Guy in Real Life

by Steve Brezenoff

  “Saved you a seat,” says Reggie, patting the folding chair beside him. The three of them are at the table already, and the screen is up and the dice are out, and metal figurines stand boldly on the empty middle of the table, between short, fat, flickering candles.

  “Get the light,” Roan adds. She does a seat hop—I can’t remember when she’s ever sat still—and nods at me. The light switch is next to my shoulder, so I hit it and go downstairs.

  As I sit next to Reggie, right across from Svetlana, I try a smile. It doesn’t quite take, but I say, “Hi.” She smiles back, and she’s a lot better at it.

  “Okay,” she says, and she does a two handed ear-hair tuck. “We’re going to have to start from scratch.”

  “Again,” says Reggie, and he winks at me.

  “Again,” Svetlana allows, “and I don’t mind at all. I’ve tweaked the campaign a tiny bit, and Lesh, let’s get you set up to take over as a fighter for our deceased companion.”

  “Deceased?” I say.

  Roan and Reggie close their eyes and hold hands. They look down, like they’re praying. “Poor Abey,” says Roan, shaking her head. The frizzy collection of hair bounces and wiggles.

  “I heard they found him on his back in the woods with a pair of daggers in his chest,” says Reggie.

  Svetlana leans forward and whispers, “In the suburbs.” She winks. They’re kidding.

  “I’m going to take that as a warning,” I say. “Don’t cross the Gaming Club.”

  “Again,” Svetlana mouths at me. She hasn’t told these two about what happened, and I can hardly bear to have such faith from this girl. “So, where were we? Rolling a new PC for the miscreant?”

  “Right,” I say, pulling my chair in. I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out a little wooden box and pop off its cover, dump a set of dice onto the table. “I’m ready.”

  “Hey, look who finally got a set,” Reggie says, and I don’t know if he intended the double meaning, but I’m hearing it, and it’s fair enough.

  So I roll a PC—a big, tough human who can stand at the front and take the brunt of damage while my companions Meridel and Ambient tear our opponents to shreds and keep me alive. My PC is a warrior, clad in heavy armor and wielding a shield and sword. When we’re done filling in the stats, Svetlana grins over the top of her screen.

  “Everyone ready?” Her finger is poised over her iPod’s play button.

  We nod. Her finger drops.

  And then …

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  …………………………………………………………

  CHAPTER 56

  SVETLANA ALLEGHENY

 

  It’s before sunrise in the weird little village at the base of Frozen Flame Mountain in the far north. You, MAEVE, stand in the doorway of the Sword and the Moth and scan the big, dark room. A human girl and a robed elf—obviously a wizard—are seated in a booth along the wall farthest from the door, out of the flickering orange light of the potbelly stove in the center of the room. It’s a slow night—or morning, actually—at the inn. The few customers still there, who haven’t found a bed to sleep in or a hole to crawl into, are slumped across the tops of their tables or necking in the corners of the room. The barkeep is dozing himself in a high-backed chair behind the bar. The girl and wizard are awake, though, and she is counting glittering coins on the table in front of her. She takes a big swig of her ale and catches you checking her out. She nods toward you, and the wizard turns to see.

  They both stand. It’s clear now that the girl, clad in leather and with a dagger sheath on each hip, is a thief. Your right hand goes instinctively to the leather pouch on your belt, Maeve, but there isn’t much there to protect. You haven’t found work in days, and if this village doesn’t provide some, you’ll go hungry before too long.

  The thief and wizard move toward you. When they’re close, the wizard raises one hand in a show of peace. “We are not your enemies,” he says.

  “Not yet,” you say back. It’s nearly a whisper, giving you a threatening and mysterious air. The thief smiles. The wizard does not.

  “I can see you’re a powerful warrior,” he says, “and we are in need of protection.”

  You scan both their faces for any sign of ill will. Finding none, you nod. “Go on.”

  The wizard goes on to tell you of their quest, and of their fallen companion, who died in a way so gruesome and painful and humiliating that I shall not repeat it here.

  “Does it pay?” you ask.

  The thief snickers and turns around.

  “There will be treasure and loot along the way,” the wizard explains. “As to your portion of the booty, you’ll have to deal with Meridel about that. I only seek the completion of my quest for the good of all creatures.”

  You squint at the thief, and she looks back and shrugs. “We’ll work something out,” she says. “If you’re good protection, you’ll make a fortune. Deal?”

  “Deal,” you say, and you put out your hand to shake. They both accept. “What’s your name?” you ask the wizard.

  “I am Ambient,” he says, and he pulls up his hood. “The sun will be up soon. We should get started.”

  “Don’t you want to know my name?” you say, but the wizard slides past you, through the inn’s door, and into the street.

  “Don’t worry,” says the thief, clapping your shoulder. “He already knows.”

  “Maeve?” Reggie says. “You know that’s a girl’s name?”

