“How’re you feeling about your matchup?” Sam asks.
“All right,” I say, hoping to sound nonchalant even though I’d trade to be in his position in a split second.
“Word of advice—”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I cut him off, not in the mood for his nugget of wisdom.
But Sam is surprisingly persistent about this. “Giselle struggles to defend against aerial attacks. Remember that.”
I squint at him, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or not, when Malcolm interrupts us.
“Sam, go stretch and we’ll run through a couple ideas I had about your match, but we’ll go light today because you need to rest up and drink fluids. You’ll have more work to do later this week,” Malcolm says, assuming that Sam will beat out Mihaela and survive to the finals. Then he turns his attention on me. He retrieves a cardboard box and removes the lid, revealing a dozen film reels, all carefully labeled by date. “Here’s your homework. Happy birthday, rookie.”
My birthday isn’t until October. “What are these?”
“Giselle’s greatest hits,” he replies. “They’re recordings of each one of her international matches from ’61 and onward. I’ve watched three of them and wrote down notes, but you’ll need to finish up the rest. Jot down anything that looks noteworthy, and we’ll go over it together.” He proceeds to plop the box into my arms and point me toward the viewing area that the Jays have set up in Team Switzerland’s old training section. There’s a projector, a screen, and a chair where I can sit and watch.
“Just like the movies,” I say to myself, and pop the first reel out of its case.
Over the next few hours, I watch and rewatch the reels until I’ve made my way through half the box. I use Malcolm’s notes as a starting point of what to look out for. He didn’t write much, but what he has done so far is insightful, paying attention to any particular moves that Giselle favors, pointing out that she’s left-handed, keeping a tally of every punch versus every kick to predict how she might attack me. She’s very good, I have to say. Very quick and light on her feet, but she also packs quite the punch. As soon as the whistle blows to kick off a match, she becomes a blur of movement, jabbing and kicking and grabbing until the other fighter gets overwhelmed and makes a mistake.
But I do have to admit that Sam was correct. Giselle is only middling to average when it comes to deflecting aerial attacks. There’s something about the mechanics of it that trips her up and makes her more sluggish than usual. Still, I’m going to have my work cut out for me tomorrow. While Giselle is ranked seventh in the world, when it comes to speed she’s only second behind Lidiya in the time it takes to eliminate their opponents.
A crick is forming in my neck when Malcolm makes his grand return and tells me I ought to get some food before the dining hall closes for lunch.
“Let me finish this reel and I’ll come right over,” I say as I scribble a few sentences. “I’ve got a list of questions to talk through with you later—”
But when I glance up, Malcolm is gone.
“Coach?” I say, but it’s useless. He and Sam have already turned the corner, probably hashing out more strategy. I consider following them, but pride holds me back. Well, fine. Just like I’ve done for years, I’ll have to take over my own coaching.
I stride toward the restroom to splash some cold water onto my face because I need a good jolt to get me through the next couple hours of film watching. The training center really has become a ghost town, especially one particular hallway that housed the teams from Italy, Senegal, and Colombia, which have all been eliminated. Most of their equipment has been packed up and now awaits shipment, and I’m navigating my way through a few boxes left in the corridor, when a noise makes my head jerk to my left.
My gaze collides into Rushi, who’s stepping out of Team Italy’s section with her arms carrying two esterium batteries. She freezes as soon as she spots me.
“J-Jo!” she stammers. Her cheeks immediately flush. “What are you doing?”
“On my way to the bathroom.” I could ask the same of her, but it’s pretty easy to figure out what’s going on. She’s pilfering those batteries—although I’m not sure why.
“You see …” she says, fishing for an excuse. “Our battery shipment never arrived! Team Senegal said that we could have theirs.”
My eyes flick upward toward a banner above her head that proudly displays the Italian flag. Rushi must notice it too because her face flushes redder than before.
“Please don’t tell the IC,” she whispers. She turns around, probably to put the batteries back.
