I doubt anyone has, and my cheeks flush furiously because I really am making a fool of myself, but I do have a strategy in mind. Hopefully Peter is getting a good laugh out of this too, although I’m sure Dad might be thinking I’ve gone a little loopy, and on international television of all places. I can see him grinding his molars, murmuring that I better have a reason for monkeying around.
But it’s working.
Giselle looks like an angry bull at a bullfight, and she’s ready to charge at the matador. Or me in this case. Suddenly she takes off sprinting, straight down the middle of the pit, clearly giving up on her strategy to make me take the first move.
I’m ready for her. Springing off my toes, I leap up before she can catch me, reaching for the bars and swinging across them before dropping down back onto the floor. I plan on deploying my trusty dodge-and-run tactic for a while to tire her out, but Giselle is incredibly fast. In another life, she would’ve made an excellent sprinter like her dad.
I jump from one side of the pit to the opposite, then change it up by scaling the cage, but not swiftly enough. Giselle’s fingertips close around my left heel, and that’s all she needs to yank me back down to the ground. While she lands neatly on her feet, I careen onto my side so hard that for a second my vision blurs, but I have enough brain cells firing that I roll out of the way before Giselle can pin me.
“We really got a brawl on our hands now!” the announcer shouts.
As soon as I get to my feet, she juts out a leg to knock me over. I dodge it and scuttle back, right before she rushes forward to clock me in the cheek. I shake off the blow and clip her under the chin, but I don’t get the momentum I need to really do some damage. I follow up by grabbing her mecha’s shoulders and adding in a hiza geri to the gut, which hits home. I hear a satisfying crunch, but Giselle is ranked in the top ten worldwide for a reason. Even dazed, she has the reflexes of a street cat, clever and quick. Recovering fast, she makes a grab for me and almost slams me to the floor, but I twist away. I make her chase me again, and when she’s nearly on me, I figure it’s now or never. I still have enough energy to pull this off.
I race toward the side of the cage, making sure I’ve got enough velocity to make this work, and I run up the metal bars—one rung, two, three, then four—to get into proper position like I’ve practiced. I may not have Rushi’s grace, but I remember what she showed me, making sure to bend my knees low to give myself the momentum I need before pushing off and soaring into the air, arching my back and keeping my eyes on the ground.
“Wow, would you look at that, folks!” the announcer cries. “Jo Linden is showing off some of her acrobatic chops!”
When my feet touch down again, I’m now facing Giselle’s back. The crowd collectively gasps at my move, and my adrenaline is surging as I lunge forward and wrap my arms around her middle, wrestling her to the floor while I have the advantage of surprise.
I’m panting by the time the head ref reaches the count of five and blows his whistle, and I’m breathing hard when Giselle shoves me off and stalks out of the pit without the standard handshake.
The American fans have erupted onto their feet. I’m hit with a wave of the noise from the crowd, almost like it has grown into a living and breathing thing with a roar and a heartbeat. Over on Team USA’s bench I see Sam whooping and jumping up and down while Malcolm merely looks stunned.
The announcer says, “The winner of the match is Josephine Linden of Team USA!”
I can feel the cameras on me, zeroing in on my face, and all I can think about is Peter, three thousand miles away, but he’s here in my heart.
I pull off my helmet and pump my fist in the air as a huge grin breaks over my face.
Two matches down, squirt, I think. Three more to go.
Round 2 finishes up and our competitor pool of sixteen gets halved to eight. Sam wins his match against Romania in record time—under four minutes and with hardly a scratch on his Goliath. I watched the whole thing from Team USA’s bench, and the crowd went absolutely wild, crying and yelling and tossing gifts onto the stadium floor like the standard roses and stuffed bears and more than enough women’s underwear to keep the girls’ dormitory stocked for the year. As soon as Sam lifted up his arms to wave to the stands, everyone started chanting, “Champ-ion! Cham-pi-on! Cham-pi-on!” so loudly that my ears rang for almost an hour.
