by Keilan Shea
Ritsuki points an accusing finger at Lucas. “You have to ask why? I know you’re not Gilded, but we’re talking about an Ignacio here.”
“Rude.” Lucas pushes Ritsuki’s finger aside with his phone.
“Then what about Caesar?” My voice warbles.
Chloe cuts Ritsuki off. “We’re being cautious, and Ricky is being crass,”—Ritsuki scoffs—“but he’s right. Wearing both badges, fraternizing with Lucas and both parties, will alienate you and invite bullying”
I bite my lip.
Chloe continues, “Then again, you’re in a unique position because you are neutral by default. You’re a scholarship student, not a Gilded or even rich, meaning you have little influence. Caesar would be taking a risk with no benefits if he messed with you and I can assure you none of Blake’s supporters will lay a hand on you.” She smiles. “So, I’m sure everything is fine. I like your optimism, Melody. You and Lucas are welcome to eat with us. We can forget about all of this and discuss our new book club instead.”
“The scholarship student is one thing,” Ritsuki folds his arms, “but Ignacio?”
“Don’t worry,” Lucas says. “I won’t ask for a badge.”
“Associating with you is bad enough.”
“That’s mean. Haven’t you heard? I’m reformed and have been on my best behavior.”
Ritsuki sneers. “Are you referring to the stunt you pulled at Lancaster Library?”
“Oh, you heard about that too.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Lucas throws out his hands, almost smacking the intricate filigree vase atop the side table near him. “It was all in good fun, Ricky. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Don’t call me Ricky.”
“Whatever you say, sourpuss.”
Theo places his hand on Ritsuki’s arm. “Blake would let him eat with us.” My heart swells with his words and at the memory of how he stood up to Olive and those with her for me. I haven’t seen him with them since. And, as far as I know, they’re all Blake supporters.
Theo is a nice person, and I think Chloe is too. I’m not making a mistake.
Ritsuki’s severe visage and tone soften when he says, “Whatever.”
“How gracious of you to take in two lost puppies,” Lucas quips. “This is one for the books, folks. An Ignacio and Earnshaw are about to eat dinner together for the first time since they parted ways. Theo, ever wonder if we’d be like brothers if my dad hadn’t told yours to fuck off?”
“No, actually,” Theo politely replies.
Ritsuki snarls but otherwise lets Lucas’s comments slide by uncontested.
The tension drops to a negligible degree and Lucas chats about whatever comes to mind as we enter the glittering, reverberating corridor leading to the banquet hall. A man wearing a silvery tux greets us at the threshold and takes us to a table with an excellent view of the circular stage and its occupants. Our hors d’oeuvres are served almost instantaneously. I’m not exactly sure what they are, but they resemble melón con jamón without the toothpicks holding the bite-sized melons and ham in place. So, I should probably use a fork?
I wait to see what everyone else does. Theo catches my eye and lifts the smaller fork farthest from the plate. I quietly thank him with a nod and follow suit. After that, Chloe initiates the book-club discussion and the last of the tension dissipates. Theo and I mostly gush about The Sister Star, the world-building, the characters, the writing, all the reasons why Chloe should read it. Ritsuki rolls his eyes, uninterested, but Lucas pays attention.
“Wait, so there are lava horses?” Lucas asks. “I’m so reading this book.”
“You’re joining our fantasy book club too?” I lean in toward him, a little too eager.
“If the founder lets me.”
My cheeks burn. “Of course I’ll let you.” I want you to. “Now we need to choose a time and day we can meet weekly.”
I get lost in euphoria. For the first time in my life, I have friends. Fear, uncertainty, none of those negative emotions can touch me in this moment.
CHAPTER 15
All of that running around with my phone out yesterday carries on to today, but I’m sore and barely crawling. I hope I don’t collapse during my first shift at Lancaster Library after school. I also hope Hannah will give me Fridays off so that I can place my new book club in that time slot; it’s the best arrangement for the members.
