Blond Guy looks impressed. “So why did you come here instead?”
I ignore him, continuing to spin tales, many of which sort of happened at one time or another. The catfight between a Lady Galadriel and Harley Quinn, versus another Galadriel and a female Pippin. The time I had to share a bed with Sailor Moon (her boyfriend slept between us, but still).
Eventually, we begin to slow down for the Seattle gridlock. Everyone returns to their seats. Clayton still stares at me. His eyes are wide. I hope I’ve managed to shock him just a little bit.
“Duke, where did you say this event was?”
“Right here in Seattle. At the convention center.”
I lean back in my seat and put in my earbuds to end the conversation. Just as the narrator begins chapter seventeen of Snow Crash, I hear Clayton mumble something.
“Fascinating.”
ANA
1:30 PM
“Seventeen over negative pi,” says Clayton. He has not touched the scratch paper in front of him.
“Correct,” replies the judge, trying to hide the slightly shocked edge in his voice. Another ten points for Meriwether Lewis High School.
“Which exiled Russian leader was assassinated in 1940, in Mexico City?”
Landon buzzes in excitedly. “Who is Leon Trotsky?”
“Correct. And may I remind you once again, you do not have to answer in the form of a question.”
“Sorry.”
For our opponents, the ending buzzer must sound merciful. We’re ahead by nearly one hundred points. They mutter their congratulations and ashamedly gather their things.
I smile at my brother. “Great work, Clayton.”
He blushes and ducks his head. “It was a team effort,” he mumbles.
I glance at my two other teammates as they take sips of bottled water and prepare for the next round. It’s true—we are pretty formidable. Landon, the history and government expert. Sonya, who knows everything about the life sciences and language. Me, with my decent handle on the humanities and arts. But Clayton . . . science and math were his strong points, but honestly, he could probably take on any team single-handedly. I give him a playful punch on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his stool. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have a team.
Across the room, I see the one weak link in our chain: Deadweight Duquette. Instead of doing some last-minute cramming like the other alternates waiting in the audience, he’s found another lazy person and is playing cards with him. Their game has all the sleazy dignity of a backroom poker game.
I walk over to his table to grab my phone. (That’s one thing we can trust him to do: watch our bags.) I know my irritation with him is pointless—after all, he’s only an alternate. Still, I don’t like the idea of someone on this team who was obviously here against his will.
Just as I fish my phone out of my purse, Zak’s opponent wanders off. He instantly turns to me.
“Hey, Ana, good show there.”
“Yes, Zak.”
His eyes narrow. I remember how he’d introduced himself as Duke. I hope that using his real name annoys him.
“Your little bro was kicking some ass up there. He’s like a mini Brainiac.”
I turn on my phone. “Yes.”
“I’m serious. The way he does math in his head, you ought to get him to try out for Stupid Human Tricks.”
Yes, there’s nothing I’d like better than to see my brother paraded around like some kind of genius freak. He gets enough of that already.
As if on cue, Clayton has joined us. His cute little smile is back. I almost return it, but then realize, much to my disgust, that he’s grinning at Zak.
“Hey, Duke.”
“Hey, C-Dawg. Nice play on that physics question.”
Clayton’s grin widens. And . . . good grief, he’s blushing. Actually blushing.
Zak fans his strange cards out on the desk in front of him. “You got a few minutes? Wanna play a round of Mazes and Monsters?”
“Sure! Um, I’ve never . . .”
“Real easy. The goal is—”
Okay, it’s time to nip this in the bud. “Clayton, get back up there.” I point to the front of the room. My brother immediately stands.
“Hang on,” interrupts Duquette. “This’ll only take like, three minutes.”
Clayton glances at me, and I shake my head. No distractions, not today. As soon as he’s out of earshot, I sit down next to Zak.
“I appreciate you making an effort to include him . . . ,” I begin.
