The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak

by Brian Katcher

  “I must say, Ana, you have a tremendous knack for making friends. First Boba Fett, then the Viking, now death from above.”

  Don’t forget a dozen pissed-off card players. “Sorry, Zak.”

  He removes his shirt and begins soaking it in the sink. I’m shocked at how pale he is, even for Washington in March. Again, I remember earlier when I saw him without his shirt. Or pants.

  Zak wrings out his top, then holds it up and looks at it sadly. Wet, stained, and torn to shreds, there’s not much left. He forces a chuckle.

  “Maybe I should just go topless tonight. Give the ladies a treat.” He flexes, his grin growing bigger. He has no real muscles, but he has, like, zero body fat. And he’s not scrawny like a lot of the guys here, either, just lean. I wonder how he got that scar on his stomach.

  “Ana? I was just kidding.”

  I suddenly rip my gaze away, embarrassed by how I’ve been staring. This con is doing strange things to my head. I try not to watch as Zak slides his mangled shirt back on, only to have it tear straight down the back.

  “Great.”

  I scoot closer to him as someone comes over to wash his hands. “Don’t you know anyone who could loan you something to wear?”

  He shrugs his not-quite-broad shoulders. “Sure, but I’d have to find them and then go back to their room. Do we have time to mess with that?”

  Time? That gives me an idea. I glance at my watch. “Actually, I may know someone who can help you. Where’s the south wing?”

  ZAK

  9:47 PM

  I don’t see how Ana could possibly know anyone here, let alone well enough to loan me clothes. But after getting some directions from me, she leads me to a conference room where a panel is just ending. I read the schedule: Silkscreen Your Own Shirts.

  “Ana! You came.” The stocky guy who was packing up his equipment stops, his face lighting up at the sight of Ana.

  How does she know this guy?

  Ana pulls me roughly into the room. “Hi, Arnold. This is my friend, Zak.”

  He turns to me and studies my ragged, stained clothes.

  “Walking Dead?”

  “No, just tired, thanks.”

  He turns back to Ana. “I still have your blouse, you know.”

  What the holy hell?

  “Thanks, Arnold. Do you think you could find a shirt for Zak?”

  He looks at me with an intense dislike. I smile, trying to look macho and possessive of Ana, without coming off as a jerk and not too overboard, because I really do need a shirt. Luckily, I’ve practiced that expression like a zillion times.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Arnold replies with forced politeness.

  Ana doesn’t notice—she’s looking at her phone. “Thanks. Hey, Duquette, we’ve missed curfew. I’m going to call Mrs. Brinkham, make up some excuse.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  Ana’s foot begins to jiggle as she thinks. “Um . . . we took a taxi to visit the museum of art, but he had a flat tire and we had to wait for a tow truck, and then the cab driver got in a fight with the tow truck guy—”

  I cut her off with a raised palm. “A good lie is always the simplest. Tell her I took you and Clayton to a Japanese movie at that art theater near the hotel. It turned out to be a longer director’s cut, so you’re calling from the lobby to say we’re running late.”

  She turns to Arnold with a shake of the head. “This guy makes lying an art form. And thanks for the shirt.” She retreats to the back of the room to make her call.

  When I face Arnold, he’s looking at me like something he’d like to squish through his silk screen. I don’t know how he knows Ana, but it’s clear that his plans with her did not include me.

  “You’re an extra small, right? Now all my shirts cost thirty dollars.”

  “I got six bucks.”

  “Then I guess you’re SOL.”

  We glare at each other for a long moment. Then, slowly our necks turn until we’re both looking at Ana, who’s having an animated phone conversation in the corner. Arnold mumbles something under his breath, and pulls a T-shirt out of a box.

  “Here.” He throws it at me. It’s designed to look like a fiery red tuxedo jacket. Gratefully I pull it on.

  “Thanks, pal. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been totally friend-zoned.”

  He smiles slightly. “She’s taking you clothes shopping. Always a good sign.”

  I’d like to brag, but I know things are hopeless. “She’s out of my league. I don’t predict much luck on that front.”

