Downburst (13 page)

I move to the second room, the one where I saw the paintball guns. A plaque on the door reads, “Staff Only.” I turn the knob and step inside.

The room is large—a storage area, like I thought. Shelving units run along the walls and down the middle of the floor, creating several aisles. Some of the shelves are built into the tree trunks that support the building. On them are piled heaps of equipment, mostly materials for the contests: spears, tomahawks, axes, knives,
kiipooyaqs
, rope.

I see buckets of paintballs but no guns, which means I need to be quick. The staff could bring them back from the arena at any moment. I walk swiftly up and down the aisles, but I can’t find any kayak paddles or camping gear.
I turn a corner, and there, in front of me, are the backpacks.

“Yes!” I whisper. But a look inside one makes me curse. They’re empty. “The gear must be around here somewhere,” I mutter.

I try another aisle and find several big steel containers, but the doors are bolted and there’s no way to open them, not without a key. I turn down the center walkway, the only area I haven’t checked yet. As I pass the really large tree trunk, the one that bears most of the building’s weight, I see something that makes me stop. In the center of the trunk is a door. And it’s ajar.

A sign on the door says, “Restricted Access.” Built into the frame is a scanner, probably to read people’s Quils. I peer through the crack, hoping to find a closet of camping supplies, but instead I find another spiral staircase, leading down inside the trunk. I frown. The interior of the trunk is plated with steel. I tap the bole with my fist, and a dull clang answers me. This isn’t a tree at all. It’s a steel pylon made to look like a tree.

Where do these stairs go?
My guess is somewhere underground, perhaps to another storage area.

Holding my breath, I open the door all the way and place my foot on the first step. But then I hear voices echoing inside the steel trunk, ascending the stairs, and I turn back and scamper toward the storage room entrance. I can’t let them see me. I burst across the threshold … and run headlong into Jeremy.

“Whoa!” he says, grabbing me by the arms. “What’s going on here?”

“Hi,” I say, breathlessly. “I was, uh, just looking for you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Or any counselor.”

“Why?”

I think quickly. “I lost my toothbrush. I need another one.”

“Lost your toothbrush. I see. How did you do that?”

My throat is dry. “I left it in the bathroom by accident. When I went back, it wasn’t there.”

“Okay, tell you what. You go back to your
wakemo
, and I’ll bring you a new toothbrush.”

“Thanks.” I try to smile but can’t quite do it. “Or I could come with you.”

He leans toward me. “I’ll bring it to you.”

By now, the people are entering the storage room, so I nod and back away from the door. As I walk across the hallway, I have to force myself not to run.

That was close,
I think as I climb the stairs and enter the dining area. I’ll have to be careful. Jeremy will be wary from now on, if he wasn’t already. Unfortunately, I’m no nearer now to forming an escape plan than I was this morning. If I could just see where those stairs go …

I don’t see Diva until she’s right in front of me. I stop short. Dum and Gander join her, and all three block my path.

“Please tell me you’ve showered today,” Diva says. Her hair is smooth and shiny, despite the fact that she just competed in the arena.

“I see your straightener made it with you,” I counter. I try to step around them, but Dum moves to prevent me. “Did you find a use for that ruler?” I ask.

His face flushes, and he folds his arms. I keep my own face calm, but my whole body is tensed to run. My only comfort is that we’re in the dining hall with other people. They won’t try anything here.

“You better watch your back,” Diva hisses, as she pushes past me. There’s no way she meant that to be friendly.

“
Koka
,” I call cheerfully, mimicking Lila. Diva glowers at me over her shoulder then tromps off, Dum and Gander in tow. I turn away and release my breath, shooting air up along my nose and forehead. Just one more reason I need to get out of here.

I spend the next hour walking around the camp, running escape plans through my head. Since I can’t survive in the wild without supplies, I keep coming back to the door with the stairs. That
must
be where they store the camping equipment—there’s nowhere else it could be. I finally decide that I’ll investigate during the battle tomorrow when everyone will be at the Aerie. In the meantime, I should start sneaking food out of the dining hall.

I return to the bunkhouse to wait for Lila. When I get to my bed, I push aside the pile of junk that’s accumulated on the blankets, and as I shove it onto the shelves, something crinkles beneath a shirt. I lift the shirt up and discover the paper with the rules, the one I was reading my first day here. I pick it up and scan its contents, blinking when I see rule number six: “Windwalking outside of a competition is prohibited.” How did I miss that?

No windwalking, no fires, and no noise at night. That’s three strikes against the dance. No wonder Naira was upset.

Thinking about Naira’s announcement makes me think about decortication, and I quickly toss the paper onto the rest of the stuff. Then I pull the
kiipooyaq
medal out of my pocket and clear a space on one of the shelves. I look at the shiny gold surface, amazed at how I managed to get through that event. If only it could be enough.

Lila shows up a few minutes later, sweaty from practicing. She showers, and then we walk together to the
wakenu
. I consider asking her if she knows about the door in the storage room, but I don’t. If she doesn’t know, she’ll just ask how I do.

We get to the dining hall a little early, in time to see the buffet tables rise up through the floor on a type of elevator. It looks like the main course tonight is turkey. I add stuffing and green beans to my plate before finding a seat with Lila. The meat is good. Rich and gamey. Much better than the birds we eat every year at Thanksgiving. I spear another piece with my fork.

