I let out a sigh. I already hate sitting for my yearbook pictures at school with all of those Tilt your head this way and Why don’t you smile more, honey? suggestions. At least those sessions only take a few minutes, but I have a feeling this one will last much longer.
My face must give away my emotions because Sam is chuckling.
“It won’t be that bad, and you might as well get used to it. Once those sponsors come knocking, you’ll be holding up Cracker Jack boxes or wool socks at the next shoot.”
“Sponsors?” I ask, brightening a few watts. While I don’t like how commercialized the Games have gotten, I’ll set those feelings aside to hawk some Sugar Stars cereal to cover the rent. That’s how a lot of amateur athletes earn cash because most of our tournaments don’t offer purse money. Sam doesn’t have to worry about that since his family is dripping in wealth and they live on some exclusive island near Seattle, but that hasn’t stopped him from shilling Birds Eye orange juice (Savor each special sip!) and Baron’s multi-sport sneakers (Choose from five vibrant colors!). Makes me wonder what he plans to do with all that green. He must have a huge pile of it somewhere. “How do you get those anyway? Do you have to write letters to the companies or something?”
He shrugs. “Nah, they’re the ones who’ll be knocking on your door, not the other way around. You’ll end up with so many offers that you’ll have to turn most of them down.”
That’s easy for him to say considering he’s Mr. Photogenic with the confidence to go with it. Plus, he’s a boy. I wonder if any sponsors will be keen on hiring a female fighter like me. All I need is one or two though, and I’d let them curl my hair and even pluck off my arm hairs if that meant getting paid.
Sam waves his arm and shouts toward the tent. “I found her!”
I’m quickly surrounded by a team of very attractive people who plunk me onto a folding chair. One of them brushes my hair while another buffs my nails, and I’m almost ready to admit that this isn’t so bad. It feels pretty nice to get pampered for once, but that’s before someone attacks my eyebrows with a pair of tweezers and I take it all back.
“You have such unique features. The color of your eyes is much darker than your hair,” says the lady smearing cream on my face offhandedly. “You must have some Mediterranean blood in you, hmm?”
I tense up and blurt out the first thing that lands on my tongue. “What’s that lotion you’re using? It smells great,” I say, changing the topic fast.
My forehead beads with sweat. Are they going to start asking where my family came from originally? I could tell them that it’s nobody’s business, but now that I’m an official member of Team USA, I doubt I can be that rude.
In the end, my nervous sweating works to my advantage. The makeup people begin digging around in their suitcase full of little bottles and brushes and compacts instead of prodding me about my family’s heritage.
“Where’s the heavy-duty powder? We can’t have her face dripping like that for the shoot!” one of them says.
I release a slow breath. I should be safe for now.
Thirty minutes later, they push me in front of a full-length mirror in the new outfit that they’ve changed me into—a satin dress that’s fitted through the waist but flares out at the skirt like a gumdrop. It’s patterned in navy-blue gingham, reminding me of a picnic blanket. I’m handed a pair of red shoes, like I’m Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Only, I don’t want to go home.
“She looks perfect,” they say cheerily. “Like Patty Duke—the fresh-faced girl next door. Great job all around, everyone!”
Girl next door is the exact opposite of the fighting pit, but at least no one is talking about my complexion anymore.
Speaking of which, as I look at my reflection, I don’t recognize myself at all. They’ve curled my flat hair into something out of the movies, shiny and springy, and they’ve powdered my face so white that no one will wonder if I have “Mediterranean blood.” I should be relieved, but I get an itchy feeling to wipe it all off. This isn’t me at all.
But me isn’t what the Association wants.
I glower at what I see in the mirror. Why can’t I be fresh-faced and all-American without the hair and the makeup? Without hiding what my mother looked like?
I’m just as American as everyone else here.
Aren’t I?
I’m soon whisked off to meet the photographer, who’s barking orders at everyone because he doesn’t want to lose any more light, which doesn’t make much sense. With the sun above the horizon, it looks like there’s plenty of light to go around, but the photographer is telling us to beat our feet.
