The Rule of Won (3 page)

“Hey, I'm not selling tickets,” I said.

Erica Black was there, too—the only one not focused on me. I didn't notice her at first because she was behind this huge Goth guy complete with black lipstick and vampire contact lenses. I tried waving, but she was too busy writing in her journal. Vicky, who never pays attention to me when I want her to, noticed me trying to wave to a cute girl. Instead of the gentle stroking, she grabbed a tuft of brown hair at the back of my head and yanked.

“Ow!”

Before I could explain we were just friends, a voice boomed through the trailer. It was deep but calm, suave, and authoritative, like James Bond just before he shoots you or Darth Vader asking you to join his plan to overthrow the empire and rule the universe together as father and son.

“Welcome to our first Crave,” it said.

Still holding the back of my head, I looked up at the source of the voice—this guy who was what I'd call a little “too.” He stood just a little too straight. His clothes, though just a T-shirt and jeans, were a little too clean. His shoelaces were a little too bright, like he bleached and ironed them every night. Even his demeanor was a little too self-assured, like he was a teacher, only he was a kid, like us.

Or, like us if we'd been born on Krypton.

It was Ethan Skinson, the kid who had called the meeting.
I had heard (well, really
over
heard, since no one talks to me) that he and his sister used to attend private school before their lawyer dad lost his high-paying job, their adjustable mortgage rate shot up, and their big-ass house went into foreclosure. Now they're Duppies (downwardly mobile), slumming in Screech Neck. This isn't to say Screech Neck is the poorest place in the world but, well, we're all a bit impressed when people show up with new loose-leaf paper.

He held a thick book, which he raised with both hands. With a flourish, he set it down on the cracked surface of a folding desk-chair, so the title, set in large type against a background showing an open hand and some ancient writing, faced us. There was also a glowing symbol on the cover, a “1” inside a diamond.

“We're here to put into practice the ideas in this book,
The Rule of Won
by Jasper Trelawney. To put it simply, the book explains that if you can completely
imagine
you've already achieved some goal in your life, you
will
win it.”

I can barely say two words in front of a group without swallowing my tongue, but he was chugging along.

“Think about that,” he said. “Anything you want. Money, fame, friends. The universe has
everything
in it and enough of everything for everybody. Like the book says, the difference between where you are and where you want to be is inside you.”

“Right,” I was thinking. “If the universe is really just a huge Wal-Mart and you've got unlimited credit, why doesn't everyone
already
have whatever they want?”

I didn't expect him to hear me, since I was thinking and not
talking, but he said, “You're probably wondering: If it's that simple, then why doesn't everyone already have whatever they want?”

Now I added “a little too freaky” to the list.

“It's because we hold ourselves back, set up our own failures. Because of bad experiences, bad teaching, or just bad expectations, most of us expect the worst from life, so that's what most of us get. The universe
only
gives you what you ask for, so if you think about getting sick long enough, you'll get sick. If you imagine someone beating you up often enough, someone will beat you up.
But
. . . imagine getting a new car long enough and that'll happen, too. Imagine losing weight or gaining muscle, and you will.”

Yeah? Funny, but I didn't remember asking for the freaking school to cave in, or for All-den to be there to rat me out, or for everyone to hate me. I didn't
want
any of that.

“Our every single thought does not become instantly real. It takes time and effort. Plant the thought, tend the thought, and the event will grow. Our thoughts are either our servants or our masters.”

Ethan picked up the book and shook it at us, like the words in it were water and he could shower us with them. “You don't have to wonder or guess about any of this. We're going to prove it all here, ourselves, by using our
mesmories
to
imanifest
our
craves
.”

Even if I didn't believe him, I was at least half following him until he started speaking in gibberish. Now I was like, “Do the who with what to where?”

“Let me give you an example.”

Please.

“On the back of the door to my room there's a framed print of the
Proverbs of Hell
by William Blake. He's this eighteenth-century poet I couldn't care less about, but my mother left it to me when she died. When I wake up, it's the first thing I see; the last when I fall asleep. I see it so often that wherever I am I can close my eyes and picture it just as clearly as if it were in front of me.”

