I should just shut up now, because I am only digging myself in deeper.
“So, it’s inspirational to see a loser cripple crawl onto that board and barely hang on?” He smirks. “Some inspiration! Why are you talking to me anyway?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was only trying to help—”
Blayne says nothing. He looks away from me, and I briefly see the hard flash of his blue eyes before his hair falls in his face. He then furiously starts turning the wheels with his hands, and the wheelchair rolls along the floor, away from me.
Other people finally come down the stairs and pass us on the way to the cafeteria, and I am still paused like a fool, blocking traffic. I stand and watch his retreating shoulders and arms moving powerfully, and notice that they are more muscular up-close than I thought. I guess they have to be, since it’s how he gets around.
Well, apparently Blayne Dubois is a bit of a jerk.
Or maybe he’s not. I immediately feel rotten for thinking it. He’s probably just pretty much sick of people treating him this way. Kind of like how I just did, without meaning to.
Yeah, I screwed up.
I bite my lip and continue into the Common Area, past a whole bunch of people I don’t know. I doubt I’ll have time now to search for Gracie and our bros. It’ll have to wait till later tonight. For now, best to just grab some food before the next class.
As I make a beeline for the cafeteria, keeping myself as small as possible out of habit, and looking mostly straight ahead, I hear a minor commotion just off to the side near the lounging area. Loud guy voices, harsh female laughter, and a general hard tone I am used to associating with danger and in-crowd unpleasantness. It almost always means someone is getting picked on—or about to be—and it’s usually me.
There’s a cold sinking feeling in my gut as I pass the source of the noise, the loud group of teens who have taken over the lounge chairs. These are exactly the kind of loud popular crowd that terrifies me, so I try not to look at all. . . . Until I hear what they’re saying.
“Hashtag wheelchair. Hashtag effed-up-loser. Hashtag how-long-will-he-last. Hashtag Atlantis-meals-on-wheels. Hashtag send. Okay pretend I just sent it to you, since the !@#$% stupid crap e-damper is on.” The guy who is speaking is an older teen, a big muscular jock type with dark blond hair and a thick neck. He’s sitting with one foot up on the sofa armrest and wearing the yellow token on one shoulder in a kind of careless show of contempt, while he’s got a sports team pin on the other. I’m guessing it’s a smart-pin.
“Oooh, good one, Wade!” The speaker is also an older girl, sleek and auburn-haired, perched up on the sofa’s back, with her tight hip-hugging jeans showing off her curves. She’s leaning over him with her big chest pushed forward provocatively, and using a high giggly voice that tells me she is flirting hard. I vaguely recognize her from the girls’ dorm floor, and I think her name is Olivia.
There are five other guys and three girls gathered around, variously spread out on the sofas and chairs. One of them, I notice, is Claudia Grito, who immediately glares at me. Great. Do I have some kind of nerd alert cowbell round my neck that announces my arrival to the haters?
“Okay, my turn,” says another guy, dark-haired and hard-faced, with a prominent tattoo on his equally thick neck. “Hashtag wheelchair. Hashtag total-waste-of-space. Hashtag he-needs-to-go-pronto. Hashtag Atlantis-qualification-fail. Hashtag screw—”
They’re not supposed to be hashtagging. And apparently the smart devices being rendered non-functional by the e-dampers is not stopping them from messing around anyway. Except, in some ways this is even worse. Normally, hashtagging is just a stupid online thing. It raises the popularity of a keyword phrase transmitted by a bunch of people and gets it trending across the various social networks, for various reasons, mostly stupid harmless ones. But it can be used as a personal assault bomb—in order to devastate some poor victim of the online mass attack. Since it is a known bully tactic, hashtagging is strictly forbidden in school, even though it happens all the time anyway, being the latest hot teen trend. But this—this “pretend hashtagging” done verbally in the person’s hearing is especially devastating.
Because I see Blayne Dubois just a few feet away, paused near the wall. He is staring straight ahead, and not moving. His wheelchair is blocked by the extended legs and feet of four guys who have cleverly positioned themselves to surround him. Their feet are stretched, sticking out, or otherwise dangling off furniture just so that he cannot maneuver past them.
