The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (6 page)

Our taxi driver is having a loud argument with his
dispatcher in Russian. I'm thankful for this. It gives me time to lean back, enjoy the ride, and think of how absolutely, utterly screwed I am. I cannot believe that little geek left the hotel. First chance he gets, he runs off to have fun at
my
con.

It's exactly what I would have done, of course. The kid has moxie. Moxie that is going to get me kicked off the team and straight into summer school. I'll be spending June taking tooth-brushing lessons with the mouth breathers. Plus, my hair is still wet, I'm wearing dress slacks and a stained T-shirt, and I'm pretty sure Ana got
a view of everything when I had my wardrobe malfunction. And it had been
so
cold back there in the hotel room . . .

On the seat next to me, Ana repeatedly attempts to phone her brother, pausing only to scowl at me when the call goes to voice mail.

Eventually, I'm forced to break the non-Cyrillic silence. “I don't think he's going to pick up.”

She turns to me, and for a moment I fear she's turning into the She-Hulk. After a second, I realize that her eyes are just really green, kind of like two angry Life Savers.

“Thanks, genius. Now, be quiet, I'm trying to think.” She says it in a sarcastic, superior tone. The same tone as when she blew me off in the library the other day.

“You know, this isn't my fault.”
And maybe you could mention that to Mrs. Brinkham . . .

Ana grabs an elastic thing and forces her frizzy hair into a ponytail. If I wasn't so bloody irritated with her, I might mention she looks better with her hair loose. Less uptight. “Zakory, thanks to your stupid stories about your stupid convention, my brother is out wandering around Seattle. So unless you want me to tell Mrs. Brinkham what you've done . . .”

And there she crosses the line. I am willing to accept a little ranting, but if she thinks she is going to narc on
me, it's time to go on the offensive.

“Excuse me? No one forced Clayton to leave, okay? I was in the shower, and I wasn't going to invite him in there with me. And you know what? He's thirteen, not eight. I've been going to this con since I was ten. I think MegaMind can handle himself for one night.”

Ana rolls her eyes farther than I think the optic nerve can stretch. “Just show me where this convention is. Then, if you want to leave, fine. Tell Mrs. Brinkham whatever you want. Good Lord, I can't believe she wanted
you
on our team.”

I shouldn't let her get to me. What do I care what she thinks? But for some reason, I need to defend myself. “You don't know me. You . . .” And then I go blank, unable to think of that perfect, cutting comeback. What had James called it?
L'esprit de l'escalier
.

Ana has her phone out again. “I know one thing, Zak. You're a guy who only cares about number one. I'm concerned about my brother, while you're probably still pissed that you're not playing cards dressed like an elf right now.”

I am having difficulty staying civil. “You know what? Have fun looking for your baby brother. You're going to wander around all night, and when you find him, he'll probably be drinking a soda and watching a movie. I mean, what the hell do you think is going to happen?
C'mon, everyone gets in trouble now and then. He just wants to have a little fun for once.”

Okay, maybe Ana's a little too high-strung to find that calming. But I am unprepared for my companion's reaction.

“Stop this cab!” she bellows. Her face has gone stark white. For an instant, I'm afraid she's going to take a swing at me.

Rasputin brakes hard, to the accompaniment of angry honking behind us. Without a word, Ana jumps out onto the sidewalk.

I sit there, stunned. I know my comment was stupid, but I hadn't expected her to bolt like that.

Oh well, her problem. It was her job to find Clayton, not mine. Not my concern.

Right. Like hell it isn't
.

With a resigned sigh, I jump out after her. I then dive back into the cab to pay the screaming driver the fare.

It's drizzling like Silent Hill out here and it takes me a moment to locate Ana, storming off down the street in the wrong direction. I rush to catch up.

“Hey, Ana!” She doesn't turn, but she stops. I expect to find her with tears streaming down her face, alone and needing a friend. Instead, I'm greeted with the most wrathful and contemptuous expression I've ever seen. But I hold my ground.

“Ana, c'mon.”

