Living with Your Past Selves (Spell Weaver) (7 page)

“But if I wanted to erase the data, I could just as easily pull out White Hilt and burn the whole thing up.”

“Sure, but there are some situations where subtlety would be better. What if your only option when dealing with people was to cut off their heads with White Hilt? How would that work out?” As usual, he made a compelling point. “So what then is the solution? You need to be able to interact with technology directly. If you could manipulate the digital universe as easily as you can manipulate the natural one, your power, and with it your ability to get results in modern society, would increase exponentially, and sometimes you could get those results more covertly. You came to me so that I could help you learn how to do that.”

Stan must have known he was at least fourteen steps ahead of me now, and that I was awed by the sheer brilliance of his suggestion. A hybrid of magic and science! If we could do it, we could certainly surprise whatever bad guys came my way.

“That’s a great idea, Stan, but I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Oh, I do, but we will both have to work very hard—and you will have to pay my price.” The last part sounded oddly ominous.

“Okay, so what’s your price?”

“Get me a girl.”
Gee, maybe I should get one for myself first!

“I can try, but dude, you need to lose those Star Trek pajamas.”

“You should talk.” I had been so engrossed in spilling my guts, I forgot about my trend-setting wardrobe from the Santa Brígida High School lost and found. The purple sweater, about three sizes too big for me—now there was a bold fashion statement if ever there was one.

“But at least my room…” I began, glancing around at a unique collection of science fiction paraphernalia that might have been a turn-on if Stan’s perspective sweetheart was from Vulcan, but otherwise seemed more like a massive turn-off.

“Your room? Yeah, come to think of it, maybe I’d better ask someone else to help me get a girl. Tal, your room looks like you’re plotting to seduce the queen of the faeries.” Yeah, unfortunately, that’s what my dad thought, though in a somewhat different way than Stan meant it.

Stan and I traded friendly insults for a while, our exchange ending as it often did, with me on top of him, tickling him unmercifully. Stan was too scrawny to put up a good fight against me, but I had to give him credit; he always tried.

Being with him reminded me of just how much he had filled the “little brother” niche in my life. Maybe the “little” label wasn’t fair and would even hurt his feelings if I said it to him, since we were about the same age, but as I’ve mentioned, he looked a lot younger, and I had a hard time remembering he wasn’t. We were both only children, and in my experience, at least as far as guys were concerned, that meant each of us had a brother-sized hole in our lives. Unrelated by blood, we had become brothers by friendship. I had come to him for that reason, not to have him refine my abilities, but his idea was good, and at least now he believed me. Whatever happened next, at least I would not be alone.

That night after I went home, I managed to gag down dinner, but I couldn’t sleep at all. I don’t know if I was waiting for the
Gwrach y Rhibyn
to start scratching at the windows, or dreading some nightmare about having to kill—and this time a real person. Whatever was going through my head kept my nerves as tight as if they were being stretched on a rack. It was almost a relief when my alarm went off. A guy can only do so much tossing and turning in the dark, waiting for God knows what kind of horror to manifest itself.

Much to my surprise, the next day, the next week, in fact the next several weeks went well. I was still on edge most of the time, and probably I would have been even worse if I hadn’t learned how to use my music to calm myself. But there was no mass attack on the high school by supernatural beings; hell, there wasn’t even any unnatural fog in the mornings, just bright August sun, shifting imperceptibly as the days shortened. During this time of year, I used to go to the beach when I was younger, but since my “awakening” I had always been too busy, and now I was that kind of busy squared.

However idyllic the end of August seemed, I always felt the watchful eyes of both allies and enemies. The latter had probably not expected me to thwart the
pwca’s
attempt to steal White Hilt, much less actually beat the
pwca
in combat and kill it. Perhaps they figured they had underestimated me and wanted to plan their next move carefully, so I could just be experiencing the calm before the storm. Regardless, I had underestimated the shifter and overestimated my own preparedness. I didn’t dare make that mistake again, so every day I worked on my defense preparedness to-do list.