After his victory, Sam and I get some time off to rest and recuperate—meaning we only have one training session each day versus two or three—but we can’t get out of a dinner to honor the final eight fighters. I won’t complain too much about this one though since it’ll be hosted at the most exclusive spot in all of Washington. The White House.
At six o’clock in the evening, I step out of my dormitory and head toward a black limousine that awaits me. Both Sam and Malcolm are already inside the car, and I climb in carefully to join them since I don’t want to wrinkle my outfit. The wardrobe team had brought in a whole rack of dresses for me to pick from, most of them pastel colors with too much frill, but I insisted on a navy sheath dress with a boat-neck neckline, something that Jackie O might be spotted in. No Patty Duke for me tonight.
“You look spiffy,” I say to Sam, who’s sporting a black tux and combed-back hair.
“Looking spiffy yourself, kiddo. Hardly recognized you with your hair down,” he replies, but his usual charm can’t be found. He has been acting subdued ever since we got news of the Round 3 bracket earlier this morning, and I can’t blame him.
I’ll be pitted against Zoya Federova, ranked third in the world.
But Sam has it worse.
He’ll have to fight Lidiya.
It’ll be Team USA versus Team USSR, not once but twice in the span of twelve hours. I have the morning slot for my match while Sam has the evening.
“I’ve already told the First Lady’s staff that we’ll stay for ninety minutes, tops,” Malcolm says, sounding tired and frazzled. He’s wearing a black tux as well, but it looks more rumpled than Sam’s. “We’ll go in, shake hands, eat some food, and scram. The two of you have big matches tomorrow. The biggest of the Games yet.”
Sam and I nod and spend the rest of the ride over in silence until we pull up to the White House gate. A couple soldiers ask for our identification before they let us into the private driveway.
“Wow,” I whisper as we pull up to the building and step outside.
A butler bot greets us upon our arrival, standing about the height of my shoulder and rolling on wheels, and I wonder how much it must’ve cost. It plays a short recorded message that welcomes us to the White House and to please follow it to the festivities. But I can’t help but linger outside for a moment, staring up at the white marble columns, so tall that I feel like a mouse standing next to them. Just a week ago, I’d never left the West Coast before, and now I’m about to step inside the president’s personal residence.
I stiffen as I enter the building, keeping my arms tight at my sides because I don’t want to knock over a vase or a candlestick because everything looks like a precious antique that Martha Washington herself might’ve purchased. The bot guides us into the grand-looking Blue Room, which was recently renovated under the direction of the First Lady herself. The walls are covered in cream silk and gold paneling while a massive chandelier hangs down from the center of the ceiling, each of its crystals the size of my thumb. There’s also plenty of blue decor too—a not-so-subtle nod to the room’s formal name—from the blue silk draperies to the gold-and-blue chairs.
I grab a seltzer water from a nearby service bot and let my gaze roam around the room that’s filled with dignitaries and IC members and, of course, the fighters. I spot Albie talking to the Ogler from West Germany. Rushi and Envoy Yu are admiring a painting of John Quincy Adams. But we’re missing the Soviets, who must be running fashionably late as always.
Senator Appleby spots us from the crowd and walks up to Sam and me. “There’s the dynamic duo!” she says, greeting us both.
I of
fer her a hand to shake, but she pulls me into a quick hug and murmurs into my ear, “You’re making this Californian real proud. Keep up the good work, Jo.”
I smile genuinely at that. Sam might have his fan club trailing him wherever he goes, but I have a US senator personally rooting for me, so I think I might win out in the end.
“And you remember Minister Tran of South Vietnam, don’t you?” she continues, motioning behind her, but the minister isn’t there. It looks like he tried to leave his empty plate on one of the trash-collecting bots and got waylaid by Envoy Yu, who’s smiling and asking if he has a moment to talk.
Senator Appleby frowns slightly but adjusts her attention toward the center of the room. “Why don’t you two come with me? There are a couple people who want to welcome you personally.”
I realize that she’s referring to the president and First Lady.
