Death's Academy (10 page)

The umpire and I exchange glances. He too can tell that she wants to rip my arms off and beat me silly with them. You see, halos never spit in public, and when they do, it usually means all Heaven is about to break loose.

I trot to my position at the roller’s
X
. My teammates pass by me as they jog to their positions. All of them, except Dred, give me a thumbs-up or a nod. Mal slugs me on the arm.

“Go get ’em, Tiger,” she says and winks. I watch her as she jogs out to her position as a scamper.

I turn back around and face the coffin and the awaiting halo. He’s a big burly dude that looks like he can bench-press two refrigerators. I immediately guess what the halo team’s strategy is going to be. They want to get this gargantuan onto the peak so they can use him to smash into our players while we are trying to get the skull.

I smirk. “You can’t smash us if you can’t even reach the peak.”

A whistle pierces the air.

“Let the match begin,” the loudspeakers bellow.

I peek up at the stands and then to the box where the
Death’s Academy coach is sitting. The entire crowd’s attention has been turned toward me. I get into my stance and stare down the line at the halo standing inside of the coffin. He has the iron boot on his right foot, and he is rearing back, waiting for my roll.

“Try and strike this, muscle brains,” I say.

I do my secret windup and heave the skull toward the coffin. Spinning ferociously, it skips toward the halo. He plants his foot and swings his leg. At the last second, the skull rockets to the left, skidding across the coffin at least two feet from where the halo kicked. The iron boot propels him forward, and he topples to the earth.

Everything goes silent and still like a vacuum has sucked all of the noise out of the arena. The crowd stares dumbfounded at the spot where the halo whiffed, not sure if their eyes are playing tricks on them.

“Buried!” the umpire says.

His voice is a snowflake starting an avalanche. A roar erupts from the hoodie section that nearly takes my breath away.

“Side retired! White on defense, black on the attack!” the umpire says.

I jump into the air and run toward our bench. My teammates catch up to me and slap me on the back.

“How did you do that?” Zillah asks.

I grin back at her. My coach grabs me by the shoulders.

“Where did you learn that?” she asks. A grin spreads across her chubby face.

“Uh,” I splutter.

“Oh, never mind. That was gruesome!” she says and then spins on the spot looking around wildly. “Mal, you’re up. Get us to the peak, girl!”

The hoodies are still going wild when I take my seat on the bench. A spectating hoodie sitting above and a few rows back from our bench is listening to the “gazer cast.” He has his gazer up to his ear, and he must be nearly deaf because I can hear the announcers from my seat.

“A stunning first roll. Tell us, Obscuro, what type of roll was that?” the announcer asks.

“You know, I’m not quite sure. In my fifteen years in the SBL, I haven’t seen a skull move quite like that,” Obscuro responds.

“I would have to agree; I haven’t seen a roll like that, especially at this level, in my entire career. What do you say, Lightcrest?

“It does seem oddly familiar, but I would wager that his roll was more fluke than actual skill,” Lightcrest says.

“You may be right, Lightcrest. But if it wasn’t a fluke, it won’t bode well for the halos,” the announcer adds.

“It’s a long match, gentlemen. This roller hasn’t met the teeth of our lineup yet … We’ll be just fine,” Lightcrest rebuts.

I smirk when I hear this.

“Wait and see, Lightcrest Michaels. Wait and see,” I whisper under my breath.

Mal takes her position in the coffin, and the halo roller heaves the skull toward her. She smashes it
into left field. In one swift movement she jerks her foot to the side, unlocking the iron boot, and races to the peak.

I tap my teammate next to me and point at Mal.

“She’s so flipping fast.”

The halo scamper doesn’t even bother throwing the skull to the peak. Mal is already standing comfortably in its protective circle.

“Zillah, you’re in the coffin,” Coach Madison calls out.

Zillah takes up position in the coffin. The halo roller spins the skull to her and she plows it into right field. Zillah isn’t nearly as fast as Mal, but she barely beats out the throw to the peak.

I turn to Panther sitting next to me, “We’re loading the peak?”

She nods. “Coach wants us to get Mal, Zillah, Thorn, and Dred on the peak before we start going for the golden hoops.”