First, I needed to build stamina. I had always considered myself to be in pretty good shape, but real combat wore me down too fast. I kept up fencing (and occasional covert long sword) practice, but I added much more running. Stan bicycled part of the way with me at first, then most of the way. Then, much to my surprise, he started running too. In the beginning he couldn’t keep up with me at all, but I gave him props for trying so hard. I thought he was just keeping me company, but it didn’t take me long to realize he had an ulterior motive: he had figured out, doubtless through very scientific observation, that girls like you better if you are buff. His mother wasn’t keen on his spending so much time out running, fearing it would compromise his schoolwork, but he could use the running to get PE credit on a contract basis, and that mollified her a little, since it opened up a slot for yet another course that would build his credentials with the Stanford admissions people.

Second, I needed to build muscle. Sure, I could handle White Hilt, but not as well as I would like. I could have infinite stamina in general, but it wouldn’t do me much good in combat if my arm muscles gave out from all the rapid sword swinging. In that area I got help from an unexpected source: Dan Stevens.

Ever since the day when Dan became the pawn of some anonymous ally of mine, he had been, well, if not exactly friendly, then at least not contemptuous, and almost every day he surprised me in some way, but never more than on the day he invited me to work out with the football team. He explained that during weight training sessions, non-football players, like team managers and athletes from off-season sports, could join in if they wanted. Though there was no fencing team on campus, I did fence competitively, so technically I was a “non-football athlete,” and thus qualified to join weight training if I’d like.

“What about Coach?” I asked worriedly. Some members of the coaching staff had never quite forgiven me for not playing high school soccer.

“Leave Coach to me,” replied Dan with a little grin I had never seen before. Now that I thought about it, these days whatever Dan wanted from the football coach, he could get. Dan had always been a good player, but this year he was on fire, skyrocketing from someone who might get into a local college on the merits of his football career, maybe with a little scholarship support, to someone who colleges from other parts of the country were now at least hinting could get a full ride. Besides that, the team had won all its early games, including one against last year’s league champion. As far as Coach was concerned, Dan walked on water, so I didn’t doubt he could get me cleared to weight train with the team. With that in mind, I decided to press my luck a little.

“Do you think you can get an invite for Stan as well?” Dan looked at me as if I had suggested a new rule that would prohibit cheerleaders from dating football players.

“Dude, I know he’s your friend, but he’s no athlete. Mathlete, maybe…”

“He’s trying to get in shape, though, and it would mean a lot to him.”

I watched Dan teeter on the edge of refusal but, as if inspired by some hitherto unsuspected muse, I had the greatest lightbulb moment in months.

“You said team managers can join the workout.”

“Yeah, but Schoenbaum isn’t a manager, and there are no openings right now.”

“Well, how about creating another position, like team tutor? Dan, I hear some of the guys are having trouble academically. Let Stan in, and he’ll tutor for free in math and science, and I’ll do English, history, and foreign language.” And there went hours a week down the drain, but I knew how much an opportunity like this would mean to Stan, especially in his current mood.

Dan, surprised by the suggestion, nonetheless knew I was right. Some of the guys were in trouble, real trouble. The school’s free tutoring program had fallen victim to budget cuts, and some football players’ families were getting squeezed pretty hard by the recession. Also, the close proximity of Montecito tended to drive up tutoring rates in the area. Then there was the fact that Stan was already operating at college level, having aced every high school math and science course, most before he was even in high school. He probably had a deeper knowledge of the subject matter than many of the college-aged tutors available, making him a better bet even for those students who could afford someone else.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up…but I’ll see what I can do” he added grudgingly. I did get my hopes up, though—and I was right. The coach jumped on board right away. Some of the players raised objections, the right to work out with the team being a fairly closely-guarded privilege, but in the end Dan, who was team captain as well as quarterback, had his way.

When I told Stan, he was like a kid at Christmas, or, well, actually Hanukkah, if you want to get technical. Unfortunately, his mother was a little more like the Grinch.

“Stanford, I don’t want you doing weight training. Football players work out much harder than someone like you would be able to, and you might hurt yourself.” Geez, Lady, why not just wrap the kid in plastic and keep him on a shelf somewhere?

“Mrs. Schoenbaum,” I began, “there are three professional trainers present at all times, not to mention Coach Miller and his assistants, who are there at least part of the time. They won’t let Stan do anything he can’t handle.”