It’s a blur what happens next. Senator Appleby makes the introductions, and as I shake their hands all I can think about is how the president has lovely teeth and that Jackie Kennedy is the most glamorous person I’ve ever laid eyes on. Tonight she’s wearing a strapless gown that glides over her curves, paired with matching silk gloves and a bouffant hairdo that would look absolutely ridiculous on me and yet somehow perfect on her. The black-and-white newspaper pictures I’ve seen of the First Lady don’t do her any justice. You really have to see her in Technicolor to get the full effect.
“I’ll admit that when I first heard that Senator Appleby tapped you to replace Ted on the team, I wasn’t sure what to think,” President Kennedy tells me in his clipped New England accent. “But as soon as I saw you in the arena, I knew why she picked you.”
Mrs. Kennedy chimes in next. “You’ll have to sign an autograph for our daughter, Caroline.”
While I stand there in a state of utter shock, Senator Appleby calls Sam’s mother and stepfather over to join the throng. It’s quickly apparent that Sam’s stepdad and the president have met before since Boeing must have some pretty big government contracts. The two get talking about the first Goliath prototype that will one day fly in space, developed by NASA and contracted out to Boeing to make a few parts like the battery packs.
“In thirty years, if we scale this correctly, we could have a colony in space. A whole new territory for the US,” says Mr. Kealey, a smile in his voice. “I’ve been trying to talk Sammy here into entering the pilot training for the program. We’re going to need the best and the boldest, not to mention plenty of esterium. These new mines opening up in South Vietnam will be a big help.”
“The treaty hasn’t been signed yet, but we’re very close,” Senator Appleby says, looking a tad uncomfortable that they’re speaking about this so openly. “And before that happens, we have the Games to keep us busy. Fortunately we’ve got two excellent fighters still in the running this year.” She’s beaming at Sam and me like a proud mother hen.
“That’s right. Sam will be up against Lidiya,” Mr. Kealey says, sounding not too pleased. “We were all hoping that he wouldn’t have to face her until the finals. It would’ve been a real showdown.”
“They don’t have any control over that, dear,” Sam’s mother says, touching her husband’s arm, but I can tell that he’s still bothered. Beside her, Sam grips his glass of orange juice.
“Sammy will just have to bring his best tomorrow. Isn’t that right, son?” Mr. Kealey says, patting Sam’s arm like he’s some faithful beagle. “Maybe your teammate here can give you a few pointers on how to beat another girl in the pit. What do you say, Miss Linden?” He chuckles. “How can he fight off those shifty feminine wiles?”
The First Lady covers her grimace with a strained smile, but I’ve pretty much run out of the ability to hold in my sarcasm.
“Maybe Sam could ask her to make a sandwich for him. Let those feminine instincts kick right in,” I say.
I think Mr. Kealey is actually considering the idea while the First Lady stifles a laugh, but the president and the senator don’t seem to hear me, which is both a relief and a shame because I think my retort was pretty clever. But the two of them are eyeing the door and nodding at the people approaching.
“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” the First Lady says graciously before she and her husband head off to greet the Soviet delegation.
Premier Khrushchev has arrived with First Lady Khrushcheva on his arm, who’s nowhere near as dazzling as Jacqueline Kennedy but has a cheerful smile for everyone she sees, which makes me warm to her. I’ve also heard that she’s a big proponent of world peace, even going so far as to make a speech about dumping all military mechas into the ocean, so maybe the Reds aren’t all warmongers like I’ve been taught.
Zoya trails behind the Khrushchevs, and I hold my breath and wait for Lidiya to come barreling in as well, but she doesn’t show. Soon we get word that she has a headache, and her team doctor has advised that she take an early night. Sam visibly relaxes when he hears this because now he doesn’t have to pretend to make nice with her. I can’t complain either since I’m sure Lidiya would’ve used tonight to blame me for something else.
I keep my eyes on the Soviets. Speaking through his translator, Khrushchev compliments Mrs. Kennedy on the furnishings, remarking on the drapes that she’d picked out herself. Over in the corner, Zoya grabs a champagne flute from a service bot while Rushi claims one for herself. My mind flicks to tomorrow, when I’ll have to face Zoya in the pit, but I get momentarily distracted when I notice Sam has taken out his video camera to film the festivities.
