by Walter Jury
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2014 by Walter Jury.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jury, Walter.
Scan / Walter Jury and S.E. Fine.
pages cm
Summary: “Tate Archer outruns armed government officials as he tries to keep his now dead father’s strange invention out of the wrong hands, alien hands”—Provided by publisher.
[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 3. Inventors and inventions—Fiction. 4. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Fine, Sarah. II. Title.
PZ7.J965Sc 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013023623
ISBN 978-0-698-15842-9
Version_1
For Mel
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Acknowledgments
IN MY WORLD, THINGS ARE SIMPLE. AT LEAST, THEY ARE right now. The hard, pulsing beat of my music is all my head contains. My muscles are loose. My bare feet are flat on the hardwood. My ass is on this metal bench, but not for long. Any second now, they’re going to call me.
I am ready.
I raise my head when Chicão taps my shoulder. He motions for me to pull out my earbuds. I obey, and the sounds of the tournament fill my ears, shouts and cheers echoing off the high walls of the massive gymnasium.
“Lightweights just finished, Tate,” he says, his Portuguese accent thicker than usual. “The middleweight semis are starting. You’re next.” His curly hair is puffed out around his head, like he’s been running his hands through it. My coach is more nervous than I am, but I don’t know why.
I’ve been kicking ass all day, and I’m about to do it again.
“Good,” I say. “It’s about time.”
I drop my iPod into my bag, stand up and stretch, then straighten my crisp, white gi and pull my black belt tight. Perfeito.
One more match to win, and I’m in the finals. Ten minutes between here and there. I doubt I’ll need that much, though. My goal? Five minutes. If that. I’m going to have this kid slapping his hand on the mat in no time.
I have to. I don’t want to see the look on my dad’s face if I don’t.
This trophy might get him off my back. Maybe he’ll let me sleep past four for a few days. Or let me bust my diet up with some fried chicken without freaking out. It might get him to lend me his car so that, for once, I could drive when Christina and I go out. It might even get him to smile at me and tell me I’m good enough to bear the Archer family name. To carry on the Archer family responsibility, as he’s always saying.
But that might be expecting too much.
Across the mat, watching the first middleweight semifinal match, is my opponent. His lanky arms swing back and forth. Clapping in front. Clapping behind. He jumps up and down on the balls of his long feet. He rolls his head on his neck. His blue gi is wrinkled, and dark circles ring his pits. He’s obviously been wearing that thing all day—he didn’t think to bring a few spares? I wrinkle my nose. Our match better end quick or I might die from the stench.
He lifts his eyes to mine. They’re wide and brown, with long lashes. Like a cow’s. He smooths his hand over his buzzed black hair. His face is so serious. The blades of his cheekbones all severe. Lips flat and tight.
He’s scared.
My mouth curls into a predatory smile as the match in front of us ends on points. The ref holds the winner’s hand up, and the kid can’t hold back his grin. He’s going to the finals. I clap a few times, sizing him up. He had a wicked scissor sweep, and I’ll have to be ready.
Chicão steps up close and nods toward the cow-eyed guy. “This kid. This one you fight next. He wins by submissions. Every time today.”
Impressive. But then again, we’re at the semifinals of the Tri-State Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Championship, so if he’s not impressive, he’s at the wrong fucking party. I trained years to get here. I worked for hours every day. I was taught by the best.
“Not this time,” I say.
Chicão crosses his arms over his barrel chest. “Not this time,” he agrees, then slaps my back.
Cheers and whistles flow right over me as I cross the boundary and step into the match space, where my focus narrows to the guy in front of me. The crowd, behind the white fence that separates spectators from competitors, is just a chaotic and faceless mass. There are only a few faces I’d care to see anyway, and none of them are here.
The mat ref recites all the rules I’ve heard a million times before, and then steps back, leaving me with my cow-eyed opponent. He’s got an inch or two on me, and it’s all in the legs, but my shoulders are wider, and I know exactly how to use it to my advantage. We lean forward for a quick handshake, and then it’s game on.
We do our little circling dance for a while, neither of us doing much but waiting for the other to do something stupid. I feint twice, and he falls for it both times before catching himself. And then I get tired of waiting. My world is the size of this mat, and it’s time for some empire building. I strike at his wrist and neck, getting handfuls of his sweat-damp sleeve and collar as I jam my foot into his hip. I pull guard, dropping onto my back and bringing him down with me. He’s all bent over and off-balance. His fingers scrabble at my leg as he tries to walk himself out, but I’ve got too good a grip on him.
I wrench his body to the side, and as he falls back, I pin one of his legs between mine and snag his other foot, curling it up like a soft pretzel against his body. The explosion of breath from his lungs as I lock him up tight is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard all day.
