The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (11 page)

He's grinning at me, but the image goes gray as my diaphragm can no longer flex and my oxygen supply is cut off.

Now would be the perfect time to say something funny and cutting, something to make my tormentor realize the error of his ways and release me.

Urrrrggggghhhh
.

The gray fades to black. I'm going to die.

I knew the risks. All part of being on the quiz bowl team. Not everyone makes it back alive.

Suddenly, a pained scream fills the air. And I don't think it's me. I'm surprised to discover that I'm no longer being murdered, but am leaning against the building. The Viking clutches his head and howls.

A Valkyrie stands there at the entrance to the alley.
Seven feet tall and bare-chested, she towers above us, her flaming sword held aloft.

I shake my head and the whole vision melts away to reveal Ana, brandishing a PVC mace, which she has neatly broken over Conan's skull.

He clutches his bruised forehead and proceeds to make a noise that no human throat should be able to make. The sound the Tunguska blast must have made. Stunned and terrified of what he'll do to Ana, I lurch forward.

She's quicker. With a deft motion, she grabs something from behind her and lunges.

For a second, I think she's stabbed him in the face. It's only when his battle cry reverts to a howl of pain that I realize what's happened.

She's taken one of her arrows, one of the blunt arrows she bought in the dealer's room, and shoved it up the Viking's nose. As far as it will go.

It's a highly ludicrous sight as he bounces from foot to foot, yelping in pain, flailing his arms about like Curly Howard, with two feet of plastic shaft protruding from his nostril.

“Uh, Duquette?” Ana tugs at what's left of my shirt.

Right. We must flee. Fortunately, my years of friendship with the many smokers around here are about to pay off.

“This way!” We round a corner, and as usual, someone's wedged a kitchen door open so they can duck out and enjoy a quick cigarette. We hurtle through and I kick the rock away. The monster is already bearing down on us, snorting like a bull through his bloody nose, but he won't make it in time. And the door locks from the inside.

Just as the door swings shut, I catch a glimpse of a lone figure. He's standing on a low perimeter wall and is cast into sharp detail by one of the security lights.

That stupid orange-and-red shirt.

As the door slams in my face, Clayton looks in my direction. And salutes me.

Zak sits on a bench in some sort of access hall for
the kitchens. He's been staring at the opposite wall without saying anything for about ten minutes.

I'm starting to get worried. When I first led him here, I thought he might have been pissed off. Maybe I violated the rules of battle or something by helping him. But he's still not talking, and not responding when I say his name. I didn't think that big guy hurt him very much, but still. Mom showed me this magazine article once where this kid got hit in the head with a baseball and seemed fine, and then keeled over dead two hours later from a hemorrhage.

What if Zak's really hurt? Should I call 911 or see if the con has some kind of nurse on staff? Wait, didn't Zak say there was a medic at the battle?

Paralyzed with indecision, I buy a Coke from an empty employee break room.

“Zak? Try to drink this.”

He doesn't look at me, but he takes the cold can and presses it against the small of his back.

More silence. He must be hurt. I didn't think he was capable of shutting up for so long.

“Ana?” He breaks the silence, but doesn't look at me.

“Yes, Zak?”

“Are you Catholic? You were wearing a crucifix earlier.”

My joy that he's speaking again is overcome by my concern that he's now babbling. “Um, yes, I am. Why?”

He's quiet for a moment. “I'm Methodist. But don't worry. We can raise the kids in whatever faith you like.” He then turns and gives me a full-on puppy-dog smile. He's okay.

“Glad to see you're not brain damaged, Duquette. I mean, more than usual.”

He's still bearing down on me with that smile. “So when do I get to meet the parents?”

“Knock it off, you're not that punch drunk.”
And stop smiling like that
.

“Ana, I just saw you pull off the greatest con badassery I've seen in years. It was like—”

“I just took a swing at him when he wasn't expecting it. It was nothing.”