“Nice.”

I usually strike last. It’s not because I’m a
terrible
striker; let’s just say it isn’t my strong suit.

Our two nastiest players, Thorn and Dred, make it safely to the peak, and are now in position to create havoc for the halos.

Panther readies herself in the coffin, and the halo roller tries to whip the skull by her. Panther chips up underneath it, sending it skyward. The skull is flying lazily to the awaiting scamper, a tiny halo boy who is lightning quick. The scamper stretches out to catch it and bury Panther when—
wham-o!
—Dred slams his
shoulder into the scamper’s chest, sending him tumbling backward. The skull hits the ground and Mal, who was trailing directly behind Dred, scoops it up. The halos chase after her, but no one is fast enough to catch her. She chucks the skull through the center golden hoop and a deafening horn-blast signals the point for the hoodies.

Our side of the stands goes wild. We score an amazing eleven points before the halos are able to bury Zillah on her next turn at the coffin. Heck, even I am able to reach the peak when it is my turn. We have never played so well.

I trot out to my position and pick the skull up. I toss it a couple of times in the air while I await my next victim. The halo eyes me warily as he gets into the coffin. I do my secret windup. The skull springs from my hand and soars across the ground skipping and swerving one way and then another. The halo rears back and tries to kick it with the iron boot, but then realizes too late that it is spinning the other direction. In desperation, he kicks out his other foot and ends up doing the splits in the coffin. There’s a loud rip!

The halo pounces to his feet and covers his backside. His pants have completely torn down the back and his gold-painted underwear is glistening in the sun.

“Buried!” the umpire yells.

The hoodie fans jump up and down in the stands, cheering excitedly. I get mobbed again by my teammates as we make our way back to our bench.

We score another eight points this time around
before Thorn is buried. We are murdering them, 19 to 0. We’ve never been this far ahead of the halos. Only two more points and we are champions.

My third victim is the small halo scamper that Dred plowed into earlier. His nose looks crooked and his eyes are darting one way and then another. I do my windup and fling the skull. He swings his leg so wildly that the iron boot flies from his foot and nearly hits me, but just like the last two, he completely whiffs.

“Buried!” the umpire screams.

I’m beginning to really like this umpire. I take my seat on the bench and the announcers’ voices echo down to me.

“Well, Lightcrest, what do you have to say now? Has this roller, Midnight Smith, made a believer out of you yet?” the announcer asks.

“He has rolled very well, but we’ll see how he does against Brilliance Michaels, the leading scorer these last two years,” Lightcrest answers.

“You think that your daughter can discover the riddle to Smith’s roll?” Obscuro asks.

“We’ll see.”

“You are smiling, Lightcrest. You must feel pretty confident in your daughter,” the announcer says.

“I have the utmost confidence. We’ll see what she does to this hoodie roller,” Lightcrest says, arrogance oozing off each syllable.

“Yes, we
will
see. But I would have to say that Midnight Smith has got to be a shoo-in for the scholarship to Death’s Academy. I just overheard Coach Praxis speaking with the Regent, and it looks like he is going
to extend the offer to Midnight as soon as the game is over,” Obscuro says.

I clap my hands in front of me and hug Mal, who is sitting next to me.

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Didn’t you hear what they just said?” I ask.

“What who said?”

“Listen. Can’t you hear the announcer’s voices on that guy’s gazer up in the stands?”

She shakes her head. “No, and you shouldn’t be listening either. Get your head in the game, Night,” she chides me.

I shrug her off and turn my attention back to the announcers.

“Wait. Now wait just a minute. I’m just realizing this. Is this Midnight Smith Obsidian Smith’s son?” the announcer asks.

I jump onto the bench so that I can make sure and hear what is being said.

“I’m not sure,” Obscuro says. There’s a rustling of papers. “Yes, I’m receiving confirmation that Midnight Smith is actually the son of
the
Obsidian Smith.”

“What a bizarre coincidence,” the announcer says with a laugh. “What are the chances that the son of Obsidian Smith would be playing the daughter of Lightcrest Michaels in a skull ball championship? This match has just been taken to another level. What do you have to say, Lightcrest?”

