Not Now, Not Ever

by Lily Anderson

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  I took the bottle by the top, carefully avoiding his fingers wrapped around the bottom. He held the second bottle out farther, as though hoping to create a small wrinkle in the universe to pass it through. When that didn’t work, he said, “Leigh?”

  “Yes, please,” Leigh chirped, not moving.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled at the toe of my shoe. “I don’t want to reach. It’d be rude—”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  He started to reach past me as I put my hand out to take the bottle. He sat back, and I dropped my hand.

  “I’ll pass it,” I said.

  The bottle thumped into my palm and I thrust it at Leigh.

  “Much safer than soda,” she said, grinning at Brandon.

  “Much,” he said. He glanced up at me for a second, widening his eyes as if to say, I’m never letting her near soda again.

  I smiled back at him. Screw the rules.

  “Now that we’re all here,” said the Rayevich counselor, adjusting his glasses, “we can go ahead and get started.”

  Meg clapped her hands together. For the first time, I noticed that her shirt had the UCLA logo on it. Was the pleasant weather here making her more chipper or had she successfully murdered the person who’d written on her door?

  “I’ll start,” she said. “I’m Meg Royama. I’m a Messina Academy graduate and I am currently double majoring at UCLA in gender studies and psychology. I’m so happy to be at Camp Onward. My parents never wanted to pay the tuition to let me go here when I was eligible for the Melee. I am the cocaptain of Team One, and I will also be your social science tutor.”

  “And I am Hari Bhardwaj,” said the Rayevich counselor, inclining his head to Meg. “I am your other cocaptain, and I will be your literature tutor. I just finished my junior year here at Rayevich.”

  “Hunter Price,” said the guy next to Hari, slipping his cell phone under his leg. He was sitcom pretty, with expertly mussed blond hair and laser-cut cheekbones. He was giving the Perfect Nerd Girl a run for her money on who could wear the tightest T-shirt. His sleeves were in danger of popping their seams. “I’m seventeen and from Seattle. I’m homeschooled, but I row crew and play soccer.”

  “And what will you do if you win the guaranteed admission to Rayevich?” Meg asked.

  He gave her a smile so lopsided and disarming that it had to have been rehearsed. “Major in environmental science, with an emphasis in urban farming.”

  “Wonderful,” Meg said. “And do you know when and where Greenpeace was founded?”

  A ripple of tension went around the circle. I heard Brandon sigh. Meg kept her placid smile aimed at Hunter, whose fingertips inched toward his phone.

  “It was founded in Vancouver,” he said. He reached up and scratched at his temple. I’d never seen someone scratch their head in thought before. “But I don’t know when.”

  “Nineteen seventy-one,” Hari answered flatly. “Next.”

  “Galen Emiliano-Mendez,” said the boy next to Hunter. He was heavyset, with sharply parted hair. He was sitting on his hands. “I’m from Medford. If I win, I want to study anthropology.”

  “And where were the oldest known human footprints found?” Hari asked.

  Galen gulped. “Africa.”

  Meg’s eyes narrowed, but her smile didn’t falter. “Can you name the country?”

  “K-Kenya?” Even Galen couldn’t seem to tell if he was asking or telling. He relaxed as Hari nodded and turned to the next person.

  Had we all listed our future majors, or were Meg and Hari flexing their ubergenius prowess? I tried to remember what I’d put on my application, but my brain was too busy racing through trivia. Isaac Asimov’s middle name was Yudovich. Octavia Butler died in February 2006. John Scalzi named his main character in Old Man’s War after two of the members of Journey.

  Or was that a Wikipedia lie?

  “My name is Perla Loya,” said the first girl on the My Little Pony blanket. She tucked her glossy dark hair behind her ears. “I’m from Santa Monica, California. When I get into Rayevich, I will major in literature.”

  “What year was The Canterbury Tales published?” Hari asked.

  Perla stiffened. “American literature.”

  “Same question,” Meg said sweetly.

  Perla looked at her roommate and then back at the counselors. Her voice came out in shreds. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Meg said. It sounded like a check mark on a clipboard. “Next?”