Despite my exhaustion and the warm-up writing prompt in creative writing being as challenging as yesterday’s, I feel good because last night was a success. I have friends. Friends. I ate breakfast with my dinner group and had a nice time talking to Theo before our first class started. My chest buzzes with joy and just enough energy to keep me upright—but PE might put an end to that …
Rather than walk into the Circle Gymnasium, I heed Coach Dahl’s words and find the entrance/exit to the girls’ locker room from the serpentine hallway. Avoiding his ire is my priority. And, even here in dreaded PE, I aim to be a teacher’s pet.
As I set my backpack on the bench near my locker, Chloe arrives at the locker opposite of mine. “G-good morning,” I say and berate myself for stuttering. We ate dinner and breakfast together. This shouldn’t be so hard.
She waves her dainty hand. “Good morning, Melody.” Chloe is like a work of art, a painting made with the softest and finest brush strokes.
I turn my back to her as I open my locker with my ID. My PE uniform is inside, neatly folded and smelling of roses. The scent must be from a laundry detergent, or, like my uniform, there are five sets of my PE uniform someone is rotating out for me, because these clothes are as pristine as they were yesterday.
When I drop my shirt onto the bench, a tinny ping reminds me of the badges I agreed to wear—the same badges I almost forgot this morning. I guess I need to move them to my PE shirt, so I do, mimicking what I saw in class yesterday. Then I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside the door of my locker and try to pump myself up with a mental pep talk, but it leaves me deflated. It works in sports movies, doesn’t it? The voice in my head transforms into Coach Dahl’s. It’s much more … derogatory. “Move, maggots!”
I close my locker and mumble “He hasn’t said that, so stop being so dramatic” to myself as I exit the girls’ locker room.
The PE-ready students are scattered about the Circle Gymnasium, fooling around in some cases, and Coach Dahl is nowhere in sight. The entire space is gray because of the partly cloudy day, except for a single skylight casting a ray of sunshine on Lucas. He’s alone and stretching his legs. I stare at his defined calves and then every visible inch of his arms as he plants his hands on the ground. He’s all lean muscle. I swear there’s not an ounce of fat on his body. Instead of soft and round, like myself, he’s hard and angular. When he straightens and leans backward for another stretch, his shirt rides up, showing a hint of powerful abdominal muscles. He must work out to be this ripped.
When I try to swallow, my mouth is dry and I can’t avert my gaze. Then Lucas catches me staring. The odd concentration lock holding my gaze in place breaks. I shiver but sweat beads under my armpits as I tuck my chin and squeeze my eyes closed. What do I do? What do I say? How can I give him a proper explanation when I don’t understand my fascination?
The gymnasium’s entrance doors burst open with a BANG. “Line up, slackers!” Coach Dahl barks as he marches inside with a mesh bag full of basketballs in hand while the academy’s scheduled jingle plays.
The gymnasium echoes with the squeak of hasty rubber-soled shoes pounding against the glossy hardwood floor. Lucas and I are the farthest from anyone else, so we comprise one end of the line; Lucas stands beside me at my right while my left remains clear. I rest the majority of my weight on one foot and then the other, fidgeting. Mercifully, Lucas doesn’t get the opportunity to question my behavior.
When the jingle ends, Coach Dahl says, “Before we start our basketball module, I have a public service announcement. Our football team is playing a
home game tomorrow night, so even if sports aren’t your ‘thing,’ I expect you all to attend and show your school spirit.” He walks the line of students with his hairy hands clasped behind him and he scans each of us with eyes as sharp as knives.
Coach Dahl hasn’t lost his intensity. This is unfortunate news for me since it means this period is always going to give me a heart attack. On the bright side, at least he doesn’t call us maggots—because he probably isn’t allowed to. My limited imagination is anchored firmly in the realm of possibilities. Unfortunately.
Lucas’s hand shoots up. “But you aren’t requiring we attend?”
“Did I say you could speak, Ignacio?”
Lucas keeps his hand raised, but he seals his lips.
Grumbling, under his breath, Coach Dahl meanders to our end of the line. “What’s your question, Ignacio?”
“You said you expect us to attend the game tomorrow night, but are you requiring it?”
