by Ken Brosky
We were standing in the little tunnel that led out to the arena, with Mr. Whitmann pacing at the front. He was wearing blue sweat pants and a red-and-white collar t-shirt, just the kind of thing to embarrass all of us. The boys were bouncing around, no doubt pumped-up by the Jump they’d taken earlier in the morning. Jasmine and Margaret and Rachel kept anxiously glancing back toward the locker rooms, as if they were ready to run.
The only person who looked calm and collected was Chase. My dude. He had his forearm crutches—the prince’s gift—sitting in the little black backpack slung over the back of his wheelchair. He was staring ahead to the end of the tunnel, where we could see France’s team of boys and girls lining up to greet the judges.
“Freaking out,” Margaret said, hopping from foot to foot. “Totally freeeeeeeeaking out.”
“Oh I’m ready,” Adam said. His hands tightened into fists. “We’re gonna pummel them.”
“Crack skulls,” Scott added.
“No prisoners,” Miguel said, high-fiving the other boys.
Rachel turned to me, her face more pale than usual. “I’d settle for a draw.”
Bass-heavy music began blaring through the speakers in the arena, echoing through the tunnel like a frantic heartbeat. The Romanian announcer said something that ended with the words “United States.”
“This is us,” Mr. Whitmann said, wide-eyed. “Remember the plan! Boys announced first, then the girls! Take your time strutting your stuff! We’re kings and queens! We’re the best of the best!”
“Oh, he’s gone nuts,” Jasmine whispered as Mr. Whitmann led the boys up the tunnel.
Chase reached into his pocket, pulled out a few pieces of peppermint gum. “Gather up,” he ordered us. We got close to him. He handed out a piece of gum. “Start chewing. It keeps your nerves at bay. It makes you look tough, too.”
“Thanks, Chase,” Jasmine said. “You’re sweet. And overly optimistic. Is anyone else sweating? I’m sweating here.”
“I’ve got the sweats,” Rachel said. “My armpits feel like a swamp right now.”
Chase laughed. “You’re nervous, and guess what? It’s natural. Just take deep breaths and walk slowly up the tunnel. Whatever’s out there … we’re going to be ready.”
“Do you really believe that, Chase?” Margaret asked. “Like, for reals?”
Chase nodded. I felt a flutter in my heart, seeing his confidence. “We’re going to leave this tournament with our heads held high. I promise you that.” The bass music picked up. “OK,” he said, wheeling beside us. “Let’s go.”
We walked to the end of the tunnel, entering the arena. My eyes adjusted to the bright lights hanging overhead. It was hard to see the crowd in the stands, but we could hear them well enough. There were thousands of people. Thousands!
Jasmine’s hand clutched my shoulder. “O. M. G.”
“It’s like the NBA Playoffs,” Rachel said in awe.
There were six blue fencing mats in the center of the arena, each one with its own table of judges and its own referee. Hanging above were the scoreboards, each one showing two zeroes in bright green letters. Already, Margaret’s name was above one of the zeroes.
“I guess I’m going first,” she murmured. “Whoopie.”
“Confidence,” Chase urged. He wheeled beside us as we were led around two of the long scoring tables, toward the bleachers that were painted yellow. The first four rows were reserved for the teams, but in the fifth row I could clearly see Seth and his special lady and Mrs. Satrapi. They all waved wildly when they saw us approach.
“This is the coolest thing ever,” Seth said, leaning over Sanda so he could high-five Chase.
Sanda pushed him off her, laughing. “I must say, I cannot recall being this excited before.”
“Except when she smooches me,” Seth added, dodging her mock-blow.
“Awwwwww,” Jasmine cooed, grinning. “You two are so cute. Can you do me a favor and look away when I’m fencing? I don’t want to ruin this moment.”
“She’s kidding,” Chase said. “She’s going to do great.”
“Margaret!” Mr. Whitmann called out.