Zak shoots me an obnoxiously offended look. “He’s not a baby. I just wanted to play cards. It gets a little boring out here in the studio audience.”
Poor little baby. “Sorry, Zak. But the rest of us are here to win a tournament. We’ve been working for this all year, and I don’t need you distracting Clayton right now. You two can play when we get to the hotel. But leave us alone during the competition.”
Zak’s eyebrows squish together until they form a single fuzzy caterpillar on his brow. “Leave you alone? Excuse me, I thought I was part of this team too.”
I am so not in the mood for his drama. “You sure didn’t act like you wanted to be on this team when we were in the van this morning.”
Zak’s lips retract into an angry little pucker, which is kind of hilarious. “No, Ana, I didn’t. I’m missing something very important to me right now. And all I’ve done today is sit around with my thumb up my butt. So why the hell am I here?”
I start to explain how each team is required to have four members, and we needed him along just in case someone got sick. He’s like a spare tire. I’ve captained this team for two years. I’ve worked hard to get us here. Someone like Duquette wouldn’t understand that.
Before I can think of a way to explain, Mrs. Brinkham rushes over, distractedly digging through her purse.
“Ana, did I give you our registration forms or did I leave them in the van?”
Okay, maybe our team has two weak links.
“You never gave them to me.”
Mrs. Brinkham continues to remove wads of old Kleenex and other trash from her bag. “I need to turn those in.” She looks back up at us. “Could you run down to the parking lot and get them? They should be on the dashboard in a purple folder.”
Duquette just stands there. Perhaps the instructions were too difficult.
“C’mon, Zak,” I prod. “Straight down the stairs. We parked next to the big fountain.” I try to nudge him forward with my palm.
“Actually,” interrupts Mrs. Brinkham. “I was talking to you, Ana. Go stretch your legs. Maybe get a snack.”
Well, maybe our sponsor has forgotten the schedule, but fortunately I haven’t. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brinkham, but the next round is in”—I check my watch—“six minutes.”
“I know.” She clears her throat. “Take a break. Let’s let Zak have a round.”
Zak’s face breaks into a stupid grin, which he quickly swallows when he looks at me.
“Mrs. Brinkham,” I begin, trying to sound calm. “If we win this round, we’re through for the day. I really don’t think this is the time to play shorthanded. Um, no offense, Zak.”
He shrugs.
Mrs. Brinkham, however, pointedly hands me her keys. “We’re up against a new team, mostly freshmen. Zak will be just fine.”
I’m beginning to lose my composure. “I don’t think—”
Zak reaches for the keys. “Hey, I’ll go get the papers, I don’t mind.”
Mrs. Brinkham holds up a hand. “Get up there, Zak. It’s almost time.”
Zak stands. But he doesn’t leave. He looks at me. Expectantly.
If I tell him to stop, he’ll stay here. Lord knows why, but he won’t take my place, not unless I say it’s okay.
They both stare at me. Mrs. Brinkham dangles the keys.
If I insist on participating, Zak won’t argue. If we both stand up to Mrs. Brinkham, then she won’t force the issue.
“Zak?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t . . . don’t buzz in, unless you’re really, really sure.”
I snatch the keys from Mrs. Brinkham’s outstretched hand and storm out, returning a minute later to trade the house keys she gave me for the van keys. I make it to the lobby before I begin to shake with rage.
Mrs. Brinkham wasn’t the one who led us to this tournament. She wasn’t the one who convinced my mother to let Clayton try out for the team. She wasn’t the one who talked Landon into dropping out of track so he could come to our tournaments. It wasn’t her who confirmed our tournament dates and registered our team. She didn’t bring us here.
And in the end, I didn’t argue with her. I let Duquette take over, rather than fight about it. I’ve captained this team for three years. I ought to march right back up there. I ought to tell her . . .
No, Mrs. Brinkham is probably right. At this point we could stick a sock monkey in my seat and we’d still win. I’m no longer needed.
