The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (2 page)

I look at my watch. It's just after three. Perfect. If I
can finish things up in the library in under ten minutes, I'll have just enough time to make archery practice.

It's my fault that I didn't take care of this before school, of course, but my brother, Clayton, asked me to go over his math homework for him, and then Mrs. Brinkham stopped me to talk about the quiz bowl tournament, and I couldn't very well tell
her
no because I'll need her to write me a letter of reference for that scholarship later this month, and then lunch was a total disaster because . . .

Ticktock, ticktock
.

No one is waiting at the library checkout. Perfect. Mrs. Newbold, the librarian, smiles when she sees me.

“Ana! I heard you came in first place at the—”

“Do you have the books I put on hold?” It's rude to interrupt, but I worry that if I don't get down to business, she'll keep me here for twenty minutes, just chatting.

The librarian blinks, then hurries off to find my material. I check my watch again. Two after. Still on track . . .

“Achtung!”
The voice barks from behind me. I nearly jump over the counter.

On a table in the middle of the library, a half dozen kids have set up some sort of board game. I've seen these loud idiots here before. I thought about complaining, but there was no point. After school, the media center is always empty. I think the librarians are glad to have company.

The desk phone rings and, much to my annoyance, Mrs. Newbold answers it, my books tantalizingly clutched in her hand. I tap my foot in frustration, then turn and glare when someone at the gaming table begins to bark orders in a painfully fake German accent.

He's a tall, skinny, pasty guy in a T-shirt that says
NEVER TRUST A SMILING GM
. I'm disturbed to see he's wearing one of those spiked Prussian helmets. Actually, everyone at the table is wearing some bizarre headgear:
a furry Russian cap, a turban, a bowler hat. I'm intrigued enough to look at their game board. It's a map of Europe, covered with little plastic soldiers and cannons.

Boys, always playing at war.

The librarian hangs up and passes me my books. I grab them without another word. I can just make practice with a couple of minutes to spare. Not that Coach minds it when other people wander in late, but that's their problem.

After practice, I'll have enough time to change before dinner. Then I can start on my history project, before . . .

“Herr Fräulein! Bitte komen ober here, mach schnell!”

It's the guy in the plastic helmet again. He's turned toward me, standing there with one foot on his chair, grinning. His hat is about a size too big, shadowing his eyes. All I can make out is a long, narrow nose and a careless smile.

I recognize him. He's always in here running games, or in the cafeteria playing cards, or in the commons laughing with his goober friends.

“What?” I ask, annoyed. I'm running out of time.

His grin widens. It's the smile of a guy who has nowhere to go and nothing to do when he gets there. Someone who wastes all his time.

He tilts his helmet back, revealing brown eyes and
shaggy hair. He's let his scraggly sideburns and chin whiskers grow out in an unfortunate attempt at facial hair. Probably trying to look older. Someone should tell him to shave—he'd look a lot nicer. Someone should also tell him to get a haircut, buy a shirt that's not split at the armpit, and not wear a hat that makes him look like a refugee from a Berlin mental hospital.

He juts out his chin, making him look even more ridiculously self-confident. “How'd you like to help shape the destiny of 1914 Europe? Defend her soft underbelly?”

His comments are so nonsensical, I turn to his tablemates, hoping they can explain. Or get this guy to shut up.

An overweight guy in a French gendarme's cap speaks up. “What he's saying,
ma chérie
, is we're short a player. Want to be Italy?”

I turn back to Kaiser Jr., to tell him to sit on his helmet. But I notice his smile has wavered. His eyes look just slightly nervous, hopeful. No point in embarrassing him in front of the other commanders in chief. I sigh.

“Listen . . . what's your name?”

Instantly, his sheen of arrogance returns. “They call me Duke.”

I look down at a binder next to the game board.
ZAK DUQUETTE
, it reads.

“Listen, Zak. Touched as I am that you've saved me a country that's clearly vulnerable on four fronts, I'm late.”

He attempts to suavely run his fingers through his hair and almost knocks his helmet off. “Well, we meet here every Tuesday . . .”

“Maybe some other war.”

I cut the conversation short by leaving the library. I'm going to be late as it is.

Briefly, I wonder what it would be like to be someone like Zak. Not that I want to waste my time on a game like that, but it would be nice to just sometimes do something I want to do. To have friends that I can be with because we're having fun, not because we're at a club meeting or working on a project. To not have to account for every second that I'm not at home or in class.

My sister, Nichole, used to be like that.

I don't have a sister anymore.

Smeggin' hell. Blew it.

I watch, disinterested, as the Turks launch an improbable beachhead against England, bringing all of 1918 Europe under Ottoman rule.

It was that girl who distracted me. Ana, that's her name. She's in the library all the time, but I've never spoken to her. I know she's one of those smart, go-getter types—her picture is on every other page of the yearbook. Stupid me, I thought maybe she'd like to hang out with the rest of us geeks. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself. Nope. Guess she was too good for that.

The Great War has ended. The plastic dead are swept, unceremoniously, back into the box. I grunt good-bye to my friends as they leave. Only James remains, twirling his field marshal's cap on a finger.