I pause, freezing up completely, as fear renders me useless for about ten seconds.
And then something crazy happens. I turn and walk toward Blayne in his wheelchair. It’s as if I have nothing to lose. Claudia’s been staring at me for all these long seconds anyway, so screw everything. I move past everybody’s legs sticking out, bumping them casually while saying, “Sorry, oops, sorry. . . .”
“Hey,” I say, stopping next to Blayne, as if we know each other well and he’s expecting me. “Sorry it took me so long, let’s go in to eat.” I take hold of the back of his wheelchair, and before Blayne even opens his mouth, I start pushing him through the people’s feet-and-legs barricade, while everyone kind of goes really quiet and stares at me, stunned.
“What the f—” A boy cusses at me as the wheelchair hits his leg.
“Watch it, bitch!” says another guy. “Who says you can walk here?”
But I keep going. Blayne only turns his head and looks at me, but smartly says nothing. I think he’s kind of stunned too.
We roll several feet past the lounge area, and then we’re less conspicuous, since there’s people traffic here as most everyone is heading to the cafeteria.
“Okay, why the hell did you do that?” he says, putting his arm down hard to stop the wheels from moving, and we are paused near the cafeteria entrance. Teens are jostling past us, and the smell of fries and cooked burger is overpowering.
“I thought you were . . . well, stuck, and needed a reason to get away.” I let go of the wheelchair and look at him, attempting a friendly expression, but managing only slightly sour.
“Seriously?” He cranes his neck to the side to better look at me. His hair falls from his forehead and eyes, and I see he is furious.
I am kind of amazed, and this time I am getting ticked off too.
“I told you before,” he says, “I don’t need your help. What part of ‘I don’t need your help’ did you not understand? Are you an idiot?”
“Jeez, thanks a lot. . . .” I start to say something awful, then bite my lip. “Look, I just got you out of a crappy situation that was about to get ugly. The least you can do is say thanks!”
But Blayne continues to look at me as if I am the one who’d just cornered him and called him a waste of space. “You really are stupid,” he says. “If you think they were going to do anything. It’s just words. And words don’t hurt me. And they know better than to do anything that could compromise their place here, their precious chances to Qualify.”
“It sure didn’t look like that to me. Trust me, I personally know how it is, how these a-holes operate. Things can deteriorate—just like that. And no one would notice, not even with all the security cameras. . . . Oh yeah, and thanks for calling me stupid, so much appreciated.”
“You still don’t get it.” He shakes his head at me with a cold expression. “I had it under control. I know how to deal with it. I’ve been dealing for years. And now you’ve only made it worse.”
“Worse? Worse—how? Okay, I am sorry—sorry if I insulted you somehow,” I say, stumbling on words. “But I just couldn’t watch them do it to you.”
“Here’s what. Before you interfered, they were just bored, just venting. But now, they are pissed. And they’ve noticed both of us. That’s how worse.”
I shrug, and my frown is back. “Okay then. I don’t know what to say. . . .”
Blayne suddenly relaxes his face. He is not exactly smiling, but at least he doesn’t look like he is
going to lash out and scorch me. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said,” he mutters.
I let out a breath. I should be pissed at him, and in some small way I still am. But I also suddenly understand. And somehow that makes it okay.
My gaze falls down momentarily at his legs. They are thin, stick-like, encased in blue jeans. His feet, looking oversized in comparison, in white tube-socks that are folded neatly around his ankles, are stuck in a useless pair of sneakers. It occurs to me that his sneakers are so pristine, so clean.
“Since we’re here,” he continues, “I’m going in, to eat.”
And Blayne starts rolling his wheelchair through the cafeteria entrance.
I follow him.
I watch Blayne collect a tray and start putting stuff on it with skill born of practice. A plate with a burger, some fries, coleslaw, a dish of orange jello. He is balancing the tray on his lap and pouring a glass of milk from the dispenser and I don’t dare help him. As I get my own plate, and ask the server for extra fries, I see Laronda. She’s carrying an overloaded tray and motioning with her head at me toward an empty table.
“Hey, Gwen! Over here, girlfriend!”
