Socket 1 - The Discovery of Socket Greeny (16 page)

“I wish I could see you more,” Chute said.
“We’ve been doing two-a-day practices for the last week with the
game so close. They’re talking about a huge crowd, too.” She took a
deep breath. “I’m getting nervous.”

I cut another piece of chicken and looked
away. When she talked about tagghet, the memory of Broak
bludgeoning a servy popped up. He was smiling when he did it, cold
and perfect. If I let the memory linger, the clamp throbbed.

I rubbed my neck.

“They’ll stop whispering, Socket,” she said.
“Just give it some time.”

She thought I was bothered by the rumors.
People seated near us were talking and I hadn’t even noticed. I
grunted, chewed my food. Honestly, I didn’t give a rat’s ass what
they thought, but I let Chute believe it bothered me. It kept her
from asking what was really on my mind. Streeter was too busy
eating to notice anything.

“You coming to my practice tonight?” she
asked.

“I want to. Really, I do. But there’re so
many people there. I’m not really into crowds right now.”

“You’re going to have to get used to it,
sooner or later.”

“I vote for later.”

“I’ll save a seat for you in the stands, have
the coach post lookits around to keep people away.”

“Oh, that’ll work,” Streeter mumbled, food
spilling out of his mouth. “No one will wonder who the royal prince
is with the king’s guard. The lookits will just point at him.”

“What if I give you guys tagger uniforms?”
she said. “You can stand on the sidelines, blend right in.”

“Or you can dig us a hole at center pitch,
cover it with a trap door,” I said. “We can watch you with a
periscope.”

We laughed. Streeter pounded the table.
Everyone looked at us again, wondering what was so funny this time.
Look, the freak is laughing.
It didn’t stop me. I pictured a
bunker with a manhole cover over the top. I could push it up and
look with one eye over the edge. Were they thinking the same thing?
Before I could stop myself, I
reached
for their thoughts to
see. The clamp slammed against my spine.

I yelped. Yeah, no shit, I yelped. I held my
neck and moaned. They asked if I was all right. I said yeah, it was
just a migraine. Streeter wondered how a migraine gets in your
neck. Chute pried my fingers away to see what I was hiding. I
wanted her to stop, but didn’t want to put up too much of a
fight.

“Where’d you get that?” she asked, touching
the thin red line on my neck.

“It’s nothing.”

Streeter stood up. “It looks like you got
operated on.”

“It’s nothing.” I spooned some applesauce off
the tray to look normal, but my hand shook.

Chute traced the line with her finger. It
felt good. I wanted to tell them everything, but I couldn’t go
there. I couldn’t even tell them I couldn’t tell them. I wanted
them to know what I really was. I wanted them to know there were
Paladins hiding in mountains with amazing technology and a bona
fide jungle. I wanted to tell Chute about the grimmets and Streeter
about nanotechnology. And Spindle! Holy shit, they would both love
him (if he were back to normal). And what if Streeter knew about
the dupes?
Dupes? In the skin?
He’d piss all over
himself.

Streeter and Chute knew everything about me.
Now, my entire life was a lie. I wanted to be closer to them, but
the secrets built a wall around me. They could feel it, too. They
knew I was keeping something from them. I was even more alone than
ever and I never thought that was possible. If only I could tell
them—
pppssslllptttt
.

A wad of pizza splattered on my forehead.

“Bull’s-eye!”

Several tables over an uber-punk group of
bleeders – boys and girls, all with black eyeliner – stood to get a
look. They were a bunch of freaking wannabe vampires. The only
thing that separated them from the goths was two spots of fake
blood on their necks. Plus, they were giant assholes. The biggest
of the bunch weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had a freshly
shaved head that shined under the cafeteria lights. He used to play
football in middle school, but he got kicked off the team for
beating up one of the assistant coaches.

“Freak,” he said, deeply.

The table shook in my grip. The clamp
quivered, grinding against my spine, and not because I wanted to
read his mind. No. I fought the urge to show the fat ass bleeder
just how freaky I was. The clamp made sure I didn’t.

