by Julian North
The proprietor watched us from behind a duraglass booth at the front of the store. He was an older man, worn down in the slow-grind way people usually were around here. His leathery eyes were open, but they looked like they’d rather be closed. He wore a sour frown and several days’ worth of a salt-and-pepper beard.
Kortilla and I approached the front of the store, keeping our hands in easy view. The man behind the duraglass shield watched warily. We couldn’t see under the counter, but I was certain he had a weapon of some kind.
“Mr. Rebello?” I asked.
A bit of light flickered in those eyes, then extinguished itself. “You buying anything?”
“Please, you’re Pedro Rebello, right? Your daughter was Marie-Ann?”
He searched my face, trying to place me. He couldn’t, of course. “I need you girls to leave. Am’screy o urchach.” The last being Barriola for get the hell out.
I stepped up to his shielding, the material scratched and smudged, much like the man behind it. My breath fogged the glass I was so close. I wanted him to see my face, my eyes.
He rattled something beneath the counter. He meant it to sound threatening. Kortilla put a hand on my shoulder to urge me away, but I didn’t budge. I trusted my senses. He wouldn’t hurt me. He didn’t have it in him. Not anymore.
“My name, sir, is Daniela Machado. I go to the Tuck School, the same as your daughter did, yes?”
Surprise registered on his face as he looked at me anew–a Latina girl from BC, saying she went to a highborn school. I read him easily: He didn’t understand why his daughter would never have mentioned me. He wanted to ask me, but something held him back. He couldn’t. He was scared, I realized. Not of me, but of something else.
“They gave me her spot,” I whispered. “What happened to her?”
Now there was pain in Pedro Rebello’s eyes. A weary pain, the agony of a man beyond tears.
“You’re mistaken. I have a son, his name is Amillo, that’s all,” he said finally, his voice like dry sand. He placed a small bottle of horchata on the counter. “This is on sale today. Fifty cents. Buy it or not, but either way, leave now or I’ll call the black boots.”
I studied the milky white container, noticing the brand mark and the seal. According to the package, the rice and sugar used to make it were the real thing—it should’ve cost twenty times the quoted price. I held out my viser. He scanned it with his own, then handed me the bottle through an open slit in his booth. It was cool to the touch. Something he had kept in refrigeration. Rarer still. Kortilla and I left without another word.
When we had turned the corner onto the street, Kortilla grabbed the horchata from my hand. “Amigos is a real brand—this is sealed, and chilled. It’s worth ten bucks. He practically gave it to you. Or he’s trying to poison you.”
I glanced at my flashing viser. A data transfer had accompanied the transaction receipt. I opened the attachment, holding my arm out for Kortilla to see. An image appeared, of a young girl, about my age, with plump cheeks and a crooked smile, her hair flowing in dark waves. She stood someplace elegant, with expensive-looking decorations in the background. But it was her clothes that drew my attention: she wore a navy skin, the Tuck tiger emblazoned on her chest.
“That her?” Kortilla asked.
I nodded. “I’ve only seen an old picture from the net, but it’s her.”
“So that’s her dad. But why wouldn’t he talk to us? He was scared of us, it seemed.”
I thought about that. I recalled the torment in his eyes, and each word he had said.
“He mentioned a son,” I said, thinking aloud.
“Yeah, what does that matter? Does he think he’s going to get that kid into Tuck or something? Or that we’ll cause trouble for him?”
I looked at my viser again, calling up the tax records I had used to find the Rebellos’ store. “He and his wife only became the owners of that place a few weeks ago. Before that they were just taxpayers in good standing. Her mom worked in Manhattan, paid some city tax there, according to the records. Probably a maid or something. Her dad ran the store. He was a tenant until after his daughter died.”
“So those highborn bought them the store—a better life. Money to give their other kid a better shot at whatever,” Kortilla said. “Why would the richies do that?”
I chewed on my lip. “Havelock is a good man, I think. He looks out for the students. Like he did for me, when the Authority goons had me. He might have arranged it. A death benefit—something for the family. Perhaps he felt responsible.”
“Then why wouldn’t Mr. Rebello speak to us?” Kortilla asked. “Why was he so afraid that all he could do was ping you a picture?”
I struggled with her question. “Confidentiality, maybe. Quid pro quo for the payment is silence. That’s what Tuck would’ve wanted.”
Kortilla snapped open the horchata and took a long, deep swallow. “That’s good stuff. Do you really believe the school gave them that store because they felt bad for some barrio parents’ losing their daughter? C’mon.”
We walked another block without speaking. Kortilla had finished the horchata by the time we got to the corner. Never even offered me a sip. I tasted a bit of blood from where my teeth had bored too deeply into my lip as I thought about her last question. “No,” I said softly. “Highborn don’t give things away. There must be something else.”
I pulled the picture up on my viser again. This time I didn’t look at the girl. Instead, I looked at the background. At the turquoise vase. At the dragons on it, hand painted. Expensive. I’d seen it before. When I was at Alissa’s house.
“They were friends,” I said. “Better friends than Alissa let on.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Monday came too soon. Just as I began to remember what my life was supposed to be like, I had to get back onto the subway and return to that other world. I did so with more questions than answers. I didn’t know what had happened to Marie-Ann, and I still had no word from Mateo. I hadn’t heard from Alissa or her gang all weekend either.
There had been even more violence in Manhattan on Sunday. In the wake of Friday’s attack on the Chairman of the Orderist Party, the Authority had been raiding apartments all over the city, leading to a shootout with unknown perpetrators, several of whom had somehow escaped the Authority’s dragnet. There was no word on whether it was the same men who had attacked Landrew’s car. Depending on which net channel you scanned, California was either behind it all or had nothing to do with it. Invasion was either required or foolhardy. Always there was the same reminder: prosperity through order.