She snarls at me. Literally snarls. “Just go away.”

“C'mon. I want to help.”

“That's a laugh.”

I fight against the dark side rising within me. “Where do you get off judging me? If you need a hand, well, I'm here, all right?”

She wipes a stray hair off her forehead. “You wouldn't understand.” Those words are final, carved in granite. I have been dismissed.

Luckily, I never know when I'm defeated. “Try me.”

She juts her sharp chin at me, and I prepare myself for a lecture about responsibility and being a good little boy. But suddenly, her entire rigid frame collapses. Her shoulders slump, her head lolls, and her arms dangle limply. For a ghastly moment, she reminds me of a corpse on the gallows.

“Listen, Duquette—Zak.” She's staring at her shoes. “You're a guy who can go out and do whatever he likes. Whatever.”

I start to object, but before I can think of a rebuttal, she continues.

“It's not like that for Clayton and me. I don't want to get into it, but . . . I can't let anyone find out he wandered off.”

“C'mon, Brinkham's a softie—”

“I'm not talking about her, Zak. If my parents ever knew I lost track of Clayton, it would be . . . bad.”

For a moment, I think I see her green eyes glisten, but it might just be a trick of the light. I stand there, uncomfortable, wondering what she means by “bad.”

She runs a hand over the bridge of her nose. “So I have to find my brother before anyone realizes he's gone. Could you just get me to the center? Then you can go back to the hotel, or stay there or whatever. I know this wasn't your fault. Mostly.”

Yeah, like I'm going to go off and leave her after that. I try to mold my face into an inspiring smile.

“Listen, Ana? I may have kind of exaggerated about how crazy things get at Washingcon. Really, it's just a lot of geeks like me. I know that place inside out. I'll help you find your brother. It might take a couple of hours, but we'll track him down. And if Brinkham suspects anything, just tell her we all went out to eat and lost track of time. She'll believe you.”

She looks at me for a moment. The humidity has caused her hair to frizz out like a poodle's. It's strangely adorable. And just for a second, the side of her mouth tics upward.

“Thanks, Zak.”

We begin walking north. She doesn't make an effort
to stand close to me, but she's not actively trying to lose me, either.

“Hey, Duquette?” She's not looking at me.

“Yeah?”

“Today at the tournament . . . you really sucked a lot less than I was expecting. One might almost say you weren't a total pathetic embarrassment.”

The sarcastic, backhanded compliment cheers me up a bit. As we approach the convention center, the sun begins to come out.

I so desperately want to blame all of this on Zak. To
point my finger and denounce him as the conspirator who led my poor little brother astray. To make him take the heat for what's shaping up to be an enormous catastrophe.

Of course, I can't. Tempting a target as he is, all Zak is guilty of is shooting off his mouth. Clayton ran off of his own free will. And I was the one who let him do it. At least I will be in my parents' eyes.

Good grief, if I had just let him go out to eat with Zak, maybe he would have stayed. All I was trying to do was the right thing. That's all I ever try to do.

Zak walks alongside me, merrily whistling. I wonder if he'll ditch me the second we arrive at the convention or if he'll really help me find Clayton. If he does, I'll owe him big time. I shudder, picturing myself wearing one of his war hats.

Zak suddenly reaches out and grabs my arm. I'm creeped out until I realize he's just guiding me around a water-filled hole in the sidewalk that I was too distracted to notice. When it's clear I'm not going to step in it, he removes his hand.

I shake my head. This guy has enough faults to fill an aircraft hangar. But he's here with me now, looking for my brother. I guess that should count for something.

I remember how he accidentally dropped his towel in the hotel room and how I pretended I hadn't seen anything.

Lord, the first time I see one and it belongs to Duquette, of all people.

“So what are these things like, Zak?” I ask, in an effort to dispel that mental image. “A bunch of people playing those war games?”

He smiles at me in an odd way. “There's a little more to it than that. And call me Duke.”

“Oh, you guys also watch movies, right, Zak?”

His grin widens. “You'll see. Here we are.”

