The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (9 page)

Things just got interesting
.

I like to think that Ana is finally warming up to me, seeing me as something other than the geek who can help find her brother. But that's probably just wishful thinking. More than likely, she just realized that her parents aren't here and she can cut loose for once.

Ana walks next to me, clutching her bow nervously and looking over her shoulder every time someone screams. It's easy to forget that
I'm
the one who has a hit out on me.

I have to think of something fun for us to do in the next hour or so. Something low-key and not too bizarre.
Someplace where I won't run into Attila and his girl (my manhood can't take any more abuse). I have one shot at this.

A dance?
Too date-like.

A film?
Somehow, I doubt our tastes mesh.

A game?
She'd be bored.

The Furry fiesta?
Dear God, no.

“Ana, would you . . .”

She suddenly stops dead in her tracks, a look of sheer panic on her face. I turn, expecting to see the Viking barreling down on me. Instead, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a ringing cell phone.

“It's my mom,” she whispers, her green eyes wide.

I'm not sure how to reply to that.

A very loud group of bronies advances down the hall.

“I need to go somewhere quiet!” she hisses as the phone rings again.

I quickly reconnoiter and guide her into an empty conference room. She sighs, leans her bow against the wall, and answers her phone.

“Hi, Mom.” Her voice is shaky. I start to duck out to give her some privacy, when her hand snakes out and grabs my wrist. She's not making eye contact, but her grip could almost be described as painful. Either she's holding me captive or just wants moral support. Whatever the reason, I'm not going anywhere.

“Things are going great,” she says into the receiver, her speech rapid and uncomfortable. “Yeah, we did really well . . . yes . . . oh, Landon and Sonya and, um, Landon and Sonya. Yes.”

Her grip tightens. Her tiny little fingers manipulate my wrist bones in directions they're not supposed to go. My hand turns pale as the circulation is cut off. Only my manly pride keeps me from wrenching out of her grasp.

“Clayton? Oh, he's fine . . .” Ana's voice rises an octave. “He's . . . he's . . . he's . . .”

C'mon, Ana, easy lie here. He's in the bathroom. Taking a shower. Picking up a pizza with Landon. Talking to Mrs. Brinkham. Say something!

“He's, uh . . .” Her emerald eyes are huge. My joints are starting to snap, crackle, and pop. She's about to panic. I can read it in her face. She's just a few seconds away from blurting out everything.

I snatch the phone from her hand. She releases my wrist in surprise.

“Hello, Mrs. Watson?” I make my voice as loud and friendly as possible.

“Who is this?” asks Ana's mother. She is loud and not at all friendly.

“This is Zak Duquette, the newest member of the Meriwether Lewis High School quiz bowl team. Did Ana tell you how amazing she and Clayton were today?
I mean, the whole crew was on fire, but your kids, wow! You should be proud as anything.”

There's a slight pause. “Um, yes. Now, Clayton . . .”

“Yeah, he's bunking with Landon and me. Hope he doesn't mind snoring—some nights I rattle the darn windows.” I break into a volley of fake laughter. Ana is staring at me like I've just pulled the pin out of a grenade. “At any rate, we're all going out to dinner in a minute. Clay just stepped into the bathroom.”

“I've tried to call Clayton—” Mrs. Watson begins.

“Yeah, poor guy left his phone in the van. I'd laugh, but I did the same thing once. Left it in a McDonald's in Gig Harbor, came back a week later and it was still there, believe it or not.”

“I—”

“So I'll let him know you called. It's gonna be an early night, so he'll probably call you back in the morning. Hey, maybe you could settle something for me. The first governor of New York was Elihu Johnson, right?”

“I—”

“Thanks! Landon was trying to tell me it was Roscoe Conkling, if you can believe that. Anyway, it's been nice talking to you. If we go to nationals, I hope you can come and watch us. Go MLHS!”

“Wait, put Ana back on—”

“How's that? Sorry, I think we're breaking—”

I hang up and hand the phone back.

Ana is catatonic. Only the twitching of her eyelid reveals that she has not slipped into a coma.

“Lots of words real fast,” I tell her. “That's the secret to a good lie. They're not sure what you said, and blame themselves when they get confused.”

Her phone rings again.

“Don't answer that. Your battery just died.”

This seems to snap her out of the trance. She pockets her phone, picks up her bow, and leans toward me.

“Thanks, Zak. I went blank there. Glad you were here.”

I try to shrug it off. “No big deal. Heck, James and I once drove out to Eugene for the weekend. Had my mom convinced I was in the basement the whole time.”

“It is a big deal, Zak.”

Much to my surprise, Ana gently takes my hand in hers and intertwines our fingers. Her eyes have a warm, flirty look.

“Try something like that again and I'll kill you.”

She smiles at me again and we walk out of the room together.

And just for a few seconds, just for a moment, she continues to hold my hand.