“Documenting the night for your brothers?” I ask.
“Just for a minute. Stan wanted to come and play hide-and-seek in the White House, so he’s sulking. I told him this would be boring anyway.” He pans over the guests before landing on his mother and stepfather, who’s talking to Senator Appleby and First Lady Khrushcheva about the March on Washington that Dr. King is planning for August and how it won’t be great for the economy and maybe there’s something that she can do about it.
“That’s dear old dad for you,” Sam says dryly. “I think he sometimes wishes that my mom had given birth to bags of money rather than my brothers.”
I choke a little on my drink. All this time I had been hoping to find a couple sponsors, but it sounds like I should’ve just asked Sam’s stepfather for a check.
“How long have he and your mom been married?”
“Since I was five.” His voice is uncharacteristically flat when he adds, “She’d been his secretary.”
I whistle low. “Scandalous. But it can’t be all bad, right? Don’t you get a new Goliath at the start of every season?”
Sam scowls. “You kidding? My stepdad is a tightwad. I paid for my mechas with my sponsorship cash.”
“But he’s so rich! I bet he could buy a thousand Goliaths without losing any sleep.”
“Then he wouldn’t be as rich as he was before,” he replies with a smirk. “And even with this whole space pilot thing, he only wants me to sign on so that Boeing will get more NASA contracts. He thinks my face will boost business, which is exactly why I would never do it.”
“But you’d get to go into space,” I say.
“I don’t want to go on his terms. I’ve got other plans anyway.”
“Like what? Going pro? Building a swimming pool and diving into all the cash you’ll make in endorsements after the Games?”
He laughs at the image. “I hadn’t thought about that, but it sure sounds fun.”
“Seriously, what sort of plans are you cooking up?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Sam actually looks shy. He’s hesitating too.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” I say, and am about to comment on the scallop hors d’oeuvre to change the subject, but Sam shakes his head.
“You weren’t. After this is all over, I’m going to drive back to my old man’s hometown. Vincennes, Indiana.”
“Can’t say that I’ve heard of it.”
He chuckles. “I would’ve been shocked i
f you did. I already spent some time there a few weeks ago. That’s why I wanted to take the car cross-country. Visit the ol’ Dawson homestead.”
“Dawson?”
“My dad’s last name.” The corners of his mouth tighten and he adds softly, “My last name too. Before Mom got remarried and we both became Kealeys.”
He didn’t even get to keep his dad’s own name. No wonder he wanted to see his roots.
“Anyhow, my grandma still lives in town,” he goes on. “In the same house that my dad grew up in.”
I imagine a white farmhouse in my head, surrounded by blue skies and acres of corn. Is that what they grow in Indiana? Maybe wheat? And then suddenly I’m not thinking about corn or wheat or Sam’s father anymore.
I’m thinking about my mom.
She grew up in a town surrounded by orange groves, but that’s all I really know about it. I don’t even know the name or where it’s located or if her family is still there.
I’ve spent my life trying not to think about my mom, but for some reason, here at the Games she won’t stop pestering me.
“It must’ve been tough staying at that house,” I say to Sam.
“That part wasn’t too rough. It was harder to visit his headstone. My grandma put one up in the cemetery in town, but it’s all ceremonial since Dad never came home officially.” Now his eyes go hard. Determined. “But I’ll make it out to Iwo Jima someday.”
“You should go,” I say. I mean it too, and I can’t help but wish that my mom had died a hero’s death like Sam’s father did. I know I can’t really pick and choose that, but it would’ve been easier to mourn her—Sam’s dad didn’t want to leave his family, but my mom obviously had different feelings.
We’re soon led into the State Dining Room at the end of the hallway, and it’s probably the fanciest place I’ve ever stepped inside. The tables are decked out in crisp tablecloths and towering vases full of white orchids. Gold curtains adorn the windows, letting in the fading glow of the setting sun that illuminates a large oil painting of Abraham Lincoln, who seems to oversee our festivities.
The Great Destroyers Page 17