I pick up my helmet and put it back in the box. It occurs to me that, just maybe, there's a reason that guys don't generally wear military headgear when attempting to talk to girls.

“Intimidated by the size of my
Pickelhaube
?” I mumble, then chuckle.

“Excuse me?” asks James.

I return to reality, such as it is. “That's what I should have said to that girl, Ana.”

I expect James to laugh at me, but he nods sagely. “The perfect comeback, ten minutes too late.
L'esprit de l'escalier
, as they say in France.”

I smile at my chubby friend. As usual, he's wearing a mishmash of clothes that may or may not be a tribute to his favorite comic book characters. I recognize Cyclops's sunglasses, the Punisher's black T-shirt, and Archie Andrews's checkered pants. With a knowing smirk, he removes a glossy booklet from his bag.

WASHINGCON! March 2–4th, Seattle. The Pacific Northwest's Biggest, Baddest, Boldest Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Comic Book Convention!

On the cover is a drawing of our state's namesake.
The august general and president is decked out in a frilly collared tux, clutching a chain gun in one fist and lighting a cigar with the other. To the left, a buxom woman in petticoats and skirts attacks a vampire with a poleax.

“Steampunk,” I say, staring at the image like a prisoner viewing an unconditional pardon. “Nice.”

“Just got it in the mail yesterday,” says James. “You make your room reservation yet?”

I flip through the scheduled events. “Of course. I told my mom that I'm staying in a hotel room with you and your parents.”

“Funny, I told my mom the same thing.”

We both laugh. For years we've been going to this con together, and not once have we worried about where we'll stay. I could always count on a friend of a friend to have a room where we could crash. Barring that, I could sneak into one of the quieter movie theaters and take a catnap. And caffeine was always my friend.

James glances at his Dick Tracy communicator watch. “So are we doing the X-fighter Turbo battle this year?”

“You gotta ask? When is that, anyway?”

“Four a.m., I think.”

“Good. I hate it when they schedule it at some weird time.”

James stands. “See you 'round, Duke.”

“Right. Hey, that girl, Ana . . .”

He holds up a palm and shakes his head. “Forget it. Not a chance.”

I am a touch offended. Ana isn't
that
hot, after all. Scrawny, flat chested, with a mane of frizzy, dark hair. She does kind of have a Barbara Gordon thing going on, though. “What, I'm too dorky for a chick on the math team?”

“You're too lazy. Trust me, that girl only dates National Merit Scholars, and she doesn't even date
them
. Take care, Duke.”

Okay, so she's out of my league. I'm used to it. Very used to it, actually. That's another reason I was looking forward to the con. Whole new set of dating rules there.

I grab my things and leave, thoughts of the convention running through my head. Just ten more days.

Most years, the idea is exciting. This time . . . let's just say I really need to get out of the house. To get away from Roger and his attempts to make me into a stepson who doesn't embarrass him. Seventy blessed hours with my own kind.

I'm almost out the door. Almost outside into the dreary, late-winter day.

“Zak!”

A woman's voice calls me from inside the school. Adult. Teacher. I pretend not to hear. Just ten more steps.

“Zak Duquette!”

Too late. I turn. Mrs. Brinkham, my health teacher, rapidly approaches, awkwardly cradling a sheaf of papers. “Zak, I'm glad I caught you. I need a word.”

“Ah, Mrs. B, I kind of have to get home.”

“It'll just take a moment.” She pauses to move a lock of dark hair out of her eye, almost causing her to lose the pile of homework she's clutching. As usual, she's a living example of entropy. She has a run in one of her stockings. There are Band-Aids around two of her knuckles. A coffee stain dots the front of her white blouse, and she's missing an earring. Though she's got to be pushing forty, she still has an awkward, confused air about her that makes her seem much younger. Last year a new school security officer asked to see her hall pass.

Annoyed, I follow her to the health room. I slump on a desk, pretending to be interested in the model of the Visible Man, as Mrs. Brinkham awkwardly sorts her papers. Not for the first time, I ponder what she would have looked like twenty or so years ago. She was probably pretty cute, and it hasn't totally faded with age.

Finally, she pulls up her chair and sits opposite me.

“Zakory, you know I'm your faculty advisor, right?”

We have faculty advisors?
I guess I was vaguely aware of that, the same way I'm aware that I have a spleen. It's just not something I've ever really given much thought to.

“Yes. My advisor. Of course.”

“I'm sorry I haven't spoken with you yet. I'm so busy with this class and all, sometimes it's hard to find the time.”

I stifle a laugh. Health class is an absolute joke. It's a required course, but it's not like it's hard studying face washing and the importance of not shooting heroin. I cherish the fifty-minute nap her class provides me every afternoon.

Mrs. Brinkham continues. “I'd like to know what your plans are after graduation.”

I shrug. “I've been accepted into Tacoma Community College.”

I move to leave, but she actually wants to know more. “Did you apply anywhere else?”

“Nah. Figure I can get a job with computers with an associate's. Listen . . .”