We've arrived at the conference room where Warren
directed us. Zak has spent several minutes conferring with various people. Their badges all sport ribbons and pins, so they're evidently some kind of con authorities.

While he talks, I think about the stunt he pulled with my mom. It probably will end up making her furious. But . . .

Furious at the obnoxious kid on the phone. Not at me. When I get back, I'll just tell her how the jerk team alternate thought he was being funny. Blame any confusion about Clayton on Zak. Make it all his fault. No problem.

Except I'd have to paint Zak as some sort of idiot slacker. And after spending a couple of hours with him, I know that's not really the case. Mostly.

And here he is, standing in front of me, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Here's the thing, Ana.”

I instantly wince. Any explanation that starts off with those words is going to end in bad news.

“Yes, Zak?”

He taps a sheet of paper he's holding. “Clayton is here. Warren was right, he's in the Mazes and Monsters tournament, and he's already advanced to the second round. I bet the little weasel stole my cards, that's how he's doing so well.”

I sigh with relief. “Where is all this?”

“Through those double doors.”

I'm already moving. Zak clears his throat.

“Duquette, I have a feeling you're about to piss me off.”

He shrugs. “You can't go in there during gameplay. No spectators.” He points to a balding, potbellied man in a white uniform slouched near the entryway. A rent-a-cop.

“Are you kidding me?” I finger my bow. The guard makes such a tempting target.

“Calm down, William Tell. They're playing for a
three-hundred-dollar prize. They don't want any audience members helping out their friends.”

“How on earth could they do that?”

Zak apparently doesn't understand the concept of a rhetorical question. “Well, one year some guys rigged up a primitive fiber-optics network . . .”

My headache is returning. “How long will this game take?”

“Depending on how well he does, maybe two hours.”

I glance at a clock on the wall. If we wait for Clayton, then have to hang around to find a taxi, a half hour ride back . . . that's cutting it way too close. Plus, what if he gives us the slip again?

“Can't you go in as a player, Duquette?”

Zak won't meet my eyes. “Ana . . .”

“Out with it.” I set my bow on a table so I can place my hands on my hips.

“Last year . . . there was some unpleasantness. I was sort of kinda asked not to return. In a very official sense.” He tries to smile, but I think my expression kills it.

“Wonderful. So there's no other way in?”

He shakes his head. “We're going to have to wait him out. Are you hungry?”

I don't answer. I have a feeling that if we don't corner my brother right now, we'll lose him forever in this crowd. I'm already picturing Mrs. Brinkham, knocking
on the door to the boys' hotel room. She's beginning to panic, not knowing where half the team is. She takes out her phone and calls my parents . . .

“Last call!” I'm jolted back to reality. “Last call for the Mazes and Monsters competition. Sign up now or be lost forever.”

Zak kicks at the bench leg like a bored ten-year-old in church. There's only one thing for me to do.

“Sign me up!” I snap the clipboard from the announcer's hand and scrawl my name. According to the sheet, we begin in five minutes.

My companion is stunned. “Ana, um, you don't know how to play.”

I sit back down, cross my legs, and smile. “Teach me everything you know. You have three hundred seconds.”

The conference room where we'll be competing is filled with portable tables. Dozens of competitors are wedged into chairs, and I get the feeling that not all of them are familiar with the concept of soap. I scan the area for my brother, but I don't think he's here.

“Excuse me,” I ask a normal-looking middle-aged man. “Where are the people who competed last round?”

“Um, I think they have the winners in a private waiting area until their next turn. Hey, nice bow, are you dressed like—”

“No.”

Drat. Looks like I'm going to have to try to find Clayton the hard way. Once I've lost, then I'll have Zak round up some space marines to raid the winners' circle.

Meanwhile, I have no choice but to fumble my way through this game. While I have been provided with a foil-wrapped package of Mazes and Monsters cards, Duquette tells me I won't stand a chance. Players apparently spend years building their M-and-M decks. He claims he knows people who have spent over a thousand dollars on their cards, but what kind of loser would do that?

“Ana Watson! Did not expect to see you here!”

I squint at my opponent. “Do I know you?”

He leans forward. “It's me, James. Zak's friend. I didn't know you were into gaming. How come you never joined us in the library?”

“It's a recent interest.” I almost ask him why he's dressed like President Theodore Roosevelt, but stop myself. He might tell me.

“Actually, James, I'm only here because I'm trying to track down my brother, Clayton. I've got to make it to the next round, and idiot Zak apparently was banned for cheating.”

James looks surprisingly grim. “Not quite, Ana. Last year, he was one round away from being champion. And
he threw the game.” His voice has the somber tone of a PSA on the dangers of meth.

“Why?”

“Well, Duke denies it, but he lost on purpose so his opponent could impress his girlfriend.”

I open my cards and pretend to shuffle them, trying to imagine a girl who'd be impressed by the champion of this game.