“Wait,” I hear myself say. Could Team China be so bad off that they don’t have enough batteries for their fighters? I’d assumed that their government would’ve supplied Rushi and her partner with plenty, not only with batteries, but with mechas and equipment and spare parts as well. Like the Association has done for Sam and me.
But China isn’t the US, now is it? I remember what Giselle told me about the famine over there. If the Chinese can hardly feed their own people, it would make sense that esterium batteries would be a real luxury.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” I say to her. I guess I could get in trouble for this, but Rushi needs those batteries a whole lot more than Team Italy. Heck, I could’ve given her a few if she had asked. We’ve got storage lockers full of them, and I figured that every team had the same. But I should’ve known better. Maybe the countries at the Games are a bit like the schools back at home, split between the haves and have-nots.
Rushi’s face fills with relief, and she grips those batteries tight. “Thank you! If you need anything, please tell me.”
I nod and am about to let her hurry off until I decide to take her up on the offer. “Actually, I do have a favor to ask. I could use a little advice.”
Now she looks a little surprised, but she says, “Of course. What about?”
“About Giselle. I’m facing her next in the pit, and I’ve noticed that she has a hard time defending against aerial attacks. Since you’ve got a knack for that, maybe you have a technique or some tips you could tell me.”
Rushi hesitates as I expected her to do. Sharing intel with your competitors is almost unheard of, but it helps my case that I’m keeping her secret and that I bailed her out in the arena when she was tied up with Team Austria.
My good deeds swing back in my favor because Rushi, although looking a little unsure, gives me a nod. “Can you do a flip?”
I laugh. “Not like you can.”
“I can show you.”
I’m pretty doubtful that she can teach me something like that in a few minutes, but I’m a little desperate, so I follow her into Team Italy’s unused training pit. Once inside, she climbs up four of the rungs and launches herself off, executing a perfect flip in the air where her feet fly over her head and yet she manages to land in one piece on the ground. And she’s not even inside a mecha.
“I think that’s a little advanced for me,” I say. “Got anything else?”
“Try it with your mecha,” she insists. “It will do the work for you, but you must arch your back and you must keep your eyes aimed at the ground. Your feet will follow.”
I’m still pretty doubtful, but I’ll take anything at this point. “Can you do that again?”
I watch her more closely this time, noting the positioning of her hands and feet before she takes off and scrutinizing how she moves through the air, memorizing as much as I can. Sam’s video camera bot would sure come in handy right about now. I’m both eager and anxious to try this out myself—in the safety of my Goliath—but our lesson soon gets interrupted when we hear someone calling for Rushi. Her back goes straight as steel.
“That’s Envoy Yu,” she says. “I need to go.”
So soon? But there’s an urgency in her voice that tells me she can’t stick around. “Thanks for the tip.”
She’s already walking away and grabbing those batteries before she stops and turns aroun
d. “Zhù nǐ hǎo yùn. That means good luck in Chinese.”
I try to repeat the words back to her, but I fail spectacularly so I opt for a simple “Same to you.”
She scurries off, her last words echoing in my head. But maybe I won’t need to depend on luck tomorrow now that I’m armed with Rushi’s advice.
* * *
I’m up by five thirty the following day to prepare for the match, jerking awake as soon as my alarm bot starts blaring. I run a brush through my hair and give my teeth a good scrubbing, but before I head down to breakfast, I make sure to call Peter again, even though it’s basically the middle of the night in San Francisco. I expect him to pepper me with advice about my Goliath to pass along to the engineers or discuss my strategy against Giselle, but he only gives one-word answers.
“You ought to get back up to bed. I won’t fight for another four hours,” I say. “You must be tired, huh?”
“A little. It’s just—” He stops himself. I can hear him breathing hard on the line, which sometimes happens when he’s feeling nervous. “Never mind.”
“What? Tell me.” It takes a couple more tries before he spits it out.