She presses on. “What kind of job?”

“Computers,” I repeat.

She shakes her head. “Zak, you're a smart boy. A talented boy. Have you given any thought to—”

“TCC. That's where I'm going.” Why is everyone so down on the ju-co? It's cheap, easy, and I won't have to move.

“Do you participate in any extracurricular activities? Any sports or—”

I cut her off. “I appreciate your interest, but I'm good
to go. Let's do this again some time.” I stand, glad to end the conversation.

“Sit down.” Her normal, tittering, flighty voice is suddenly gone. I return to my seat, surprised.

“Was there something else? Ma'am?”

She does not smile as she passes a paper to me. I recognize it—it's my semester report on dysentery. Or diphtheria. Some
D
disease.

My Spidey-sense is tingling. “Um . . .”

“Zak, this whole essay is copied from Wikipedia.” She's upset. She never gets upset. This is bad.

I play innocent. “I used it as a source, sure.”

“You cut and pasted almost the whole thing. You didn't even take out the hyperlinks!”

Yikes, I thought I caught all those
. Fortunately, this is Mrs. B we're talking about. Surely there's a way out. “I'm sorry. I was kind of in a time crunch myself. I'd be happy to do it over.” I give her a smile.

She doesn't return it. “This is cheating, Zak. Academic dishonesty. I know most of you don't take this class very seriously, but it's a real course just the same. I'm going to have to take this to the principal.”

“Wait . . .” Why was she in hard-ass mode all of a sudden? I sure as heck wasn't the only student who liberally borrowed from the internet. True, maybe I'd gotten a little lazy this time, but it's not like this was an important
class. I'd completed the assignment, which was more than some of my classmates did.

“You'll receive two weeks of detention. And a zero on this assignment, of course.”

“Couldn't we . . .”
What? Think, Duquette!

“This paper was twenty percent of your final grade. And since you've blown off every other assignment in here, you cannot hope to recover from this. You'll fail.”

“Fail?” As in, actually fail? As in, not pass a class?

She then adds the coup de grâce. “And since health is a required course, you will not graduate. You'll have to make it up in the summer. And you won't be able to enroll in TCC until late fall, I'm afraid. Not without a diploma.”

I'm frozen in sick fear. What had gotten into her? Okay, I crossed the line. I can admit that. But not letting me graduate? Even the droolers who take PE every hour get to walk at the ceremony. Why is she singling me out?

“Isn't there anything I can do?” My voice comes out as a pathetic squeak.

“Perhaps.” She smiles in an enigmatic way. For a moment I hope she's going to ask me to lock the door as she unbuttons her blouse, but I'm not so fortunate. “You know that I'm the quiz bowl team's sponsor, right?”

Huh?
“Yes. I'm a big fan.”

She ignores that. “We're competing for the championship in a couple of weeks. I think we have a very good chance of winning. We have a good group this year.”

“Okay.”
What does this have to do with me?

“The problem is, we've lost a couple of team members recently. Kathryn Ciznack moved unexpectedly, and Leroy Cooper is no longer available.”

“Because of the . . .” I take a toke from an imaginary joint.

She nods. “We have enough people for a full team, but no alternate.” She stares at me meaningfully. “I thought perhaps you'd like to volunteer.”

I try not to cringe. Remembering what hangs in the balance, I ask her what I'd have to do.

“We leave for Seattle on a Friday morning, and won't return until Saturday night, so it would mean most of your weekend. You'll sit in a couple of rounds to give other people a break. You will dress nicely and you will take the contest seriously.”

I bite my lip, pretending to ponder. Inside, my brain is doing backflips. A day off from school? A Saturday away from Roger? This was hardly the deal with the devil I was expecting.

“And I'll get full credit for the report?”

She shakes her head. “If you rewrite it and hand it in to me by next Friday, I'll count it as complete. You'll pass
this class with a C, which, quite frankly, is a gift.”

“Fair enough.”

We stand. She gives me a piece of paper. “That's a permission form for the competition. I need you to have a parent sign that and get it back to me tomorrow morning.”

I reach for it, but she holds it just out of my grasp. “Zak, this is a one-time offer. The second you try to get out of this or don't try your hardest at the tournament, the deal is off.” Her face is more severe than I've ever seen it.

I take the paper gingerly and back out of the room. Good Lord, talk about landing on your feet! Instead of getting my ass reamed, all I have to do is throw on a tie and play
Jeopardy!
And another weekend away from the intruder in my house. Maybe this will get Roger off my ass about participating in after-school stuff.

I pause at the front door of the school and glance at the permission slip. Seattle, that's a great town. I know people there. If there's any downtime, maybe I could call some friends to play a little Call of Cthulhu. When, exactly . . .

My eyes freeze on the permission slip.
No
.

No, no, no
.

I stagger outside, into the pouring rain.

March second.

The same weekend as the convention. My favorite time of the year. The event I look forward to for twelve months. My Christmas.

And now I'm not going.

I fall to my knees. Raising my arms to the heavens, I shout out in impotent frustration.

“Connnnnnnnn!”