by Melissa Grey
“I’ll just have an iced coffee,” Hana said. “Large, please.”
The lunch lady let loose a soft, discontented hum, as if she found Hana’s refusal to partake personally offensive.
“Cream and sugar?”
Hana hated black coffee. She hated the bitter, watery taste of it. She hated the way she could feel it wearing a hole in her stomach. She hated the way it made her fingers tremble and her spine shake.
But cream and sugar were calorie sinks.
“No, thanks. I’ll take it black.”
That way, her beverage was, at the very least, calorie negligible.
Numbers never lied, and at the end of the day, she would be forced to confront the truth of them in her food journal, a document she treated with the utmost secrecy. She knew it looked bad, obsessively noting every morsel that passed her lips. She wasn’t stupid. But she also knew that in order to succeed, sacrifices had to be made.
To Hana, depriving herself of food was no different than depriving herself of a few extra hours of sleep so she could get to the rink before sunrise. And if there was a tiny voice at the back of her head that tried to convince her that it was … well, that was something she would just have to ignore.
Hana paid for her iced coffee and sipped at it. The taste made her cringe. Cream and sugar would have made her forget that coffee was, at its core, just bitter bean juice.
She inched away from the line, trying to keep close enough to overhear the conversation still going on behind her. Another student bumped into her shoulder, muttering a quick apology as they left too fast for Hana to catch a face. She sulked away to sip her sad bean juice at the last small table left unoccupied in the cafeteria. It was set in a corner right under an air-conditioning vent. The spot was too cold for mere mortals but not for someone who spent the majority of their time in a freezing ice rink.
It was difficult keeping abreast of the hottest Maplethorpe gossip. Hana was as unplugged from the social systems of the school as one could be, while still maintaining a presence for the sake of her grades and attendance—competitions permitting, of course. Friendship presented an unnecessary and unwanted complication, and Hana had little desire to complicate her life any more than it already was. Friends placed demands on one’s time, and time was a precious commodity, of which Hana was in a perpetual deficit. She rose before the sun every morning, groggily bundling herself in as many layers as humanly possible to warm her tired muscles before arriving at the rink. She only ever had a few hours of practice before she had to leave to make it to Maplethorpe’s first-period bell. Her special dispensation to skip morning assemblies ended with that chime. Missing it meant the band on her wrist tightened—or perhaps that was just her imagination—and her heart sank as the smartwatch vibrated, alerting her to a dip in her rating.
Numbers never lied, after all.
Hana reached into her backpack to retrieve a little black notebook and the red pen she preferred to write with. It held all her secrets. The jumps she landed in practice. The greater number of jumps she fell on. The foods she ate and their corresponding caloric values. It was a litany of her successes and her failures. She never went anywhere without it.
She chewed the top of the pen as she flipped to the page she’d started that morning. Every day was laid out the same, each page divided into sections to track her progress.
Breakfast
Hard-boiled egg (1)—70 calories
Apple (1/2)—50 calories
Post-practice snack
Celery sticks, small (6)—3 calories
She clicked the pen, switching to green ink, and scribbled her most recent addition to the list.
Lunch
Iced coffee, black (1)—2 calories
The sight of the number two sent a little thrill through her at the same moment her stomach cramped, begging her to put something more substantial in it. Her limbs felt heavy now that she was sitting, but it was nothing she couldn’t push through. She had skated on broken bones, trained with torn ligaments. A little discomfort was nothing.
Pain is progress, she reminded herself.
Her coach had said that to her once and she had written it onto the first page of the diary in black marker, stark and permanent.
One hundred twenty-five calories.
Not bad.
But she could do better.
She would do better. She would work so the numbers on the page, and on the scale, and on her smartwatch reflected the perfection for which she aimed. Because numbers never lied.