Chicão is yelling instructions from the sidelines, but I tune him out. It’s just me and Cow-Eyes, and he’s all mine. I jerk his legs skyward and lay him out flat on his back. This dude is one shoulder lock away from crying for his mama. I am thirty seconds from the finals. I scoot around, getting control—
And then I’m out of control. Cow-Eyes grasps the ends of my sleeves and twists my hands inward until I lose my grip on him. I jump to my feet to regain the advantage, but before I can even take a breath, his foot shoots between my legs and he literally kicks
my ass. I stumble forward and nearly fall on top of him as Chicão shouts, “Caramba! Luta direito porra!”
I squat, trying to keep my balance, but Cow-Eyes doesn’t give me the chance. He’s like a fucking alligator, the way he writhes around, all sinew and strength. Lying on his back at my feet, he coils an arm around one of my ankles and jams his foot against the other. I can’t help the sound that comes from my mouth as he practically has me doing the splits. With no leverage to fight him, I’m pathetically easy to roll over.
I end up on my side, and I grab for his pant leg, his sleeve, goddamn it, anything, but he moves too quickly. When his long legs wrap around my waist like an anaconda, I know I’m in trouble. Because he’s got one of my legs gripped hard against his chest.
A bright white explosion of agony blasts along my right leg as he locks his ankles behind my hip and stretches back, making my joints scream as they bend in ways they were never meant to. Chicão is shrieking now, and it’s like his voice is inside my head. Vai tomar no cú porra meu caralho you are not good enough Tate Archer not even by half.
I struggle, but it’s no use. I grit my teeth as the pain goes on and on, and Chicão’s screeching goes on and on, and the shouts of the crowd go on and on, and everyone knows what I have to do, but I won’t. I can’t. I won’t.
I do.
Like it has a mind of its own, my hand releases its futile grip on my opponent’s sleeve. My palm hovers over the mat for what seems like a million years but is only half a second. The space between here and there. The distance between hope and despair, between victory and defeat.
And then it falls. Slaps the mat. Cow-Eyes releases me. The pain in my leg subsides. The pain everywhere else is just beginning.
It’s over.
Cow-Eyes leans over me. He puts out his hand. I blink up at him and see my father’s face. I let him help me up, and I see by the twist of his lips how little he thinks of me. I can’t really blame him at the moment.
The realization that I’ve lost rings in my head. It swirls in golden coronas around the fluorescent lights above me. It seeps up from the mat and eats away at the soles of my feet. The ref has my wrist now, holding it down while he lifts Cow-Eyes’s high, and I let him drag me around like a zombie, facing each direction so we can pronounce my suckage to all four corners of the room. To all the faceless people. And to one person who isn’t here.
Especially to him.
When the ref is finally finished with the whole parade of shame, I walk back to the bench, my gi all bunched up and hanging open, my belt wrapped tight against my naked skin. I look like what I am. A loser. I dive for my iPod as Chicão says, “Puta que pariu, Tate, you lost focus. You left yourself wide open.”
I open my mouth to argue, but all that comes out is “Me perdoe. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and pulls his keys from his pocket. “Grab your bag. I’ll get the car.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not done yet.” Cow-Eyes is over in the corner, talking to his coach, wearing a satisfied smile. “I need to watch the finals. I need to figure out what happened.”
“Cacete,” he mutters. “You don’t know what happened? Spider guard sweep. Leg lock. Game over.”
“Have I ever told you what an awesome coach you are?” I laugh without smiling. “I’m not kidding. I’m staying to watch. Go home. I’ll call Christina and she’ll come get me.” My heart lifts just thinking of her. I need to see her face. Watch her smile. Hear her tell me I’m all right. And she will, too. She always does. Not sure it’ll help this time, but it’s worth a try.
He stares at me for a few seconds, and I wonder if he thinks I’m about to run off and get crazy. My dad made it clear to both of us how important this tournament was, so who knows? Maybe poor Chicão thinks I’m suicidal. And hell, maybe I am. I barely know right now, because I’m a giant fucking bruise on the inside, and I can’t face my father like this.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I—I can’t let this happen again. It was my fault. I was stupid.”
He shrugs, because you just can’t argue with that kind of truth.
Once he’s gone, I put my music back on so I don’t have to listen to the thunk and scrape of feet on the mat, the echoing shrieks and claps of the crowd, the throbbing pulse of my defeat. I turn up the music so loud that I’m sure I kill a few brain cells, which is exactly my intention. I want to liquefy the memory of what happened and let it ooze out my ears.
I watch the semis for the next three weight classes. I watch the men’s black belt matches. I watch Cow-Eyes win his final match the exact same way he did mine. He moves fast and decisively into that spider guard, locking up his opponent’s arms and kicking him off-balance in three different ways before finally rolling him over.