The Olympic Convention Center lives up to its name;
it's the largest in the Pacific Northwest. Above the gaping entrance doors hangs a huge banner welcoming everyone to Washingcon. Below that, a towering painting of a cybernetic General George Washington mows down an army of zombie redcoats with what appears to be a coal-fired machine gun. There's no one outside, probably due to the foul weather. With an elaborate bow, Zak ushers me inside.

Okay, maybe my impressions of a science fiction convention were based on Duquette and his friends. I knew there'd be a lot of people here, but I was expecting something much more low-key.

I was not expecting a sixty-something woman dressed like Smurfette. That's a lot of blue cleavage.

The lobby is huge, hung with giant banners of watershed moments in U.S. history, as portrayed by robots. Smaller, handmade signs, dot the walls:

CTHULHU FOR PRESIDENT: THIS TIME, WHY

CHOOSE THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS?

LEST WE FORGET: DONATE TO

THE RED SHIRT MEMORIAL FUND

REPRODUCE AND POPULATE THE EARTH

But the people . . . dear God. There must be over a hundred conventioneers there already, snaking out in
two long lines from the registration tables. Dozens of others mill around, talking, laughing, dueling with lightsabers. And many of them are in costume.

I recognize the octopus guy from Spider-Man, eating a doughnut with one hand and holding a soda with the other, a slice of pizza with the other, and a box of popcorn with the other. There's one of those
Doctor Who
robot things, dispensing beer from a keg somehow mounted in its chest. Near the snack bar, a well-endowed woman has attracted a circle of admirers. She's wearing a corset and not much else. I squint to see what is written or tattooed on her shoulders:
BEAT ME UP, SCOTTY
.

“Impressive sight, no?” Zak raises his eyebrows devilishly.

“It's like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.”

“Um . . . yeah, my thoughts exactly. Too bad we can't go to the masquerade tomorrow night, that's when you see the really impressive cosplayers.”

I look back at the crowd, wishing briefly that I could see what he meant by “impressive.” I notice a lot of the conventioneers are dressed almost normally, in T-shirts and jeans. I turn to ask Zak if he ever dresses up, but he has his back to me, waving at someone.

“Hey, asshole! Asshole!”

Across the lobby, a man in a jumpsuit and huge white helmet waves at Zak.

“Go ask your friend if he's seen Clayton,” I order.

Zak looks at me strangely. “I don't know that guy.”

“But you just . . .”

He laughs. “Oh, I see. No, he's dressed like Major Asshole. You know, from
Spaceballs
?” He looks at me expectantly, as if he's not speaking total gibberish.

“Zak, let's go page Clayton, okay?”

“They won't page anyone here, unless it's a desperate emergency.”

“But Clayton's just a kid.”

He shakes his head. “It really pisses them off when people use the con as a babysitting service. If we tell them the truth, they're going to want to call your mom and dad.”

I picture my parents being summoned to pick us up in this madhouse.

“I see. Okay, so what do we do?”

“You got a picture of him on that phone? I know a lot of people. We'll ask around.”

I start to press forward, but he gently restrains me.

“Whoa. One does not simply
walk into
Washingcon.”

I think my angry glance startles him, because he quickly continues. “Seriously. They won't let you into most of the venues without a badge.” He cocks a thumb
at the registration table. “Tell 'em I sent you.”

I ignore his smug grin. “Zak, thanks for . . .”

He's already distracted. “Hey, Zoltan! I haven't seen you since Con-dumb!”

As Zak talks to a guy(?) in Joker makeup, I begin to have a panic attack. What if he accidentally-on-purpose wanders off? This thing was a big deal to him, after all. I don't like the idea of stumbling through this sea of semi-humanity, hopelessly trying to find Clayton.

I wait for him to say good-bye to his friend, all the while rehearsing my little speech about how important it is for him to stay focused. I touch his arm.

“Zak?”

“Yeah?”

And then, suddenly, I think of the perfect thing to say. I just pray I get the line right. “Help me, Obi-Wan. You're my only hope.”

