The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (20 page)

There is a moment of silence, broken only by the
miserable moaning of the undead.

“Oh, uh, guys, this is Roger, my mom's husband. Roger, this is Ana, Clayton, and um, an angry mob.”

“Charmed.” He sips his coffee. “So did I hear something about money?”

Cyrax turns to Roger. “This girl!” he yells, forgetting to stay in character. “She destroyed my cards!”

“Your car?”

“My cards!” Seeing Roger's blank expression, he explains. “M-and-M cards. It's a game. They cost a fortune.”

Roger tuts. He then takes out his wallet and counts
some bills. “I have . . . one hundred twenty dollars. Would that make things right?”

He shakes his skull. “Those cards cost more than five hundred.”

Roger looks to me for confirmation. I shrug, then nod.

“Well, I don't have that much, and even if I did, I wouldn't hand it over. But think about this. In a couple of years, you'll be sick of that game, and you'll try to sell off your cards. But everyone else will be sick of it too, so you'll only make maybe fifty bucks. So here are your choices: I can put this money away and we can settle this like men, with fists flying. And when it's over, we'll all be bloody and bruised—us more than you, judging by the numbers—and you'll still have no money. Or you can walk away richer and”—his voice falls to a whisper—“maybe show a girl a good time this weekend.”

I look over at the girl corpse. She winks at me, but it may just be that only one eye closes.

Cyrax looks at Roger, then back at his friends.

“Brains!” shouts one of them.

He takes the money and tucks it into his rib cage. He turns to Ana. “We'll meet again.”

“Is that a threat?” she snaps.

“No. But next year I'll be back. Work on your attack deck, you owe me a rematch.”

Slowly, the horde shambles away.

I stare at my stepfather with a mounting sense of less hate.

Ana rushes forward. “Thank you so much, Mr. . . . ”

“Call me Roger,” he says, with annoying familiarity.

“Roger, thank you. I'll pay you back this week. Zak and I go to the same school, I'll give the money to him soon.”

“I appreciate that. I'm sure you're good for it.”

He turns to me and shakes his coffee cup. It's empty. “Zak, I just saw a man dressed like a Mexican wrestler dancing with a girl dressed like one of those
Star Trek
robots. Were you aware this sort of thing goes on?”

“Of course.”

“Is your
mother
aware?”

“Lord, no.”

He laughs. “I need a refill. C'mon.”

He leads us to the hotel and into the little breakfast area, the place where I had my breakdown after Warren kicked me out. In an hour, they'll begin serving a continental breakfast to the registered guests. I've snitched bagels here many mornings.

Right now, the room is dark and the chairs still sit on top of the tables, but one coffee urn still appears to be on.

He turns to Ana and Clayton. “Could you give us a couple of minutes?”

We're alone now. Roger pours two cups of joe. Though I've never drunk coffee in my life, I take a drink. It's absolutely vile, worse than Romulan ale.

I take down two chairs and we sit.

“We're about to have a man-to-man talk, aren't we?” I ask with resignation.

“I think you owe me that much.”

“Before you say anything, we're going to pay you back. If Ana can't, I will.”

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.” I really do. And not because I dislike being in his debt. It's just kind of the right thing to do.

“So, what did you do to your face?” he asks.

I finger my swollen eye and cut forehead.
Such stories . . .

“We had a discussion about the
Star Trek
reboot. It got pretty intense.”

To my surprise, Roger laughs heartily. “Zak, when you called me earlier, I wasn't expecting to find you about to get effed up in a parking lot. There's only three reasons why that happens to someone. Now, you're too smart to use drugs and too young to have gambling debts, so I'm guessing there was a female involved.”

I nod, declining to explain my brief but exciting role as a drug mule.

“Is it that frizzy-haired girl?”

“Ana? Yeah.”

“She's cute.”

“Yeah . . .” But, then again, so is Gypsy. And Strawberry, in her own way. Cute wasn't the reason I faced a gun, a sword, a boot to the groin, and multiple fists tonight. “She's brilliant. Brave. Great at archery. She's just . . . amazing.”

