The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (12 page)

The metal security gate closes on our heels as we leave
the restaurant. I readjust my cloak as Zak texts someone.

I'm haunted by the look in his eyes when he told me about his father's illness. I would have bet money that nothing tragic had ever happened to that boy. I wonder how he buries it so well.

Same way I do, I suppose.

“Zak? It's almost curfew. Are we sunk?”

His face breaks into a confident grin. “No. Almost, but not quite. Just let me—”

“Oh, Huckleberry!” someone shouts from across the lobby.

I take no notice, but Zak has such a look of terror on his face, I think he must have spotted that Viking again. I follow his gaze, but all I see is some girl of about fifteen approaching us at a fair clip. She's very short, with hair dyed crimson and forced into pigtails. She has on a gingham dress and white-and-green-striped tights. She's painted large freckles on her cheeks and is wearing badly applied cherry-red lip gloss. A cloud of fruit-scented perfume surrounds her.

“Oh, Huckleberry!” she cries, in an affected falsetto. “You never called meeee!”

Duquette stands there like he's been Tasered. “Oh, um, hello, Jen.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Tee-hee, who is Jen?” She jabs her index finger into her cheek and gouges a dimple into her jawline.

Zak swallows hard. “Sorry. Hello,
Strawberry
. Um, this is my friend Ana.” He physically grabs me by both arms and positions me in front of him.

The girl curtseys. “I'm so
berry
pleased to meet you, Ana Banana! I can tell we're just going to be extra-special friends!” She then turns back to Zak. “You told me you weren't coming this year.”

He glances at me, but I just adjust my hood. “Um, it was a last-minute thing.”

“I'll never forget the pinkalicous time we had at
Con-demnation, Huckleberry. I was so berry blue when you never called me.” She rubs a fist at the corner of her eye.

Zak doesn't say anything—he just stands there, repeatedly swallowing, his eyes round and terrified. While I find this whole spectacle hilarious, and while I'd really like to know the full story here, I decide to rescue him. I'll make fun of him later.

“Um, Strawberry? We hate to run, but Zak, er, um,
Huckleberry
and I have to find my brother. He's lost.”

Strawberry clutches her hands to her chest and tilts her head. “Oh, golly, such gloomy news! How dreadful! Can I be of help?”

Any other girl, I would assume she's being sarcastic. Strawberry, I decide, is merely insane. I turn on my phone and find a picture of my brother. “Have you seen him?”

“Clayty Waity!” she shrieks, much to my utter shock.

“You've seen him?” asks Zak, equally surprised.

“He was in the karaoke room. We sang ‘Summer Lovin'' together. I had such a pepperminty good time!”

That was Clayton, all right. He loved that movie. What a stroke of luck.

“Do you think he's still there?”

Strawberry shakes her head, releasing a cloying burst of fruit-flavored pheromones. “That was this afternoon.
But he said that he'd meet me at . . .” She suddenly stops.

“Yes?” Zak prods.

Strawberry's smile fades. “You know what I want, Duke.” Her voice is now lower, normal. Almost sultry.

Duquette glances at me with the air of someone about to do something shameful. He then straightens his spine and smiles at Strawberry.

“You're as wonderful as a smile made of rainbows made of ice cream. You're as pretty as a daffodil in a field of gumdrops. You're as adorable as a kitten dressed like a bunny.”

She pinches his cheek. “You're darling. Clayton said he was going to go to the Vampire Ball tonight.”

“Thanks, Strawberry.”

“Zak?” She's frowning now. “Call me, okay? Seriously.” There's a touch of hurt in her voice.

He nods. “I will. I promise.” He actually sounds sincere.

I clutch Duquette by the shoulder and lead him away. When I glance back, Strawberry grins at me and waves with her fingers. I don't wave back.

I wait to speak till we pass into a little alcove where a man sits selling CDs with his own picture on the case.

“Huckleberry?”

“I was lonely,” Duquette mumbles. “I don't want to talk about it.” The slight, dopey smirk on his face shows
that he's willing to at least
think
about Strawberry.

