The Duke of Bannerman Prep

by Katie Nelson

  She turned and wiped the water off the counter, refusing to make eye contact. Then she pressed her lips into a tight smile and nodded once. “Fine.”

  I opened the fridge and grabbed a cheese stick, an apple, and a can of Diet Coke. Turning to the cupboards, I found a sleeve of crackers, a fruit roll, and a bag of chocolate chips.

  Abby rolled her eyes. “There’s a bottle of soy sauce in there, too. And a can of tuna.” She reached past me and grabbed Blake’s soda, marching back to the living room. She handed it to him, but dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, leaving space between her and Blake. Good.

  Shoving the food inside a paper bag, I went back into the bathroom, again locking the door behind me. I opened the medicine cabinet and twisted the childproof lock off the translucent orange bottle. The little white tablets tumbled into my palm. There weren’t as many as I’d thought—maybe twelve or fourteen. They would have to do. I put them back into the bottle and stuffed it into the bottom of the bag.

  My heart was racing. I turned on the faucet and bent down, taking a long drink. When I was done, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and blew all the air out of my lungs.

  I’d always believed I was a good person. I’d spent my whole life looking out for Sam and my mom, working my butt off doing my best. As I shut the medicine cabinet and stared into the mirror, splattered with Sam’s toothpaste, I wondered what I’d become. Had I always been this spineless and pathetic? Or had I changed at some point, and not even noticed?

  I needed to get back. I stuck my head in Sam’s room and said a quick goodbye, promising to come visit again soon. I thought about giving him Kelsey’s message, but decided not to. If things didn’t work out, I didn’t want to disappoint him about that, too.

  In the living room, Abby was snuggled up against Blake while he flipped through the channels. So much for taking my advice. Why did I even care if she picked the Neanderthal over the Duke?

  But I couldn’t let it go.

  In my most insincere voice I announced that I was leaving. “Blake, it was great seeing you. You and Abby, you’re so cute together. A couple of lovebirds. You’re such a devoted couple. You’d never cheat on each other. They should write songs about you two.”

  Blake watched me out of the corner of his eye. I could see him tense, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Abby’s glare was fierce. I didn’t care. I picked up my bag and headed out the door.

  Before it shut behind me, I heard Blake ask Abby, “What was that about?”

  I didn’t hear her response.

  But I did keep one promise to Sam. Before I left, I walked around to the driver’s side of the yellow eyesore, crouched down, and removed the caps from both of Blake’s front tires. With my key, I pushed on the valve and listened to the air hiss out. As I replaced the caps, Sam peeked out his window. He was smiling, so proud of his big brother.

  I felt sick. Blake might be a jerk, but I was even worse.

  I was a hypocrite. And a liar. And a thief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  STATE QUALS WERE TWO WEEKS away. To the team, nothing else mattered. Not the hurricane, which was obliterating most of Florida, or the air traffic controller’s strike, which had grounded seventy percent of domestic flights, and sure as hell not the Academy Awards, which seemed to be the focus of every magazine and news channel.

  I spent every waking minute preparing for that tournament. Everybody thought my intensity was because of our previous loss. Even Watterson joked that he should have fixed a round earlier in the season to get this kind of effort out of me.

  But that wasn’t it. I’d bought myself a second chance, and I knew I wouldn’t get another one. And, truth be told, if I was busy, I didn’t have to think about the last couple of months. If I fell into bed after midnight every night, completely exhausted, then I wouldn’t lie awake wondering about all of the things that I should have or could have done differently.

  Even though the Duke assured me that we were good—we’d purchased Rick’s silence, along with the backup video of us from the surveillance camera—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. I expected it. I deserved it.

  That night, I was in the library checking sources for some of our briefs. I had no idea where the Duke was but, to be honest, I’d quit keeping score in the who-does-the-most-work tally.

  After a few hours, the words were all starting to run together on the page.

  “You can’t bring those in here!”

