Sandor notices that I’m wearing my running clothes. We agreed to keep a low profile for a while, but I can’t stand another day trapped in here with just the Lecture Hall, video games, and overwatched spy movies to pass the time.
“Going for your run?” he asks.
I grunt a yes, acting casual as I slug back some orange juice from the container.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
I turn to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“Need I remind you that last week you brought home a Mog from the lakefront? Maybe it’s time to change things up.”
I slam the refrigerator door harder than I mean to, rattling our vast assortment of condiments and takeout containers.
“I’m not staying cooped up in here all day,” I state.
“You think I’m not tired of looking at that sour mug of yours twenty-four/seven?” asks Sandor, arching an eyebrow. “Think again.”
He reaches onto the counter and hands me a laminated card.
“I got you this.”
The card is a membership for something called the Windy City Wall. There’s an unsmiling picture of me in the bottom corner of the card next to my most recent alias—Stanley Worthington.
“I thought it might be good for you to get out and meet some people that aren’t Mogadorian scouts. Lately you seem sort of . . .” he trails off, rubbing his beard, not sure how to proceed.
“Thanks,” I reply, and jog out the door before he can finish his thought, eager to escape. Neither of us have ever been much for sappy heart-to-hearts. I’d prefer to keep it that way.
The Windy City Wall is a sprawling rec center about twenty minutes from the John Hancock Center. I probably passed it a hundred times before today, but I’d never once considered going inside. These kinds of places were reserved for humans. And besides, I had plenty of training equipment back home.
After all these years, why had Sandor chosen now to sign me up for something like this? Now I wish that I’d let him finish his thought and tell me what I “seem” like lately.
There’s a smiley tour guide at the front desk who shows me around the center. There are basketball courts, a pool, and a gym that I’m surprised to find is as well-equipped as ours. Besides all that normal YMCA-type stuff, there are also a variety of obstacles courses, with cargo nets and old rubber tires meant to simulate various natural obstructions.
And then, of course, there is the Wall. It’s no wonder the rec center takes its name from it, because it’s absolutely huge, dominating an entire side of the building and rising up some forty feet from floor to ceiling. The rock is fake, and obviously there’s no blue sky in this warehouse-like building, but there’s still something majestic about the Wall. When my tour guide is done rambling, I head straight for it, and take my place in one of the lines, behind a bunch of kids that look just a little older than me.
Above us, a boy that I take for about seventeen is stuck in the middle of the wall, casting around desperately for a handhold. He can’t find one, and after a few seconds of flailing he drops off, his descent slowed by a safety line and cushioned by a pillowy mat.
“Is this your first time?”
I glance over my shoulder. A tall blond-haired boy about my age is smirking at me. I nod.
“Yeah.”
“This is the advanced end. You probably want to start with easy.”
“No, I don’t.”
The blond kid exchanges a look with a shorter kid next to him. The short kid doesn’t look as strong as his buddy, but he’s compact, which should make him a better climber.
“You need a vest,” says the short kid.
I laugh. The idea of me falling off this wall after the training I’ve had is ridiculous. I smile at the short kid, assuming that he’s joking even though both he and his friend are wearing vests.
“I don’t need one of those.”
“Tough guy!” jokes the blond one.
“No, seriously, it’s the rules,” says the other. “Even if you were Sir Edmund Hillary you’d need to wear a vest.”
I stare blankly at the kid. I have no idea who he’s talking about.
“He was the first person to climb Everest,” the short one explains.
“Oh,” I mumble. “The mountain.”
Both boys snicker. “Yeah, the mountain.”
The short kid nudges the tall one. “Why don’t you go get the new kid a vest?”
The tall kid gives me a weird look, then jogs off to an equipment rack. I realize this is one of the longest conversations with human kids I’ve ever had. I wonder how I’m doing.
“I’m Mike,” says the short kid, shaking my hand. “My friend is also Mike.”
“Is everyone in this city named Mike?”
“That’s funny,” says Short Mike, but he doesn’t laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Stanley.” I don’t hesitate, producing my alias easily, as if it’s my real name—just like Sandor’s drilled me to do.
Tall Mike returns and hands me a vest. I pull it over my head and they show me how to adjust the straps.
“So Stanley,” continues Short Mike, practically interrogating me. “Where do you go to school?”
“I’m homeschooled.”
“That explains your sparkling personality,” deadpans Short Mike.
I think he just insulted me.
Before I can respond, I notice her. She’s in the next line over. Maybe sixteen or seventeen, straight black hair, and eyes to match. She’s athletic looking, not like some of the flimsy girls I’ve seen jogging along the lakefront. She’s beautiful and she’s staring at me. How long has she been watching me? Has she been listening to my entire conversation with the Mikes?
When she sees that she has my attention, the girl quickly looks away, her cheeks reddening. I can’t help it; I can’t look away. Eventually she glances back my way and nervously flashes me a tentative smile. I can only blink in response.
Tall Mike waves his hand in front of my face.
“What?” I snap.
“It’s your turn, bro.”