What on earth was up with this place? First Baldy, now this. Were the rules in this place so backward that Zak was some kind of Adonis?

“So, when is this Vampire Ball?” I ask. “Wait, let me guess: midnight.”

“You're catching on. Do you want to wait that long, or should we go get Warren to send out an APB?”

No, I can't get security involved, not after I pulled that fire alarm. Zak still doesn't realize that I triggered the sprinklers. Maybe I should make a full confession.

And suddenly Zak's head explodes in a haze of red mist. For a stunned moment, I think he's been shot. It's only when the plastic cup hits me on the shoe that I realize someone's dropped a drink on him from above.

One floor up, a mezzanine runs the length of the hallway. A girl with a bandage across her face stares down at us with fire in her eyes.

“What the hell!” barks Zak, squinting through the sticky syrup.

“You stupid bitch!” calls the girl, but not to Zak. “You almost broke my nose, dicking around with my bow! You still have it! Get back here! That's mine! Hey!” She's rushing for the stairs, but I'm already off and running. Zak's trucking after me, though at the moment, I only care about escape.

The men's room is every bit as noxious as I expect. Lines of guys snake behind the urinals, grunting and twisting as they unfasten their plastic body armor. No one seems to notice me by the sink.

Duquette has his head stuck under a tap. The water is red from Slushee residue. It's in his hair, his ears, his shirt, everywhere.

That was meant for me
.

He turns off the water and sticks his head under the hand drier. It refuses to turn on. Sighing, he begins to dry his hair with paper towels.

“I must say, Ana, you have a tremendous knack for making friends. First Boba Fett, then the Viking, now death from above.”

Don't forget a dozen pissed-off card players
. “Sorry, Zak.”

He removes his shirt and begins soaking it in the sink. I'm shocked at how pale he is, even for Washington in March. Again, I remember earlier when I saw him without his shirt. Or pants.

Zak wrings out his top, then holds it up and looks at it sadly. Wet, stained, and torn to shreds, there's not much left. He forces a chuckle.

“Maybe I should just go topless tonight. Give the ladies a treat.” He flexes, his grin growing bigger. He has no real muscles, but he has, like, zero body fat. And he's
not scrawny like a lot of the guys here, either, just lean. I wonder how he got that scar on his stomach.

“Ana? I was just kidding.”

I suddenly rip my gaze away, embarrassed by how I've been staring. This con is doing strange things to my head. I try not to watch as Zak slides his mangled shirt back on, only to have it tear straight down the back.

“Great.”

I scoot closer to him as someone comes over to wash his hands. “Don't you know anyone who could loan you something to wear?”

He shrugs his not-quite-broad shoulders. “Sure, but I'd have to find them and then go back to their room. Do we have time to mess with that?”

Time?
That gives me an idea. I glance at my watch. “Actually, I may know someone who can help you. Where's the south wing?”

I don't see how Ana could possibly know anyone
here, let alone well enough to loan me clothes. But after getting some directions from me, she leads me to a conference room where a panel is just ending. I read the schedule:
Silkscreen Your Own Shirts
.

“Ana! You came.” The stocky guy who was packing up his equipment stops, his face lighting up at the sight of Ana.

How does she know this guy?

Ana pulls me roughly into the room. “Hi, Arnold. This is my friend, Zak.”

He turns to me and studies my ragged, stained clothes.

“
Walking Dead
?”

“No, just tired, thanks.”

He turns back to Ana. “I still have your blouse, you know.”

What the holy hell?

“Thanks, Arnold. Do you think you could find a shirt for Zak?”

He looks at me with an intense dislike. I smile, trying to look macho and possessive of Ana, without coming off as a jerk and not too overboard, because I really do need a shirt. Luckily, I've practiced that expression like a zillion times.

“I'll see what I can do,” Arnold replies with forced politeness.