No matter how often or how thoroughly it was cleaned, the boys’ locker room at Maplethorpe Academy always smelled the same. The scent was an obnoxious mix of sweat, that vile body spray marketed to men under twenty-five, and the bleach the janitor used to try to keep everything sanitary. Chase’s dad liked to call it the smell of victory, but to Chase, it just smelled like body odor combined with humanity’s vain attempts to combat it.
He stood before his locker, a speck of silence amid the cacophony of Maplethorpe’s varsity baseball team unwinding after practice. Shouts ricocheted off the bank of lockers as players exchanged anecdotes about their summer vacations and plans for the weekend, as if it wasn’t only Monday. Locker doors slammed shut, and the old pipes rattled as the showers ran. But all Chase could hear was the ringing in his ears that sounded every time he looked at the letter in his hands, the one that Headmaster Wood had given him at the end of last semester, coaxing a solemn promise from Chase to make sure his father saw it and signed it in acknowledgment of receipt. It was a promise Chase had no intention of keeping. He’d managed to dodge Wood’s watchful eyes for the entirety of the day, probably because the headmaster had far bigger fish than Chase to fry, what with a spray-paint-toting vandal loose on campus. Chase sent a silent prayer of thanks to his savior and their graffiti, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The headmaster would eventually catch up with him.
Dear Mr. Donovan,
We regret to inform you that your son, Chase Donovan, has failed to maintain the standards expected of scholarship students of Maplethorpe Academy. As a valuable member of the community, Chase occupies a very special place at Maplethorpe, and as such, we would like to provide him with any assistance necessary to rise to the standards that have solidified our school’s sterling reputation. The Academy has several options available, from office hours with faculty to peer-to-peer tutoring sessions. As you are aware, the conditions of your son’s athletic scholarship require that he maintain a rating of at least 55. We believe that Chase is fully capable of rising to the occasion, and we look forward to working with you and your family to ensure your son’s place with us in the year to come. Do not hesitate to call my office if you have any questions or concerns.
Warmest regards,
Dr. Jeremiah Wood
Headmaster, Maplethorpe Academy
Chase’s grip tightened, wrinkling the paper. The creases had gone soft after being unfolded and folded countless times over the summer. He’d taken the note with him to summer training camp with the rest of the team. The thought of his father stumbling upon it in one of his rare moments of sobriety was too troubling to contemplate. But avoiding his father wasn’t the problem. At least, not the biggest one.
The problem was Chase.
He tried to study, he did. But sometimes the words on the page didn’t make sense, no matter how hard his strained eyes tried to puzzle them out. And numbers never appeared to stay in one place, complicating even the most basic arithmetic. He knew there were kids like him who struggled with learning disabilities—such a thing was hardly an academic death knell—but he also knew that the arduous process of learning to live with them took time and discipline, the two most precious commodities in Chase’s life. He couldn’t imagine trying to find the hours for one-on-one tutoring when every spare moment he wasn’t in class was devoted to baseball.
Chase had been Maplethorpe’s star pitcher since his freshman year, bypassing the junior varsity team entirely when the coach saw
him at tryouts. No one had taken a Maplethorpe team by storm quite like that since Chase’s own father twenty years prior. His dad’s picture, along with the numerous football trophies he’d won for the school, were still displayed in a place of pride in the corridor outside the gymnasium.
And if Chase was honest with himself, the thought of asking for help made his skin itch. He’d learned to be self-sufficient by middle school. He had also learned that revealing one’s weakness was never wise, not at home and not at school. His difficulty embarrassed him, and his embarrassment made him want to set the note, and the numerous report cards he’d never brought home, and the smartwatch constantly reminding him of his failure—his rating one point short of adequate—on fire. And then he wanted to dance on the ashes.
But Chase could do none of those things. He didn’t know what to do, and that scared him most of all.
A sharp slap to his back broke Chase’s tether to his woes. He turned to find Steve, the team’s shortstop, blinking at him with a quizzical expression. An artfully messy lock of hair tumbled across Steve’s forehead.
