The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Jack fished in his book bag and passed his science folder to Ellen. “Mine were, too. I was wondering if the machine had been calibrated.”

  She bent her head over his data sheet, squinting at his sloppy notes and raking her chin-length brown hair behind her ears. It hung, straight and shining, like a kind of helmet. She half turned in her seat, extending her long legs into the aisle. There was something different about her today, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Lipstick. She was wearing rosy pink lipstick. Jack couldn’t remember seeing her wear makeup before. He drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, contemplating Ellen’s lips at close range as she read down the page. It had been a long time since he’d looked at anyone but his ex, Leesha.

  “Your data are at least as variable as mine,” she agreed, passing his folder back. Their hands collided, touched for a moment, and she jerked hers back quickly. The folder fell to the floor, scattering his papers.

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry.” Kneeling next to his desk, she frantically scraped the pages into a pile. She looked up at him, mutely extending the wad of papers toward him. Her eyes were clear gray under a smoky fringe of lashes, and her nose had a little bump at the bridge, as if it had been broken once. Jack resisted an urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, he stuffed his papers back into his folder and extended his hand to help her up.

  This seemed to unsettle her again. She brushed at her skirt and fussed with her hair. “Well. Maybe we can ask Mr. Marshall about it in class.”

  “Ask him about . . . ? Oh. Sure, okay.” Jack cleared his throat. “If you want.”

  The bell rang, startlingly loud. Jack began shoving books and folders into his book bag.

  “Um . . . Jack?”

  He looked up to see Ellen standing between him and the door, her backpack slung over her shoulder. “I wondered if you felt like studying together tonight for the social studies test. I took some good notes,” she added. “We ...ah ...could compare them....”

  Jack looked at her in surprise. Ellen had never shown any interest in him before, other than as a benchmark of sorts. She was new to Trinity High School, but she already had the reputation of being a high achiever. In fact, she had a few points on Jack in some of his honors classes.

  Maybe she doesn’t have much else to do, Jack thought. It sucked that she had to change schools in her sophomore year. Ellen didn’t hang out much. He didn’t recall seeing her at dances, or at Corcoran’s after a game.

  She was really cute, though, and he wasn’t going out with anyone. Not since Leesha dumped him for that jerk Lobeck. He’d probably be at tryouts and . . .

  Tryouts.

  “I’d love to. I mean, I wish I could,” he said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “But I’ve got soccer tryouts tonight, and I’m not sure what time I’ll be done.”

  “Soccer tryouts?” she repeated, looking him up and down. “Really? Do you play?”

  Jack sent up a prayer to the gods of soccer. “Hopefully.”

  “All right,” she said, dropping her gaze away from him, the color coming up into her cheeks. “Sure. Maybe another time.” She shifted her book bag again and headed for the doorway, moving with a lithe, athletic grace that sucked the breath right out of him.

  “Stephenson!” he called after her. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Another time, promise?” He grinned at her. She returned a tentative smile, and then was gone.

  Dumb, he grumbled to himself. Really deft. He knew from experience that girls wouldn’t ask twice. He had lots of friends who were girls, had known most of them since they’d shared apple cider and oatmeal cookies at the Trinity co-op nursery school. It wasn’t easy to figure out how to move on from there. Small towns were kind of . . . incestuous.

  Leesha Middleton had been different. She’d moved to Trinity the previous year. You didn’t make friends with Leesha. You surrendered. She could have gone out with anyone, but she chose Jack. And now she’d chosen Lobeck.

  Ellen was new blood, too. Well, he’d probably have to make the next move.

  Jack tried to call home again at lunchtime. Then he tried his mom’s office, but Becka hadn’t checked in with Bernice. He shuddered, imagining his mother’s reaction if she got the message in the late afternoon. With any luck, he’d beat her home. Anyway, he felt fine. Great, in fact.

  By the time Jack and Will came out onto the field behind the high school, some of the early arrivals were helping Ted Slansky, the soccer coach, set up the goals. The sun emerged from the clouds at intervals, but it was a cold sun that seemed to draw away more heat than it provided.