Ana doesn't notice—she's looking at her phone. “Thanks. Hey, Duquette, we've missed curfew. I'm going to call Mrs. Brinkham, make up some excuse.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

Ana's foot begins to jiggle as she thinks. “Um . . . we took a taxi to visit the museum of art, but he had a flat tire and we had to wait for a tow truck, and then the cab driver got in a fight with the tow truck guy—”

I cut her off with a raised palm. “A good lie is always the simplest. Tell her I took you and Clayton to a Japanese movie at that art theater near the hotel. It turned out to be a longer director's cut, so you're calling from
the lobby to say we're running late.”

She turns to Arnold with a shake of the head. “This guy makes lying an art form. And thanks for the shirt.” She retreats to the back of the room to make her call.

When I face Arnold, he's looking at me like something he'd like to squish through his silk screen. I don't know how he knows Ana, but it's clear that his plans with her did not include me.

“You're an extra small, right? Now all my shirts cost thirty dollars.”

“I got six bucks.”

“Then I guess you're SOL.”

We glare at each other for a long moment. Then, slowly our necks turn until we're both looking at Ana, who's having an animated phone conversation in the corner. Arnold mumbles something under his breath, and pulls a T-shirt out of a box.

“Here.” He throws it at me. It's designed to look like a fiery red tuxedo jacket. Gratefully I pull it on.

“Thanks, pal. And if it makes you feel any better, I've been totally friend-zoned.”

He smiles slightly. “She's taking you clothes shopping. Always a good sign.”

I'd like to brag, but I know things are hopeless. “She's out of my league. I don't predict much luck on that front.”

Arnold continues to pack up his equipment. “Yeah, well, they said we'd have moon cities by 1990. And no one predicted the internet or digital cameras. Sometimes the best guesses turn out wrong, and the most improbable theories come to pass.”

I nod a thank-you and go to join Ana. He roughly clears his throat. When I turn around, he's holding his palm out to me. Sheepishly, I hand him my last six dollars.

Ana sits on a folding chair, staring at her phone. Arnold's theory on incorrect predictions aside, the look on her face does not foretell good news.

“Ana?”

She raises her head. “I talked to Mrs. Brinkham. My grandpa Watson just had a massive heart attack. They've taken him to the hospital here in Seattle.”

Was this entire con cursed by God? Was it possible for two people to have such terrible luck?

I sit down by her side, trying to think of some consoling words. But, strangely, she doesn't look sad.

“The thing is, Grandpa Watson died ten years ago. And my other grandfather lives in Miami.”

“Wait . . .”

She looks off in the distance. “It seems Clayton called Mrs. Brinkham earlier. Said that they rushed our grandfather to the emergency room, and that you
helped Clayton and me catch a taxi. Apparently you're such a gentleman that you're staying there with us until my parents can arrive. Mrs. Brinkham's very impressed with you.”

I feel my hands ball into fists. “Little brother has been busy.”

Ana nods. “Trying to work out an alibi for all of us. He saw you at the battle, didn't he? He knows we're here.”

I stand and begin to pace. “That's a terrible cover story. Way too complicated. What if you'd said the wrong thing? Or what if Mrs. Brinkham calls your parents?”

Ana stands. “Well, she's buying it for now. Thanks to Clayton, we're safe for a bit.”

“Remind me to thank him.”

Ana lets out a long yawn. “Well, don't thank him too hard. At least not in the face.”

My phone rings. It must be Brinkham. I pause to do some quick character development. I'm in a hospital waiting room, worried, overcaffeinated, and exhausted.

That actually won't be much of a stretch. I answer the phone, but it's not my teacher. It's James.

“Duke! Did you piss off some lunatic dressed like a barbarian?”

“Um . . . today? Let me think . . .”

“Don't be a douche. He's here in the hospitality suite, drinking a bunch of mead. He knows who you are, and
he's ready to rip your arms off.”

Oh, goody
. “I've had worse.”

“Duke! He's got friends with him. You have to leave the con before he finds you. Or lay low for a couple of hours. You can use Jerry's hotel room.”

I thank him and hang up.

“Ana?”

She looks at me with her prim smile and her wide green eyes. And tempting as it would be to take her to a hotel room, I don't feel like cowering at the moment.

I'll cower very soon, but not just yet.

“I need some caffeine.”