I turn and see the climbing instructor sarcastically tapping his watch. I step forward and he buckles the safety cords to my vest. I’m barely listening as he explains where the best handholds are, my mind too busy trying to figure out why that girl was staring at me. Instinctively, I try to straighten my mess of hair. I don’t know what to think about that girl; on TV, there’s always music that plays when a guy makes eye contact with a pretty girl. I’d kill for some soundtrack now.
I wonder if she likes guys from other planets who can climb walls really fast.
Guess I’ll find out.
The instructor blows a whistle and I leap onto the wall. The start of my ascent is clumsy. I should’ve listened when the instructor explained the handholds. Even so, I quickly find a rhythm and begin swinging my body up the wall.
Is the girl watching? I have the unbearable urge to check.
I glance down. She is. She’s standing right next to the two Mikes, both of them nattering at her. She ignores them, watching me. No. More than watching me. She’s studying me like I’m the most interesting book in the world.
My palms are suddenly slick with sweat.
That’s not good.
I realize too late that I’ve worked myself into the same trouble spot as the first climber I watched. I’m about halfway up the wall, but there is no handhold close enough to reach above me, and backtracking is out of the question.
There’s only one handhold I can see. It’d be out of the reach of a human. With my strength, though, I can probably make it. I’ll have to jump for it.
I hunker down on my footholds, putting as much weight as I can on my knees and hips, before springing upward.
I grab the handhold and my sweaty fingertips scrabble across it.
Then, it is gone. I’m falling. I can’t believe this, I’m falling. Defeated by a human wall and some sweaty palms.
The mat cushions m
y fall. It isn’t my body that’s hurting, it’s my ego. I lay on the mat, not wanting to get up and face the eyes of the rec center.
Her eyes.
Tall Mike peers down at me.
“Guess you did need the vest,” he says with a smirk.
Short Mike helps me off the mat, telling me it was a good first try. I’m barely listening. My eyes sweep the room, looking for the girl.
She’s gone.
Chapter Nine
I keep my head down when leaving the Windy City Wall. I’ve spent pretty much my entire life in anonymity, but even when I’ve been on the run from killer aliens, I’ve never wanted to avoid attention as much as I do now. I know it’s ridiculous—kids must fall off that wall all the time—yet I’m sure that everyone in the gym is secretly laughing at me.
I take the long way back to the John Hancock building and then walk past it. I keep replaying my fall in my head. I imagine seeing myself from that girl’s perspective; flailing, sweaty, legs kicking uselessly at air. I pass the entire day in a daze, beating myself up, and the sun is setting when I finally decide to go home.
Sandor is in the living room when I return home, lounging in a leather recliner with some boring-looking book about advanced engineering in his lap.
“Perfect timing,” he says when I enter, waving his empty martini glass at me.
He doesn’t notice my slumped shoulders as I cross to the room’s fully equipped bar. I pluck Sandor’s empty glass from his hand using my telekinesis. Then I levitate bottles of gin and vermouth, mixing them through ice. The most difficult part is using my telekinesis to get the olives on the little plastic sword.
I can mix a cocktail with my mind, but I can’t climb a damn wall.
When I’m finished, I walk Sandor’s martini over to him and flop down on an adjacent couch. He tastes the drink, smacking his lips.
“Pretty good,” he says. “So, how was it?”
“Fine,” I grunt.
“Just fine? You were there all day.”
I hesitate before telling him more, but I need to confide in someone, and Sandor has way more experience with the humans—with girls—than I do.
“I fell off the wall.”
Sandor chuckles, not looking up from his book. “You? Really?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. I mean, I guess I got distracted.”
“You’ll get it next time.” He shrugs.
“There won’t be a next time.”
I’m silent, one arm draped across my face. Sandor must realize I’m holding back details because he finally closes his book and leans forward.
“What happened?” His voice lowers. “Did the iMog detect something?”
“No.” I pause. “There was a girl.”
“Ohh,” he says, drawing it out. Even with my face covered I can tell he’s grinning. He rubs his hands together. “Was she pretty?”
“She was beautiful,” I say, looking away. “I fell because she—I don’t know. She was, like, watching me. . . .”
“Checking you out. Giving you the eye.”
“Shut up.”
“So a beautiful young thing saw you fall and now you’re embarrassed.”
I have no comeback. When he says it like that, it sounds so juvenile, like something from one of those TV shows where humans in too much makeup mope around and make longing faces at each other. But he’s exactly right.
Sandor gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“’Tis but a minor setback, my young ward,” Sandor opines. “I can tell you one thing for certain. You’re not going to impress your lady by moping around here.”
“Who says I want to impress her?”
He laughs. “Come on. Who doesn’t want to impress beautiful women? Right now, in her mind, you’re just a guy that bit off more than he could chew. If you don’t go back, though, you become that wimp she saw fall off the wall one time. Do you want that?”
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“I’ll go back tomorrow.”
Chapter Ten
I’m up early again the next morning, back in the Lecture Hall, dodging projectiles and batting drones out of the air with my pipe-staff even though my mind is at the Windy City Wall. Sandor doesn’t take it easy on me, despite knowing that I want to be conserving my energy for a second chance at impressing that girl.