“Nothing? Ana, you saved my life! Or at least some of my ribs. You took out an ogre at close range. That's incredible. Take a moment and reflect on how awesomely awesome you were.”

Yeah, well. Okay, he's right, that was kind of cool. Maybe even a little . . . badass. And now Zak thinks I'm some kind of legend. I can live with that.

“Zak? Are you feeling well enough to keep looking for Clayton? Everything okay?”

He pulls the soda can out from his shirt, pops it open, and slurps the fizz off the top. “Yeah, I'll be fine. But listen, Ana, I've been thinking. You and I, we didn't do anything wrong tonight. That's kind of a new sensation for me. But think about it. Clayton was the one who ran off and lied. It's all him.”

I think I see where he's going with this. “Yeah?”

“So, well . . . maybe we ought to let him take his lumps. I mean, I don't want him to get busted, but I don't really want to take the fall for him, either. And I don't see why you should. You've never been in trouble, and if Brinkham catches me here, then I'm going to fail her class.”

I'm shocked. “You're failing
health
?”

“Yes. I had a deodorant tutor and everything. But my point is, why are we going to catch hell for what Clayton's doing? Who knows, maybe when your parents find out he isn't perfect, they'll go a little easier on you.”

His argument is valid, but like his comic books, the story only makes sense if you know the backstory.

“Zak, my parents, they . . .” I freeze, remembering that awful night, the last time I saw Nichole. My only sister. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me. Sometimes it helps to talk.”

There's something about the way he says this that makes me look at him. Maybe it's because this is the first time I've heard him say anything that wasn't a joke or a complaint.

He's still sprawled on the bench, leaning against the wall, looking battered and exhausted. His brown eyes are barely open, but still he doesn't stop looking at me, his lower lip just twitching into a smile. I suddenly break eye contact and look down. The Viking has ripped away part of his shirt, revealing his pale chest. I remember again the scene back at the hotel, when he dropped his towel.

“Right,” says Zak, mistaking my silence for irritation. “None of my business.” He doesn't seem hurt, just very tired.

I'm tired too. Tired of running around at this stupid convention. Tired of Mrs. Brinkham, my parents, Clayton the wonder kid, and Nichole, who always acts like none of this is her fault.

I lean back on the bench, next to Zak.

“Clayton and I . . . we have an older sister. Nichole. She used to be kind of wild. Always wanting to have fun, make a joke, just barely doing enough to get by.”

I suddenly freeze in horror. I'm describing Nichole . . . but I'm also describing Duquette. Eww.

“Go on.”

“Well, one day she went too far. Way too far. Ended up pregnant her senior year of high school.” I realize this is the first time I've ever shared this story with anyone.

Zak makes a painful hiss with his teeth. “Ouch. How'd that turn out?”

“Not well, Zak. When my parents found out, they . . .” I trail off.
What I'm about to say cannot be unsaid. Do I really want Zak to know?
“They threw her out. Bang.”

Zak's eyes go wide for a moment. I fear he's going to start talking, but he stays quiet and listens.

“She never came home again. My parents never met their grandson.”
Neither have I
. “At any rate, that's why tonight is such a big deal. I'm in charge of Clayton. I can't just call up Mom and Dad and say I let him wander off. You don't get a second chance at my house, Duquette. I
learned that two years ago.”

It seems weird to say this all out loud. The whole scenario would be laughable, if it hadn't really happened.

Duquette is staring at me again. And he's smiling. I swear, if he cracks a joke or quotes a movie, I'm going to kick him in his busted ribs.

Instead, he stands. Slowly, like some horror movie mummy.

“C'mon, let's find Clayton.”

I rise. “Do we have a chance? You said—”

“I say a lot of things. The night is young, and I'd like to think the two of us can outsmart a freshman.”

Zak's exhausted confidence is slightly contagious. Maybe we actually will find Clayton. Maybe we'll do it without getting caught. Maybe we'll win tomorrow. Maybe.