  Walt was all red-faced and shaking, about to have a coronary behind his desk. Kelsey had walked in carrying a paper sack and a couple of Starbucks cups. Teenagers and hot beverages. It was probably the stuff of a librarian’s worst nightmares.

  She set her stuff down on the counter in front of him. “Come on, Walt. We’ll be careful. You can’t expect us to work on empty stomachs.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the plural pronouns. I really hoped that I was the other half of the us and we.

  “No way,” Walt said. “No food or drinks. If I let you do it, everyone will be doing it.”

  “And then the system will break down and we’ll dissolve into total anarchy, huh?” Kelsey turned and smiled across the room at me. “Then I’m going to have to convince Tanner to ditch his insanely fascinating research and join me outside?”

  I tried to suppress my smile. After quickly packing up my stuff, I met her at Walt’s desk, where I returned the journal he’d tracked down for me. He wouldn’t let me take it out of the building or I’d risk offending the interlibrary-loan gods. “I’ll be back for that tomorrow. Don’t let anyone else have it.”

  Walt smoothed the cover. “Who would want it besides you?”

  I imagined Tran would love to get his grubby hands on it. Though we were teammates, there was always a chance we could compete against each other in finals.

  “Grab the drinks,” Kelsey said. I followed her outside. She walked to the far edge of the steps, next to the wheelchair ramp, and sat down. I dropped my backpack and sat next to her.

  “What’s all this?”

  Kelsey didn’t meet my eyes. She took one of the cups and her fingers brushed mine. “Call it a peace offering,” she said. “We never got to talk, you know, before.”

  I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers, trying to focus on that instead of the crazy combination of fear and adrenaline that seemed to surge when we were together. I took a small sip. Hot chocolate with a shot of mint. Of course she remembered how I liked it.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking another sip. “I’m pretty sure, though, that I’m the one who should be providing a peace offering.”

  She shrugged. “I got tired of waiting. Plus, I felt bad. I was too hard on you at the last tournament.”

  I couldn’t look at her. She hadn’t been too hard on me; she’d been right. I took a deep breath. “Look, I know I owe you an apology. But every time I think about doing it, I make a list of all the things I should say, and I realize how completely inadequate it would be. I know I’ve screwed up. I wish that I could say a couple of words and make it all better, but I know I can’t. And I’m not just talking about with you. I’ve screwed so many things up. I’ve crossed so many lines….” I shook my head and looked down at the cold concrete steps.

  “So stop.”

  “Stop? You act like it’s so simple.”

  “Why isn’t it?” She waited for me to look at her. “You don’t like the things you’ve done? The person you’ve become? Then stop. Be you. Be real.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “I wish I could.”

  “Look,” Kelsey said, turning to face me, her knees bumping mine. “I’m not saying that things aren’t going to suck for a while. You can’t choose the consequences. But you can choose who you are. You just have to want it bad enough.”

  Want it, huh? Wanting was never my problem. There had always been so many things I’d wanted. It was getting them that was difficult.

&n
bsp; But I didn’t want to think about all of that right now. I just wanted to sit on these steps with Kelsey.

  “You know what I want?” I looked at Kelsey, a smile spreading across my face.

  “What?”

  I put my arm around her and she closed her eyes. I grabbed the paper sack next to her and pulled it away. Her eyes popped open and her cheeks flushed, as she tried to steal the bag back.

  “I was going to share, but not when you turn into Mr. Grabby. Didn’t you learn anything in preschool?”

  I held the bag out of her reach as I peeked inside. “Mmmm. Donut holes?”

  I took one out, but Kelsey grabbed it out of my hand. “You don’t deserve these. These are not just donut holes. They are little bites of awesome.”

  She stuffed the whole thing in her mouth and chewed, eyes closed, moaning about how good it was.

  I had to try one.

  I popped one in my mouth. She was right. It was a donut hole, glazed in sugar, but inside the still-warm dough was a burst of raspberry filling.

  I finished chewing and reached for another one.

