Cragbridge Hall, Volume 2: The Avatar Battle (11 page)

History: C. She wished she could blame that one on putting her last history teacher in jail, but he didn’t have any control over her grades; he’d been rightfully fired. The C came from his replacement.

Gym: B plus. Thankfully she was a good runner. That had kept her grade up.

Zoology: D. Ugh. That was the worst grade she had ever received in her life! Any time she spent in the avatars felt like a new lesson in being awkward. Awkward she excelled at. Unfortunately, no one gave her points for that.

Three more classes and they were all Cs. Abby closed her eyes and blinked hard. She wouldn’t cry, not after the announcement that they could finally check their grades. Besides, Jacqueline might be watching.

There was a number underneath her grades.

Class rank: 500

500? That couldn’t be good. She quickly opened a new window with her rings and searched the Cragbridge database for the number of students in her year.

500.

She was the very bottom of her class.

Abby felt like she was going to be sick. One D, a few Cs, and she was at the bottom of her class. It would have been different at any other school in the world—she would have been an average student—but at Cragbridge Hall, she was apparently the worst.

Two lines popped up under her grades. What kind of message goes underneath your grades? If Grandpa had anything to do with it, it was pep talk about how grades didn’t really measure a person’s intelligence and that she should just keep trying her best. Unfortunately, Grandpa apparently didn’t have anything to do with it. Abby’s heart sank as she read the words:

Due to your performance, you have been placed on academic probation. If we do not see significant improvement, you may be dismissed from Cragbridge Hall.

Jacqueline was right.

11

The Immortal Game

Abby swallowed hard. Probation? Dismissed from the school? Jacqueline said they could do this, but had anyone ever been dismissed? Or would Abby be the first if she didn’t get her grades up? The worst in Cragbridge history?

And if she was dismissed, where would she go? Her brother, her parents, and her grandpa all lived on campus. They wouldn’t make her leave, would they? No. She’d probably just have to do online classes through another school. Ugh. Compared to three-dimensional history, seeing people’s imaginations, and building her own virtual bridges, that would seem intolerable. She had to get better grades.

“That’s enough time on grades.” Mrs. Trinhouse said. “Be careful what you think about them. Even if your grades are high, it doesn’t mean that you’ve mastered a subject—or that you are any better than anyone else. Your grades only measure your performance on tests, quizzes, and assignments. That is all. I have seen many a student not live up to their potential because a good grade was their only goal. The goal should be learning, becoming better. That is what you should care about most.” Abby liked what Mrs. Trinhouse was saying, but she couldn’t help but think she was directing her comments to Abby more than the other students. Did she know? “I have heard that when Oscar Cragbridge began this school, he wanted to do away with grades entirely, but because of the powers that be, he finally gave in. Just remember that grades are important . . . but they are not the final destination.”

The hum began, signaling the end of class. The students all got up to leave.

“So, Abby.” Jacqueline walked up Abby’s row. “Your bridge was cute until it crumbled. A pile of rubble isn’t as attractive.”

“I’ll get better,” Abby said, shutting down her rings. “It was just my first shot.”

“If you think so,” Jacqueline said, twisting some of her hair from behind her shoulder to in front. Of course it looked great either place. A few of Jacqueline’s friends stood behind her and giggled. “And how were your grades?” Jacqueline asked. “Mine were in the top sixth percentile of our year.”

Of course they were. Jacqueline must have ignored Mrs. Trinhouse’s speech. No surprise. “I’d guess they were in exactly the sixth percentile,” Abby responded. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have said it that way. You wouldn’t include any people that got grades slightly worse than you in your group.”

“Got me,” Jacqueline said, followed by a giggle. Jacqueline’s friends weren’t smiling anymore. Perhaps their grades weren’t quite in the sixth percentile. “So you’re not completely brain dead, but by the way you reacted when I asked, I would guess that your grades weren’t in the top anything.”

Most of the students had filed out of class now.

“Well, thanks for talking to me,” Abby said, her words soaked in sarcasm. “It’s always good to have you come build me up.” She stood up to leave.

“Some things aren’t worth building up if they are just going to come crumbling down,” Jacqueline said, mimicking something falling apart with her fingers. “Maybe now we can get someone who deserves to be here instead.” Jacqueline turned and left, still as fashionable and venomous as ever.

Abby slowly walked up the row, reminding herself not to react when Jacqueline provoked her. She knew she had something to offer, knew she belonged here. Well, she had known it until she’d learned she was on probation.

“Mrs. Trinhouse, I have a question,” Abby said, approaching her teacher. Mrs. Trinhouse gestured for her to wait as she flicked her fingers a few more times. She was probably checking messages. With any luck, she hadn’t seen or heard any of Abby’s conversation with Jacqueline.

“Yes?” Mrs. Trinhouse answered.

“Is there a way I can use one of the booths to practice?” she asked.

“Of course,” Mrs. Trinhouse said. “These are open during the same hours as the Bridge labs. Unlike the Bridge, there aren’t virtual booths in the dorms, but here we have several worlds available for you to practice with. Over time, you can create your own.”

“Thanks,” Abby said, and started out the door.

“Oh, and Abby,” Mrs. Trinhouse said, “I wanted to make sure that everything was clear about your grades and your probation.”

Abby glanced toward the door, making sure Jacqueline was out of earshot. “Yeah. I mean, I think so. If I don’t bring up my grades then I’m out.” She hated saying the words and hoped her face wasn’t reddening quite as much as she thought it was.

“Essentially, yes. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t have help. Keep tabs on your grades throughout the semester. If your grade in my class starts to slide, come see me. We’ll see what you can do to bring it back up. Of course, if you study and spend some time practicing like you just asked about, you should be fine.”

“Thanks,” Abby managed. At least someone was on her side.

She stepped out into the hall to see shiny black hair and an evil smile. “Problems?” Jacqueline asked.

If there was any one person in the whole school, in the whole world, from whom Abby would love to keep her probation a secret, it was Jacqueline. And if Abby had to guess, Jacqueline had heard the whole thing. Abby walked away and tried to steel herself for whatever would come next. Jacqueline didn’t follow her, but she was not one to let something like this go. She would do something.

As Abby walked down the hall, her rings vibrated.
Here we go. Here comes the taunting.
But as she scanned the message icon, it wasn’t from Jacqueline.

Muns.

Abby stepped to the side of the hall to get out of the flow of students walking to their next classes. Why was he sending her another message? To congratulate her and all those who sided with her grandpa for stopping him on the
Hindenburg
? No way. But if he did, it might be enough to cheer her up after a slew of bad grades.

She ran the same security checks on the message as she had before. Once again, it was clean, and once again, she clicked on the video to see Muns in a suit with his slicked-back hair.

“Hello again, Abigail,” he said. He sat in the same cushy chair in the same exuberant office. “I thought perhaps that I owed you a follow-up chat. Sadly, I have not heard from you or from your friends . . . at least nothing worth mentioning.” Abby smiled remembering that Carol said she was going to tell him to take a flaming leap into a lake of gasoline. She also said she was going to recommend he play Dracula or Satan in a movie. Perhaps she had really sent the message. “I’m left to assume you are siding with your grandfather, or still deciding. I hope to be more persuasive today.”

Persuasive? Muns just lost. What could he say?

He shook his index finger, a large ring at its base. “I’m not sure if you were involved at all in a certain . . .
incident
a few nights ago. I was hoping it would have ended with the safe landing of a magnificent dirigible, saving more than thirty lives as well as a fascinating transportation industry. But sadly, someone—or someone
s
—let the tragedy happen all over again. We had the chance to stop it, and they stole it from me. Those who do not share my vision prevented a great intervention prematurely.”

Abby’s heart beat faster hearing Muns himself admit they had beat him. It felt great to think that the man who had been so confident was now at least set back in his plans.

Muns leaned forward in his chair. “Of course, I could only see anyone who entered into the past. This time it was not you. It was a new face, someone I hadn’t seen before. I am hoping that you heeded my warning and stayed clear of this. If you did not, you cannot keep such things secret from me for long.”

Yep. Still really creepy.

He leaned back again. “Abby, perhaps you enjoy a good game of chess.” He moved his arm to show a checkered board on his desk with pieces intricately carved to look like soldiers, castles, and royalty. The base of each piece appeared to be solid gold. Abby noticed both the king and queen pieces had what looked like real jewels in their crowns. The pieces did not stand in their starting positions, but as though a game were in progress.

Chess was not where Abby would have guessed Muns was heading with his message.

“I am quite the chess fan; I am known to be rather good at it. I think that for today’s message, a history lesson might prove helpful. I will use your grandfather’s Bridge to show you.”

Abby’s temperature rose. Muns had broken into her grandfather’s house and stolen that Bridge.

The image cut away from Muns. Abby saw the faded image of two men sitting across from each other at a restaurant with a chessboard between them. At least it was a faded image. Muns could not mess with this past without storing up for another energy burst or gaining two more keys.

The men wore old-fashioned suits and one had a beard that only grew underneath his jaw. She was glad
that
fashion hadn’t returned. “The first real international chess tournament,” Muns narrated, “was in London in 1851, and the man with the beard won. He was a German named Adolf Anderssen.” Abby watched as the two men exchanged moves, stroking their chins and evidently thinking very intensely about each move. “But this game is very famous. It was called ‘The Immortal Game,’ and it happened at a local restaurant between rounds of an official tournament.”

Why did she care about the history of chess? Was Muns trying to bore her into submission? “Watch closely,” Muns continued, “and see if you can determine why this game earned such renown.” Abby didn’t really play chess. She knew the rules, but she didn’t have the patience for it. She doubted she would notice anything. But as she watched, the man with the strange beard lost piece after important piece. His opponent captured his pawn, his bishop, then the two that looked like castles, and then he lost the piece Abby knew was the most important—his queen. All this time, his opponent had lost only three pawns, the least effective pieces on the board. The Bridge simulation paused.

“It is interesting,” Muns said, “that to the untrained eye, this may not seem like an ‘immortal’ game at all. In fact, it may seem like a fairly pathetic showing. A casual observer might think Anderssen was doomed, that with each move his opponent grew closer to victory. But Anderssen was the master of the gambit. He would sacrifice pieces, letting his opponent build confidence, letting him think he had the advantage, but all the losses were deliberate and were calculated to set up the victory.” The game started again, and in a matter of a few short moves, Anderssen—the man who had lost all his important pieces—won. Checkmate. Game over. Each move, including the losses, had lured his opponent into a trap.

The scene faded from Anderssen smiling at his victory to Muns at his desk. “Your grandfather and all those who side with him have a very important question to ask themselves: Did they just win a victory, or did they fall for a gambit? If what we are playing is an Immortal Game, one that will be more famous than any other before—and I am also a master of the gambit—your grandfather and his followers may have just fallen into a trap.”