“I’m right here,” she said. “Don’t shout, you big doofus! I’m nervous enough.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the front of the bleachers. From above, super-hyper dance music started blaring. Some people in the crowd knew the song well enough to start singing along in whatever European language it was in. A few white spotlights flashed over the mats. A calming numbness ran through my body, as if I was on the verge of fighting a Corrupted.
I hope Margaret’s feeling this, too.
The first fencers took their positions.
“I’ll be back,” Chase said, giving my hand a quick squeeze. He wheeled behind Mr. Whitmann and Margaret, following them to the nearest mat in front of the yellow bleachers. I watched Margaret grab one of the dozen or so masks sitting on a rack beside the judges’ table. Then she moved to the rack holding the foils, alternating between two until finally Mr. Whitmann made her decide by gently shoving her toward the mat.
“This is serious,” Sanda said. “There are people from all over the world here. I have never seen such excitement!”
“Is daddy here?” I asked, immediately regretting my choice of words. She’s not your enemy, Alice. In fact, she could be your ally if you play your cards right …
Sanda didn’t seem to take any offense. “He is in his private luxury box with other important people from town. I had to throw a tantrum to avoid being stuck there with him.”
“It was epic,” Seth said with a big, dumb smile. “Alligator tears and all.”
“Crocodile tears,” she said, squeezing his cheeks. “Fake tears are called crocodile tears.”
“Right,” he said. Sanda hadn’t stopped squeezing so his lips were bunched together like a fish’s.
“Darling, do you need anything,” Mrs. Satrapi asked Jasmine, reaching down and rubbing her shoulder.
“Uh, how about a horse tranquilizer?” Jasmine asked, staring up at the massive scoreboards.
“How about some lemonade?” Mrs. Satrapi offered. “You love lemonade when you’re scared.”
“Maaaaaaa!” Jasmine moaned.
Sanda let go of Seth’s cheeks. “I will come with you, Mrs. Satrapi. I will get us frites and soda.”
“With lots of ketchup!” Seth called after her. She sidled through the row of spectators—mostly France’s fans, judging by the colors of their shirts—and gave a wave as she walked up the stairs. Seth turned to me. “Frites are like French fries.”
“We’re aware,” Jasmine said.
Seth ignored her, turning to me. His face grew serious. More serious than I’d seen his face in a long, long time. “I’m never leaving. I’m moving here.”
“You’re crazy,” I told him.
“He’s in love,” Jasmine said. “Uh, by the way, you’re missing the fencing.”
I turned around just as a roar of approval erupted from the stands on the other side of the arena. All six fencing matches taking place were foil matches, with three pairs of girls and three pairs of boys. Margaret was losing 6-3 against her opponent from Germany. On the screen above next to the score, the last point was repeated in slow motion: Margaret coming in for a thrust at her opponent’s midsection, her opponent parrying and counter-riposting, and then the tip of the foil slipping past Margaret’s wobbly blade.
“What if I didn’t come back?” Seth asked over my shoulder.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching out my sore left leg on the empty seat in front of me. “I don’t think Grayle would send another jet for you.”
“Yeah, but what if I just stayed here for a year or something? I could be a foreign exchange student thingy. We have those, right?”
“You don’t know Romanian!”
“Well, how hard is it?!” he asked, his anxious hot breath bouncing off the back of my neck.
I leaned forward, focusing
on the match. “You’re not staying here. Don’t be insane.”
“Look, what’s for me back in the states? A whole bunch of drama and one more semester of high school. But here I’ve got someone I care about.”
“What if it’s just an infatuation?” I asked. “What if you both decide a month from now that it’s not going to work out? Then you’re stuck in Romania!”
“Well, maybe I could get a job making shoes or something, I don’t know. Like that guy in your fairy tale book. The cobbler who had help from elves.”
“OK first off, you’re not a cobbler. And B, please don’t remind me about Grimms’ Fairy Tales. And three, there are other things to consider about staying in that castle, hint, hint.”
“Yeah, like spiders,” Jasmine said.
Margaret stepped back, parrying three successive attacks all aimed at her chest. She closed in, using her feistiness to press hard on the attack. Her opponent, stepping back, was too slow to parry every blow. Point for Margaret—we all cheered. But she was still down five points.