The entire cafeteria watched, not even trying
to hide it. The bleeders were after someone. Better yet, they were
going after the freak! Holy shit, it’s a main event! Fat bleeder
drew his lips back, exposed tobacco-stained teeth and blew the
imaginary smoke from his imaginary finger-gun.
Bull’s-eye.
But he wasn’t finished. The crowd was behind him now. They all
wanted to see it go to the next level, but I was just sitting there
with a two-handed grip on the table. He reached for another chunk
of pizza. If I was going to be a willing target, then he didn’t
need an invitation to take another shot.

The table legs chattered on the floor.

Chute snatched up her water bottle. Her
wind-up was tight, the release quick. The plastic bottle flew on a
straight line, end over end, and hit that fat make-up-wearing
dickweed so square in the forehead that it bounced straight back.
He shuffled sort of cross-eyed.

The laughter paused.

Silence drifted from table to table. Laughing
at me was one thing, but laughing at this guy could shorten your
life. But the laughter started again, this time with the bleeders
around him. They laughed right at him. And then the cafeteria
followed right along. The dumb bastard rubbed his head and looked
at his fingers to see if he was bleeding. Then he swatted the
bottle off the table and kicked a chair. The crowd cleared a path
between us. Round one was going to be a bloodbath.

I still couldn’t let go. The timeslicing
spark flitted in my belly, aching to be clutched. But if I take the
spark, the clamp knocks me out. The table quaked so violently that
the trays were moving over the surface. All I could do was watch
him stomp toward us, fists at his side. He was going to roll me
like a garbage truck.

Chute stood in front of me. Streeter slid his
chair out and stood up, too. He was a half-step behind Chute, but
he was up. He wouldn’t be anything more than a stepping stone in
fatty’s march to mutilation, but he might slow him down half a
second. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and calmly, hoping to
get the clamp under control. At the very least, I could stand up
with Chute. I’d fight the guy straight up, no Paladin powers
needed; I just needed the clamp to SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Chairs slid behind us. Fat bleeder stopped.
Lacrosse players and tagghet players, united, surrounded our table.
The ’crossers were bigger, stronger and meaner than the taggers,
but there were enough of both to stall lardass and his troupe of
fake bloodsuckers. Chute was out in front.

Streeter leaned over. “You want to get
up?”

Fat bleeder wasn’t a fan of a fair fight, as
long as he was on the winning side. I could sense the simple math
burning in his brain as he calculated the odds. They were
outnumbered five to one. There wasn’t a chance in hell, but there
was also a lot of snickering going on behind him. Either anger got
the best of him or he was really shitty at math because he came at
us, fists up. His crew was behind him, coming like a band of
theatre misfits, climbing over tables and chairs, stepping on food.
The ’crossers stiffened. The taggers crouched.

“BACK TO YOUR SEATS!” Lookits dropped in like
hornets, their eyelights spinning. “Go back to your seats before
authorities are called.”

The bleeders stopped a few feet away. Their
hate shimmered like summer heat.

“An assault will be treated as a criminal
offense.” A lookit went to eye level with the fat one. “You have a
previous record. Do not make this mistake.”

The moments ticked long, the crowd silently
hoping he’d do it anyway, knowing security would be there any
second. He finally opened his hands and surrendered. If he could
breathe fire, he would’ve roasted that shiny ball. He swatted at
it, instead. The lookit dodged, effortlessly, repositioned near the
ceiling.

“Another day,” he said to no one in
particular.

He went back to his table, his crew in tow.
He slapped one of them in the mouth. The others stayed out of
reach, still snickering. Security arrived. They walked through the
crowd and had a little chat with the bleeders. The cafeteria went
back to the daily chatter and whispering and staring.

“Oh, man, that was close.” Streeter collapsed
in his chair. “I thought we were dead meat.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Chute.” I wiped
the pizza off with a napkin. “I can take care of myself.”

“You expect me to sit there and watch?”

“That guy is twice your size. What were you
going to do, chew on his kneecap?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

The ’crossers and taggers went back to their
seats. Some of them slapped Chute on the back. They weren’t
standing up for me.

“You’re one of them,” I said.
“Congratulations.”