  Kelsey was grinning. “First, tell me I’m right. These are amazing, right?”

  “They are the perfect proportion of dough to filling to sugar. I bow to your knowledge of pastry goodness. Now can I please have another one?”

  She handed me the bag. I took one, then offered her another. As we both chewed, I leaned against her, bumping my shoulder into hers. I wanted to kiss her. She had thought I was going to, earlier. But I didn’t want to screw this up. For now, being out here with her like this—it was enough.

  “You know what the best part is?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I bought enough to share with Walt. But he kicked us out. So now he doesn’t get any.”

  “Oh, these are way too good for Walt. You’d ruin the poor man. You can’t show him a glimpse of this kind of living and then send him back to his apartment, to his Pop-Tarts and seven cats. That would be inhumane.”

  “Seven cats? No way. I think he’s a one-pet kinda guy. And it’s a ferret.”

  We sat like that, licking our fingers and eating donut holes and talking about poor Walt the librarian’s life, until the clock tower chimed and we had to run back to our dorms just in time for curfew.

  It all came down to this one day. Twelve, thirteen hours at most, that would determine my future.

  If this didn’t work, if we didn’t qualify, none of the rest would matter. Sure, I still had my senior year where I’d be watched, and sure, if I qualified I’d have to prove myself again at State, but if I didn’t—if we couldn’t win today—it would be over. Stanford. Scholarship. All of it.

  The school hosting State Quals was only about twenty minutes away, but since most of the boarders didn’t have cars, Watterson had us all take a bus, anyway. We arrived at the campus plenty early, unloaded all our stuff, and took over a long row of tables in the cafeteria.

  I couldn’t sit and wait. I’d hardly eaten anything for breakfast, yet my stomach felt like it was caught in class-five whitewater rapids. It churned and gurgled, and the only thing that seemed to help was movement. So I walked.

  I found Tran outside the library practicing his first speech by reciting to a tree. I didn’t dare interrupt. Circling back between two classroom buildings, I found the Duke and Watterson, standing apart from everyone. Watterson was sucking down a cigarette while the Duke nodded, his face pale.

  Watterson spotted me and waved me over. “Tanner, I was looking for you.”

  “What’s up?” I asked. My stomach dove again.

  “Pairings are luck of the draw. You guys know that, right?”

  We nodded.

  “Well, either you two have the worst luck, or the best. You’re up against those guys from Miramonte. First round.”

  For a second, neither of us spoke. Miramonte. The one and only team we’d ever lost to.

  “Are we affirmative or negative?” I asked.

  Watterson hesitated for a moment. “Negative.”

  We had been negative when we lost to them last time.

  Before I had time to freak out, Watterson started talking. “Look, that’s actually the best thing you could hope for. You already know their case. Food-stamp reform, right? You know what case attacks worked. You know where their evidence is weak. And you only have to win one voting issue. The judges here know their theory. So don’t let those guys get inside your heads. You two have the best record in the league. Go in there and kick some ass.”

  The Duke nodded like a bobblehead, a sly smile forming on his lips. “What? No inspirational music, too? And you call yourself our coach.”

  I rolled my eyes, but smiled.

  “Win this round and I’ll play whatever song you like.” He took another puff, then dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his shiny, Italian leather shoe. “I’ve got to get back. They’ll be posting in a few minutes.”

  He turned to walk away, but the Duke yelled after him, “Watterson. Brush up on your Queen. I want to hear ‘We Are the Champions’ when we finish this round.”

  Watterson turned around, but continued walking backward. “You have to win the whole tournament if you want that one.”

  The Duke didn’t miss a beat. “I plan to.”

  Watterson smiled and turned, disappearing into a crowd of students. I didn’t have the Duke’s confidence. It didn’t matter. A short bald man was headed toward the cafeteria, holding several sheets of paper, ready to post them on the wall.

  The Duke had seen him, too. “Well, you heard Watterson. Time to go kick some ass.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘arse’?” I asked.

  “That, too.”