“Well, well,” Sam says, wagging his brows when he sees me.
“Save it, Kealey.” I flush, feeling self-conscious, especially standing next to him. The styling team has combed back his hair and has dressed him in a blue suit and striped tie. His getup might look tacky on anyone else, but Sam pulls off the look with irritating ease.
“Save what? I was only going to say that you look swell, kiddo,” he says, even sounding like he means it. But then he has to ruin it by adding, “At least compared to the last time I saw you, when you were all sweaty and frowning at me.”
That “last time” was when he beat me at the tournament. Since he has reminded me of that low point in my life, I swat him on the arm.
“My name isn’t kiddo,” I say.
“Aw, come on! You do look swell,” he says, but I’m already walking to my mark.
Sam and I are positioned in front of the two Goliaths that I’d been drooling over earlier. Someone must’ve moved them from the exhibition to where we’re standing now. The photographer starts off by shooting us side by side in front of the mechas, but little by little he asks Sam to inch forward until he’s practically blocking me.
What am I? A background prop?
It gets even worse when the photographer tells Sam to climb into one of the Goliaths.
“Let’s get a couple live-action shots,” the photographer says.
I’m assuming he wants me to do the same thing, so I stride up to the other Goliath and kick off my shoes because there’s no way that I can mount it in these heels, only for the photographer to yell at his assistants, “Get her down before she hurts herself!”
Hurt myself? I could do this blindfolded and half-asleep. But then the assistants swarm around me and pry me away from the Goliath like I’m some sort of porcelain doll.
“Don’t you need a few live shots of me too?” I ask.
“You’re all done for the day!” they chirp. “How about we get you a coffee? You like cream and sugar?”
I’m not thirsty at all. Shaking my head at them, I keep my gaze on Sam and his Goliath. One of the assistants has to help him access the thing because it requires a numerical password to turn it on—a safeguard against nosy tourists or fighters like myself, I guess. I watch Sam climb inside the cockpit and take the Goliath on a little stroll around the Mall, with the photographer clicking away. Jealousy flares through me. That’s the type of picture that I want for my own official portrait.
“I really wouldn’t mind taking a couple action shots myself,” I tell the assistants, making sure to paint my voice syrupy sweet, but it doesn’t help.
“Oh, we’ve got everything we need already. Don’t you worry! You’ll look perfect in them,” they reply.
I doubt they would say that to Ted Rochester if he were here. I should have expected this sort of treatment since I’ve dealt with it my whole career, but it still stings. And if I dare to complain? I’ll get called ungrateful and difficult—and that’ll be to my face. Who knows what they’d say behind my back?
Maybe I ought to read that new book The Feminine Mystique that I keep hearing about.
Fortunately the photo session soon comes to an end when the park police arrive to tell us to wrap things up because our permit has timed out. Still dressed in our fancy clothes, Sam and I climb into a chauffeured car that takes us to our next destination. As we wind through
the streets, I see that the city has woken up. Men in dark suits zip off to work, heading into enormous buildings with impressive-sounding names like the Department of Innovation and the National Archives. Some of the tourists are up early too. They’re easy to spot in their bright T-shirts and their cameras hanging around their necks while they wait to board the shiny new monorail that was built for the Games. The tracks are elevated above the road, and the trains themselves resemble long silver snakes that glint in the sunlight as they curve around the blocks.
“How come we aren’t riding on the monorail?” I ask Sam, pointing outside. We have the trolley back home, but nothing like this.
“They’ve been dealing with a bunch of delays. Besides, look at all the leg room we have in here,” Sam says, stretching out and making himself comfy. “Anyhow, the monorail doesn’t go where we’re headed.”
The car veers onto a bridge that spans the Potomac River, and I notice a sign that says, East Potomac Park. Except this place isn’t only a park. It’s an island.
I swivel my head toward the mainland. “Did we take a wrong turn?” This can’t be right.