He turns to me and takes my arm. No, not my arm. He kind of just grabs the loose sleeve of my cloak. “Ana, listen. I—”

“Duke!” A man in a three-piece suit, black hat, and sunglasses comes strolling down the corridor. He has a pack of forbidden cigarettes in his hand, apparently ready to sneak a smoke in what he thought was an abandoned area.

Zak bites his lip. Whatever he was going to say will wait. “Hey, Elwood.”

They do that weird male hug thing with just their palms and shoulders. As they engage in brief conversation, Zak glances at me and winks.

Man, that boy is cocky and annoying. But I remember what he went through outside. He did that for me, which is more than anyone else has done since Nichole left.

I'm starting to not dislike Zak Duquette. I'm actually starting to really not dislike him.

The con usually reaches critical mass between eight
and eleven. Everyone who's going to come is here, and the people who aren't spending the night haven't left yet.

The building is now so packed that it's hard to move. Each gaming room is filled with caffeine-addled players hunkering down for all-night marathon sessions. The corridors are brimming with conventioneers, talking, singing, and really beginning to drink. Most have shucked their complicated costumes for casual clothes. The air is stale with sweat, BO, and the fumes of the cheap beer that's provided to anyone with an adult name badge. Many of these people aren't completely on top of
traditional social cues and stand talking in the middle of the passages, blocking pedestrian traffic.

I press through the crowd, undaunted, with Ana close behind. I am determined to ferret out Clayton, even if I have to poke through every movie theater, gaming session, and room party in this building. I'm as brave and determined as Christopher Columbus.

I'm just as hopelessly lost, too. There's no way we're going to find Ana's brother in this mess. Not if he wants to stay hidden.

I glance behind me. Ana is still wearing her cloak, the bow and quiver strung across her back. She's as silent as an elf assassin.

I remember what she told me about her sister. Jesus. I know that getting pregnant is a big deal, but to kick your own kid out of the house . . . No wonder Ana had such a stick up her butt. I would too, if I knew my first mistake could be my last.

It makes me really want to find Clayton. Just so she could stop worrying. And maybe be a little impressed by me.

“Zak?” Her voice barely carries in the loud hallway.

“Yeah?”

“We're just wandering around in circles, right?”

I could lie, but she'd see right through it. “I'm sorry, Ana. I'm . . . kinda running out of ideas.”

Her stern, almost angry demeanor doesn't change. But just for a second, I see a flash panic ripple across those green eyes. I don't think I would have noticed that earlier today.

I sigh. Nothing left but the nuclear option. “Maybe it's time we call in an amber alert. Let security find your brother.”

She shakes her head. “You said they'd call my parents. Or call Mrs. Brinkham.”

Which is very true. But we're running out of time. “Ana, I don't know that we have much of a choice. I mean, wouldn't your parents rather hear about this now, from you, rather than later from Mrs. B?”

I'm unprepared for her response. “Are you hungry? I'm hungry!” Without waiting for an answer, she grips her boney fingers into my arm and drags me into a little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint.

A waiter informs us that they'll be closing in ten minutes, but takes our orders for a couple of personal pies.

We sit across from each other in awkward silence.

“Ana, what was that all about? You've been acting kind of weird since the card game.”

She toys with a cheese shaker. “Um, remember how I said I kind of caused a scene when they wouldn't let me leave?”

“Yeah.”

“Well . . .” Suddenly, she laughs. “I pulled the fire alarm. Cleared the whole room. That's why I can't ask security for help. I think they may be looking for
me
.”

I'm horrified and delighted by Ana's confession. I picture the chaos she must have caused, with the earsplitting sirens and the scattered cards. I'll have to ask James about it later.

“Is that why you're wearing that cloak? So no one will recognize you?”

She nods.

“You rebel. But seriously, I don't think anyone's going to be too pissed about a false alarm.”

“Well, it wasn't just a bell—” begins Ana.

We're interrupted by the voice of HAL 9000 singing “Daisy, Daisy.” I check my phone.