I turn and see Blayne has disappeared. A quick scan of the busy room reveals him at a distant table near the wall, alone. His wheelchair is positioned so that his back is turned to the rest of the hall.
“Gwen! Wake up! You coming?” Laronda’s making googly eyes.
“Why don’t we go sit over there?” I say, and carry my tray to Blayne’s table.
Laronda’s right behind me.
“Hey,” she says, as we stop near Blayne and his wheelchair. “Who’s your friend?”
Blayne reacts by tightening his shoulders and staring at me. The half-eaten burger is suspended in his hands, and his mouth is full, so I simply put my tray down next to his, and pull up a chair.
I realize I’m acting a little crazy-weird even for me. Why am I doing this? He’s clearly not interested in human contact. And normally, neither am I.
Blayne continues chewing and stares in fascination as Laronda plunks down her tray, making dishes and plasticware rattle, and sits down on the other side of him. “Hi, I’m Laronda.”
He finally swallows, looks at her once then completely ignores her, and gives me a sideways glance. “Did I say you could sit here? No? What makes you think I want to—”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to eat alone,” I mumble.
“Then don’t. There’s another empty table over there. Or that one, with people on it.” He points with the hand that’s holding the burger, and takes another bite. He’s no longer looking at us but at his plate.
“Hey, hey! Hold your seahorses!” Laronda opens her mouth and puts her hand palm down. “We just want to eat lunch, okay? Not date you. Gwen, how come we’re sitting with this guy? I thought he was your friend or something.”
“He’s definitely something,” I say, while my cheeks are turning red in angry embarrassment.
And then I glance at Blayne and he is silent, hunched over, and something about him twists me on the inside. I see the yellow token on the front of his shirt, lit up brightly, as a strange reminder of everything, of this impossible situation we are all in.
“Look,” I say. “I completely understand you want to be alone, but it’s probably better you’re not, at least not right now. Those—those mean people out there, they could come in here any moment and bother you again and do something bad.”
“So?” Blayne tips his glass to wash down the burger. “Big bad meanies are gonna get me. What’s it to you? Why are you talking to me like a three-year-old?”
“I’m not—I mean, sorry. It’s nothing. Nothing, I guess, but—” He’s got a point. Why am I talking like that? What’s wrong with me?
“Okay, what’s going on?” Laronda says, starting her own lunch, jello-first. “Big bad who?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I glance at Laronda. And then I continue to Blayne. “Sorry—and I—I’m not sure. It kind of really upsets me, I guess. No—I don’t just guess, I am pretty certain it upsets me. Really sorry for being annoying and possibly weird. I’m not stalking you or anything. I mean, I don’t even know you.”
“Okay.” Blayne is done eating the burger and his fingers are drumming on the table. He looks at me, and his expression is direct and sarcastic. “So what do you want? My irresistible self? My four-wheel drive wheelchair?”
“Jeez, you some kind of jerk . . .” Laronda mutters with a mouth full of jello and frowns at him.
“He’s not!” I say quickly, turning to her, then back to Blayne. “It’s not you, it’s them. They’re the jerks.”
“Thanks.” Blayne is watching me expectantly. “So, answer the question.”
“What I want? I guess I want to make sure you’re going to be okay, at least short-term—at least before that asteroid hits Earth. So let’s just start over, please.” I meet the gaze of his very blue eyes. ”Hi, my name is Gwen Lark. I go to school in Northern Vermont, snow country. I’m guessing you do too. Nice to meet you.”
Not sure what’s happened, but a few minutes later we’re all still talking, and Blayne is no longer trying to get rid of me—at least not actively—although he still has a closed-off expression. Laronda has taken it in stride and just as quickly seems to have forgotten the initial person-to-person weirdness. Now she is complaining loudly about her Atlantis Combat class that she just had before lunch, and for once both Blayne and I are interested in hearing this.