  The stands were peppered with a few spectators: interested parents, community coaches, friends. Jack shaded his eyes, scanning the bleachers to see if there was anyone he knew.

  “Run up the colors,” Fitch said behind him. “’Tis the queen and her court.”

  Turning, Jack saw a handful of varsity players collected in a reverent half circle at one end of the stands like wistful planets around a glittering sun. Leesha.

  “What’s she doing here?” Jack said irritably. “She hates soccer.” Knowing the answer even as he said it.

  “’Tis not for us to ask, but only to serve, admire, and desire.”

  Maybe Fitch had no idea how annoying this was. Maybe. “Shut up, Fitch.”

  Fitch’s smile disappeared. “Dude. You’re better off. Trust me.”

  Jack deliberately turned his back to the stands.

  There was a large turnout. Jack tried to be optimistic. He was a good player, playing midfield and forward most of the time, but he had never been a star.

  “Look who wandered into tryouts. It’s Jackson Downey Swift. Or is it Swift Downey Jackson? I get so confused.” The sneering voice came from behind him, but Jack knew who it was right away. Then a soccer ball hit him right between the shoulder blades. Hard.

  “That’s called a pass,” said Garrett Lobeck. “Better pay attention if you want to play with the men.”

  Jack swung around. Lobeck had a crooked grin on his face, thinking he’d made a witty remark. He was one of four brothers, known for their good looks, bad habits, and a talent for violence on and off the field. At seventeen, Garrett was the youngest, and on pace to be the worst of the lot.

  “Maybe you’d better paint your name on your butt, so Coach knows your mama’s on the school board,” Lobeck went on. “That’s the only way you’ll make the cut.”

  “I’m surprised to see you, too, Lobeck,” Jack replied. “I thought they made you ineligible after that game against Garfield last year.”

  Lobeck had broken the goalie’s leg on a nasty penalty play. There’d been a huge stink about it. But Lobeck was a talented running back, and his father owned half the town, so they’d let him play football in the fall. Becka had been the only member of the school board to vote against it.

  Jack lifted the ball with his instep, juggled it a moment, then passed it off to Fitch. “So assault and battery is okay. Did they scrap the academic standards, too? Or are you in some kind of mainstreaming program for idiots?”

  There was a kind of time delay while Lobeck processed this. The word “idiot” must have been the giveaway, because his face flushed a deep russet color and he took a step toward Jack.

  Suddenly Will was there. “What’s up, Lobeck? No sixth graders to pick on?” Lobeck was big, but Will was in the same weight class at least, and he was all muscle. Lobeck didn’t like the new odds.

  “Ease up, Childers. Don’t get your shorts in a bunch.” Lobeck scowled at Jack, then trotted off down the field.

  They started out doing drills, dribbling and passing, throw-ins and goal shots. Jack was standing on the sidelines, waiting his turn for the throw-in, when he heard another familiar voice behind him.

  “Jackson.” She said his name in two disappointed syllables. “Aren’t you even going to say hi?”

  He had to turn around then, or make it plain she was getting to him. “Hi, Leesha.”

  She
wore a pale pink hoodie, and her masses of dark curls were pulled back in a clip. She put her hand on his arm. He stared at it, swallowing hard, trying to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears. “I still miss you sometimes, Jack.” Guileless brown eyes looked into his.

  He knew better than to fall into that trap. “Sure you do, Leesha.” He thought he was managing to keep his voice light and even. He gazed off across the field, knowing without looking that she was pouting, a little frown line between her brows, her lower lip thrust out. Her hand was still on his arm.

  “I’m still not sure about Garrett,” she said. “Sometimes he’s so . . . possessive.” When Jack didn’t respond, Leesha said, “Are you coming to my party?”

  Jack blinked and looked down at her. “What?”

  “Are you coming to my party? It’s at the Lakeside Club.”

  Jack’s turn on the field was coming up. He removed Leesha’s hand from his arm. But she grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek. A virtuous kiss, for her, but Jack reared back like he’d been burned.

  “I’ll send you a special invitation, Jack,” Leesha promised, letting him go.