  Arnold continues to pack up his equipment. “Yeah, well, they said we’d have moon cities by 1990. And no one predicted the internet or digital cameras. Sometimes the best guesses turn out wrong, and the most improbable theories come to pass.”

  I nod a thank-you and go to join Ana. He roughly clears his throat. When I turn around, he’s holding his palm out to me. Sheepishly, I hand him my last six dollars.

  Ana sits on a folding chair, staring at her phone. Arnold’s theory on incorrect predictions aside, the look on her face does not foretell good news.

  “Ana?”

  She raises her head. “I talked to Mrs. Brinkham. My grandpa Watson just had a massive heart attack. They’ve taken him to the hospital here in Seattle.”

  Was this entire con cursed by God? Was it possible for two people to have such terrible luck?

  I sit down by her side, trying to think of some consoling words. But, strangely, she doesn’t look sad.

  “The thing is, Grandpa Watson died ten years ago. And my other grandfather lives in Miami.”

  “Wait . . .”

  She looks off in the distance. “It seems Clayton called Mrs. Brinkham earlier. Said that they rushed our grandfather to the emergency room, and that you helped Clayton and me catch a taxi. Apparently you’re such a gentleman that you’re staying there with us until my parents can arrive. Mrs. Brinkham’s very impressed with you.”

  I feel my hands ball into fists. “Little brother has been busy.”

  Ana nods. “Trying to work out an alibi for all of us. He saw you at the battle, didn’t he? He knows we’re here.”

  I stand and begin to pace. “That’s a terrible cover story. Way too complicated. What if you’d said the wrong thing? Or what if Mrs. Brinkham calls your parents?”

  Ana stands. “Well, she’s buying it for now. Thanks to Clayton, we’re safe for a bit.”

  “Remind me to thank him.”

  Ana lets out a long yawn. “Well, don’t thank him too hard. At least not in the face.”

  My phone rings. It must be Brinkham. I pause to do some quick character development. I’m in a hospital waiting room, worried, overcaffeinated, and exhausted.

  That actually won’t be much of a stretch. I answer the phone, but it’s not my teacher. It’s James.

  “Duke! Did you piss off some lunatic dressed like a barbarian?”

  “Um . . . today? Let me think . . .”

  “Don’t be a douche. He’s here in the hospitality suite, drinking a bunch of mead. He knows who you are, and he’s ready to rip your arms off.”

  Oh, goody. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Duke! He’s got friends with him. You have to leave the con before he finds you. Or lay low for a couple of hours. You can use Jerry’s hotel room.”

  I thank him and hang up.

  “Ana?”

  She looks at me with her prim smile and her wide green eyes. And tempting as it would be to take her to a hotel room, I don’t feel like cowering at the moment.

  I’ll cower very soon, but not just yet.

  “I need some caffeine.”

  ANA

  9:55 PM

  Everything is spiraling out of control. It’s not whether everything is going to come crashing down around me, but when. My own brother is going to get us in worse trouble than we’ve ever been in, and the only thing standing in the way is a guy who believes in hobbits.

  Duquette and I lean against
a wall, sipping sodas and watching the parade of humanity ooze by. For the first time I get a look at his ludicrous smoking jacket–T-shirt combo. I can’t help but laugh.

  He smiles back. “What really worries me is wearing a red shirt around here.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  His smile broadens. “So much to teach you.”

  I look away. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s smiling like that. How can he be so calm? In a few minutes or hours, everything is going to fall apart. My parents will kill me and Brinkham will kill him. And yet, here he is, joking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Why is he even doing this? What’s in it for him? Is this all just some macho plan to impress me?

  He stretches and then subtly leans to the side, rubbing his back. I remember how many times he’s been hurt tonight. How he told me about his father and I told him about Nichole.

  He’s being nice to me . . . because he’s nice. Obnoxious and annoying and with a terrible excuse for a beard, but nice.

  “Hey, Zak?”

  He straightens up. “Yeah?”