I storm off to the van and locate the folder, not at all where our sponsor said she’d left it. I notice the clock on the console. If I run, I can make it back with two minutes to spare.
And then get told I had to let Zak have a turn. Because it was only fair.
Except life isn’t fair.
I pull out my phone and send a text.
Please call me after three.
I blow my nose, gather the papers, lock the van (which Mrs. Brinkham had forgotten to do), and return to the building.
Though it is frowned upon to enter a room during a session, I silently slink in. I want to watch, to make sure everything is running smoothly.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
Clayton is breathing hard. He does that on the rare occasions when he is confused. Landon and Sonya look sick. In the front row, Mrs. Brinkham crumbles a piece of paper in her fist.
Zak, curse him, sits there with his head on his elbow, hardly awake.
“Carbon fourteen,” says an opposing player.
“Correct.”
The scoreboard adds another ten points to our opponents’ score.
We’re down by thirty. And according to the timer, we have less than two minutes to go.
Sonya catches my eye. Even from this distance, I can see the accusation.
We are losing. Because I left Do-Nothing Duquette in my seat. Because I didn’t stand up to my coach. Because I felt a little sorry for our alternate. I’ve let everyone down. We are going to lose. It is all my fault.
I fall into a chair. We will sink into the losers’ bracket because of this loss. That means more rounds. More chances to screw up. We’re falling down a hole from which we may never emerge.
The moderator relentlessly pounds on. “Which country was the first to officially use fingerprinting as a crime detection tool?”
A boy at the opposing table hits his buzzer. “The United Kingdom.”
“Incorrect.”
At my table, Clayton is almost hyperventilating. Sonya and Landon exchanged baffled looks. Landon’s hand hovers indecisively over his button.
The buzzer sounds, but it’s not Landon.
“Argentina,” mumbles Zak, as if speaking from a dream.
“Correct. Which fictional character had an older brother named Mycroft?”
C’mon, Clayton, you know this.
“Sherlock Holmes.” Zak again. Both tables turn and stare, like he’s a parrot that unexpectedly said something profound.
“Which Dutch painter . . .”
“Vincent van Gogh.”
In less than half a minute, Duquette has tied the score. My hands leave sweaty prints on the desktop in front of me. I want to smile at him in an encouraging way, but his eyes are still half-closed.
Down to the wire. Last question.
“What is the largest Commonwealth nation in the world?”
“Australia!” shouts an opposing girl, without buzzing. She quickly hits her button and repeats her answer.
“Incorrect.”
Both teams turn toward Zak, like weathervanes in a windstorm. For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. Then his thumb twitches like a vegetative patient’s.
“Canada.”
“Correct.”
And the timer dings. Game over. We’ve won.
Our table goes wild. Landon embraces Zak, which startles him fully awake. He’s even more shocked when Sonya plants a kiss on his cheek. Mrs. Brinkham rushes up and ruffles his hair.
I slowly join them while the other team bitterly nods their congratulations as they leave.
He did it. That loudmouthed slacker actually pulled it off. Saved everything. The game, the competition, our hope for victory.
I stand next to Zak. Before I can thank him, Clayton steps between us.
“Great work, Duke.” He shakes Zak’s hand, while looking at him with an expression of childlike hero worship.
Zak smiles back. He’s proud.
And it’s then that I realize I cannot do it.
I cannot congratulate this interloper, no matter how much he did for us.
I know it’s immature. I know it’s petty. But Duquette is not a real member of this team. This is not his victory.
And Clayton sure as heck is not his brother.
ZAK
2:31 PM
I have to admit, that was kind of cool. Me, jumping in at the last second, saving the day. Mrs. Brinkham all impressed. Sonya using it as an excuse to kiss me. If it had been any other weekend, it might have been a nice feeling.