  Something made him look up, over her head, into the stands beyond. Where Ellen Stephenson stood, staring at him and Leesha. Then Ellen turned away, leaping nimbly from her seat to the ground. In a few long strides, she was at the gate, and then gone.

  Swearing under his breath, he turned back toward the field—to see Garrett Lobeck glaring at him like a thundercloud come to earth.

  “Swift!” It was Jack’s turn. Finally. He blew the throw-in.

  They began a series of scrimmages, switching off positions.

  Jack rotated through fullback, midfielder and then forward. Mentally, he was a mess, but physically, he felt good, not tired at all, although he’d been constantly on the field. It was good to be outside again after the long winter. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the grass, almost blinding him when he faced into it. The field was still wet and, after an hour and a half of punishment, was getting slippery.

  Jack had just accepted a long pass from Harmon Fitch, and turned to move it upfield, when suddenly his legs were swept from beneath him. He landed hard, flat on his back in the mud. It took him a moment to regain his breath. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw Lobeck heading the other way with the ball. Lobeck: king of the sliding tackle.

  Fitch helped him to his feet. “You okay, Jack?”

  Jack shook off his hand. He stared after Lobeck. Maybe it was time to teach him a lesson.

  Fitch noticed. “Come on, Jack. That way lies morbidity and mortality. You gotta pick your battles. Wait till there’s a mathathon or something. Kick his butt.” He grinned. “If you want, I’ll hack in and change his grades, but I doubt I could do much damage there.”

  Jack wiped his muddy hands on his sweatshirt. Fitch was right. There was no way he’d win a fight with Lobeck. Besides, he wasn’t hurt. He was soaked through, but not cold at all, despite the wind. His extremities tingled, as if his blood were returning after a long absence. He looked downfield with a sudden clarity, judging the players, mapping the obstacles in his path.

  Lobeck’s team had scored and kicked off. Once again, Jack’s team was approaching the goal. Jack had dribbled the ball into the corner of the box when Lobeck loomed up in front of him like a wall, grinning in anticipation. Jack feinted to the left and drove for the center. He felt rather than saw Lobeck right behind him, saw his massive shape headed for him out of the corner of his eye just as he took his shot. He half turned, raising his hands, palms outward, and steeled himself for the impact.

  Jack couldn’t say what happened next. As his shot flew past the goalie, he extended his arms to fend off the tackle. There was a detonation at his center, and something like hot metal surged through his arms and out his fingertips. Lobeck screamed and then went flying, following the ball into the net. He hit with such force he almost bounced back out onto the field. He lay there, dazed, for a good five seconds before he slowly rolled to his stomach and got to his hands and knees. It took him another minute or two to catch his breath. Then, like an engine slowly sputtering to life, he began to swear.

  “You fouled me!” he gasped, jabbing a thick finger at Jack. “You slammed me into the goal.” He was literally shaking with anger and indignation.

  “I didn’t touch you!” Jack was sweating, practically steaming. Still tingling, yet somehow drained. He glanced over into the stands. Leesha was leaning forward, watching avidly. Leesha might be bored by soccer, but she loved a fight.

  Lobeck staggered to his feet. His entire front was layered in mud, and his lip was bleeding. “You threw me into the net!” He turned to the goalie for backup. “Didn’t he?” The goalie shrugged. He had been busy trying to block Jack’s shot.

  Jack widened his stance and raised his hands, ready to fend off an attack. To his amazement, Lobeck flinched and stepped back a pace. And Lobeck outweighed him by fifty pounds at least.

  “Give it up, Garrett,” Will said. “There was daylight between you and Jack. You must have tripped. Besides, the shot was clean away. It didn’t look like you were going after the ball at all.”

  Coach Slansky had followed the ball to that end of the field and stood, watching, just outside the box. Lobeck squinted at the coach, then glowered at Jack.

  “All right, boys, we’re done,” Slansky said. “I think I’ve seen all I need to see today. Besides, it looks like it’s going to snow or something.”

