The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (7 page)

I've never been to Washingcon this early, because
of—what do ya call it?—school. Thanks to Mrs. Brinkham and Clayton, this year I have a chance to sign up for the good slots for Paranoia and Warhammer. And maybe sit in on the annual blessing of the con. I think it's the Cargo Cultists running things this year.

But I see Ana over there in line, looking confused and a little out of sorts. That must be kind of weird for her. She's usually so on top of things. This deal with her brother obviously upsets her, and if I should come swaggering in to save the day, she just might be thankful enough to . . .

To . . .

I dunno, talk to me like I'm a human being. Act like she's not so put out when she has to interact with me. Put on a chain-mail bikini. Something like that.

But I said I'd help her, and I'm not going to let her down. True, I'll be doing nothing more than playing Gollum to her Frodo, but sometimes that's not a bad thing. Especially when Frodo has green eyes and frizzy hair.

I edge my way to the preregistered table. I'm pleased to see James is running things, playing hooky so he can volunteer here and get in for free. He's dressed like Teddy Roosevelt, complete with wire-rimmed glasses, a U.S. Cavalry lightsaber, and a
REMEMBER THE MAINE
tattoo.

“Nice getup.”

“Duke! Didn't think you were coming.” He shoots a questioning glance at my quiz bowl slacks.

“Ana and I escaped. Thought I'd show her a good time.” Nothing wrong with a little harmless exaggeration.

James reapplies his mustache. “If it was anyone else, I'd think they were making crap up. With you, I'll flat out say it.”

“Bully for you. Listen, have you seen this thirteen-year-old kid around?”

“John Connor?”

“No, Ana's brother, Clayton. We're, um, supposed to meet up with him.”

“Sorry.” He hands me my badge. “But I'll keep an eye out.”

A piercing, female scream cuts through the center. People rush toward the middle of the lobby, but I can't see what's going on. By the time I gather my registration packet, everyone's gone.

Ana taps me on the shoulder. I ask her what happened.

“Oh, some girl just got a nosebleed,” she says.

I suddenly realize she has this big-ass longbow slung across her back. “Where'd you get that?”

“Sherwood Forest. Now, are you through messing around? I keep forgetting that I'm still pissed at you.”

I chuckle inside. I'm beginning to realize that Ana has a real obnoxious, sarcastic, cruel side. All traits I admire. And if I were to find her brother, maybe she'd think there was something likeable about me, as well. Aside from my handsome face, of course. I'm glad I decided to grow out my beard this year.

“So, where do we head first?” she asks, elbowing someone out of the way.

“Well . . . there's not a whole lot that's really open just yet. Let's try the dealers' room.”

The Washingcon sales area is in a huge showroom that in duller times would hold insurance booths or dental supply demonstrations. Today, it's the marketplace in
Neverwhere
. Aisle upon aisle of things that don't exist anywhere else. Things that probably shouldn't. Anything that was ever pulled out of a school library, forbidden by a dress code, confiscated by airport security, or quarantined at the border has found a home here. For eleven months a year, this stuff sits unnoticed in the back of gaming stores and bookshops. But when con rolls around, you can find it here, and only here. For good reason. There ain't a lot of folks who'll pay good money for a pizza cutter shaped like the
Enterprise
, a bong shaped like a sonic screwdriver, or that recalled Harry Potter broomstick.

Best of all, if you don't see it for sale, these people know where to get it. This is where James adds to his creepy collection of pre–Comics Code magazines.

Ana whistles. “It's like the Walmart of the damned.”

“So what's your pleasure? Bootlegged Japanese movies? German broadswords that couldn't cut butter? Pornographic tarot cards? A lacy, backless straitjacket? A whole bunch of self-published books?”

“How about finding my brother?”

I look longingly at a pile of musty, yellowing paperbacks. “Fine. You want to circle around and meet me by
the Android's Dungeon display?”

“No, just stay with me.”

A hint, just a hint of nerves there. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I'll pretend she prefers my company.

We haven't gone twenty feet when the female shopping gene takes over. Ana stops at One-Eyed Jack's Armaments and buys a set of blunt, headless arrows in a cardboard quiver. She seems pleased.

“You really know how to shoot one of those things?”

“I got second place in the archery regional finals earlier this year. I actually know how to handle a weapon,” she says, glancing at a man struggling with a battle ax twice his size.

The words are snippy, but the tone is not. I think she's feeling somewhat out of place. I try to put her at ease.

“All you need are some leggings and a Bavarian cap, and you'll look like one of us.”

“Yes, before you know it, I'll stop bathing and everything.”

That annoys me. “Why you gotta hate? You know, you could have a good time here if you wanted. Costumes are only a small fraction of what goes on here. There are panels and dances and films . . .”