He closed his eyes.

“Right now I can see the tear in the corner, a splinter sticking out the side of the frame, even the exact shape of a little apple juice stain above the ‘P' in ‘Proverbs.' This is called a ‘mesmory,' a sense memory, something you can remember just as clearly as you can see. When you can picture your heart's desire as clearly as I can that poster, it's sure to be yours. Got it?”

Got it. Maybe.

He wrote quickly on the blackboard in neat block letters. “I've set up a private message board. Sign in with this password, real names only, and please don't share it with anyone outside the Crave. I want everyone who's interested to post Craves—things you want, but true things, maybe even things you think aren't even possible. Anything, really. Sky's the limit. Next meeting, I'll pick one out and we'll work on it together.”

He turned back and gave us a smile like the one on Vicky's button. “I don't expect you to post your deepest secret desires. We don't know each other that well. But if you want results, take it seriously, and keep it real. Questions?”

I had a dozen, starting with, “How old are you, really—forty?”

But nobody else said anything so I kept my mouth shut. I did notice Vicky was looking at him with this funky sort of hungry expression.

“Wednesday we'll meet again and start imanifesting. Until then, thanks for coming!”

That was it. We stood up like it was the end of a class and moved for the door. No one hung back to talk to Ethan. Like I said, he had this “teacher” vibe, and no one hung back to talk to teachers unless they were failing.

Knowing how the whole not-being-talked-to thing felt, I gave him a nod. My nods are quick, jerky things. You have to be watching to catch them. He caught it and nodded back, this little smile frozen on his face as he smoothly moved his chin up and down. It was, like, a little too-perfect nod.

I didn't know whether I wanted to be his friend or drive a stake through his heart.

Thankfully, no one bothered glaring at me as we left. I guess they were all thinking about Ethan. Vicky kept looking over her shoulder at him, like he was a UFO, so I turned back once or twice myself. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or excited with how the meeting had gone. Just like I didn't know if going to this stupid meeting about this stupid book had helped me with Vicky or not.

As we walked, I tried to say hello to Erica again, but she was still too busy writing in her spiral-bound. I wondered if she took showers with that thing. This was an interesting
thought, so I started imagining her taking showers, she and her journal all covered in suds.

Vicky, breaking my concentration, gave me a bubbly smile and said, “So? What'd you think of the meeting?”

I opted to grunt.

She shook her head, reached into her backpack, and pulled out a brightly gift-wrapped present.

“Here,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. “Thanks!”

I love presents. They're, like, not only free, they also mean someone likes you enough to give you something. I was pretty happy for a second there, until I realized what it was. The giveaway was a little bronze pin on top of the ribbon, diamond shaped with a “1” in the center—the symbol of
The Rule of Won.

“Oh.”

The symbol was also on the cover of the paperback inside the wrapping. Joy.

“You couldn't spring for the DVD?” I asked, half joking.

She leaned over and put the pin on the collar of my over-shirt. It's an old green service station shirt, complete with some oil stains. Joey gave it to me. I usually wear it over a T-shirt. With the pin on it, it suddenly felt totally goofy.

“Vicky, I'm not sure about any of this.”

Actually, I was pretty sure I didn't want anything to do with this Crave crap, but I didn't want to tell her that. “How about you give me a campaign button instead?”

Her lips curled. “Uh . . . not so sure that would help my campaign, you know? My opponent's already making a big deal about how you and I used to date.”

“Used to? Wait a minute . . . did we stop?”

She pushed the book flat against my chest, like she'd get it inside me one way or another. “Read it,” she said. “It's not long, and there are lots of pictures. Let it change you.”

“Vicky . . .”

She poked a long nail into the “1” pin on my shirt. “And take your Crave seriously.”