“Hey, buddy, I called your name like five times. What’s up?”
Chase hastily shoved the letter to the darkest depths of his backpack.
“Sorry, I was just …”
Contemplating the inevitable demise of my athletic career and maybe even the rest of my life, Chase thought, but did not say.
Steve rescued Chase from having to say anything with a flippant wave of his hand. “Yeah, not important. Anyway, a bunch of us are heading to the Lucky Penny. You in?”
The letter prodded at the parts of Chase’s brain responsible for actions and reactions, choices and consequences.
“I don’t know, I should probably head home …” Chase didn’t say to study because that was unthinkable.
Steve’s brows drew together in consternation. “Dude. Burgers. Milkshakes. Cheerleaders. What could beat that?”
Many things, Chase thought. World peace. Saving the whales. Freedom from the Rating System currently grinding his soul to dust. A brain that functioned the way brains were meant to function. Enough money not to need a scholarship. At least one sober parent. Two, ideally, but even fantasizing about that felt greedy.
But home wasn’t exactly an optimal location for quiet contemplation or studying. He knew exactly what he would find there. His father, a beer in one hand as he sat in the ancient recliner in their living room, watching old VHS tapes of twenty-year-old football games. He’d be mumbling about the injury to his shoulder cuff that had cut his own career off before it started, whether or not Chase was there to listen.
“Well,” Chase said, “when you put it like that.”
Steve knocked Chase two inches to the left with a jovial clap to his arm. “Knew you’d see reason. Now hurry up before all the good booths are taken.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Chase said. “I’ll meet you outside. I just need a minute.”
“Five minutes!” Steve was already halfway to the door. “Then we’re leaving without you.”
Chase tossed Steve a loose salute and turned back to his locker. With a sigh, he zipped up his backpack. The letter—and all the trouble that came with it—could wait another day. He slammed the door shut hard enough to knock loose a piece of paper that had been shoved between the little vents at the top. He bent down to pick it up, squinting at it. It was written on red construction paper, the kind he used to draw dinosaurs on as a child. He still liked dinosaurs, albeit in secret.
He didn’t bother reading it. It wasn’t unheard of for some of the cheerleaders to leave notes in the athletes’ lockers, particularly at the beginning of the year when couples started pairing off. A girlfriend was another thing Chase didn’t have time for. He shoved the note in the front pocket of his backpack to read later.
Chase left the locker room, injecting pep he didn’t much feel into his step. He didn’t notice the sticker sealing the note shut, a ghoulish jester.
A jester identical to the ones left on Maplethorpe’s security cameras.
* * *
The Lucky Penny was one of those diners that promised a retro atmosphere and managed to deliver a sterile, amusement-park version of a past its primary clientele was too young to remember. Red vinyl booths lined windows lit with neon signs, visually screaming about the establishment’s “Mega Milkshakes!” Stools upholstered in matching crimson dotted the baby-blue counter, which ran nearly the entire length of the diner. On each table stood a small placard reminding patrons to tip their server, not just in cold, hard cash, but in positive ratings. Those were more valuable than money.
A jukebox tucked in the corner played songs much older than Chase. A dollar got you three songs. Each booth was similarly equipped with its own decorative miniature jukebox; the sides of each held napkins, salt and pepper shakers, and tiny bottles of ketchup. All the table jukeboxes were red with silver trim, except for an odd one in the corner booth that was trimmed in gold.
The team occupied the rounded booth in the corner of the diner, with a small red jukebox at their table. They were being way too loud, but no one complained. Maplethorpe’s baseball team was the pride of Jackson Hills, the town adjacent to the school. The team could do no wrong, and that knowledge was intoxicating. Antics that would dock the ratings of any other student were waved away with a wink and a smile when committed by a member of the baseball team.
Chase sat beside Steve and Steve’s girlfriend, Summer. They’d gotten together at the end of last year, but Chase wasn’t sure the relationship would last much longer. Steve never kept girlfriends for very long, though Summer might prove to be an exception. She had her own power at Maplethorpe, and her family practically owned the town. Steve would be wise to be more careful with her.