  We could be asked questions about subjects tangentially related to our interests? Balls.

  Okay, time to dust off the mnemonic devices. My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets. Mercury, Venus, Earth … No, wait. There was no way Meg and Hari would softball me with elementary school science.

  Why couldn’t I remember why Pluto had been demoted to a dwarf planet? Something about sharing space with things other than moons. What else was in its neighborhood? Comets? Asteroids?

  “Kate Brant,” said Perla’s roommate, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “I’m from North Bend, Oregon. I want to study psychology.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” simpered Meg. “Which region of the human brain is the last to mature?”

  “Jesus,” Brandon muttered.

  “No cheating, B,” Meg snapped, without looking away from Kate’s narrow, bloodless face.

  “Are all of the teams doing this?” asked the boy on the other side of Brandon. All of the blood in his face seemed to have been rerouted to his large ears. It was a good question, but one that we weren’t going to get an answer on. I hoped that Isaiah was also being grilled.

  But, really, Cornell was probably going to shake everyone’s hand until it was time for dinner.

  “The last region of the brain to mature is the prefrontal cortex,” Kate said. She frowned at Meg. “You published a paper on it three years ago in the Journal of Adolescent Developmental Behavior.”

  Meg gave a delicate shrug. “With some help. It was high school, after all.”

  My throat tightened. Leigh hadn’t been exaggerating. If this was what the Messina Academy was churning out, there was a good reason that they only served Central Oregon. If they ever franchised, there would be terrifying evil masterminds all over the country.

  “I’m Leigh Faber,” Leigh said, not waiting for anyone to acknowledge her. “When I start at Rayevich, I will double in computer science and art studio.”

  “That’s quite a double major,” Hari said. He glanced at Meg. “Do you want computer science or art studio?”

  “Art,” she said. “Leigh, darling, what is the chemical compound of Egyptian blue?”

  “Oh, goody. I get twice the fun,” Leigh said without a hint of sarcasm. “Egyptian blue was made of calcium copper silicate.” She cracked her knuckles and shook out her shoulders. “Hit me, Hari.”

  “What year was Hewlett-Packard founded?”

  “Nineteen thirty-nine, in Palo Alto, California, which is now known as the hub of Silicon Valley.” Her lips pursed. “Is that all?”

  Hari adjusted his glasses. “For now.”

  I heard a crackle. Looking down, I saw that I’d smashed in the sides of my water bottle. I shoved it aside.

  “My name is Ever Lawrence,” I said, saying each letter carefully to keep from spewing out my real name. “I’m from Sacramento. I want to major in science fiction literature.”

  Hari’s gaze zeroed in on me. “And who were the Hugo Awards named for?”

  I pictured the Hugo seal—a silver rocket on a round sticker that was plastered to the front of so many of the books I owned. I knew that the award began in the early 1950s, but the exact date seemed to have dropped out of my head. The early winners were all the golden age writers, magazine short stories that turned into cheap paperbacks.

  The first Christmas after my parents divorced, I got a box of old science fiction magazines from Santa. I didn’t know that they were literally p
riceless. Inside of the pages of Tales of Wonder and Amazing Stories, I found worlds to disappear into.

  I remembered the words set against the burning white screen of my laptop. I’d whispered them aloud before I clicked Send on my entrance essay, barely making the midnight deadline.

  “The Hugos are named after Hugo Gernsback,” I said, “the editor of Amazing Stories magazine.”

  Hari and Meg turned to Brandon. Leigh gave me a congratulatory bump with her knee.

  “I’m Brandon Calistero,” Brandon said. He wound one of his shoelaces around his index finger. His black and white Converse Chuck Taylors were battered to the breaking point. “I haven’t decided on a major yet.”

  I saw the first glint of ice in Meg’s face. It froze her lips into a single line and sent her eyebrows into stiff arches. She didn’t like having her game derailed.

  “That’s fine,” Hari said. “In a game of poker, how many combinations of a full house are possible?”

  Brandon dropped his shoelace and frowned at Hari. “Three thousand seven hundred and forty-four ways. Providing that the cards haven’t been dealt yet. Probability drops down to—”

  “Correct,” Meg interrupted. “Next?”