  Lesh glances at me an instant, and then back at Reggie. “Yeah,” he says. “My warrior is a woman.”

  Roan shifts in her seat, changing her booster foot from right to left. “I rolled a male PC in our last campaign,” she says, looking down at her character sheet. Then she looks up at me. “Remember that, Svet? He was hot.”

  “He was,” I admit, and Reggie nods vigorously.

  “What about you, Maeve?” Roan says. She leans far across the table on her elbows and knees. “Are you hot?”

  Lesh smiles. In better light, we’d probably see his face go red. “Of course,” he says.

  “Of course,” Reggie mocks, and as Roan slips backward into her chair, the draft blows out the candles in the middle of the table. Reggie runs for the light switch, and when he does: pop! The fuse blows.

  Reggie opens the door to the kitchen. “Sorry, Ms. G!” he calls out.

  “I’m making microwave popcorn,” she shouts back. “Or I was.”

  “Hand me a flashlight,” Roan calls up, and she hurries to the top of the steps and grabs it from her mom through the slightly open door. Then she hurries to the fuse box.

  “Popcorn. Now I’m hungry,” Reggie says. “Are there snacks? Because we should probably have snacks.”

  “I skipped dinner,” Lesh says. He’s found the lighter and sparked one of the big candles. “I’m that committed to this club.” His face is lit only slightly. The flickering candlelight sends shadows like moths under his chin and across his cheeks. When he blinks, his eyelashes are long-legged spiders.

  “How noble,” I say.

  Roan is still at the box. “I’m going to make pizza rolls,” she says. “I have it all planned.”

  “And I,” says Reggie, getting to his feet, “am going to help.”

  They hurry up the steps, not even hitting the light switch on the way up. “Guys!” I call after them, because I know their mischievous little brains. I didn’t give them details about that night at the shop, and no one knows about Lesh’s note, but anyone could sense there’s something going on. Still, I’m not ready for another try with Lesh, and I’m sure he’s not either. I get up from the table and feel my way through the dark to the ratty old couch. Still, maybe he and I can talk. It’ll be easier to say whatever we have to say with the lights off.

  “Sorry,” I say once I’ve sat down. “They think they’re cute.”

  “They are kinda,” he says. The feet
of his chair rub on the flattened carpet as he gets up. He blows out the candle before approaching, and I’m glad.

  “Sit here,” I say into the darkness. I find the throw on the arm beside me—it’s musty and old and smells like a Garnet and my youth and generally like brown and red. Maybe in the dark, colors and smells are kind of the same thing.

  As I’m covering up, the couch gives on my left. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He’s running a hand through his hair. He’s cracking his knuckles. I only know for sure about the last one, but I can guess the rest. I didn’t realize how much time we’d spent together. I didn’t think I’d miss him. I didn’t think I’d want to find him in the dark. But I do, and he’s here, and I have to think of something to say.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  …………………………………………………………

  CHAPTER 57

  LESH TUNGSTEN

 

  “You never gave me an answer,” she says. She’s right next to me and holding out the corner of her blanket to me, and she’s whispering, I guess so Roan and Reggie won’t hear us—won’t know we’re huddled together against the dark and the cold under a musty blanket on this decrepit couch. “About me, I mean.”

  “About what I want?”

  She nods. I know even though I can’t see her, by the way the air moves between us, and the change in her breathing, and the brush of her hair—a few escaped strands at her forehead or temple kiss my cheek like butterflies.

  “Because I still don’t know,” I say.

  She shifts a little, moves away the tiniest bit on the couch. There’s a draft on my neck I hadn’t felt a moment ago.

  “None of it’s true, you know,” she says. “That stuff about women and men.”

  “Seems true to me,” I say, and she kind of grunts, slaps the pillow of the couch. “What?”

  “Then fine,” she says, all kinds of grumpy. “Then be a woman. Who cares?”

  This is not where I expected this conversation to go. I can hear Roan and Reggie’s feet on the floor over my head. They’re in the kitchen, I guess, and through the floor we can sometimes hear them laugh or talk, when their voices get a bit louder and animated.

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  “Sure,” she says, and she’s standing. I’m not sure when she got up, but she’s moved across the room a bit.

  “Don’t turn the light on yet,” I say.

  `“I don’t want to be a woman,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to, you know, wear a dress and grow breasts and all that.”

  “So what do you want?” She’s standing in front of the couch now, facing me. Being blind feels good. I’m feeling connected to her now, connected to the air in the room and the breath in her lungs. Every inch of my skin seems to be reaching out, grasping for stimuli in the space around me and between us. It’s late, and my tiredness is getting the better of me. While we’re silent, the music changes, and in a moment a familiar tympani roll appears. In this darkness, with my new blind vision, it is a new experience. Svetlana isn’t conducting. It’s just our bodies in the dark space of the basement, the calling horns, the pounding drums, the mournful strings, and the heavy feet of the condemned man climbing the scaffold to his death.