“Sorry, just my mom saying goodnight,” I mumble.

“Is it just you two, you and your mother?” she asks as I return the text.

“Yeah.” And then I remember the invader. “Well, and Roger I guess.”

Thankfully, the waiter brings out our two warmed-over mini pizzas, so I don't have to explain.

Ana takes a fistful of napkins and begins sopping up the pizza grease. “So is Roger your stepfather?” she asks.

Great
. “Let's not call him that. Let's call him the guy
who swooped in last year and married my mom when she was vulnerable.”

She looks at me. I assume. Actually, I still see nothing but her hood. “Do you spend much time with your real father?”

It's like I've been slapped. How could she ask that?

Wait. I never told her. She thinks my parents are divorced
.

“No. I never see him.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch indeed
.

“So what's this Roger like?”

If we were outside, I'd spit on the ground. “Big dumb jock. Always trying to get me to play football, be a starting quarterback or something.”

Ana laughs, hard and loud. I glare at her. She doesn't apologize. Her teeth grin at me from the cavern of her hood.

“So is he really that big of a jerk?”

I roll my eyes. “I used to come home and I could relax in my own house. Now Roger won't leave me alone. He's always like . . .” I make my voice cartoonishly stupid “‘Hey, Zak, wanna toss the pigskin around? Hey, Zak, wanna go shoot some pool? Zak, the regional bullfighting championships for Finland is on, wanna watch with me?'”

Ana has picked every pepperoni off her pizza. One
by one, they vanish into her hood. “Doesn't he realize you aren't into that sort of thing?”

“Hell if I care. All I know is, Mom only knew him a couple of months before he moved in. Why would she invite him to do that?”

Ana shrugs. “Because she's a woman.”

“Of course she's . . .” And then it hits me. What she's implying.

“Ana!”

“Hear me out, Zak.” She tosses off her hood. Her voice takes on that slightly bossy tone that irritated me back at the tournament. “I know you don't like to think of her that way, but it's true. You're just going to have to accept the fact that your mother needs a man in her life.”

She had a man in her life. One who loved her more than anyone. Not like Roger
.

Ana continues. “Now, I take it it's been a while since your father left? You'd really do yourself a favor by acting grown up about—”

“My father is dead, Ana!”

I said it. I almost never talk about that, but I said it. And now Ana's staring at me, stunned. Too late to stop now.

“He died a few years ago. Cancer. It was real slow and way too fast. And that's why I can't stand Roger. Yes, I know Mom needs him, but I don't care. She loved Dad.
She'd still be with him if . . . you know. You understand what that's like, Ana?”

Those few sentences took a lot out of me, physically. I almost never talk about my father, except in hushed, reverent tones with Mom. And Ana just sits there gaping at me and my attack of TMI.

Good one, Zak. Plop your dead father out on the table. That'll make this evening even more uncomfortable
.

And then, much to my shock, Ana Watson reaches out and takes my hand in both of hers. Startled, I look up.

She's smiling at me. It's a sad kind of smile. She continues to grasp my hand. Not in what you'd call a romantic manner, but it's comforting just the same. We look into each other's eyes for a long moment, and it's . . . it's nice.

“Zakory? I'm sorry about what I said earlier, about you not knowing what pain is. You . . . hide it well.”

Her smile widens and I return it. “You know me, always good for a laugh.”

Ana lowers her eyes. “I don't know what it's like to lose your dad. But I did lose Nichole. So . . . I kind of understand where you're coming from. I mean, I know it's not as bad—”

I place my free hand on top of hers. “Loss is loss, Ana. I miss my father, you miss your sister. But listen. Just before we lost Dad—I mean, that very last week—he told
me something that always stuck with me. Something that kind of helps me get through the rough patches.”

Her hand tightens on mine. “What was it?”

A cardboard takeout box plops on the table next to us.

“We're closing up here, guys,” says the waiter.

I release her hand. “I'll tell you later.”