.”
“Wait . . .” Why was she in hard-ass mode all of a sudden? I sure as heck wasn’t the only student who liberally borrowed from the internet. True, maybe I’d gotten a little lazy this time, but it’s not like this was an important class. I’d completed the assignment, which was more than some of my classmates did.
“You’ll receive two weeks of detention. And a zero on this assignment, of course.”
“Couldn’t we . . .” What? Think, Duquette!
“This paper was twenty percent of your final grade. And since you’ve blown off every other assignment in here, you cannot hope to recover from this. You’ll fail.”
“Fail?” As in, actually fail? As in, not pass a class?
She then adds the coup de grâce. “And since health is a required course, you will not graduate. You’ll have to make it up in the summer. And you won’t be able to enroll in TCC until late fall, I’m afraid. Not without a diploma.”
I’m frozen in sick fear. What had gotten into her? Okay, I crossed the line. I can admit that. But not letting me graduate? Even the droolers who take PE every hour get to walk at the ceremony. Why is she singling me out?
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” My voice comes out as a pathetic squeak.
“Perhaps.” She smiles in an enigmatic way. For a moment I hope she’s going to ask me to lock the door as she unbuttons her blouse, but I’m not so fortunate. “You know that I’m the quiz bowl team’s sponsor, right?”
Huh? “Yes. I’m a big fan.”
She ignores that. “We’re competing for the championship in a couple of weeks. I think we have a very good chance of winning. We have a good group this year.”
“Okay.” What does this have to do with me?
“The problem is, we’ve lost a couple of team members recently. Kathryn Ciznack moved unexpectedly, and Leroy Cooper is no longer available.”
“Because of the . . .” I take a toke from an imaginary joint.
She nods. “We have enough people for a full team, but no alternate.” She stares at me meaningfully. “I thought perhaps you’d like to volunteer.”
I try not to cringe. Remembering what hangs in the balance, I ask her what I’d have to do.
“We leave for Seattle on a Friday morning, and won’t return until Saturday night, so it would mean most of your weekend. You’ll sit in a couple of rounds to give other people a break. You will dress nicely and you will take the contest seriously.”
I bite my lip, pretending to ponder. Inside, my brain is doing backflips. A day off from school? A Saturday away from Roger? This was hardly the deal with the devil I was expecting.
“And I’ll get full credit for the report?”
She shakes her head. “If you rewrite it and hand it in to me by next Friday, I’ll count it as complete. You’ll pass this class with a C, which, quite frankly, is a gift.”
“Fair enough.”
We stand. She gives me a piece of paper. “That’s a permission form for the competition. I need you to have a parent sign that and get it back to me tomorrow morning.”
I reach for it, but she holds it just out of my grasp. “Zak, this is a one-time offer. The second you try to get out of this or don’t try your hardest at the tournament, the deal is off.” Her face is more severe than I’ve ever seen it.
I take the paper gingerly and back out of the room. Good Lord, talk about landing on your feet! Instead of getting my ass reamed, all I have to do is throw on a tie and play Jeopardy! And another weekend away from the intruder in my house. Maybe this will get Roger off my ass about participating in after-school stuff.
I pause at the front door of the school and glance at the permission slip. Seattle, that’s a great town. I know people there. If there’s any downtime, maybe I could call some friends to play a little Call of Cthulhu. When, exactly . . .
My eyes freeze on the permission slip. No.
No, no, no.
I stagger outside, into the pouring rain.
March second.
The same weekend as the convention. My favorite time of the year. The event I look forward to for twelve months. My Christmas.
And now I’m not going.
I fall to my knees. Raising my arms to the heavens, I shout out in impotent frustration.
“Connnnnnnnn!”
ANA
Everything in its place. My bike, parked directly between my brother’s and the deep freeze. My jacket, hanging on the second peg by the garage door. My quiver and arrows, on the rack. My bow, in the corner, unstrung (wouldn’t want that thing to go off accidentally).
Due to a popular book series and the movies it spawned a lot of girls have taken up archery recently. I’ve been doing it for years. Not really out of enjoyment, but because it makes me well-rounded. That’s what the good colleges want, after all—someone well-rounded. What the scholarship committees look for. What my parents expect of me. That’s why I practice archery. Why I captain the quiz bowl team. Why I volunteer at the soup kitchen, go to mass every Sunday, and never, ever get a grade lower than an A–.
I’m so well-rounded I’m almost spherical.
I brace myself and enter the house. There’s no reason I shouldn’t want to go in. Just my dad, cooking dinner, my mom, working at the computer, and my little brother, Clayton, doing his homework.
Just like every Tuesday afternoon for the past two years.
“You’re late,” says my father, looking up from slicing tomatoes for taco night.
Tuesday night is taco night. Tuesday night has always been taco night. Tuesday night will always be taco night.
I stop to peck Mom on the cheek. “Sorry, Coach wanted to talk to us about—”
“Ana.” Mom smiles and waves a finger at me, but the warning is very much there. I’m to be home at a certain time, every evening. No excuses.
“It won’t happen again.”
Clayton, is already setting the table. I go to help him. He nods at me and smiles.
I grin back and stifle a laugh. At thirteen, he’s the youngest freshman at our school, and it really shows. He hasn’t started to mature, and he looks like he belongs more in fifth grade than ninth. It doesn’t help that Mom still picks out all his clothes. Even at home, he wears slacks, a shirt buttoned up to his neck, and socks that are two different shades of white.
If I lived with a different family, I might offer to take him shopping for something more stylish.
Then again, maybe I’m the last person to give advice on what’s cool.
Right when I lay down the last fork, the living room clock chimes five thirty. Like automatons, we march to our spots. Sometimes I entertain wild notions of switching chairs with Clayton, just to shake things up a bit.
As Dad says the blessing, I glance at the empty seat across from me. Nichole’s spot. And no matter h
ow much my family tries to pretend that she never existed, that will always be Nichole’s spot.
My mind drifts back to the days when she used to kick my shins under the table to make me squeal during grace. How she used to dump salt in Clayton’s drink or make vampire teeth out of her carrot sticks. How she would—
“Ana?”
Mom interrupts my thoughts. She’s speaking to me. I didn’t hear what she asked, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the same thing she asks me every single night at dinner: How was your day, Ana?
I rattle off my lines like a liturgist reciting a prayer. My day was fine, no trouble, I got good grades in everything, I haven’t disappointed you. I’ll never disappoint you. Amen.
Mom and Dad smile at me. Then their heads creepily turn toward Clayton at the exact same time, for his speech.
“Wait.” I say it so quietly, they almost don’t hear me. But they do. Darn.
“Yes?” Dad cocks an eyebrow. I’m going off book here.
“I . . . got an email today. From Seattle University. I . . . it was an acceptance letter.”
Clayton smiles and starts to say something before he notices the look on my mother’s face. This is not a time for congratulations.
“I wasn’t aware you’d applied there, Ana.” There’s no anger in her voice. There’s no pride, either.
I try to make light of it. “Oh, it was nothing. Just a safety school.” You know how us crazy teenagers are, going out and applying to colleges.
“Well, good for you,” says Dad, with real sincerity. “Always thinking ahead. So, Clayton—”
“It’s just that . . . they have an excellent psychology program. One of the best in the northwest.”
Under the table, I’ve bent my fork into a pretzel. But I actually did it. I actually suggested . . .
“Ana,” says my mother, in a voice that indicates the conversation was over before it began. “We’ve discussed this. We all agreed that going to school here in Tacoma is the best course of action, at least for your freshman year. You’ll be able to save a lot of money by living at home.”
I don’t recall any discussion. All I remember is them telling me that I would be attending the University of Washington at Tacoma. And coming back here, night after night.
But I’m Ana Watson. I didn’t spend four years on the debate team to lose an argument. I have a thousand reasons why going to school in Seattle is the best course of action. Besides, when it comes down to it, this is my life, my education, my decision.
Silently, I listen to Clayton rattle off an animated speech about his day.
I know better than to rock the boat. I know what happens in this family when you don’t play by the rules.
That empty chair across from me is a constant reminder.
ZAK
7:30 AM
Remember that great, underrated Terry Gilliam movie, Brazil? There’s a scene where this poor schmuck is mistaken for a terrorist and a bunch of armed goons come blasting through the ceiling, lock him in a full-body straitjacket, and hurl him into a black van for transport to the reeducation center.
As I sit on the front porch, waiting for the school van to pick me up, I can relate. It’s a rare sunny day for Tacoma. Mom has left for work. Right now I should be sleeping through whatever class I have first hour—some sort of English lit thing, I think—and waiting for tonight.
Kicking ass at D&D. Taking names at a round of Magic: The Gathering. Then, who knows? A viewing of a bootlegged Ranma ½, complete with hilarious Japanese commercials? A spontaneous drum circle? Maybe slip into the Vampire Ball?
It doesn’t matter. I’ll be going to Seattle today, all right. But not to Washingcon.
All is lost.
The beautiful day mocks me. The slightly-less-gray-than-usual sky laughs in my face. I’m in a foul mood. I want to punch a hobbit.
To my right, Roger hovers above my head, cleaning out our gutters. He doesn’t ask me to hold the ladder and I don’t offer. Apparently, he doesn’t have to go to work today. I wonder vaguely what he does for a living. I know he works with Mom down at city hall. I think he might have told me about his job, but like everything else about him, I’m desperately uninterested.
Roger returns to ground level, merry as a Cockney chimney sweep. He wipes his hands on a rag and joins me on the stoop.
“Big ol’ mess up there. Probably ten year’s worth of gunk packed in the downspout.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me.”
He starts to rise, but doesn’t. “So . . . quiz bowl, eh?”
“Yep.”
“Guess you have to be pretty smart to do that.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really on the team.” I take out my phone and pretend to text, but quickly put it away when I read my new messages: all from James and the other members of my BattleTech squad, accusing me of treason for bailing on them.