  “Lesh?” she says. I’ve been silent too long.

  “I’m just listening,” I say, and it comes out in a whisper.

  She sits next to me, right up against me, and leans on my shoulder. “Me too.”

  As the horns finish their second fanfare, I see more clearly than I have before, so I start talking. It’s less than a whisper; I can hardly be sure I’m talking out loud. I can’t be sure that she hears me. But maybe it doesn’t matter. I have to say it.

  “I just want grace. I want passion and heart and beauty and a sense of connection to the world. I also want to feel your breath on my neck like I can right now, and the heat coming off your hands and leg. I want to walk down the halls of the high school and instead of feeling nearly crushed by the bricks and tiles and masses of other bodies, pressing against me, pushing me deeper into myself, I want to smash the walls and people away so I can breathe under a wide-open sky, with grass under my feet and the sun on my hair, and when I imagine that—when I sit here in the dark where I can see everything and imagine myself doing that—you’re with me, and you’re smiling, and I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

  When the oboe cries and the snare rolls, followed by the bouncing head down the scaffold steps, I’m sad only that it’s such a short piece. The basement door flies open, and the lights flash on. Svetlana jumps to her feet, and her eyes are red and she’s smiling down at me.

  Roan calls down the steps, “Pizza rolls!”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  …………………………………………………………

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks first and foremost to Beth and Sam. I could not and would not do a thing worth doing without you two.

  Thanks to Edward, for sticking with me through some weird-ass books. Thanks also to Jordan, who helped shape this particular weirdness into the best book it could be.

  Thank you to my family all over the country, blood and otherwise: my mother and her ilk back east; my brother and his brood out west; and my in-laws here in the middle. You’ve all always been nothing but supportive and have also given of yourselves in the form of free babysitting.

  The Minnesota children’s and YA literature scene is not to be believed. It’s huge, for one thing, and its people are impossibly supportive of one another. Thanks, then, to the entire MN KidLit crew, and to the Loft for existing, and in particular to the Black Sheep—Jeremy Anderson, Kelly Barnhill, Jodi Chromey, Karlyn Coleman, Christopher Lincoln, and Kurtis Scaletta—for everything, to Anne Ursu for talking me up, and to Pete Hautman for not giving me a hard time about the head-bonk thing. Jaclyn Dolamore is a writer not from Minnesota, but her sketches and notes from her days creating RPGs were invaluable; thanks to her as well.

  Thanks also to local dungeon master Anthony Strafaccia for letting me observe, and to the brave adventurers on his campaign: Marc Carey, Nicholas Henkes, Erik Hoskins, Abigail Kooiker, and Stu Wester. It was educational and thoroughly entertaining every time.

  I wouldn’t have gotten a good peek inside Central High School in Saint Paul without the help of teacher Andrew Andestic, and I wouldn’t have had any deep insight into cafeteria and hallway idiosyncrasies without some help from his students; thanks to them.

  What Dwells Within was a real band from Omaha, Nebraska, and they were gracious enough to let me use their band name and a few song titles herein. They’ve since changed their name to A Sound in Sight and can be found at www.asisofficial.com. They kick ass. I’d be remiss also if I didn’t mention Laurine from Green at Heart Rugs Etsy shop, who created the rug that sits on my office floor and in the middle of Svetlana’s bedroom.

  I must acknowledge the Dark Clouds, a very real and very excellent group of pro soccer supporters here in Minnesota, and Minnesota United FC, our professional soccer team. (They used to be known as the Stars, and before that, yes, the Thunder.) If you’re in the neighborhood, get out to a game and sit in the east stands.

  Finally, though I haven’t seen Sooz in a very long time, I know she’d like to send her thanks to guildies Antosiak, Kenisfis, and Vigilannie.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  …………………………………………………………

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEVE BREZENOFF is the author of The Absolute Value of –1, which won the IPPY Gold Medal for young adult fiction, and Brooklyn, Burning, which was a Best Fiction for Young Adults selection by the American Library Association. Steve lives in Minneapolis with his wife, Beth, and their son, Sam. His main is a Blood Elf monk, but he’s been
known to run a Night Elf priest from time to time. You can visit him online at www.stevebrezenoff.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors and artists.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  …………………………………………………………

  COPYRIGHT

  Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  GUY IN REAL LIFE. Copyright © 2014 by Steve Brezenoff. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  www.epicreads.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brezenoff, Steven.

  Guy in real life / Steve Brezenoff. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: “The lives of two Minnesota teenagers are intertwined through the world of role-playing games”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-06226683-5 (hardcover bdg.)

  EPub Edition October 2013 ISBN 9780062266835

  [1. Love—Fiction. 2. Video games—Fiction. 3. Fantasy games—Fiction. 4. Role playing—Fiction. 5. Minnesota—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B7576Gu 2014 2013021584

  [Fic]—dc23 CIP

  AC

  14 15 16 17 18 XXXXX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FIRST EDITION

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER