The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (15 page)

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 voice 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.

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 understand.

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.”

I immediately kiss him. Quickly, but hard.

“Whoa!” he says, staggering slightly. “What was that for?”

Because you didn't lie and say, “Dude, I was so effing wasted!” like a lot of guys would have
.

I reach out and lightly punch his shoulder. “No reason.”

“Hey!” barks a voice. “What are you doing down here?”

A man in coveralls is staring at us from a side corridor. He's young but has weather-beaten features, like someone who's lived too hard too quickly. His beady eyes regard us with suspicion.

“Forgot my bag,” says Zak with bored confidence. He picks up the abandoned backpack, takes my hand, and leads me onward.

Zak guides me through a twisting, turning back corridor until we come to a freight elevator. It's a short ride back to the first floor, and we giggle the whole way. Not at anything specific. I think we're both giddy from almost getting caught, the lack of sleep, and, well, other things.

Soon, we're back in the main building. Though
there are a lot fewer people now, the party is seriously heating up. Literally. There's so much body heat, it's like five hundred degrees out here. Men have stripped off their shirts. So have women, revealing their corsets, underthings, and armor. A man in an executioner's mask pours out liquor from a wooden keg into a satyr's leather drinking vessel.

Zak nudges me. In a secluded corner, two con-goers lean against the wall, seriously making out. I let out a gasp when I recognize Arnold and the masked girl from the dance.

“Told you it would work out for him. I made him look like a wounded warrior.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughs. “Let me drop this off at the front desk,” he says, hoisting the small backpack.

I look wistfully at my bow. “You should get rid of this too, I guess.”

Zak's digging through the bag, thumbing through crumpled stacks of graph paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find out who this belongs to. Maybe I know 'em.”

It wouldn't surprise me. If the pope showed up here and shook Zak's hand, I think everyone would be asking, “Who's that with Duke?”

“Hey, Zak, are you going to call your friend about a ride soon?”

“Yeah, I'll . . .” He stops speaking, mesmerized by something in at the bottom of the bag.

“What?”

His pasty face grows even paler. Something is upsetting the unflappable Zak Duquette. Good lord, there's not a human head in there, is there?

“Zak?”

He doesn't answer. Doesn't look at me. I gingerly peak over the lip of the backpack.

Nestled among some old shirts is a plastic bag, filled with fine white powder. It's not large, but it's large enough.

It's funny, but I don't freak out. It's like I'm watching some movie, and it's two other people who've just made a serious error in judgment.

Zak obviously doesn't see it that way. The pack begins to tremble in his hands.

“Ana, that's cocaine!” he loud-whispers.

“You don't know that.”

“What the hell else could it be?”

“I don't know. Heroin?”

This does not calm Duquette down. He stands there, staring at the bag in his hand, sweat beading on his forehead. I've never seen him lose his cool like this, and it
doesn't do much to keep me relaxed.

“Ana, do you know what will happen if someone catches me with this shit?”

“They're not going to catch you.” Clearly, I'm going to have to take control of this situation. I pick up the stray clothes and papers from the floor and stuff them back in the satchel. Zak stands rigid, his eyes wide.

“Prison, Ana! I can't go to prison! Do you know what happens to guys like me in there? You've seen
Shawshank Redemption
, right?”

“Duquette, get a grip! Right now.”

He stops trembling, but he's clutching the bag so tightly his knuckles grow white. I finish repacking and fasten the top.

“This doesn't concern us. See the registration desk over there? Just go over to them, tell them someone forgot this in the bathroom, and it'll be their problem. Not ours. Got it?”

He just stares at me. I shake him. “Zak! Just go over there and leave the bag. This isn't our problem. It'll be like we never saw it. It never happened.”

“Right,” he squeaks. As subtly as a man carrying a live bomb, he turns to go.

And then two dark hands snake out and grab us by the shoulders.

“Come with me. Both of you.”