But this isn’t just any weekend, I reflect as we all make our way into the hotel lobby. In a few hours, I should be walking into the convention center. It is always an inspiring sight, seeing that sea of cosplayers in their finery. Everyone from A-ko to Mr. Zzyzzx. Some people work all year on their costumes. James said he was going to have something especially impressive this con. Too bad I’ll only see it on Tumblr.
Dad loved the whole freak show aspect of it. He was never much into fandom, but the couple of years that he took me, he really seemed to enjoy himself.
Landon nudges me in the side. Mrs. Brinkham is speaking.
“All of you should be very proud of yourselves.” Is it my imagination or is she looking at me? She begins passing out room cards. “You’re on your own now. Make good choices. I’ll be by to say good night around ten. We’ll meet here in the lobby tomorrow at eight.”
Suddenly, my depression fades away. We’re on our own? The center is only a half hour from here by bus. Quicker, if I want to spring for a taxi. I could actually be at Washingcon earlier than most years! Duck back here for check-in, sneak out for the night, drag my ass back in time for the morning meeting . . .
“Zakory? Do you have a moment?”
Dang. Mrs. Brinkham. I force a smile.
“Zak, I just wanted to thank you for what you did today. You really impressed everyone.”
“Thanks. Well, see you tomorrow—”
“Hang on.” She touches my shoulder. “I mean that. You really did great. And I heard you talking about how you had other plans this weekend. I just wanted you to know we’re all really glad that you’re here.”
I fight it . . . fight it with every ounce of my being, but it’s useless. I’m touched.
“Thanks.” Gee whiz, ma’am, t’weren’t nothin’.
“Also, I appreciate you talking to Clayton. The other team members kind of ignore him, so thanks for stepping up.”
“What about his sister?”
Mrs. B bites her lip. “She seems so distracted recently. At any rate, could you keep an eye on him tonight? Maybe have dinner together? I hate to think of him sitting around in the room alone.”
She knows. Somehow, she knows I’m planning to sneak off.
“I don’t know. I was kind of thinking about taking some time on my own.”
She shakes her head. “Remember our agreement, Zakory. You’re here for one reason, and one reason only. I’m going to need you to hang out with Clayton tonig
ht. If I find out you’ve gone farther than . . . let’s say four blocks from here, then there’s going to be trouble.”
I consider my options. It wouldn’t be hard for me to take Clayton out for a Happy Meal, then dump him off at the hotel in time to catch the Spinal Tap cover band tonight. But I have a mental image of Clayton knocking on Mrs. Brinkham’s door at nine o’clock, dragging his teddy bear and asking to be tucked in.
That scenario would not end well for me. I sigh.
“As you wish.”
As I climb the stairs, trying to locate room 237 (dear God!), I’m cornered by Sonya. She’s changed out of her uptight tournament clothes and into jeans and a top that was designed for a slimmer girl. Her belly strains against the fabric, while the sleeves dig into her round little arms.
She unexpectedly places her hand on my shoulder and her curves suddenly are not so unpleasant.
“Zak, you were incredible today!” She’s grinning and doing that head ducking thing girls do when they’re nervous. “We would have lost if you weren’t there.”
She’s still touching my shoulder and I have difficulty responding. “Oh, um, well . . . just doing my part.”
“You really were amazing. I wish you’d joined the team earlier this year.” There’s a long pause. Neither of us speak, yet we don’t break eye contact. After a second, she lowers her hand.
“So do you have plans for dinner?” she asks.
Holy crap, is this evening going to work out after all? True, I was stuck taking Clayton to Chuck E. Cheese’s, but maybe I could arrange a group outing. Then, after Clayton is in bed, Sonya and I can adjourn to the hotel’s hot tub.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to be suave, Landon comes thundering down the stairs. He nods at me. And then kisses Sonya.
Of course he does.
“You ready to eat?” he asks his girlfriend-which-was-obvious-in-retrospect.
She giggles. “Sure. Zak, do you want to come with us?”
Over her shoulder, Landon bites his lip.