Probably as unlikely as finding someone who'd be impressed by a quiz bowl champion.

“Gentlemen!” barks the cyborg referee. “And, um, lady.” He nods in my direction. “You all know the rules. You may begin at your leisure.”

I try to remember what Zak told me. A troll beats a wizard, a wizard beats a gnome . . . a red card trumps an orange and so on down the visible light spectrum . . . spells are worth two . . . no, five . . .

“James? I don't suppose you'd like to impress
me
?” I bat my eyes.

“Sorry, Ana. At the game table, it's all business.” He removes his wire-rimmed spectacles and replaces them with a large pair of mirrored sunglasses. He then fans his cards in front of him, inches from his nose.

Mirrored sunglasses.

I can totally see the reflection of his entire hand. All his cards.

I swallow, shuffle my cards, and commit his hand to memory. “I open with a red . . . make that an orange troll. And I bid five hundred manna.”

I gather my cards and my bow. James sits, dejectedly, unable to process how he lost to such a newbie. The worse the game went for him, the closer he held his cards to his face. I'd have to warn him about that. Later.

“Thanks, James. Sorry it didn't go well for you.”

He half smiles. “
C'est la guerre
.”

The winners' room mirrors the original venue, only smaller. About twenty guys mill around, snacking, reading, and talking. One man strums a guitar. Clayton is not among them.

This is no time for manners. “Has anyone seen a thirteen-year-old boy?” I yell without preamble. “Blond, glasses?”

“Clayton?” asks someone. “Yeah, I played him in the tiebreaker round. Came down to the wire, but I won.”

“What? You mean he's gone already? Did he say where?”
I played this stupid game for nothing?

“He said he was going to check out the SCA event.”

Another meaningless series of letters. “Where's that?”

He stares at me as if I'm the one not making any sense. “The courtyard. Hey, you can't leave now!”

I'm already moving toward the door. “Unless the Sixth Amendment has been repealed, yes, I can.”

Someone blocks my path. A tall guy. When I look up at his face I suppress a scream at his hideous mask. Then I suppress another one when I realize he's not wearing one.

It's Zak's nemesis, Cyrax.

Up close, he's quite hideous. Nothing I can put my finger on, but there's something about his face that gives me goose bumps. The dark circles under his eyes, his thinning black hair, his liver-colored lips, and his crooked nose . . . in a sea of unattractive people, Cyrax still stands out.

“Going somewhere, young lady?”

His breath isn't bad, but it has a weird, musty quality, like when you turn on the furnace for the first time in the fall.

“I have to go. Family emergency.” I try to squeeze around him, but he leans to the side.

“In the middle of the game? But I'm to be your opponent. Surely you can finish the round.”

I can see why Zak doesn't like this guy. “I forfeit. You win. Get out of my way.”

He doesn't move. “I'm afraid it doesn't work like that”—he glances at my name tag—“Ana. This is the winners' circle. Either we see this through or there's no victor.”

I glance at the spectators. The guitarist nods in confirmation.

Cyrax cracks a smile. I can hear it cracking. “Come, Ana. I've worked too hard and waited too long to quit now.” He extends a bony arm. “Let's play.”

While I of all people can appreciate the sweat and sacrifice that comes with being a champion at something, now is not the time. This may be my last chance to head Clayton off, and I'm not going to waste it talking to this overgrown ghoul. I attempt to force my way past him.

He grabs my arm. His knobby fingers tighten around my wrist.

“We play.”

Oh, hell no
. I throw back my arm and drive my fist into his gut. Not as hard as I can, but enough to let him know that no one grabs me like that. Ever.

It's like hitting a scarecrow. My knuckles bury themselves in his shirt, but encounter no resistance. I may as well be striking a bag of leaves. I throw another jab with no effect. He does not let go of my arm.

He begins to speak as if I hadn't just slugged him. “You're a friend of Zak Duquette's, are you not? Yes, I remember. That must be why you're so anxious to quit. Because you're preprogrammed to lose. Just like Zak. Am I right?”

I attempt to wrench my hand away, but he may as well have me in cuffs. I'm starting to get scared. I could yell for help, but James is gone and I somehow doubt these card players would do much.

“So will you play or continue to be a loser like your boyfriend?”

Well, I tried to get away. I did my best. I have no choice. I have to stand up for myself. And for Zak, I guess.

“Well, if you won't let me leave . . .”

Cyrax's mouth expands, revealing his gray teeth.

“Then
everybody
leaves.”

With my free hand, I reach out and yank the fire alarm.

A blaring siren fills the room, just like I expected.

Cyrax lets go of my arm, just like I planned. Clutching my bow, I make for the door.

Then the sprinklers activate. Streams of chemical-green liquid rain down on the room, drenching everyone's very expensive cards.

I did not see that coming
.