  Lobeck grabbed his gym bag and water bottle and stalked off the field. Will and Jack and several other players helped Slansky stow the equipment. The sun had slid behind the clouds, and the horizon to the west looked threatening. Will and Jack retrieved their gear from their lockers and headed for the parking lot. Leesha had disappeared.

  “Funny,” said Will. “I thought it was supposed to be nice today.”

  They cut between the buildings to the street. The swings pitched crazily in the wind as they passed the playground at the elementary school. The tops of the evergreens along the border of the parking lot tossed and shimmied. Bits of debris skittered along the ground. Jack shivered, feeling exposed under the boiling sky.

  “Great shot, Jack.” Will was grinning. “I wish I’d had a camera. The expression on Lobeck’s face was priceless.”

  Jack shrugged, pulling his jacket closer around him. “I didn’t really see what happened. I guess he did trip.” He scanned the street ahead, an empty tunnel under the heaving trees. A gauntlet. The flesh on his arms prickled. Why was he so jumpy? Lobeck had left before they did, but it was unlikely he would try an ambush. Not with Will around.

  He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see someone emerge from between two houses and move quickly toward them, as if he were floating over the grass. Someone dressed in a long coat that flapped around his legs, too tall and spare to be Garrett Lobeck.

  “Will!” Jack grabbed his friend’s arm. Will turned, following his gaze. Then he grinned.

  “Hey, Nick!” Will shouted. “Where’d you come from?”

  And the dimensions of the stranger changed, became suddenly recognizable. There was the neatly trimmed beard, the piercing black eyes, the fringe of white hair. Why had he seemed so unfamiliar? But when Nick Snowbeard spoke, the voice was as unfamiliar as the image. “Jack!” It stung like a lash, sent him staggering backward. “Go home now and take your medicine! Hurry! Your mother is waiting for you.”

  “Nick?” Jack said uncertainly.

  “I said go! Will, you see that he gets there. We’ll talk later.” Nick turned away from them, his face fierce and intent, looking back down the street at the high school. Will grabbed Jack by the arm, literally dragging him home.

  They broke into a run, side by side, feet thudding on the pavement. Jack remembered the message he’d left on the answering machine. Becka must have sent Nick out looking for him. She was angry he’d gone to soccer practice instead of coming right home. He was toas
t.

  He began to wonder if he really should be running home to take his heart medication, but by then they were turning on to Jefferson Street.

  The neighbors were out in force, despite the weather.

  Mercedes was in her front garden in a heavy cotton Japanese jacket. With her long, thin legs and pointed features, she looked like some exotic wading bird.

  “Jackson!” she said, looking greatly relieved when she saw them. “You’d better get into the house. Your mother’s looking for you.”

  Iris Bolingame leaned over her front gate to tell him the same thing. She was a tall, imposing woman, who wore her long blond hair in a single fat braid decorated with glass trinkets, like some Norse goddess. Even Blaise Highbourne was walking up the street, swinging his leonine head from side to side, searching the cross streets. It was as if the entire street were ushering him home.

  But then, that’s the way it was in a small town. Everybody knew your business.

  Sleet slanted across the street as he and Will parted on the sidewalk. Jack went in to take his medicine. Literally and figuratively.

  His mother was seated at the kitchen table, her face blotchy from crying, surrounded by a garland of tissues, like offerings at a shrine.

  “Jack!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I didn’t get home until an hour ago. When I got your message, I was so worried. And when you were late ...” Her voice broke.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted to come home and get my medicine, but Mr. Penworthy wouldn’t let me. Well, he would have, but then I’d have had to serve a detention. And then I would have missed soccer tryouts.” He hesitated, realizing he was making matters worse.

  “Remember? I told you about tryouts this afternoon?”

  “Soccer tryouts! You should have come right home! I’ve already called the school, the hospital, and the police station. The neighbors are out looking for you.” Now she was really pissed.

  He nodded, his face hot with embarrassment. “I know. I ran into Nick.”

  “Nick?” She blinked, distracted. “I didn’t even talk to him.” Then she refocused. “How could you be so thoughtless? What if something happened to your heart?”