Over the summer, Chase had caught Steve making eyes at another of the girls on the cheerleading squad. Sasha, he thought her name was. She’d tried flirting with Chase years ago, when he’d distinguished himself as Maplethorpe’s best pitcher, but he hadn’t had time for girls then and he didn’t now. And there was something uncomfortably incestuous about the dating pool in which his circles swam. It seemed healthier to just stay out of the water altogether.
He nursed the strawberry milkshake before him, not really enjoying it, but not hating it enough to push it aside. It cost eight whole dollars. Chase had left the house with twelve in his wallet, so the damage was too grievous to ignore. He would drink it, whether he liked it or not. His father worked in construction, but he hadn’t been to the site in days. Chase wondered if he’d been let go again, or if he’d just been told to go home until he sobered up. The thought of the former incited too much anxiety for Chase to ask. The fewer words he exchanged with his father when he was in one of his moods—which he’d been in for weeks now—the better.
Steve nudged Chase’s shoulder with his own. The action brought Steve’s wrist into Chase’s line of vision. The rating on Steve’s watch flashed, bright and mean.
70.
Must be nice, Chase thought. Not that Steve’s rating had much of an impact on his life. He wasn’t on scholarship. His father was the CEO or CFO or COO of some company whose name ended in Industries.
Chase wondered what it would be like to go through life with a successful, prestigious family to cushion his rating.
“I heard scouts are coming to the game next week.”
Chase glanced across the table at Alex. Alex (rating: 64) played various positions in the outfield and was unlikely to ever attract the attention of any scout, much less one diligent enough to go to games this early in the season. But Chase admired the optimism.
Steve nudged Chase with his elbow. “Coach told me they heard about our boy Donovan crushing the competition last year.”
Chase forced a smile to his face. The very mention of scouts had sent an agonized sizzle of longing through him. It would be the dream, for one of them to offer him a chance at a college scholarship. The dream wasn’t even about baseball, really. Baseball was simply a way
out of Jackson Hills and toward a bright, shiny future. He’d never be able to afford out-of-state tuition on his own. An athletic scholarship was his only chance to start a new life far, far away.
“I’m only as good as my team,” Chase said, because he knew it was the right thing to say. One could preen in front of girls or civilians, but never in front of teammates. It soured the dynamic. And it was true, mostly.
The rest of the guys accepted his aphorism, however trite it was, with a chorus of agreement. Never mind that Chase worked harder than any of them. He had to. Even without baseball, they still had futures. They had well-rated parents, safety nets woven of hereditary cash, and homes that didn’t reek like distilleries.
But if Alex was right and there really were scouts coming to the game, Chase had to throw everything into impressing them. It would leave little time for anything else. He spared a thought for the warning letter crumpled at the bottom of his backpack. All he had to do was last the year, get a scholarship, and, with luck on his side, get out of Jackson Hills.
“Cover me, I’m going in.”
Javi holstered his submachine gun. He sprinted faster when his hands were free.
“Got your back, Vulpes,” his sniper, Rouge, assured him. Her voice echoed in Javi’s headset. “Try not to make this another suicide run.”
“Ha, ha,” Javi uttered humorlessly. “More cover fire, less subpar banter.”
Armored feet clanging against the naked metal of the ship’s hull, Javi powered toward the glowing orb at the center of the space.
“My banter is anything but subpar,” the sniper said.
Javi would have chastised her for distracting him from his definitely-not-a-suicide-run, had Rouge not expertly taken out the two sentries lurching for him. The clawed tips of their gauntlets would have taken precious seconds to shake off, seconds the team didn’t have if they were going to make it out of that base alive.
“Head shot, baby!”
“Nice,” Javi said. A good leader praised his team when they deserved it. “Now keep it up. This is where things get tricky.”