Roger continues to talk, unaware that I’m not listening. I hope he wasn’t this awkward when he asked out Mom. Against my will, I imagine what their first date was like.
When the school’s van pulls up, I’m actually relieved to see them. I quickly grab my bag and hop in.
Mrs. Brinkham is driving. She nods to me, eyes half on some printed directions. I manage to force a smile. Hopefully my face says, Thank you for this opportunity, rather than, You witch—I hate you.
I’m surprised to see that Ana, the girl from the library, is here. Maybe this weekend won’t be an absolute bust after all. We’ll be on the same team, so I’ll have a chance to make a better impression. I smile at her. She glances up from her binder for a second. Just one second. Just long enough to let me know that she’s seen me, and that she can’t even bother with a simple “hello.”
I wonder if she’s that rude to everyone, or just me.
In the middle row, a cute, somewhat chubby girl slumps against the window, sound asleep. A gangly blond guy sits next to her, playing a game on his phone.
I’m forced to take the only available seat, in the back. If God were merciful, I would have been alone. Instead, there’s a boy sitting in the window seat. He doesn’t look older than ten or eleven, so I assume he’s Mrs. Brinkham’s son or something. He smiles up at me from behind thick glasses.
“Hi!” His voice is as joyful and irritating as Jar Jar’s. “I’m Clayton!” I half expect to see a name tag hanging from a yarn lanyard around his neck.
I sit silently.
“What’s your name?” He continues to stare at me, his face split into a plastic clown’s grin. Only when I actually see him blink do I start to relax.
“Duke.”
“Is that really your name?”
“Look, um, Clayton? Maybe you’d be more comfortable sitting up there with your mom.”
For a moment, he looks perplexed, then laughs. It sounds as if a kitten is being stepped on. “Mrs. Brinkham? Oh, no, she’s not my mother. I’m on the team.”
The logical side of my brain tells me to shut up, but I ask anyway. “Aren’t you a little young?”
He stomps on the kitten again. “I’m thirteen. I skipped the second grade. Now my sister and I get to go to the same school again.” He gestures to the front of the van. After a moment I realize what he’s saying.
“Ana’s your sister?”
He nods again. There’s a slight resemblance, but it’s clear who got the looks in the family.
Clayton pulls out a tome so big and musty, I mistake it for the Necronomicon. “World history. That’s my weak subject. Do you want to quiz each other?”
The blond guy in front of me bends to get something out of his bag. Our eyes meet.
Tough luck, pal, he wordlessly communicates.
“Or do you want me to quiz you? Here’s an easy one. Xerxes was the king of: a) Macedonia, b) Persia . . .”
I stare, longingly, at the rear door of the van. We’re only going about forty. If I rolled just right when I hit the street, I’d only break a few bones.
“Clayton, please stop.
Please. I’m not interested.” I pause, then lower my voice so Mrs. Brinkham won’t overhear. “I’m not even really on this team. I’m not even supposed to be here today!”
“You sound like that guy from Clerks.”
I’m a little shocked that he got that reference, but not enough to mention it. “Look, Clay, I had to skip something very fun to come here, and I’m not in a great mood.” I glance up to make sure Mrs. Brinkham isn’t listening, but she’s at the wheel, texting.
We sit in silence for about ten seconds.
“What are you missing today?”
“A convention I go to every year. Seriously, Clayton . . .”
“Last year I had to miss archaeology camp to go to the scholars’ academy.”
Great Zarquon.
“It’s a con. A science-fiction convention. Washingcon, you ever heard of that?”
He tilts his head. He then raises his hand in the Vulcan salute. The guy in the seat in front of me laughs.
“It’s not like that, Clayton. It’s . . . it’s kind of magic.” Realizing how lame that sounds, I continue. “It’s like, you never know what’s going to happen. Last year, some engineers built a functioning AT-AT out of an old motorcycle. Year before that, the SCA reenacted the Battle of Hastings. Eight people wound up in the hospital. They’re supposed to do the Battle of Badon Hill this year.”
The guy in front of me has turned around and is listening.
“I got to drive one of the original Batmobiles once. I met George Takei, the only man I’d ever switch teams for. I met Gilbert Shelton and I think I got high just from shaking his hand. I saw the guy who played the original RoboCop, and he’s uglier without the mask.”
“I always liked that movie,” says Clayton.
The girl in front of me yawns, stretches, and looks in my direction. Everyone on the bus except Ana is listening to me. I pour it on, only exaggerating a bit. “Two years ago, the Lovecraftians tried to summon Hastur in the boiler room. And when they turned the lights back on, one of the guys in the circle was gone!” I don’t mention that two purses and a laptop vanished with him.
“One time this guy proposed to his girlfriend with an alien that ripped out of his chest. And she said yes! And my friend James swears that Bill Murray cornered him in a hotel hallway, yanked the pizza he was carrying out of his hands, said, ‘No one will ever believe you,’ and walked off.”