Sam, however, has rested his arms behind his head. “Nope, our stop is right ahead.”
I look at him doubtfully because all I see are cherry trees and grassy lawns, but sure enough I spy a bunch of buildings in the distance.
The Pavilion.
Styled after the Olympic Village, the Pavilion houses all fifty of us fighters who have flown in for the Games, our home for the next two weeks. Sam takes it upon himself to become my tour guide and points out the various buildings in our eyeline, from the massive training center to the dining hall to the administrative office, where I can go in case I lose my key. The stadium itself, where all the matches will take place, is located in the city proper, but we’ll be spending the bulk of our time here in the Pavilion.
“Home, sweet home,” Sam says. “Between you and me though, the dorm rooms are nothing spectacular.”
“No towel warmer for your morning bath? Or a butler bot to make you a cup of coffee?” I say with a lifted brow. His father is some big shot at Boeing—one of the richest companies in America that has made its money by manufacturing planes and missiles and mechas—so I wouldn’t be surprised if his family’s estate is filled with a fleet of bots to serve his every need.
“Tease all you want, but my Bertie Bot 2000 fixes an incredible omelet.” He arches a brow right back at me, and I don’t know if he’s joking around or not.
Our car pulls up to the Pavilion’s gated entrance. It’s heavily guarded, as if we’ve arrived at Checkpoint Charlie at the Berlin Wall. The guards ask to see my official Games’ badge, but I don’t have one because I was never given one. As soon as they notice Sam sitting next to me though, they seem to relax. It isn’t long before they’re ribbing Sam for an autograph, and I may as well have vanished.
“Sorry about the hassle,” one of the guards says to Sam, “but we’ve had to tighten security because of what’s happening down in Birmingham.”
I go stiff in my seat. He’s talking about the Children’s Crusade—the news was all over the papers a couple weeks ago. Peter has been following the developments and would sum up the articles for me over breakfast. Civil rights protests have been popping up all over the country; even in San Francisco where we’ve had sit-ins on Auto Row, but Birmingham has been the real focus of the movement. There’ve been loud calls for the city to desegregate, and the Children’s Crusade was the latest development. Thousands of Black students marched out of their schools to apply pressure on the mayor, but what did they get for it? The police blasted them with high-powered firefighter hoses and hauled them off to jail. By the time my brother had finished reading the article, I was grinding my teeth.
“Some of those kids are younger than I am,” Peter had said, his eyes wide.
“Those Birmingham pigs ought to be ashamed. Arresting schoolkids?”
Peter shushed me. “Maybe don’t say pigs so loudly,” he’d said, glancing across the street, where a cop car sometimes sits.
The window was shut tight, so we were in no danger of anyone hearing us, but I nodded anyway because I didn’t want to upset him. I could tell that the article had shaken him.
“At least we don’t live in the South.” I’d gestured at the newspaper headline and tried to take it from him. “We don’t have to worry about that happening here in California.”
Without missing a beat he’d said, “That’s only because we don’t look like Mom.”
Now that had really stumped me—because he was absolutely right. Both he and I know how the Chinese have been treated in this country. There’s the Chinese Exclusion Act that forbade immigrants from entering the US for seventy years and wasn’t repealed until 1943. Then, after the Cold War started, the FBI has kept close tabs on Chinese Americans, assuming that they must be secret spies for Chairman Mao. And let’s not forget how the Chinese have been called dirty and diseased for generations. I think that’s why our mother left her little backwater town in the first place. Plus, she’d wanted to fly airplanes, and most piloting schools wouldn’t take on a girl like her.
The security guard leans against the car window and slides down his sunglasses. “We don’t want a riot here in Washington. There were some SCLC protestors gathering by the stadium, but we told them to beat it,” he says, referring to Dr. King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference. He waits for Sam and me to nod our heads in agreement.
I tell myself to keep quiet. Let his comment slide even though it makes my skin crawl. I’m only half white, after all. I shouldn’t give him any extra reason to scrutinize me.