“No, Socket, I’m just me. I play tagghet, but
I’m just me.” She grabbed her tray and stood. “You know, a simple
thanks would be enough.”

She walked off. The bleeders watched,
whispering.

“Why are you complaining?” Streeter said.
“She just saved our lives, man.”

I finished cleaning my forehead, dropped the
napkin. I let out a long sigh. Things were so fucked up.

“You need to say you’re sorry,” Streeter
said.

He was right. I needed to apologize. I’m
sorry the shadow turned me into a freak. I’m sorry there are
Paladins out there and dupes threaten to kill every last one of us.
I’m sorry my mom doesn’t come home. I’m sorry there’s a clamp in my
neck that beats the shit out of me whenever I want to say something
real.

I’m sorry that nothing will ever be the
same.

* * * * *

After school, I made my way down a shortcut
past the lacrosse field where they practiced in shorts and helmets,
past the empty baseball field to the brand new tagghet field. It
was oval and green with three sides hemmed in by live oaks. Large
bleachers flanked each side with a smattering of fans.

I hid in the trees close enough to watch. The
team flew around the field flipping the tag back and forth,
bouncing it off the ground or throwing it across the field. The
coach barked plays from the sideline. I couldn’t see their faces,
but I could see the player with red braids swinging from under her
helmet. She soared across center field on the jetter faster than
anyone and caught a long pass in full stride, faking the defender
with a backhand and spinning around to sling it into the scoring
cube. The fans stomped the bleachers, cheering.

I tapped my nojakk. “Nice shot.”

Chute looked around while her teammates
patted her on the back. She tapped her nojakk, asked where I was. I
told her. She looked in my direction. I stayed in the trees and
watched the entire practice, chiming in with a comment whenever she
did something outstanding just to let her know I was there.
Whenever she scored, she looked my way.

When I got home, there were several messages.
I didn’t answer them. Streeter was sure to be calling, wondering
why I didn’t meet him in Buxbee’s virtualmode lab after school.
That night, I was on my bed, tossing a roll of socks at the ceiling
when Mom called.
I’ll be home late, but I will be home. You’ll
have to order out. I told her not to stay too late.

A delivery man dropped off an order of
Chinese food. I ate it on my bed and fell asleep without brushing
my teeth and a half-box of fried rice on my bed. When I woke in the
morning, there was a message on my nojakk. Mom’s room was empty.
She never made it home. Her message was an apology.

Something unexpected came up.

Mom came home twice that week. Both nights
she collapsed on the couch and fell asleep. I made dinner and
cleaned up. By morning, her bed was made. She was gone.

She was back to her old ways. She rarely came
home. She checked in on the nojakk every evening, told me to order
out. Sometimes I didn’t take her calls. We were having the same
conversation, so what’s the point? And we were back to the
mother-son relationship with few words and no feelings. I stayed up
as late as I wanted and watched movies. I stopped brushing my
teeth, altogether.

* * * * *

The days at school went by uneventfully. I
seemed to be smarter than before. I never forgot a thing my
teachers said. While everyone was taking mad notes, I just listened
and nailed the exams. Sometimes, I think I understood the subjects
better than the teachers. Everything was just so logical. I suppose
the clamp couldn’t stop me from thinking.

I blended back into the normal crowd at
school. People stopped staring. Even the bleeders forgot about me,
throwing food at other people. Everything was back to the old days.
I went to my hiding spot every day after school to watch Chute
practice. I wanted to see her, sure, but more than that I had to
stay out of the house. The longer I sat around by myself, the more
I started thinking. The slightest Paladin-related thought turned
into a headache that could last for hours. But if there was a
distraction, it was easier not to think, but then after awhile I
would wonder why I wasn’t thinking and remember the clamp.

Headache.

The nights were the worst. Sleep came in
small chunks. The clamp even monitored what few dreams I had, and
anything that crossed the line pounded my ass. I spent hours going
through meditative breathing exercises to empty my mind. I couldn’t
even think about when the Authority was going to rule. It should’ve
happened weeks ago. All I could do was stay in the moment. But the
moments were getting longer.