She's only half listening as she scans the room for her brother.

“Look, Ana, what
do
you like to do for fun?”

She shrugs and continues to walk. “I don't have a lot of free time.”

“C'mon. I know you like archery. What else?” I worry that I'm going to come across as nosy and obsessive, but it's an honest question and it wouldn't kill her to talk to me for thirty seconds.

“Speech. Quiz bowl. Youth group.”

“No, I mean for
fun
.”

She stops walking. “Duquette, not everyone has free weekends to spend at places like this. Not everyone has time to play board games for hours.” I can't tell if she's regretting her lack of free time or looking down on me for being a man of leisure. Either way, I feel like a loser. I try to talk about something intelligent.

“So where are you going to college?”

“University of Washington. I don't think Clayton's in here. What's in that next room?”

“U Dub? Really?” Somehow, I never pictured her staying in Tacoma. I had her pegged for the University of Seattle or even some big-name out-of-state place.

Ana doesn't respond, nor does she ask about my post–high school plans. Or my hobbies. Or anything about me.

“C'mon, Ana, let's try the movie rooms.”

I trot ahead, but she pulls at my sleeve. When I turn,
I'm surprised to see her looking me in the eye.

“Zak, I'm not trying to ignore you, but I only have one thing on my mind right now. Once we find Clayton, you'll have my full attention.” I see the ghost of a smile on her lips. It cheers me up.

“Okay. Hey, Ana—”

“Let's split up. Meet me at the exit.”

I watch as she jogs off down an aisle.

I am hell-bent on finding my brother, but that's not
why I refused to talk to Zak.

It was his question: What did I do for fun? Something you'd ask anyone.

How was I supposed to answer that? How was I supposed to tell a guy who probably doesn't have a curfew, a guy whose parents would probably just shrug if they knew he'd left the hotel, that I have pretty much no free time? That I never get to just screw around like he does every day? That I'll have to go to college close to home so my mom and dad can keep an eye on me?

I take a deep breath and try to remind myself that
I'm working for a greater good. That my grades mean I'll probably get to attend college for free. That all my extracurricular activities will look phenomenal on a résumé. That my watchful parents will always keep me from getting in trouble like Nichole did. Always.

Usually, this mantra buoys me a little. Today, nothing. Maybe it's because I know that if we don't find Clayton soon, all my years of good behavior will be at risk. Or maybe it's because I'm surrounded by people having a fun time while I'm not.

This place is like a maze. A hot, crowded maze that stinks of fast food and BO. Every time I think I've been everywhere, I spot an unfamiliar section. I'm jostled by elaborately costumed conventioneers poked with weapons, and nearly trip over someone's tail. After colliding with an almost-naked Tarzan, I pause to collect myself.

A couple of chubby girls in tunics look at me and snicker as they walk by.

Once again, I'm the outsider
.

“The outfit says Pepper Potts, but I'm not sure about the bow.”

I look up. The man sitting behind a T-shirt stand is smiling at me.

“Excuse me?” I back away slightly.

“Your costume. The business suit and weapon. I can't place it.” He's about twenty. He's just the heavy side of
overweight, with the scruffy beginnings of a beard and a Miskatonic University shirt.

“It's not a costume,” I reply sharply. “I'm not even supposed to be here. I just have to find my brother.”

He nods. “Just out for a walk with your longbow, are you?” He smiles and I can't help but return it. I guess I am overdressed.

“It's a long story.”

“I'd love to hear it.” He's leaning over a pile of shirts, grinning. And I have to say, he's not entirely bad looking. But I have other things on my mind.

“Sorry, I have to go.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He sounds a little hurt. Clearly he's bored or desperate to make a sale. I pause to glance at his wares. They're all T-shirts sporting slogans and logos I don't recognize. Just as I'm about to politely leave, I spot a comfortable-looking shirt with Asian writing.

“What does this say?”

“Roughly translated: ‘A fifteen percent gratuity will be automatically charged to parties of five or more.'”

“I beg your pardon?”

He grins, which doesn't hurt his overall appearance. “Got it off a takeout menu. I love watching hipsters going around thinking it says something about the code of the samurai or whatever I tell 'em.”

I have to laugh at that. “How much?”

“Twenty.”

Might as well be a hundred
. “Um, maybe next time.”

“Hang on.” He folds up the shirt and hands it to me. “You're a small, right? Trust me, that size never sells out here. You'll be doing me a favor.”

I seriously doubt he's only trying to get rid of unwanted stock, but it would be really nice to change into something less formal. Taking the shirt with a smile, I duck into a changing booth. There's no mirror, but with my new shirt and longbow, I have kind of a geek-chic thing going on. I'll blend in, like someone who came here because she wanted to. I return to the sales floor.