  The guy from Miramonte walked up to the podium. Papers in hand, he set his own stopwatch on the edge of the desk, tapped the pages together, and looked across the room. “Are the judges ready?” he asked.

  We looked at the three judges seated in the back of the room. A guy, late forties, wearing a black Giants baseball cap. A woman, a little bit younger, blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, sipping from a Starbucks cup. And another guy, who looked college-aged, flipping his pen in his hand. Definitely a former debater. The judges nodded. The stopwatch beeped, and the Miramonte kid began speaking.

  He talked quickly, but not so fast as to be considered spreading. On my legal pad, I jotted down notes, my mind already a few steps ahead, thinking about which arguments I would lead with. In a manila file under my legal pad, I’d already pulled several briefs and I’d been trying to follow along on my flowsheet from the previous round. But as I listened, the evidence he was reading didn’t correlate with what I had written down. So I looked over at the Duke, and saw him scribbling furiously on his legal pad. On a lime green Post-It, I wrote What? and nudged him with my elbow.

  The Duke glanced at the note and went back to writing. Under his breath, he whispered. “Different case. Building more transitional housing.” When I didn’t respond, he reached across the Post-It and wrote the word shelters, underlining it three times.

  It finally sunk in. All my food-stamp evidence was useless. We were debating shelters.

  I looked across the room at the other guy from Miramonte. He was at least two hundred pounds and had the brightest red hair I’d ever seen. He was looking at me, grinning like an idiot. He mouthed the word, “Surprise!” At that moment, I wanted to strangle him with his tie. I turned back to my legal pad and began copying down the Duke’s notes onto my flow chart.

  There went our advantage.

  The first speech ended. When the Duke stood up to begin cross-examination, I panicked. I had three minutes until I needed to give my constructive speech. Three minutes. I could hear the Duke’s voice, though I didn’t catch the question, then the nasal rambling of the skinny Miramonte guy answering. And still I sat there, staring at my flowchart.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know where to begin.

  The Duke walked back to our table, re
ached across to pick up a pad of Post-Its with nothing written on them, and kicked me. Hard. I glanced at the judges to see if they’d noticed. It didn’t seem like it. Still feeling the ache in my shin, I got to work.

  I knew exactly where the transitional-housing file was. Pulling it out of the box, I began scanning the tag lines. My pencil was moving. Notes filled the page as I continued to read. The Duke’s next question was louder. He asked about construction costs, property values. I pulled the spending disadvantage. I was prepping my dependency argument as he asked his next question. I met his eye briefly and smiled. We were in sync. We could do this.

  Cross-ex was up and as the Duke came back to our table, he announced, “We’d like to use a minute of prep time.” The judges nodded.

  “I don’t need it,” I whispered. “I think I’m ready.”

  He glanced over my flowchart, nodding. “I know. But this has become a mind game. And I want those two to have one more minute before they crap their pants.”

  I grinned. “All right then.”

  The Duke started humming so low that only I could hear. At first, I didn’t recognize the tune. Then, as I gathered everything up and pushed my chair out to stand, it clicked. “We Are the Champions.”

  I couldn’t suppress my smile as I took my place to speak.

  The chubby guy had the annoying habit of getting louder the more worked up he got. As he finished his constructive speech, he was practically screaming. I lowered my voice as I began cross-examination, and actually got a smile from the woman judge. Chubby didn’t notice and continued to rant. Advantage: me.

  We took a couple of minutes of prep time before the Duke began his constructive speech. He would answer most of Chubby’s arguments, and present a couple more of our own, while I would respond to everything else in my rebuttal. I agreed to pull some briefs as the Duke spoke, knowing exactly where they were. I was running on pure adrenaline. If we didn’t screw up, we could win this.

  Then the Duke rose to speak and the gloves came off. He tore down their case, contention by contention. I stacked the briefs on the edge of the desk, and as he picked them up and read each piece of evidence, his voice crisp and clear, I was more and more sure of our victory.