  “Um, I want to thank you for all you’ve done tonight. You know. Just in case I don’t get a chance again, I wanted to tell you—”

  He frowns. “Knock it off.”

  “Knock what off?”

  “Talking like I’m about to charge an enemy machine gun nest. We’re spending tomorrow together, remember? Not to mention next week at school.”

  I thought I’d get to keep seeing Nichole. Nothing is certain.

  “Let me say it anyway, Zak. Thank you. For everything. A sane person would have abandoned me long ago.”

  He grins again with that same annoyingly optimistic attitude. “Call me Duke. Hey, um, Ana, maybe when all this blows over, you and I could . . .”

  He then stops talking, though his mouth continues to move.

  “What?”

  “I said maybe you’d like to . . .” He trails off.

  “Gosh, Zak, I’d love to mumble mumble with you.”

  He clears his throat, smiles, and starts again. “Maybe we could get together and do something a lot more low-key. A movie or grab a bite to eat or something.”

  His self-assured grin never falters, but the rest of his face is nervous. That makes me happy. Makes me feel superior to Baldy and Strawberry.

  “Zak, thanks, but I can’t. I’m not allowed to date.”

  He instantly tries to backpedal. “I didn’t mean like that,” he blurts unconvincingly. “Just a couple of friends”—he pauses, as if I’ll object to being called that—“hanging out.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. Mom and Dad have it in their head that if I do anything with a boy, he’ll end up dragging me off to some den of depravity.”

  I think he’s going to argue, but at that moment a man in a suit of armor stumbles to his knees, yanks off his helmet, and proceeds to loudly vomit into it.

  Zak looks away. “Kind of a paranoid attitude, don’t you think?”

  We laugh. Zak helps Sir Pukes-a-Lot to his feet. After he staggers off, the two of us just kind of stand there. I feel a chill in the air. Zak won’t look at me.

  Don’t be like that. I’m sure I’m not the first girl to turn you down.

  And it’s not like I have any choice. Not like I could sneak out and see you. That’s exactly what Nichole did.

  It’s not like I actually want a date with Duquette and his weird movies and whatever. To sit somewhere and talk. To hear about his family issues. To tell him more about Nichole. Have him help me get some things straight in my head.

  “Zak?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  As soon as I say it, I realize my words could be misinterpreted. I almost clarify that I’m talking about our search for my brother. But I don’t.

  Zak shrugs. I note that the gesture makes him grimace. I wonder how much physical pain he’s hiding. “I dunno. I guess we show up at the Vampire Ball and hope Strawberry wasn’t hallucinating again.”

  “And until then? Should we keep looking around?”

  “I’d rather not. James called, said Conan has been drinking and rounding up a barbarian horde to mangle me.”

  I reach out and slap Duquette in the back of his stupid head. Hard.

  “Ow!”

  “You idiot! And you’ve just been hanging out here with me? What if that lunatic had showed up?” I reach out and swat him again.

  “Stop that!”

  “That guy tried to kill you! And now he’s drunk? Do you have some kind of a death wish?”

  He stares at me dumbly. I hit him again.

  “What was that for?”

  “I dunno. Violence in the Middle East. Global warming. Whatever.” I smile sweetly. He rubs the back of his head and glares.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind taking a load off until the dance. Somewhere no one will notice me. You wanna learn how to play Illuminati?”

  “No.”

  “We could see a movie . . . no, wait . . .” He checks his phone. “Maybe you’d like to escort me to Mark and John’s wedding. No one will bother us there, and there’s going to be cake.”

  The very thought of attending the ceremony depresses me. They seem like nice guys, after all, but I can’t sit around for an hour, watching two people I don’t know get married, while my brother’s wandering around, ruining my life.

  “Zak, I—”

  “Hey, it’s that SOB who chased Eric’s girlfriend!”

  He’s a gangly guy, dressed in furs and leggings. I don’t recognize him, but he’s staring at Zak with anger.

  “Eric!” He turns and hollers down a hall. “Get over here! It’s that guy who tried to kidnap Lisa!”

  I look at Zak. “Friends of your Viking pal?”

  He nods, still slouched on the bench.

