The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (3 page)

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 how 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.

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.”

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.”