  The boy with the big ears raised his hand in a nervous wave. His hair was shaved down to a light brown fuzz. It was oddly military, paired with his gray sweater vest and the Windsor knot of his tie. “Hi. I’m James Hobart, but everyone calls me Jams. I’m from Kent, Washington. I’m planning on majoring in theater arts. Well, dramaturgy, but it’s under the umbrella of—”

  “And what was Julie Taymor’s first professional production?” Meg asked.

  “Oedipus Rex? In Japan.” Jams swallowed as Meg and Hari kept staring at him. “It was an opera.”

  “The purpose of this exercise…” Hari said, addressing the circle at large. Jams closed his eyes in relief. “Other than getting to know each other, is to instill in you the importance of being able to back up your work. Peripheral knowledge won’t get you through the Melee. Always be prepared to show your work. If you’re faking, you will be found out.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I resisted the urge to take another sip of water. Fidgeting was for the guilty.

  “That said,” Meg said with a titter, “these are the people you’re going to spend your summer with. So let’s play a quick name game before we crack open our binders. We are here to have fun, right?”

  No one returned her smile but Leigh.

  7

  The binders didn’t appear to have ever been touched by human hands. The edges were sharp yellow plastic. Inside, slabs of immaculate white paper were sectioned off with eight printed tabs: literature, art history, social sciences, history, music, science, philosophy, and essay.

  The weight of what we had all signed on for had gone from figurative to literal, quick.

  “Can anyone tell me the significance of the Tarrasch Melee’s title?” Meg asked.

  Kate’s hand went up. “The Tarrasch rule is a finishing move in chess. The rook is placed behind passed pawns to protect its advance toward the opposing king.”

  “Right,” Meg said. “The Melee works the same way. In order to make it to the final four, you have to be willing to use your teammates’ abilities to move you forward.”

  Hunter gave a low whistle through his teeth. “Harsh.”

  “Only if you get cocky,” Hari said sharply. “Right now, you know that the seven people sitting with you are going to go into the first skirmish with you. After that, all bets are off. If we make it to the final round—”

  Meg raised a finger. “When we make it to the final round.”

  Hari huffed, but accepted the correction. “When we make it to the final round, the team will split in half. Just because you’re entering in with your roommate doesn’t mean that you get to win with them.”

  Meg folded her legs and clasped her hands around her flip-flops. Her cheerfully pink toenails wiggled under her fingers. “Statistically, yes, you have a one in four chance of making it to the championship once you get past the last skirmish. But it’s impossible to truly calculate the odds. You’d have to pull in too many unknown factors—randomized test questions and percent-correct averages and the base IQ of the team. Until the final four are announced, you won’t know if you’re a pawn or a rook.”

  “Right now, all of you have an equal shot. Everyone at camp will be receiving the same study materials and the same prepared lectures from the counselors,” Hari said. “You will eat the same meals and,” his voice dipped down to a mutinous growl, “go to sleep at the same time on identical tiny beds.”

  “Which brings us to the last bit of business,” Meg said. “Because I have to be able to tell the camp directors that I told you: overnight guests of any kind are verboten in your dorm. And the floors of the residence halls are not coed. That includes the meeting rooms and bathrooms. Remember that this is a competition. If someone sees you sneaking around and reports you, they are down one competitor. That’s not exclusive to campers. Counselors of the opposite sex are also forbidden from your floor.” She shot a dark look around the circle, but it lingered on Brandon. “Even if they’re your bros.”

  Brandon’s shoulders crept up toward his neck like he was trying to disappear inside of his own rib cage. It didn’t seem likely that he had many bros scattered around the campus. But what did I know? There could be a bunch of typewriter guys around, trading tips on how to keep their keys greased.

  “If you aren’t comfortable reporting to me or Meg,” Hari said placidly, “you also have Wendell Cheeseman’s number in your welcome folder.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think anyone was going to rush to chat with Wendell. He’d run off the second lunch was over, probably to change into a dry shirt. It was already clear that the counselors were the law here.