“Keep your head in the game!” he shouts at me after a mechanized tentacle trips me up.
After training, I shower thoroughly, even though I’m just getting ready for another workout. I want to look good. I even run a comb through my tangled thatch of hair. Sandor’s been ragging on me to cut it forever, telling me that I look like a girl, and recommending all kinds of hair products that would give me “maximum hold.” I’ve never paid any attention to his unsolicited style tips.
Only looking at myself in the steamy bathroom mirror, I wish I’d listened to him. I look like a caveman. But it’s too late to do anything about my hair now. Besides, I figure showing up with a fresh haircut glistening with pomade—whatever that is—would look pretty desperate.
“Good luck,” says Sandor knowingly as I head to the elevator.
There are butterflies having a heavy artillery firefight in my stomach as I jog over to the rec center. I breeze in the door and immediately beeline for the equipment rack, grabbing a safety vest as I confidently stride toward the advanced end of the wall. I casually scan the room, looking for the girl.
She’s not there. In fact, the place is nearly empty.
Ugh. It’s a school day. I always forget the humans keep much different schedules than I do.
There are a few college-aged kids working out on the wall, getting envious looks from flabby older guys who are probably here on their lunch break. I join them. Might as well get a few practice runs in.
I spend an hour mastering the wall. This time I listen to the instructor, paying special attention to where the best handholds are. By the time the hour is up, I’ve successfully scaled the wall a half-dozen times. According to the instructor, if I shaved a few seconds off my time I’d have a shot at breaking the local record. I don’t tell him that I haven’t been going all out, that with my Loric strength and speed I could easily smash it.
I’m saving that performance for when the girl shows up.
There’s still about an hour left before school gets out. It’d probably look pretty weird if I was already here when the other kids arrive and I decide I want to make an entrance. I imagine confidently strutting into line, ignoring taunts from the Mikes, then flying up the wall in record-setting time. While the Mikes are busy picking their jaws up off the floor, I’ll stride over to the girl, her adoring smile inviting me to talk to her. And then . . .
Well, I haven’t totally planned out the talking part yet.
I buy a bottle of water from a vending machine and head outside. There’s a small park across the street from the rec center, where I make myself at home on a bench—the perfect spot for a stakeout. I’m comfortable in the cool air and have a good view of the Windy City Wall entrance. I’ll hide out until kids get out of school and then it’ll be time for my redemption.
The thought of a stakeout causes me to make a check of my iMog. An evil red dot appearing nearby is exactly what I don’t need right now. Luckily, the coast is clear.
I spend the next hour trying to think of a good opening line. All the guys in the movies and on TV have them when they approach a girl. I should’ve asked Sandor for one before I left. He probably has whole books filled with pick-up lines.
By the time I see the two Mikes enter the Windy City Wall, I still haven’t come up with anything good. I’m stuck on climbing puns, but they all come off pretty gross, like I want to climb on her.
“Is this seat taken?” A girl’s voice interrupts the conversation I’m having in my head. Distractedly, I wave at the empty space of bench next to me.
The next wall I’d like to climb is the one around your heart. How’s that? Really, really cheesy.
“Hi,” the girl says, sitting down next to me.
And that’s when I realize it isn’t just any girl sitting inches away from me on the bench, it’s the girl. Her cheeks are rosy in the late spring air, her black hair gently blown in the breeze. She’s smiling at me. She’s so beautiful, I suddenly feel like I could throw up. This wasn’t the plan.
“I’m Maddy,” she says, extending her hand.
I just look at her, my mind completely blank.
So much for first lines.
Maddy squints at me. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to interrupt your, um, quiet muttering.”
Was I muttering? I must look like a crazy person. I try to recover.
“No, you’re not interrupting. I was just thinking.”
“Oh,” she says, looking at me expectantly. I realize her hand is still hanging out there between us waiting for me, so I grasp it, squeezing her hand a little too eagerly.
“I’m Stanley.”
“Nice to meet you, Stanley.”
I swallow hard. This meeting is already way off track. She wasn’t supposed to see me again until I’d beaten the wall and restored my pride.
I make a halfhearted gesture toward the rec center, desperately trying to recreate the scenario I’d been envisioning. “I was about to go climb. Do you want to come watch?”
“Watch?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe we could race. If you’re up for it,” she adds, teasing me.
I flashed back to my humiliation of the day before, suddenly lost for words. Luckily, she bails me out.
“Anyway,” she says, “I actually can’t stay; I’m on my way home. I just saw you sitting over here by yourself and thought I’d say hey.”
“Oh,” I say, lamely. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she repeats.
And then comes an awkward silence, almost like Maddy’s nervous too. Her gaze bounces away from me and her mouth screws up, as if she’s trying to figure out what to say. I wonder if she plans conversations out in her head too.
When she speaks again, her words are a torrent of nervous energy.
“I saw you yesterday and you were by yourself then too and that’s totally cool, if you like working out alone, but I’m new here and it’s been sort of hard to meet people, so I figured maybe we could, like, team up and fight solitude together.”
I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Nine’s Legacy Page 3