There’s a long pause, and I stand on my tiptoes, straining to hear everything.

“Well, his father choked at the last moment when
facing a Michaels, and I’m sure his son will too,” Lightcrest says.

I flop down onto the bench, a thousand thoughts swirling in my head. “Choked when facing a Michaels?” What the heck is that supposed to mean?

My mind is racing around so much that I don’t hear my coach call my name to get into the coffin. I shake my head and hop up. My coach says something to me, but I only see her mouth move. I don’t hear a sound.

I jog over to the coffin and get into position. I get ready, but my brain is doing back handsprings inside my head. I’m so preoccupied that I strike the skull wrong, and it spins off my foot, dribbling back to the roller. He smacks me with the skull and the umpire bellows, “Buried!”

I kick the iron boot off and walk to my position.

“Night!”

I look over, and Mal is trotting over to me.

“Night, what’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing. I just heard … It’s nothing,” I say.

She gives me a dubious look and folds her arms in front of her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you know who Lightcrest Michaels is?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s the guy who came out and did the toss, right?”

“Yeah, but why did they call him the hero of the
Queen Suzanne
?” I ask.

“Huh?” she asks with one eyebrow raised. “Why are you asking a question like that right now? We
only need to score two more points and we’re the champions.”

“Do you know why he’s called that?” I ask.

“Sure I do. It’s a famous story. But right now all you need to be thinking about is getting this next striker buried so we can get back on offense.”

“So why is he called that?” I continue undeterred.

She makes a noise of exasperation and spits out, “He saved this big cruise ship or something like that twenty years ago. It was called the
Queen Suzanne
. The hoodie who was trying to sink it wasn’t authorized. He was breaking the law. They say he made a really stupid mistake at the last second, or so I’ve been told.”

My stomach drops into my sneakers.

“Why do you care?” she asks.

“Do you know who that hoodie was that made the stupid mistake?” I ask.

“No, I never asked,” she says.

“It was my dad.”

Her face contorts into a scowl. “What?”

“You two!” The umpire’s voice calls out. “Break it up, or you’ll get a delay of match penalty.”

Mal stares at me for a second longer, her mouth hanging open. She then turns and runs out to her position. I watch her and wish I could follow her, but then keep running past the back wall, past the arena, past the neighborhood. Just keep running forever.

“Let’s roll!” the umpire says.

I snap back into my current situation, and to my horror I see her waiting in the coffin. Brilliance Michaels, the daughter of Lightcrest, the all-time
highest scorer in the history of our age group and the girl I nearly killed an hour earlier, is glaring back at me. I gulp. I swear I can hear Sparky, that golden retriever, bark “ruh-roh” again.

I get into position and try to calm myself. I exhale slowly and then stare back at Brilliance.

“I’ve got this,” I whisper, and I wind up.

The skull jets from my hand and skips one way and then another. My heart soars. I’ve rolled it correctly; I didn’t mess it up. I watch as it approaches the coffin and then dives to one side.
This
is when I make this record holder look like an idiot. Brilliance races forward and …
Crack
!

The skull soars over my head. I flip around and watch it as it drifts toward the center golden ring. Thorn is our center ringer, and she jumps as high as she can, but it sails over her outstretched fingers and through the ring. A deafening blast echoes over the loudspeakers, and the halos go nuts.

“A golden skull! A golden skull!” The announcer says over the loud speakers. “Seven points for the halos.”

I turn back around. Brilliance and I make eye contact. She smirks and points at me.

“Next striker!” the umpire says.

Another halo heads toward the coffin, but Brilliance stops her and whispers something into her ear. The halo looks at me, and she smiles. I frown.

What is she telling her? That was just an accident; I must have done my roll wrong. No one is supposed to be able to strike the skull like that.

The halo girl steps into the coffin, and I begin my
windup. I must have not flicked my wrist, I’ve got to make sure to flick my wrist this time. I roll it, and the skull zips out of my hand. It doesn’t twirl and skip like it did before, and the halo strikes it cleanly into right field. One of our scampers dives to catch it, but it bounces off his fingers. The halo races to the peak and gets there before we can get the skull to the peak-man in time.