But then the guard goes on to say, “Some people just don’t know their place anymore.”
I narrow my eyes at him and the words shoot out of my mouth. “The police were jailing children down in Alabama. Maybe you’re mixing up who doesn’t know their place.”
The guard startles, surprised at the challenge, and his gaze turns chilly. “You one of those beatniks?”
Sam clears his throat loudly. “Thanks for all your help. We sure do appreciate it,” he says, using that smile of his to put the guard at ease and let our car through.
As our driver pulls forward, Sam gives me a look. “Didn’t pin you as a beatnik.”
“I’m not.” Obviously. I don’t recite poetry or listen to jazz or spend my weekends reading up on Eastern religions. “Do you see me wearing a beret?”
“Word of advice?”
I’m about to tell him no thanks, but Sam barrels on like usual.
“You don’t have to say out loud everything that you’re thinking,” he says.
“You sound like my first-grade teacher.”
“Haven’t learned that lesson yet?”
“Oh, cool your chops, Kealey,” I huff out. I know that he’s teasing, but I’m not in the mood. He has no idea how much tongue biting I have to do all the time. Because I’m a girl. Because I’m not fully white. Because if I say everything that I think, we could lose customers at the shop or I could lose my place on varsity. Or worse. I’ve learned to bottle up all those feelings and take them out in the pit.
We finally enter the boundaries of the Pavilion, which resembles a spread from an architectural magazine. The buildings are all built in an ultra-modern style, like big boxes of concrete but balanced out with glossy windows. To soften the look, the landscapers have added plenty of lush grass and flower beds in between each building, popping in shades of purple and pink. We climb out of the car, and I shoulder my bag.
“Those are the dormitories ahead. Boys on the right; girls on the left.” Sam gestures at two structures before us. The boys’ dorm is about quadruple in size compared to the girls’, like they ran out of poured concrete when they got around to making ours. “They’ll give you your room assignment and badge at the registration desk. Remember to swipe your badge to access the elevators and stairwells. It took me a minute to figure that out.”
I’m not rea
lly listening. My eyes sweep over the Pavilion and land on a grassy quad in front of the dormitories, about the size of a football field. There are a few mower bots making their way across the lawn, snipping at the grass as they go and flashing a red light whenever they approach a group of fighters lying in their path. I can tell where the fighters are from by the clothes that they’re wearing—athletic jumpsuits broadcasted in their nation’s colors and with their country’s flags sewn onto the backs. I keep my eye out for a golden sickle and star—the Soviet’s emblems—but come up empty.
“Hi there, Sam!” a girl calls out.
“Who’s your friend?” another one asks in a flirty tone. From the looks of their uniforms, they’re representing Austria and Switzerland respectively, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Everywhere he goes, Sam has fans.
“This here is Jo Linden of Team USA,” Sam says back, flashing his stupid easy grin.
I poke him in the side before he drags me over to meet his pals. “What’s the plan from here on out? Do we have a strategy in place for Purgatory or what?”
Sam stops waving at the girls and glances at a tall white guy walking toward us, who’s wearing a tie and a suit jacket even in this swampy weather. “Why don’t we ask the man himself?”
The fella in question halts in front of us, and I swear I do a double take. I know him. Or, rather, I feel like I know him, thanks to the number of hours I’ve watched the reels of his matches. But he’s older now. There’s a little bit of gray around his temples and there are crinkles around his eyes too, but there’s no mistaking who he is.
“Been looking for you,” the man says to Sam before he gives me a quick once-over.
“You’re—” The name gets stuck in my throat. I can’t wait to tell Peter about this. “You’re Malcolm Maines.”
He’s a living legend. Peter has a poster of Malcolm hanging in our bedroom, a blown-up black-and-white picture of him at the ’47 Games in Helsinki, emerging from his Goliath right after his win at the finals where he beat his Swiss opponent in under twenty minutes. He was the last American to win the Games and now he’s my coach. I have to resist the temptation to ask him for an autograph.
The Great Destroyers Page 6