“Okay, I have no clue why we need to learn their fighting stuff. Like, are we expected to enlist in some kind of Atlantis army, or what? Do they have street fighting there? Space gangs? Anyway, first there was all this funky rope and netting stuff. I can’t even begin to describe—well, then they made us line up and throw these martial arts punches! Whoa! Whoa!” Laronda makes a wild slash motion with one hand and then a dance move with the other. “Okay, no, actually they didn’t, but it was something called forms, and it wasn’t exactly punches, but what do I know, right? I have no idea what it was, but it was c-raaazy! Like real Kung Fu or Karate, kick-boxing stuff you only see in those action movies! I mean, girlfriend, I can’t do that! Mama help me, I almost had my eye poked out by this one guy who was supposed to be my partner. He did this coo-coo twirly thing, and I did that—” She again motions with one hand and then the other, and almost knocks over her glass.
“Did you say rope? Martial arts? Wow. Ugh. I have that class last today,” I say while a new pang twists my stomach. “So, Combat is going to suck. Though I can’t imagine it’s any worse than Agility.” I explain to Laronda what happened in our first class. “Blayne and I both had it first thing. At least he got to use the hoverboard while I died and went to gym hell.”
“I actually like the hoverboard,” he says softly. “It makes me feel like I can get around for once. Kind of evens the playing field.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lean my head to the side, watching him.
Blayne glances sideways at me then looks away and fiddles with the plastic spoon on his empty plate.
“I wouldn’t mind having a hoverboard instead of this stupid wheelchair,” he says. “Then I wouldn’t need disabled access. I could just fly around on it, upstairs or anywhere I like. It’s amazing.”
“You could take it to the bathroom with you,” Laronda jokes.
But he’s all serious. “Yeah, I could.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” I bite my lip thoughtfully.
“What, a hoverboard in the bathroom?” Laronda snorts, enjoying this.
“No, but he could ask for one. Maybe the Atlanteans would let him borrow one for the duration of this Qualification thing.”
Blayne shakes his head. “I doubt it.”
“You should ask them, at least.”
But he only shrugs.
At the same time a claxon alarm sounds, and suddenly everyone in the cafeteria is getting up. It’s five minutes till our 1:00 PM classes.
&nbs
p; “See you later, Blayne. . . .” I pick up my tray.
“Yeah, good luck in crappy Combat, hope they give you a hoverboard,” Laronda tells him, since it’s his next class.
He gathers his tray with one hand and mutters a short and sardonic “Yeah, sure, whatever. . . . Bye.”
Then the two of us head to our mutual Atlantis Culture class up on the fourth floor.
As we’re walking up the stairs, Laronda says, “Well, this Blayne guy’s a piece of work. But I like him.”
I smile slightly. “I do too. Don’t know why, though. He’s got an attitude.”
“Well yeah, wouldn’t you? Poor guy’s stuck in a wheelchair. Do you know what’s wrong with his legs?”
“No. . . .”
“You gonna ask him about it?”
“Probably not. It’s kind of rude, at this point.”
“Too bad. Well, maybe I’ll ask him—later, eventually, don’t worry. He’s kind of cute. In a pitiful puppy sort of way.” Laronda waves her hand and casually slaps the stairwell banister.
“Pitiful? I don’t know about that. Asocial, maybe, but I wouldn’t call him pitiful. I don’t think he is at all. I think—”
“He could be kind of hot, if he moved all that hair out of his face, so you could see his eyes.” She winks at me. And then she remembers. “Hey! So have you seen your hunky Logan yet? What’s the name, Logan Sangre?”
“Not today.” We turn onto the fourth floor landing, both already out of breath, and my heart skips an additional beat at the thought of Logan Sangre. “He’s probably in his own dorm, Number One, I think. He’s in the Red Quadrant, like my sister Gracie.”
“Same dorm?”
“I wish. No, she’s in Five. I’m going over to see her tonight after dinner—that is, if I survive two more classes.” I laugh bitterly.
We go down the long, now familiar fourth floor hall, in search of Room 9.
Chapter 8
The room where they are going to teach us Atlantis Culture is blessedly just a regular classroom with desks and a whiteboard up in front. The Instructor’s desk is yet unoccupied and mostly empty of gadgets. However, there are, what appear to be, several very old looking books and long cylinders that may or may not be real ancient scrolls. The classics and history professor’s daughter in me is starting to geek out at the possibility.
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 11