I hold my breath as I await the coach’s response, but he takes his time. “It’s not an assignment.”
My chest deflates as air hisses through my teeth. It’s not an assignment, but he expects us to go, meaning I should so that he’ll like me better. I’ve never been to a football game and know little about sports in general because they’ve never interested me and because the Lopezes aren’t huge sports fans; they only casually watch the Super Bowl. Perhaps this class will make up for that lack of education, starting with basketball as Coach Dahl segues into a rundown of the sport and its rules. I make mental notes but wish I could make physical notes. Coach Dahl doesn’t take questions.
“Remember the rules,” he says. “I don’t hand out participation points willy-nilly. Now, who wants to explain and demonstrate the foundations of a proper shooting technique?”
Lucas raises his hand and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Don’t do that. You’re not five years old.” Coach Dahl thrusts his hand inside of the mesh bag and tosses Lucas a basketball. Lucas drops it like a hot potato and then smacks it with his hand when it rebounds. Dribbling. That’s what it’s called. He has no trouble maintaining the rhythm he sets even as he lowers his center of gravity and approaches the nearest basketball hoop.
Lucas locks onto the target and slows his movements, explaining each one, from his slightly staggered shoulder-width stance to the “shot pocket,” his grip, his balance, the delivery, and the follow-through with a relaxed wrist. He makes it sound and look easy. The ball drops through the net with a swish. It doesn’t hit the rim of the hoop or the backboard, and the bong produced as it lands on the ground echoes through the otherwise silent gymnasium. The sound continues, bouncing as much as the ball until Lucas captures it and says, “You’ll all need to make minor adjustments based on your own bodies and preferences, but there you have it.”
Coach Dahl clenches his jaw. “Good. I have nothing to add.” Whoa. To satisfy him like that, Lucas must be a basketball expert. Coach Dahl hikes his thumb over his shoulder. “Back in line.”
Lucas passes off the ball and rejoins me, but he can’t stay still. He rocks back and forth and back and forth. He’s so distracting that I miss my opportunity to ask for another demonstration when Coach Dahl calls for questions. I want to see it done several more times so that I can analyze every point before I attempt it myself.
“No game today,” Coach Dahl continues, “but I need two teams to practice on opposite ends of the gym. Who knows basketball and wants to assist me in instructing our newbies?”
Caesar and Chloe raise their hands, but Coach Dahl ignores them to stare down Lucas face-to-face. Lucas stills as the burly man invades his personal space, but he doesn’t submit to the pressure, not even when Coach Dahl projects his voice and inevitably spits on his cheek by being so close. “All right, I’ll allow Chloe and Caesar to be our captains again, but the rest of you will either start volunteering or I’ll start picking captains at random. Is that understood?”
Lucas smirks. “Understood.” After Coach Dahl turns his back, Lucas rubs his cheek against his shoulder, wiping the spit onto his PE uniform. Lucas’s eyes cool several degrees, to the point they could be mistaken for blue rather than green.
“I pick Melody,” Caesar says.
What? I’ve been picked first again? And this time by Caesar …
“I pick Lucas,” Chloe says.
“Woe is me.” Lucas shakes his head and dramatically gestures with his hands as if he’s playing Ophelia in Hamlet. “Alas, we’re destined to be enemies.” He walks backward and bows. “See you on the other side.” When he rises, he turns on his heel, his movements transforming into a carefree yet snappy swagger as he saunters to Chloe’s assigned half of the gymnasium.
None of my friends are on my team—unless Caesar and Jet count as friends now that they helped me with my phone. Caesar greets me with a pleasant exchange of hellos while Jet offers a halfhearted wave. I don’t know how Jet’s awake. Those dark circles under his eyes broadcast utter exhaustion. He must be an insomniac.
Caesar wastes no time assessing the people on his team by having us all line up and emulate what Lucas did. I’m the most incompetent person on my team, which comes as no surprise. Then Caesar assigns Jet and a girl as leads and splits us into three subgroups.
“Show me how you shoot again,” Caesar tells me as the other two subgroups relocate to the outlying basketball hoops—which weren’t here yesterday, so they must be mobile.