“I overheard Dad talking to the landlady. She said that she’d give us another month in the apartment, but if she doesn’t get the full payment by then, we’ll have to go,” Peter says.
I swear my heart splits clean in half because I can’t hug him and I bet that he’s standing in the dark of our store, trying to save a dime or two on electricity.
His voice twists sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I curse under my breath. Of all times, why does this have to happen right now? “Look, I will figure this out. I promise.”
“But you should’ve let me know. I could’ve helped; I could’ve done more repairs at the shop.”
I sigh into the receiver. Fixing more vacuuming bots wouldn’t have made much of a difference. “Don’t worry, okay?”
“Will you stop treating me like I’m two years old?”
I pull the phone away from my ear for a second and blink at it. I can’t remember the last time Peter lost his cool.
“I’m sorry, squirt—”
“My name isn’t squirt,” he replies in a huff.
I try again. “I’m sorry, Peter. I really am. Dad and I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You mean you didn’t think I could handle it.”
“No, that wasn’t it at all,” I say, but I stop myself. Wasn’t that our exact reasoning though? “Listen, didn’t I tell you that I’ve got this handled? I’ll be signing an endorsement deal with Goody soon. We’ll have plenty of cash for rent and more leftover.”
He goes quiet. “Really?”
I shouldn’t lie to him. I haven’t even spoken to anyone at Goody, but at this point, I’ll sell whatever they want. Hair curlers. Green face masks. They can take my pride too as long as I’m paid. “Don’t say anything to Dad yet, not until I’ve signed on the dotted line. But just you wait. Soon we’ll be saying arrivederci to the landlady, like I’m going to do to Giselle after our match.”
Peter coughs out a laugh. “Arrivederci is Italian. I think you mean au revoir.”
“Yeah, yeah, poindexter.”
“I’m sorry I got mad at you. You need to focus on your match.”
“I will, and I meant what I said. I’ll take care of the landlady, I promise.”
Peter might be feeling better after we hang up, but there’s a weight sitting on my chest now. I’ve never broken a promise to my brother, and that’s one record that I’d like to keep perfect.
I arrive at the training center on the early side to practice my back flip again. I spent a couple of hours last night trying out the move, nearly breaking my Goliath’s neck in the process, but I managed to pull it off. It’s pretty sloppy and my landing is all wobbly, but I plan on practicing a few more times this morning before going to the stadium.
I slip into a Goliath and duck into one of our training pits. I don’t have Rushi to advise me, but I remember well enough what she told me yesterday. Bend the knees low. Arch my back until it hurts. Keep my eyes on the ground for the landing. I keep doing it over and over because this is my last dress rehearsal before the big show, and while I can’t say I execute the flip smoothly, I do feel confident enough to file it into my arsenal.
When I arrive at the stadium, I try to keep my nerves at bay and focus on my usual routine. Stretches. A light jog. A warm shower, not too hot. I dry my hair and pull it into a ponytail before changing into my official uniform, freshly laundered and smelling clean.
Malcolm awaits me outside the locker room, nursing a big mug of coffee. “How’re you feeling?”
“As good as I can hope.”
“Giselle will come at you fast so stay on your toes. If you can, position yourself so that she swings at you with her right hand since that’s her weaker one.” He looks me over slowly, his gaze unreadable. “Here’s your chance to prove yourself one-on-one against the seventh-ranked fighter in the world, so don’t hold anything back.”
I plant a hand on my hip. “Is that how you say good luck in Malcolm-ese?”
“Luck doesn’t have much to do with it. It’s all strategy and skill.”
“Good thing I have those in spades, huh?”
“You can do anything you set your mind to, Linden,” he says, which seems like a nice thing to say, but Malcolm delivers it like he’s reading from a textbook.