  “They wouldn’t follow us into a wedding, would they?”

  “Probably not.”

  We stand, bump fists, and then take off sprinting down the corridor.

  We’ve made it back to where Zak first accosted Boba Fett. We either outran the horde or lost them at the start.

  “I’d ask if we’re underdressed, but something tells me we’re not.”

  People are filing into the ballroom. Many are wearing dresses and suits, but others are more creatively attired. There are Ewoks, Stormtroopers, Klingons, and one girl in that Princess Leia bikini.

  Zak offers me his arm. I take it.

  We’re greeted by two ushers, dressed as Mr. Spock and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  “Are you with the Horowitzes or the Danvers?”

  “Friends of both,” answers Zak.

  The Vulcan directs us to an empty row near the back. “Live long and prosper.”

  “And may the Force be with you . . . always.”

  Zak looks a little uncomfortable, this might be a bit much, even for him. Soon we are seated.

  “I haven’t been to a wedding since Mom and Roger jumped the broom. You ever been to one?”

  “No, I . . .” And then the memory hits me. The reminder slaps me in the face. That note from Nichole. Her beautiful handwriting on the save-the-date card.

  “Hey, Ana, is something wrong?”

  I shake my head. Think of something else, Ana.

  “Hey?”

  He won’t shut up. He’s sitting there, staring at me, all concerned, with those big brown eyes, wanting me to talk to him. He’s probably the first person since . . . maybe since Nichole left, who’s ever wanted to have a serious conversation about me. Just about me.

  The idea shocks me so much that I almost smack him again, for lack of a better reaction.

  “Zak, have you ever done anything you’re really ashamed of?”

  He opens his mouth, then stops. “Um, nothing I’m going to tell you about just yet.”

  “After Nichole left, I think Mom and Dad expected her to call, to beg to come home, to discuss adoption. But she never did. And the longer she was away, the more worried they got. And one day
she sent us a letter, saying she and Pete had settled down in Olympia, and when our parents were willing to talk, they could come visit.” I stop to take a breath. “And they refused. You see, they had a plan for Nichole, and her being a pregnant teen living with some guy wasn’t part of it.”

  What I don’t tell Zak is how I begged and begged my parents to at least let me go see her, but they were stone.

  Even when their grandchild was born. Being right was still more important. Not just my parents, but to Nichole, too. They were all willing to tear up my family, rather than to budge one inch.

  “At any rate, Nicole started writing to me. She didn’t have a computer, but still managed to shoot me an email every so often. Things were tight for her, but I think she and Pete survived on love for each other and hate for everything else. And after my nephew was born, they kept asking me to come down. You can guess how my parents reacted to that.

  “But last year . . . last year, they decided they were going to finally tie the knot. They’d saved some money, things were going well. So they sent me an invitation. Actually . . . Nichole called me. Asked me to be her maid of honor.”

  I’m breathing heavily, like you do when you’re trying not to be sick. Trying to keep back the awful memories. But I have to tell him the whole story.

  “And I didn’t go, Zak. I told Nichole that Mom and Dad had a fit and wouldn’t let me out of their sight.”

  It takes a great deal of willpower to face him. “Ever hear of anything more pathetic?”

  As usual, he tries to cheer me up. “Ana, it’s not your fault. You said yourself your folks aren’t totally rational.”

  And I should leave it at that. Zak seems to like me for some reason. There’s no point in telling him my shame.

  But he told me about his dad. I owe him a painful memory.

  “They didn’t know about the wedding, Zak. They weren’t invited. Nichole didn’t want them there.”

  “So . . .” He leaves the syllable hanging.

  “So if I were going, it would be on my own. Sneaking out and everything. I had it all planned out. I was supposed to go to a debate tournament that weekend. Instead, a friend of Nichole’s was going to drop me off at the bus station. But, if I did that . . .”

  As I struggle to put the next part into words, Zak finishes my thought for me. “Your parents would have found out about it. And you would have gotten in trouble for the first time.” He’s not smiling, but his eyes have a warm, sympathetic look.