Roger smiles, a faraway look in his eyes. “I know what you mean. When I first met your mother . . .” He suddenly stops. “Sorry, you probably don't want to hear about that.”

Maybe it's the repeated head injuries I've suffered, but I tell him to go on. He almost takes a drink of coffee, but stops.

“I was divorced twice before I was thirty-five. Nasty business. Swore I'd never do it again. Then I met your mom. And, well, you know how fast things moved.”

“I'm well aware of that,” I say, maybe too bitterly.

He looks at me but says nothing. “The thing is, Zak, when you marry a widow, there's always another man in the house.”

I'm a little stunned. I had no idea Roger had ever given a thought to my father, the real head of our family.

“Sylvia's great,” he continues. “It's just that sometimes . . . well, I know she still loves your dad. That if she
had a choice, she'd be with him. That's not an easy thing to deal with.”

Now would be a great time to feed his insecurities and give him a laundry list of reasons how he'll never measure up to my father.

But I don't. There's something I have to say, and I have to say it before I lose the nerve.

“Roger, you do have pretty big shoes to fill. And yeah, ever since you came around, I've always kind of had a fantasy that one day you'd . . . you know.”

“Leave?”

“Die in a wood chipper accident.”

Again, the eyebrow flash, but he doesn't interrupt. I take another disgusting swig of the coffee. It's somewhat crunchy.

“The thing is, you . . . you make Mom happy. Really happy.” I can't face him, I look away. “And, well, good. For that. Yeah.”

It was no “welcome to the family” but it was a hell of a lot nicer than anything I've ever said to him. It's all I can manage right now. Baby steps.

Roger seems to understand. “Thanks. You ready to hit the road?”

“Yeah.” But there's one more thing I have to say. I remain seated and face my stepfather.

“My friend, Ana, she's going to get in a lot of trouble
for coming here. She's worried her parents are going to throw her out of her house.”

Roger looks at me with concern. “Will they?”

I wish I knew. “I'm not sure. I think she's overreacting, but I need to keep an eye on her. But here's the thing.” I force myself to maintain eye contact.

“Ana's afraid of her real father. And you're not my real father, not by any stretch. But when I called you in the middle of the night, you could have told me to piss off or ratted me out to Mom, but you didn't. You drove all the way out here to pick us up. So . . . thanks. Seriously.”

This time, it's Roger who looks away. Damn if we're not having a moment. “Hey, no biggie. It's been a while since I had to lie to someone's mom about where they were all night.”

We both raise our glasses and take a swig. My stomach almost backfires, but I'm determined to be as manly as my stepfather.

Roger, on the other hand, immediately spits his back into the cup. “Dear God, this is terrible! How the hell did you swallow it?”

We stand and walk back to the lobby.

“You know, Roger, maybe we'd have an easier time of things if you didn't always try to hang out with me.”

“You think that was my idea? Sylvia insisted I try to do stuff with you.”

“Hey, me too!” Looks like we were both miserable, just to make Mom happy.

We're about to enter the lobby, but Roger pauses. “Zak, why did you call me tonight, instead of your mother?”

“Easy. Mom would have worried. I didn't think you would.”

He looks at me intently. “You're wrong.”

There's nothing else to say but thanks, which I mumble.

“Don't mention it. It's just a good thing I usually go to the gym this early, so your mom won't wonder where I am.”

“Roger? Why did you come out here? You didn't have to.”

Roger is about to drop his coffee cup into the trash, but stops. He holds it over his mouth and begins to breathe heavily.

“BECAUSE—DUKE, I AM YOUR FATHER.”

I sit on a bench next to my brother, repeatedly dozing
off and jerking awake. Clayton continues to talk about his adventures, his monologue forming a background of white noise.

Clayton broke the rules. Not only that, but he's not sorry. He lied to my parents, just like any thirteen-year-old would do. He's willing to take the consequences.