With that vote of confidence ringing in my ears, we walk over to the prep area, and I approach my Goliath. The IC has already weighed and inspected it, so it’s a matter of suiting up before I can go up to the main floor. I strap myself in and shove in my mouth guard, followed by clicking on my helmet. I run through a few moves to make sure the mecha is in sync with me before the Jays signal that it’s time to go.
I take a deep breath as a whole flock of butterflies swarm around in my stomach.
Malcolm and I step onto the elevator, and when we pop into the stadium, I see that it’s already packed. It might be a home game for me, but the French fans have turned out in droves, and I swear they fill at least a third of the seats. They’re singing and chanting at the top of their lungs since Giselle has already stepped onto the floor ahead of me and is waving at the stands.
Compared to the Round 1 arena, there’s a lot less fanfare to kick off our match. We gather by our team benches first to listen to the recordings of our national anthems. As the French fans sing along to “La Marseillaise,” I look down at Sam, who has been trying to get my attention.
“Remember what I said about Giselle,” he says just loudly enough for me to hear.
I nod back. “I’ve got a little something up my sleeve for that.”
“Oh, really?”
I don’t get a chance to reply because now “The Star Spangled Banner” has queued up, and we have to face our flag and place our hands over our hearts. I keep my eyes on the stars and stripes while I focus on my breathing, filling my lungs deeply before releasing them.
After the last note of the song rings out, the head referee tells Giselle and me to enter the pit, with Giselle on the north end and me on the south. The enormous cage from the arena has been removed and replaced with a standard-size one that we walk into. We shake hands as is customary, but I make it quick and drop her fingers fast. What she did to me in the arena still pricks at me and I’m itching for payback.
The announcer starts the countdown. I breathe out. Clench my teeth over my mouth guard. Crouch down.
Knowing Giselle, she’s going to crash out of the gate at full speed, just like the Ravager did at the Jade Lily. I get ready to wait and dodge her attack.
The countdown hits zero and the announcer shouts, “And here we go—Linden of the US against Boucher of France!”
I stand on my toes, gearing up to sprint left or right, but Giselle catches me off guard.
She doesn’t move. She stays rooted where she stands, not moving a muscle.
I start t
o sweat. What’s she doing?
“Now, this is an interesting change of pace. Both fighters remain at their sides, waiting for the other to make a move,” the announcer observes. He sounds as baffled as I am.
The crowd is going restless. They’ve come to see a fight, not watch the two of us stare at each other from across the pit. Giselle remains in the same position, flexing her mecha’s fingers, and I wonder how long she’ll wait me out.
It dawns on me that she must be switching up tactics to be less predictable, and I’ll admit that it’s working. She has to know I’m not a playmaker and that I like to go on the defense until the opportunity strikes.
A few people in the crowd start to boo, and the sound soon grows into a loud chorus.
Giselle glances up at them with her body growing rigid. I can tell that she isn’t used to this kind of reception from her fans since she’s the golden girl of France, but I tune out the jeers. I’ve gotten so used to them that it feels like I’m fighting in a match back at home, although it’s much louder in a stadium of this size.
Don’t get delicate, my dad would say.
I channel his voice as I consider what I should do right now.
The answer is simple.
I feign to my left, and Giselle rushes to her right, thinking that I’m finally ready to get moving. Then I feign to my right, and she mirrors me again. I do it a couple more times before she gives up, realizing that I’m toying with her. I might not be able to see her face behind her helmet, but I’m pretty sure she’s scowling.
Good, let her get angry.
Even better, let her get furious.
I can hear my dad clear as a bell in my head now and it’s ringing louder by the second. Let her fight angry. Soon enough she’ll make a mistake.
So I do my part by doing a set of jumping jacks, followed by a round of sit-ups. Then I really pile it on thick when I gesture for her to join me. From the corner of my eye, I can see Malcolm pinch the bridge of his nose, obviously embarrassed by my antics, but Sam is slapping his knee.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this in all my years,” I hear the announcer say.
The Great Destroyers Page 16