“Thanks for dinner,” Lila teases.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you killed one of these,” she says.

I lower my fork then glance over at the buffet tables, counting ten birds. She’s right. “Cooked my goose,” I mutter. How fitting.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing—just talking to myself.” I ask how her practice went. While she answers, I surreptitiously look for Rye, but I don’t see him.

After dinner, Lila goes to play more volleyball, and I return to the bunkhouse. I pause before going inside and lean against one of the railings on the deck. It’s a beautiful evening, the sky just getting ready to slip into its gown of amber and vermillion. Too bad I can’t enjoy it.

If I can’t find the camping gear, I won’t be able to leave. I’ll have to come up with a back-up plan. Could I force myself to get sick? Maybe eat something bad. Could I break a bone, jump off this platform? Would it be worth it? I eye the ground twenty feet or so below me. No, even if I were that desperate, people would just want to know why I hadn’t windwalked.

I’m going back to the getting sick idea when I hear the bridge sway as one of the girls
returns to the bunkhouse. I raise my eyes to acknowledge her arrival then stand up taller. It’s not one of my roommates. It’s Jeremy. The setting sun outlines his strong shoulders.

“Hi,” I say.

“Howdy.” He stands next to me, leaning his elbow on the railing. “I brought you this.” He holds up a toothbrush. “Thought you might need it before the dance tonight.”

I roll my eyes and take it from him as he turns around and rests his forearms next to mine. We both watch the sun. “I heard about your win with the
kiipooyaq
,” he says. “Congratulations.”

“It was a lucky shot,” I reply, telling the truth.

He shrugs. “How are your hands?”

I look at the bandages, wrinkled and stretched from the day’s activities. “They’re doing much better.”

“I’m glad.” He turns his gaze to me now, and I notice again how sharp his eyes are. He stares at me steadily, and I worry he might really be onto my plans to run away. I focus on making my face look innocent.

“You have a bruise on your head,” he says.

“Yeah, I know.”

The sun makes his light brown hair and gossamer whiskers glow gold. And his eyes …
his eyes, I can’t figure out. It’s the sun’s fault probably. For a moment, they look blue-gray; then, a second later, they seem to be muted green or teal, less harsh, less experienced.
He’s young
, I realize. Not much older than I am.

He leans close, and I jump when I register that his face is only inches from mine. “I’ll be at the dance,” he says, “to make sure you’re on your best behavior.” He thrums my nose with his finger and straightens back up.

“Great, you’re going to ruin all my fun,” I say, rubbing my nose. He laughs and walks back down the bridge, lifting an arm in farewell.

I shake my head, try to clear my mind, then look at the toothbrush. He got this from somewhere. I just have to find out where.

When Lila returns from her game, we get ready for the dance. She pins her hair up easily, and her brown curls cascade becomingly around her face. I brush my own hair out and stare hopelessly at the puffy tresses that greet me in the mirror. Then I sigh and start to pull my half-Afro back into a ponytail.

“Wait,” Lila says. “Here, let me help you.” She takes my hair between her deft fingers and plaits it slackly in a French braid along one side of my head and then twists the braid back up, working it into a loose up-do. She pulls strands out of the braid and wraps them around her fingers so that gentle curls hang around my cheeks and at the base of my neck.

“Done!” she pronounces, stepping back.

I look in the glass. “Whoa,” I whisper. Somehow, my nose looks less prominent, my neck more supple, my jaw softer. “How did you do that?”

“Years of practice,” she says. “I have five sisters, and we’re always doing each other’s hair.”

“I have one sister, and I’ve never done hers.” I think of Maisy, her silky brown pigtails, and I splash some water on my face. “Ready to go?” I ask as I dry myself off with my towel.

We walk toward the meetinghouse. Along the way, we run into Holly. “It’s going to be so boring,” she complains. “No riding! And counselors everywhere. Probably none of the cute guys will even show up.”

“So why are we going?” I ask. I notice her hair has been done up too.

“Well, there might be one or two,” she admits. “It’s worth checking.”

I wonder briefly if Rye will be at the dance but then shrug off the thought. What will it matter if he is? He’s got a girlfriend, and soon I’ll be leaving.

When we enter the glass tunnel, we hear the music. Not contemporary pop, like they play at school dances. Drumming, like we had last night, but even more frenzied and up-tempo, if such a thing is possible. Lila does a little spin, and Holly whoops and sways her hips.

All of the furniture in the dining hall has been pushed against the walls, and a single buffet table stands at the back of the room, laden with cookies and other refreshments. Five counselors sit near the front, playing the drums, their accustomed hands flying across the taut leather. The steel screens have been pulled down over the windows, and the only light comes from the globe fireplaces, now placed around the sides of the room. For an indoor dance, it looks a lot like the outdoor one last night.

The hall is already crowded, with more people streaming in behind us, and everyone is dancing. No clumps of girls giggling nervously on the sidelines. No one waiting for an invitation. All of the initiates whirl and sway in time with the drums. The dancing isn’t as gritty as it was the night before, but it’s just as invigorating.