Zak's face breaks into a grin. Not his usual cocky one, but a big, goofy, puppy-dog smile. It's somewhat of an improvement.

“Go register, Ana. Let me see what I can find out.”

I shake my head and join the line. I'm surprised to see that the girl in front of me has a longbow strapped to her back. It's only when I see the picture of the flaming bird on her shirt that I make the connection. That one book, which has made archery suddenly seem cool. Unlike this
girl, however, I actually know how to shoot one of those. I notice that this bow has been strung incorrectly. The string is about to slide off the wood.

The line moves quickly. Just before it's her turn, I tap her arm. “Excuse me? I noticed you have a little problem there. If you like . . .” I reach out to adjust her bow.

She shoves my hand away. “Here's an idea,” she snaps. “How about you keep your hands to yourself?” She stares at me as I try to think of something to say, snorts, and then turns back to the registration table.

The logical, dominant side of me wants to dismiss her as a jerk, someone below my contempt. But I was only trying to help. I don't know what her problem is, but it just drove home the fact that I don't belong here.

But I can say that about a lot of places, can't I?

It's my turn. I shuffle forward.

“Hey, don't let her get to you,” says a pleasant, female voice. The registrar is a girl about my age, very slender and pretty, dressed in a ragged T-shirt, with black lipstick and dangling earrings. And bald. Her head has been shaved down to the skin.

“People are touchy about their costumes,” she continues. “But she was just rude.”

“Oh, um, thanks.” My hurt feelings vanish. I cannot stop staring at this girl's scalp. It's like her head has been polished.

“One night or two?” she asks, politely.

I come back to myself. “Just one.”

“And what name would you like on your badge?”

“Ana Watson.”

“C'mon, no one uses their real name here.”

“Ana Watson, please.”

“Fine. Now, how will you be paying for this?”

I glance at a price list. Thirty bucks for just one night. Yikes. I remember what Zak told me. Knowing full well I'm about to be laughed at, I follow his instructions.

“Zak Duquette sent me.”

Cue Ball snaps to attention. Her eyes grow wide, and she runs a hand across her forehead, as if adjusting her hair. “Duke's here?” she gasps.

“Um, Zak Duquette . . .”

“Yeah, Duke. Oh, wow, I haven't seen him since Con-tamination. Wow. We played Tank Battalion for like, six straight hours. That man is a
machine
. Do you know if he's going to the Vampire Ball tonight?”

This girl's reaction is both adorable and creepy. Mostly creepy. “We're just passing through, actually.”

“Oh. He's here with
you
.” She passes me a laminated ID badge. “Well. Any friend of Duke's. Enjoy your stay.” There's an edge to her voice now.

“It's not like that—we're just hanging out,” I feel compelled to say. In fact, I really need to say that.

She instantly brightens. “In that case, tell him to give Gypsy a call, okay? No, wait. Tell him I'll text him. No . . . um, tell him I'll maybe see him . . .”

“I'll tell him you said hi,” I reply, cautiously backing away from this madwoman. Good lord, were things so upside down here that Duquette was some kind of legend? Baldy wasn't bad-looking, and yet she was all atwitter over Zak. Well, I wasn't going to relay her message. I needed Zak to concentrate on finding Clayton. I wasn't going to let him be distracted by Miss Look at Me and My Hipster Shaved Head . . .

My thoughts are broken by a hideous female scream. I turn to see the rude girl from the line collapsed on the floor, clutching a bloody, possibly broken nose. Beside her sits her unstrung bow, which has snapped apart with the violence of an uncoiling spring.

A crowd gathers around her. Someone helps her to her feet and leads her away, sobbing tears, blood, and snot.

The odds certainly weren't in her favor
.

I slyly pick up the weapon and restring it correctly, enjoying a bit of malicious glee. It's a fine wooden piece. Not tournament grade, but something you could have fun with. I'll turn it in to lost and found.

Later.

Across the room, the bow's owner is lying on a bench. Some guy brings her a Baggie of ice, which slips out of his hand and falls onto her nose. She moans.

Zak was right—this place is kind of fun.