  Around the quad, the rest of the teams started packing up their binders. The sun was starting to dip behind the dining hall. I couldn’t believe that I was thinking about a sweater. I hoped that Beth had snuck one into my suitcase. She could usually be counted on for that sort of thing.

  Hari checked his watch. “You will have all two hours to get acquainted with your study binders before reconvening for arts and crafts in your floor lounge.”

  “Arts and crafts?” Perla echoed. “For real?”

  “Of course,” Meg said. “This is camp. And I don’t know about you, but I can’t live in a plain cement box for three weeks. We’re going to have a decorating party!”

  *

  “How avant-garde,” Leigh observed, craning her neck to admire the splatter of glue and foil shards stuck to my poster board.

  I held up my glimmering and gloopy hands. “I don’t know what you mean. These are lens flares, obviously.”

  She giggled and handed me a wad of paper towels. Some things were true no matter what school you were at. Scratchy brown paper towels followed you from kindergarten to college. It was kind of comforting.

  I scraped the glitter off of my hands before trying to salvage the mess that had been a sweet Firefly-class spaceship when Leigh had freehanded it, using a picture on my phone for reference.

  The lounge’s ergonomic stools and modular couches had been shoved against the lemon-yellow walls. The carpet was covered in a patchwork of brightly colored plastic tablecloths and dollar store art supplies. A phone speaker was pumping out twangy acoustic guitar that no one was paying any attention to.

  Meg was at the front of the room, taping pieces of poster board together into a long banner. The Perfect Nerd Girl was beside her, looking up from her phone only when someone dared to ask her for another piece of paper.

  Kate and Perla had set up next to Leigh and me out of team obligation. Already, everyone was sticking to their own packs. The other eight girls in the room were nameless crafters, making quiet conversation with their own teams as they shook glitter and passed around puff paint.

  “You were serious about your space thing,” Perla said, throwing s
ide-eye at my paper.

  “Science fiction,” Leigh corrected for me, blithely running a paintbrush over her plain white paper. A trail of thorny vines trailed in the brush’s wake.

  “Science fiction isn’t space?” Kate asked, not looking up from writing her own name in puff paint curlicues.

  I reached for a Sharpie. Markers seemed safe. It was hard to spill a marker. I pushed the glitter pot farther away from me. “Space, robots, nuclear holocaust. Throw in ray guns or swords and I’m in.”

  Perla reached for a pair of child-safety scissors and snipped a piece of red construction paper into a large heart. “I’ve never heard someone list ‘nuclear holocaust’ as one of their interests.”

  “I don’t want to live through one or anything,” I said, concentrating on making the planets around the glittery ship-blob as round as possible. “I’ve always liked space. Other planets, other people. It’s exciting.”

  Leigh switched paintbrushes and twisted blotches of yellow paint into blossoms. “What about your brother?”

  I thought of Ethan and his endless collection of superhero Tshirts and his deep and abiding love of Cam Jansen mysteries. He could hang with lighter sci-fi movies—Galaxy Quest, Star Wars, anything that was animated—but he was nine and mostly freaked out by aliens and robots. And he’d fallen asleep during the last two of my Fourth of July showings of Independence Day, a sin I couldn’t quite forgive.

  I was starting to lose hope that he’d ever be ready for the grand Terminator marathon that I’d been saving to initiate him into the true sci-fi canon.

  “Does he have a major picked?” Leigh asked.

  “A major?” I asked, Ethan’s round, light-skinned face still hovering in my mind. He was going into fourth grade. The last time I checked, he was still set on wanting to become a roofer because he liked ladders.

  The marker went slack in my hand as I remembered that Ethan was Elliot Gabaroche’s brother. I hadn’t considered that I’d have to erase my real little brother from Ever’s biography. Guilt sucker punched my heart as I forced myself to think about Isaiah instead.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. That was something that I should know. Sid definitely would, but she’d know something was up if I randomly texted her to ask. I’d spent Isaiah’s entire life purposefully not memorizing facts about him. Since I couldn’t admit this, I turned back to my paper. “He likes a lot of stuff.”