“Vicky—”

“Just for two weeks, okay? If it doesn't work, if it doesn't help you, then quit. Okay? But please? Two weeks? Next meeting is Wednesday.”

“Fine,” I said. Ignoring her whole “used to” comment, I asked, “Want to walk to Java Jive and grab some—”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Caleb. I've got lots of homework and a campaign speech to polish.”

Before she turned, she flashed a big grin. “Maybe you should make being alone with me again your Crave!”

Yeah, right. Like I was going to post on a message board about how my girlfriend didn't want to go out with me. What wonders
that
would do for my self-esteem. And hell, after listening to Ethan, I was wondering if I
had
made the freaking gym fall down. Maybe because I was secretly feeling guilty about being a slacker. Right.

But, disbelief aside, I gotta confess, I kind of liked the basic
idea. As a slacker, the notion that my life could change without me actually doing anything other than thinking about it
sounded
good.

At the bus stop I finally saw good old All-den Moore. He was bogged down with all these books and loose papers. I hadn't spotted him earlier because he'd changed. He used to be a heavyset kid who wore pants that were too short. Now he'd lost some weight and either shrunk or gotten clothes that fit. Still seemed the nervous sort, though—the kind who'd twitch if you raised your hand too fast, like you might hit him.

He was busy trying to shove some of those papers into the old khaki army backpack he used for books. The thing was so full, you could see the thread unraveling at the seams. The more stuff he shoved in, the more slipped out, but he wouldn't give up. With both hands busy, he tried to catch the falling papers under his foot. It was like this weird, awkward dance.

I scooped some of the papers off the ground and held them out to him.

As soon as he recognized me, he was like a squirrel, looking all around and wincing.

“Caleb Dunne. You want to kill me,” he said.

He snatched the papers from me and hopped about a yard or so away before trying to stuff them into his pack.

“All-den, it's okay, really. I don't want you to die. Not prematurely anyway.”

“Just suffer, right?”

Once he realized I wasn't coming any closer, I got him to stay still long enough to say what I had to.

“No, I just want you to know, you did what you thought was right and I don't blame you. I'm not the bullying sort. Too much effort. You don't have to be afraid.”

He looked around again, then at me. “I'm not afraid of you. I'm only sorry they didn't throw you in juvie,” he half muttered under his breath.

“But I didn't do anything!”

“Then why'd you run?”

“Unbelievable. Because I thought if someone saw me there, they might think I
had
done something. And I was right, wasn't I?”

He grunted. He still didn't believe me. I guess no one did. Maybe Vicky didn't either.

His bus pulled up. He backed up to the doors, keeping his eyes on me like I was going to steal his precious papers. Then he squinted at the button Vicky gave me and did a double take.

“
The Rule of Won
?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

He shrugged. “It's only the most incredibly inane book on the entire planet.”

I wanted to say I was just wearing the damn thing for Vicky, but that'd sound pretty lame, too, eh?

“No, wait, I don't . . . I'm just . . .”

As I babbled, he got on the bus.

If that little encounter didn't make me feel all warm and cozy, as the bus pulled out, it farted a big black cloud of exhaust right in my face.

I guess Ethan would say that I'd asked for it.

• Ten million dollars would be terrific. I'll do the rest. Thanks. All best. —Dylan

• What I really want most of all right now is to earn the trust of our student body by being elected its president. I just know I could do the best job of anyone running, and I want to devote all my spare time to making our school a better place. So please vote for me! —Vicky

• I want the proportional strength of a spider. If granted this boon, I swear I will always remember that with great strength comes great responsibility. —Jacob

• The picture is simple and stark: Curly paper edges crammed with handwritten solutions to the Great Unknown X. Red check after red check. No blood, no error, only certainty. It's algebra, sweet algebra, oh hated friend and foe. I want to pass you, ace
you, beat you, swallow you whole, so that even Mr. Eldridge, with his great unclean mustache, shall smile his smile upon me, and the sun will shine and I will get the scholarship that will enable me to go to Hampshire Arts College. Absolutely totally. —Erica