And running out of gas. I could see it just by the way her chest rose and fell between points. She took a little extra time after getting stabbed hard in the stomach, using one hand to bend the blade of her foil back into a straighter position. A good stab could bend the blade a bit … but Margaret wasn’t exactly getting in any “good” stabs. “Lucky” would be a better way to describe it.
“What the heck is this?” Seth asked. I turned around. Sanda was back with a little bowl of French fries. Along with a healthy slathering of ketchup, there was a neon yellow cheese as well.
“Just try it,” she told him, dipping a fry in both ketchup and cheese. “You will like it.”
“Psh,” he said, opening his mouth for the fry. “I’m very picky …” She shoved the fry in his mouth. He chewed a few times. The frown disappeared. His eyes widened. “That’s delicious. It’s like cheesy, but with ketchup. Why didn’t I ever think of this?”
“Because you are too picky,” Sanda said with a satisfied nod.
“I love you,” he told her.
Jasmine turned, wrinkling her nose. I felt my muscles tense. Of course it was only a matter of time before Seth put his foot in his mouth. It’s always just a matter of time …
Sanda giggled, feeding him another fry. “Eat up, darling.”
Jasmine turned to me, one sharp black eyebrow raised. I shrugged. Apparently, Sanda was immune to Seth’s goofiness. Or—dear gawd—she actually found it cute.
“Here, darling,” Mrs. Satrapi said, handing a little cup of lemonade to her daughter. “Don’t drink too fast or you’ll get hiccups.”
“Thank you, mother,” Jasmine said, taking the cup and glancing at the boys on our team to make sure they hadn’t heard. They had, judging by their animated smiles.
Seth grabbed Sanda’s hands, smearing a little ketchup-and-cheese on her beautiful skin. “Sanda, before I met you, I used to think the coolest thing in the world would be to head-bang a nail into a block of wood while listening to Metallica. Now, I know I was wrong. Hanging out with you is the coolest thing in the world.”
Sanda’s eyes grew glassy. She cocked her head, fawning. “You are such a sweetie.”
“Maybe he should stay,” Jasmine said.
Margaret returned with Chase. Her shoulders were slumped, her sweaty hair clinging to her forehead. “Did you see?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”
“It did and it was good,” Chase said.
Margaret turned to him. “You weren’t even watching half the time! You were watching the other matches!”
Chase rolled his eyes and looked up at the rafters. “I love how no one trusts me! As if I’m not invested in this or something.” He gave me a nod. “You’re up, Alice. Please at least pretend I’m on your side.”
“You’re always on my side,” I told him, hopping off my seat.
“Best of luck!” Sanda called out. I gave her and Seth a wave.
To my surprise, I was scheduled right in front of the yellow bleachers, too. Half the judges were women with tanned skin and black hair pulled back in tight buns. The men were older, feverishly pointing to something on their scoring sheets and ignoring me as I passed by. I shook the referee’s hand and walked over to the helmets, picking one slightly larger than the one Margaret had chosen. I grabbed a saber from the next rack, holding out the blade and examining it.
A little heavy. Straight blade. Good grip, but not quite the same as the ones we’d practiced with. Not as balanced as the ones I usually drew to wipe the floor with Corrupted, but it would have to do.
“Pardon.”
I stepped aside. My opponent—one of the tall blondes from Austria—grabbed the biggest mask and swiped the first saber she saw. She was a good head taller than me, with broad shoulders and short hair that didn’t need to be adjusted before she could put on her mask. She held out the blade and I nearly gasped. She had a reach. Like, seriously long arms.
“How am I supposed to swipe at her?” I asked Chase. “She can just step back and swing at me.”
“So aim for her arms,” Chase said.
I blinked. Above, the music kicked in again to announce the start of the next matches. Competitors stepped onto the mats while the white spotlights danced around the arena. As they passed into the bleachers, I could see the illuminated groups of fans from a dozen different countries standing and cheering and felt a weird electricity course through my bones.