As the finals go on, I text Christina and ask her to come get me. It’s at least an hour from New York City, so I’ve got to give her time. Within a minute, I have her response.
On my way, baby.
After letting myself stare at those words for a long minute, I drop the phone back into my bag. No more watching. I need to move. I need to fix this. A bitter taste fills my mouth. Fix this. Ha. If only it were that easy. But I have to do something or I really might go crazy.
I head over to a side mat set away from the competition, where a couple of the other losers are nursing their wounds. One of the middle-heavies looks game, so we spar. And when he gets tired, I spar with a guy who I swear is twice my weight. And when he gets tired, I spar with a lightweight, who I nearly hurl across the mat before I adjust to his little body. Over and over, I practice where it went wrong for me. I practice the spider guard, recalling exactly where Cow-Eyes put his hands, how he twisted me up. I practice escaping from it, too.
This will not happen again.
It should never have happened in the first place.
When the final shout goes up from the crowd, I realize I probably have only about five minutes before Christina arrives. I scoot to the locker room and wash myself down, wishing I could wipe away defeat this easily. But no. It clings to me like athlete’s foot.
I towel off, throw on sweats and a T-shirt, and then I’m out front, looking for her. Her little red car is my life raft, and when I see it in the long line of traffic, I don’t wait. I jog over.
She sees me coming and pops her trunk, then pushes the passenger door open. I can hear her girly pop music playing inside, and it makes me smile even though it’s not my thing at all. If that music had a flavor, it would be cherry lollipops, and for that alone, I love it. Because, I remember as she leans over and kisses me, welcoming me home, that’s the way she tastes.
“How’d it go?” she asks, turning down her music. She sweeps her wavy, dark blond hair over her shoulder.
I sigh, sagging in the bucket seat. She’s put it all the way back for me so my legs aren’t crowded. I take her hand, running my thumb along her soft skin. “Can we just go home? It’s been a long day.”
She watches me for a moment, and I let her. I don’t mind. I want her eyes permanently glued to me. She reaches up and slides her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes and breathe, exhaling the weight of the day.
“Stupid stuff?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning into her touch. “Stick to stupid stuff.”
Her hand disappears, and the car moves forward. “Lisa decided to give her dog dreadlocks,” she says. “I helped her, even though I’m pretty sure it’s animal cruelty.”
“What the hell? Doesn’t she have a poodle?”
“Uh-huh. But her dad told her he was tired of paying for the grooming.”
I open my eyes, and my gaze slides from painted toenails to smooth, shapely legs to oh, man, I so wish we were not in a moving vehicle right now. “Huh.”
She chatters on for a few minutes about how the dreadlock experiment went awry and they all ended up at the groomers anyway, b
egging for a pair of shears and a doggie Xanax. I let her voice wash over me, slosh between my ears, soothing the raw places. As powerful as it is, though, it can’t quite chase away the dread that’s creeping along the inside of my skull and spreading its jagged wings inside my mind.
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye as she pulls onto the highway. “You are definitely not listening to my stupid stuff, Tate Archer.”
“Get me outta Jersey and I’ll listen to your stupid stuff all day, baby.” I give her my best smile, which doesn’t fool her.
Her slender fingers flutter down to my thigh, and she squeezes gently, right over the spot that was, a few hours ago, on fire with pain and imminent defeat. “It was just a tournament, Tate,” she says quietly. “A bunch of brackets and referees and scoreboards. It wasn’t real life. You know that, right?”
I cross my arms over my chest, thankful for the anchor of her small hand on my leg, because it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from leaping from the moving car right now. “Yeah. Right. Just a tournament. Try explaining that to my father.”
FIVE BLOCKS . . . THREE BLOCKS . . . ONE BLOCK . . . My stomach churns as Christina whips her car into a parking space the size of a tin can. Right in front of my building.
She doesn’t rush me, even though I know she has to get home. Her phone’s been buzzing. Her parents are going out tonight and apparently the sitter fell through, so they need Christina to watch her little sister, Livia. But Christina twists her key from the ignition and sits back. Her hand slides up my arm, and the tips of her fingers brush my neck and give me chills. The good kind. And I need to feel something good right now. I need it so badly.
In a few minutes, I have to face him. He’s in there, waiting for me. He had to work this morning, but he told me he’d make it home by late afternoon so we could celebrate when I brought my trophy home. He pointed to the spot in his display case where it would go. To the place he’d cleared between a heavy crystalline pyramid-and-ball thing he got from the men’s black belt competition at Tri-State a few years ago, and another obelisk-shaped one he got from a national team competition. Sure, he’s already put a few of my medals and little trophies in there, but this would have been the first big one, the first one that belonged in there, in the center of the whole damn case. It would have meant I was ready to compete on a national level, that I was worthy. I’d stared at that empty spot, my heart hammering, already filling it with my plans for domination.