“Thank you . . .” I glance at his name tag. “‘Arnold Fagg'? What awful comic book did you get that one from?”

His grin fades.

Whoops, guess I'm not the only one here using my real name
.

Desperate to change the subject, I hand him my folded blouse, the one my mother repeatedly warned me not to stain. “Could you hold on to this for me? It may be a while before I find my brother.”

“Sure. I'm here till nine.”

I start to go. He clears his throat.

“And after nine . . . I dunno, when you're done with
family business, I'm running a panel.” His smile is back, but it's nervous. “It's at nine in room one fifteen south.”

“What sort of a panel?”

“Make your own T-shirts. It's kind of my thing. Thought you might be interested.”

“We'll see. Thanks again.”

I wander off, trying to focus on finding Clayton and not on unfortunately named Arnold. He clearly doesn't give away merchandise to everyone. And making my own shirt would be a lot more fun than looking for Clayton or hanging out at the hotel.

For just a brief moment—just a second—I contemplate returning to his stand and talking some more. Just a little. Just to talk. And maybe find out if he ever makes it out to Tacoma and
what the hell am I thinking
?

Yeah, my parents would really permit that. A date with some older guy I met at a comic book convention.

They won't even let me visit my own sister
.

It's clear Clayton isn't here, so I stomp off to find my guide. I half expect Duquette to be long gone, but I see him talking to a tall, strange-looking man. At first I think the guy is dressed like Frankenstein's monster, but then realize he's just really ugly. I'm about to interrupt when Zak raises his voice. I can't make out his angry words, but the man shoves him in the chest, hard enough that he stumbles. The creepy guy storms off.

I rush to Duquette to berate him for clowning around and wasting time.

“Are you okay, Zak?” I hear myself say.

Duquette looks up, surprised to see me here. “It was nothing.”

Then get your ass in gear, we have to find Clayton, not stand around . . .

Once again, my mouth interrupts. “Are you sure? He hit you kind of hard.”

He won't look at me. “That was Cyrax,” he says, as if that explains something. He begins walking quickly.

“Zak, what was that all about?” my mouth insists on saying.

“Just a guy,” he says, his voice squeaking nervously. “There was some unpleasantness at Con-viction last year.”

“Go on.”
I really need my mouth to shut up soon
.

Zak rubs the back of his neck. “Well . . . it was just one of those things, I guess. It was late, I went out to pick up some supplies, and Cyrax and some of his friends . . . they jumped me.”

We've walked in front of an empty table. I grab Duquette by the arm to stop him. “Are you kidding? Why?”

He shrugs, a hurt, embarrassed look on his face. “It's hard to say with those guys. I was alone, weak. Took all
my money, left me out of commission for a few days.”

I'm utterly horrified, both at the senseless attack and Zak's blasé way of talking about it. “Did you call the police? I can't believe they even let him into this place!”

He won't look at me. “What could they do? These things happen. At any rate, he's never let me forget it. Every time I see him, he reminds me.” He hisses through his teeth. “Frack, just like it was yesterday, lying there on the road, too weak to get up, not even a potion of healing on me . . .”

I am reaching out to give him a comforting squeeze of the hand when I realize what I'm hearing. “Duquette? When he beat you up . . . was it in a video game?”

“No, of course not.” He paused. “Dungeons and Dragons. You see, James was the dungeon master and—”

I hold up a palm, trying to think of the best way to demonstrate what I'm now feeling. “Duquette, despite your best efforts, I find that you don't disgust me as much as previously. But I don't have time for your imaginary world, and your imaginary pain.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I remember watching my sister walk off into the foggy Tacoma evening, knowing somehow that I'd never see her again. “It means that some of us have enough real pain in our lives that we don't need to invent more. You don't know what that's like.”

I'm not prepared for his reaction. His eyes narrow. That funny smile, that devil-may-care grin vanishes. And suddenly I'm looking at the most angry teen I think I've ever seen. And he's angry with me.

“What did you say?” The words come out as a slow hiss, deadly as a gas leak.

“Zak . . .”

Our eyes lock, and just for a second, I realize there's something more to Zak Duquette than the guy who never stops laughing and never takes anything seriously. God knows why, but there's real pain in his face.

Just as I'm about to apologize (though I'm not sure for what), it vanishes. The smiley, goofy expression returns, like a mask dropped over his real features.

“C'mon. I know a guy. He's on the Washingcon board. He might be able to help us find Clayton.” He shoots me a thin smile, then takes out his phone and sends a text.

I nod, relieved that I haven't offended him so much that he won't talk to me. And a little curious.

What sort of pain have you experienced, Zak Duquette?