“What’s the problem?” Chase asked. Above us, the music stopped. The spotlights disappeared.
“Uh … that’s actually a good idea. I didn’t think about going for her arms. Duh.” Way to get intimidated, Alice. “So is that what I should do? Go after her arms?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
I followed his gaze to another match, which had just started. My anger flared up. “Are you even paying attention?!”
He nodded absently. “Start. Fight. Your opponent is getting restless.”
I turned back to my mat. The Austrian girl was already in position, one hand on her hip as if urging me to hurry up.
“Thanks for the help,” I muttered, adjusting my fencing jacket before stepping onto the mat. The clanging of steel on steel was the dominant sound of the arena now, intermixed with a few cheers from the bleachers. Someone scored a point and celebrated with a primal scream.
“That must be Italy,” I said, getting into my stance. Across from me, my Austrian opponent did the same. We held our blades out. Once again, I marveled at the girl’s reach. “Don’t get intimidated,” I whispered to myself. “You just killed a giant. That totally happened. And you killed some ghost thingies. This is a human being, just like you.”
“En garde,” the ref said.
I drew in a deep breath.
“Allez!”
My left foot forced me forward before my brain could even decide whether to attack or defend. I swung the blade high, then crossed over her midsection. She parried each blow with the base of her blade and the reverberation made its way up my hilt, numbing my hand. I had to step back, giving her the right of way to attack. She came at me hard, using the length of her arms to minimize my opportunities to counter-riposte. I could only defend, parrying the swings and trying to stay as far away as humanly possible.
Her blade slipped through my defenses, bouncing off my chest plate right next to my sore rib. “Ugh!” I groaned, stepping back. “It had to be right there, didn’t it?” I turned to Chase, hoping he’d seen something. He was still distracted by one of the other matches! “Hey!” I said, giving him an exasperated shrug.
He turned, tapping his arm as if to tell me “Hey, focus on hitting her here.” Then he gave me a thumbs-up.
I stomped the mat angrily, getting back into position and fighting the dull ache in my left leg. The ref shouted “Allez!” and this time I attacked even more sloppily, losing focus and letting my arm carry the blade of the saber in whatever direction my opponent parried
. For a while, it seemed to be working, and openings in her defense appeared. I took a point, then another. She came back with a vengeance, evening out the score and then adding three more points. Her blade came high and strong, and with each parry I felt my hand get just a little number, the vibrations of the blade penetrating my glove. There was no opportunity to react, to get in even a quick swipe. I could feel my ears on fire. Every crash of steel on steel made me angrier. I cursed my opponent under my breath, searching desperately for an opportunity to swing right at her long arms.
The opportunity didn’t come. For me, at least. For her? Yeah, she made a pretty good swipe at the top of my sword arm, grazing my shoulder in the process. And even with the protective jacket, it stung.
I turned to Chase, desperate for help. He was still watching one of the other matches. “Hey!” I shouted. “Earth to Chase! What do I have to do to get some help here?”
“Your sword is bent,” Chase said. “Change it.”
I looked at my saber blade. It was a little bent, but I got the meaning: he wanted me to call time-out. I did so, stepping off the mat and taking off my mask, tossing it on the helmet rack. I threw my saber back onto the rack, knocking two sabers right off their perch. I took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm my nerves. And anger. And frustration. And who knows what else.
Chase wheeled beside me. “Hey.”
I didn’t say anything.
“This isn’t life or death right now. This is the first round to determine the rankings for the tournament. If you lose, it doesn’t mean anything. You’ll just have to play tomorrow morning against someone who wins today. That’s all.”
“Oh great,” I said. “So I’ll have to face someone even better than this Austrian chick? Wonderful.”
“Listen.” He looked up at me. “The Austrian chick isn’t going make it past the next round. You know why? Because she’s probably going to get paired with Italy or Japan. You’re the one who’s going to get past the next round. But in order to do that, I need to keep an eye on potential opponents.”
I didn’t say anything. My chest rose and fell briskly.