As the gymnasium fills with the hollow twang of bouncing basketballs, I mentally list what Lucas did and do my best to copy him after adjusting my glasses. I place my feet correctly, hold the ball adequately, but it all falls apart when I jump and chuck the ball. My movements are unsynchronized and my dominant wrist is stiff. This requires more than understanding the steps. My body needs practice to develop the coordination and to record the muscle memory. The closest experience I can personally compare this to is when I learned to play the ukulele in elementary school. I haven’t played it or any other instrument since as I’m no musical genius, but I remember the difference practice made. It didn’t matter if I memorized the finger positions for a chord until my body did too.
“Again.” Caesar captures the stray ball and passes it to me. Tries to. I drop it.
My face heats up as I run after it. When I have it in hand, I resume my position relative to the basketball hoop, but Caesar stops me. “Do you mind if I guide you?”
I offer him the ball, eager for him to illustrate.
Caesar doesn’t take the ball. “You know what you’re supposed to do but not quite how to do it. Show me your stance.”
I do as I’m told. Caesar reaches for me, rearranging my feet and my arms while tapping my back to place my spine. This is what he meant by guide. It isn’t terrifying, despite him being much larger than me, or invasive. Unlike that handshake when we met, he doesn’t overstay his welcome. He hasn’t since. When he’s finished with me, he says, “Go.”
I jump and release the ball. It doesn’t reach the hoop, but it’s closer.
“Next.”
Caesar rotates our subgroup after each shot, instructing us along the way. At one point, Coach Dahl comes to inspect us. As he has no feedback to offer Caesar or us, he moves on to the next subgroup. After my thirteenth attempt to shoot, Caesar suddenly pulls me aside and says, “You have a Blake badge.”
I gather my nearly nonexistent courage and say, “Theo is my friend. I’m wearing your badge too because you’re Crown President. Theo knows that, where I stand, and he’s still my friend. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Caesar casually watches the next female member of our subgroup shoot. Her ball hits the backboard, but it goes through the net. “I see. I knew I liked you, Melody.”
“Th-thanks?”
“Keep both badges. If you continue being so friendly and sincere, you may singlehandedly solve our problem.”
I wait for the “but.” It doesn’t come. However, my turn does with another shoot and
miss. It’s hard to feel down about it, though. Initially, it was painful being forced from the shadows, but not anymore. People see me, hear me, and some of them seem to genuinely like me. I must be doing something right.
“I’m not sure about Lucas,” Caesar comments, killing my shortly lived internal revelry. “I know Theo is a good person, but Lucas—”
“Lucas is good.” I’ve never interrupted anyone in my life, let alone a Gilded, but now I have and I don’t stop. “He’s here, his past is his past, and I believe he deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
“Okay, you’re right, but putting your safety first is never a bad idea.” Caesar’s hazel-brown eyes bore into me. “You like him.”
“He’s nice to me …”
“I’m nice to you and Theo is nice to you, but you don’t look at us the same way.”
“I-I don’t …”
“Just be careful. You’re interested in him, and I don’t want him to hurt you.”
CHAPTER 16
I stand, sit, and stand again. The large round table I’m stationed at is in the fantasy section on the main floor of Lancaster Library. It’s a straightforward spot, easy to find while safely bypassing the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland display, and it has an intense view. If I tilt my head back, the complex network of bridges connecting mezzanines creates a pattern like peering into a kaleidoscope. It’s as dizzying as it is dazzling.
Yesterday, Hannah agreed to give me Fridays off and enthusiastically chose this location for our informal fantasy book club. She also said once we have the necessary five members, she’ll happily give it her stamp of approval to make it an academy-recognized club. It made me happy, all of it, until I arrived here. Alone. I’m early, so that’s not the issue. Fantasy is. History, classic literature, essays, theses … I should join a practical club and double down on my academic scores. Fantasy books aren’t going to help me there—unless we’re talking about my elective. This is the third day I’ve failed at Mx. Kennedy’s warm-up writing prompt. I mean, I wrote something, but it was tripe.