If looks could kill, Mrs. Schoenbaum’s glare at me would have gotten her convicted of homicide. “Tal, I know you
mean
well,” she said, with an emphasis on
mean
that suggested I was much too incompetent to actually
do
well, “but you don’t understand Stanford’s situation. He isn’t the same physical…type…that you are. And he doesn’t have the luxury of scattering his energies in all directions.” Meaning, I guess, that I could, being the slacker that I was and doubtless destined to work at McDonald’s after graduation. I had always suspected that Mrs. Schoenbaum didn’t like me. Now I was sure of it.

“He needs to stay focused if he wants to get into Stanford,” she finished. Sometimes she seemed more like Stan’s manager or agent than his mother. I knew she loved him on some level, but I thought she loved the destiny she had mapped out for him even more. There was an intensity to her, a determination that almost scared me. Like my mom, Mrs. Schoenbaum probably had been beautiful once, but unlike my mom, it wasn’t worry that wore away at that beauty. Instead, it was the burning, pulsing mass of her vicarious ambition for Stan, constantly threatening to go super nova somewhere within her.

“Studies show that people who stay physically fit can achieve higher cognitive levels than those who don’t,” offered Stan, more timidly than if he were making the same argument to me.

“This issue is not up for discussion,” replied Mrs. Schoenbaum coldly, her tone carrying the finality of a prison door clanging shut. “You will not be working out with the football team.” By this point I was readying a quick Welsh chant to wrench agreement from her no matter how much resistance she put up, and I knew she would put up a lot. Fortunately for her, at that point Mr. Schoenbaum walked in.

“What’s this about Stan working out with the football team?” he asked cheerfully, his presence an enormous contrast to that of his wife. I knew Stan might not speak up, so I did.

“Stan’s been invited to do weight training with the team. It’s actually a big honor.”

Mrs. Schoenbaum snorted at that. “It’s actually a big danger and a big distraction.” Oh, no—the two Ds!

“Dear, perhaps we should discuss this in the other room. Stanford, why don’t you and Tal go upstairs for a few minutes?” Clearly, Stan was so eager to get away from his mother that he would have teleported up to his room by sheer force of will if that had been possible. I was equally eager, though in my case the ability to work a little background persuasion was my primary concern. I could tell we had Stan’s father already. In his own way, Stan’s father pushed just as hard on Stan as Stan’s mother did, but at the end of the day, he was still a dad, and a lot of dads want their sons to be athletes, if only subconsciously. I’d be willing to bet that somewhere, at the far, far back of his mind, Mr. Schoenbaum had a vision of Stan somehow absorbing physical prowess from the team by osmosis, and becoming, if not a real football player, then at least someone who could play touch football in the park at a family picnic and not fall flat on his face.

Stan’s mother, however, would not be easily won over, even by Stan’s father. So I sat at the top of the stairs, singing a little “mood music,” making Mrs. Schoenbaum calmer and more receptive, chipping away at her opposition rather than smashing it. Mr. Schoenbaum did the rest.

In the end Stan got a qualified parental blessing. (“Only if you maintain your grades and fulfill all your other responsibilities.”) Stan’s mother was still visibly sullen, but his father was beaming, obviously delighted by whatever strange turn of events gave Stan a chance to work on self-esteem outside the arena of math and science. I could see pride in the way he looked at Stan, and at that moment, I wished that my dad would look at me that way.

The first workout was a little strained, with some of the team members ignoring us, and in particular giving Stan the big chill, but they thawed out pretty quickly. One factor working in our favor was that the tutoring really did work. Stan was better than anyone would have thought at explaining complicated concepts in a simpler way (better actually than some of our teachers). Once some of the football players started coming back with Bs on quizzes in subjects where they had been getting Ds, Stan suddenly became one of the guys. The team members I tutored also did better, though the change was not as dramatic, since they had been having more trouble in math and science than in their other subjects. What helped them accept me was my music, oddly enough. Dan suggested I could help get the team pumped before games. How Dan knew that would work, I couldn’t imagine, since the Voice had told me specifically that ordinarily, he wouldn’t remember anything about my secrets. In any case, it did work. I did the school fight song and a couple other appropriate numbers, with a little something extra behind them—not enough to be like cheating, but just enough to get each player to do his best, just as Dan seemed to be doing already. Even the coach noticed the difference in the way the team performed; though he didn’t ever say anything directly, he looked at me differently.