The question is, am I? Or am I just going to beg for forgiveness and go back to the way things were?

I hear Duquette's stepfather as they return from their meeting.

“And how many decorator plates does one woman need?”

Zak laughs. “No kidding. It got so bad there for a while, I thought we were going to have to organize an intervention.”

They both chuckle.
This is the evil stepfather Duquette has been ranting about all night? They seem all buddy-buddy now
.

I try to imaging joking around with my parents like that, but it's such a foreign idea, I give up.

“C'mon, guys, Roger is going to drive us back to the hotel. We should make it in time for stale biscuits and gluey gravy.”

I stand up, groaning. Everything aches. The idea of throwing on a dress, plastering a smile on my face, and spending four hours at the tournament makes me want to whimper.

I notice that Zak is limping. And his right eye is almost bruised shut. I keep forgetting he's had an even rougher night than I have. As we leave the building, I link my arm through his. He gives me that puppy-dog smile.

Roger leaves to pull his car around. I stand there with Zak as we lean on each other for support. The night is just over and the rain clouds are dispersing. It's shaping
up to be a sunny day in Seattle. I take a deep breath, savoring the damp air. Maybe everything is going to be okay.

“Are you two heading out?”

We turn. A tall, skinny black guy in a suit stands there. I don't recognize him. He has a pencil thin mustache, perfect teeth, and sparkling eyes. Easily the most handsome man at the conference.

Actually, aside from Zak and the drug dealer, the only good-looking guy I've seen all night.

“What the hell happened to your face, Duke?” asks the stranger.

“Poor genetics.” Zak pries his swollen eye open with his fingers. “Sorry, pal, have we . . .”

It hits us both at the same time. “Warren?”

The suit, the shoes, the perfect hands. It's him, minus the mask.

Warren does not acknowledge his coming out. “I need a word with you two.”

Good Lord, what now?

“I apparently owe you an apology,” he continues. “I checked the security cameras. Seems one of the convention center janitors was making a little money on the side, down in the basement. He dropped off that Baggie for something, and then you two Smurfs blundered in and swiped it. I turned it all over to the police.”

I remember what Zak's captor said would happen if we told on him. “Um, did you see who was supposed to make the pickup?”

Warren shakes his head. “I doubt he'll come around again anyway. The cops are going to put a couple of undercover guys here tonight, but you two probably scared everyone off. That makes me happy. So, thank you.”

Zak smiles. “Does this mean . . . ?”

Warren does not return the grin. “Yes, Duquette, in light of things, you are unbanished.”

Zak's face seems to glow, like a happy little sun.

I'm willing to leave well enough alone but Zak has one more question. “How about Ana?”

Warren stares at me, and there's no love lost. “I don't know. Are we going to have any more abuse of the fire alarms?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Our insurance should cover the damages, and the convention center is pretty embarrassed about their employee's extracurricular activities. I think we can sweep the whole thing under the rug. I've told the police as much.”

“Thank you, Warren. Um . . .” I sadly hand him my bow. “Will you drop this off at the lost and found?”

He solemnly takes my weapon. “You're on probation.
Don't make me regret this. Now get some sleep you two, you look terrible.” He starts to go. “Oh, hey, Clayton. You coming to
Rocky Horror
next week?”

Clayton laughs. “If Strawberry brings me a bra to wear.”

Warren leaves while Zak and I stare at my brother with great fatigue and wonderment. A car horn wakes us from our stupor and we slump toward Roger's car. Clayton climbs in the front. Zak opens the rear door for me, then falls in after.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I slump in my seat. That was one hell of a night. The craziest thing I've ever experienced, by far. I think it was wild, even by Zak's standards.

And despite everything, the three of us got out alive and mostly unharmed. No matter what my parents do, we're always going to have the con. I lean over to thank Zak, to tell him how much everything he did tonight meant to me.

“Zak, I . . .”

He's sound asleep.