Authority officers greeted me and my fellow commuters on the subway platform, checking travel passes and conducting random scans as we waited for the train. I had my repulse spray in my pocket, but I didn’t panic; I’d become a believer in the organic camouflage of California tech. The device had latched itself onto my skin, mimicking itself to the material. I needn’t have worried. My travel permit and Tuck uniform got me off easy: I was waved onto the next train, while the women on either side of me—domestic help by the look of their outfits—got more intensive scrutiny. I watched them being searched outside the train window when I pulled away, their faces masks of fortitude. The image stayed with me until I left the train.
I arrived on Eighty-Ninth Street before most of the crowd had gathered outside the school, as had become my custom. I slipped past a few kids I didn’t recognize, then endured another screen by the Authority supervised school security squad before entering the hallowed halls. I found Nythan leaning against the wall of the first corridor I turned down, fabrifoam cup in one hand, a lame attempt at a satisfied grin on his face. The pose just didn’t work for someone with such a pale face and barely any eye color.
“You didn’t answer my ping,” Nythan said.
“I was busy. I have a life outside of Tuck. Anyway, I wasn’t aware your jokes required a response.”
“Hey, I’m a peacemaker here. Can’t yo
u see how white I am? I’m a walking flag of truce.”
I unclenched my jaw a bit. “What’s so important?”
He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Miss Alissa is displeased. You are stubborn. Lara loves to egg on a good fight. So, alas, it falls to me to keep the Beatles together. Call me un-Yoko.”
“Now I’m a bug?” I asked, brow arched. “And what is Alissa so upset about?”
“Ugh, look up ‘Beatles’ under twentieth-century pop culture.” He hit himself on the forehead. “Let me explain about Alissa. She’s no less a queen bee than Miss Kris Fart, just a different kind—the kind that doesn’t like to think of herself that way. The way she sees it, she has graciously offered to take you into her protective embrace, and she does not deal well with rejection. And Ms. Lara is usually happy to think the worst of anyone, so you see, it falls on my ivory shoulders to keep this garden blossoming.”
It never occurred to me that Alissa could be mad at me. If that were the case, she was beyond oblivious. The only thing I wanted to speak to Alissa about was her true relationship with Marie-Ann. “What makes you think I care? I don’t need to drink coffee in cafés.”
“Ah…Well, if you had tried great coffee, you might feel differently. And don’t go getting all high and mighty on me. Drinking coffee doesn’t make me a bad person. Drinking Colombian coffee might, but that particular establishment serves Rwandan beans, not the best taste, but no chip slaves. It’s all freeholder grown, so relax.”
I fixed my best exasperated gaze at him. “What do you want me to do here, Nythan?”
“Climb off the holier-than-thou horse, Bronx girl. I like you. So does Alissa. And Lara tolerates you, and that’s all you can really hope for with her. Make it easier on Alissa, okay? Take deep breaths, don’t storm off when people try to do something nice for you. We’re the best there is at this place. Trust me.”
He was right. I didn’t know how long it would take to treat Mateo. I hoped to spend four years here. Still, I hadn’t done anything wrong. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Nythan tented his fingertips, then strummed each of them in quick succession. “Excellent,” he declared in a strange voice.
“Another twentieth-century parody?”
He nodded. “Montgomery Burns. Oh, do look him up. You’ll love him. As highborn as they came back then.”
I nodded, not intending to do any such thing. “By the way, did you call Kris Foster-Rose-Hart Kris Fart?”
He turned away, strumming his fingers as he walked, laughing a mocking, evil-ish laugh. “Excellent!” echoed down the hall.
I had a faint smile on my lips by the time I got to Lit. Alexander wasn’t in his seat yet, but I spied the back of Alissa’s head several rows in front of me. With Nythan’s advice and his stupid twentieth-century impressions ringing in my head, I started to flick out a Morse code ping. An incoming administrative message popped up on the screen before I could finish it. I stared at the words. It was Coach Nessmier. A simple message, but enough to stop my heart beating:
“report to track today and every weekday for practice.”
I didn’t clear the message; I didn’t take my eyes off it for fear it might vanish, like the fleeting pleasure of a fading dream. A bead of sweat dripped down my face. Only the unmistakable presence of Alexander sliding in next to me pulled me from my conflicted trance. He looked over at me, his face hard, blank.
“Did you do this?” I said, finding my voice.
“I did what I said I would. I told you why.” If Michelangelo had imagined his creation’s voice, I’m sure it would have sounded like Alexander Foster-Rose-Hart at that moment.
I heard Mr. Lynder enter, ruffling the pages of his scruffy notebook.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Most of the day was a blur. I kept thinking about that track. They had held a tryout for me, and I had failed, in front of the whole school. Now I got a spot anyway? Why? It certainly wasn’t because Coach Nessmier wanted me. Would the coach change his mind because Alexander asked him? The team captain didn’t usually make those decisions.
I didn’t go to lunch. Instead, I went down to the track. I was the only one there, the stands empty, the screens looking like plain walls. I jogged along the length of the stretched circle in the inside lane—no more than a light trot that didn’t even wind me. I had to save myself for practice. After two circuits, I glided into an easy walk, soaking in the immaculate facilities, the purity of the filtered air. I wanted to run here. I wanted to go against the best and beat them. The idea of owing my chance to Alexander the Great rankled though. Did he help me because he thought I’d earned it? Or did he want something? I couldn’t imagine anything I had that he could possibly want.
Nythan gave me evil looks in Script. Not his mocking evil look that almost made me laugh, but actual evil, annoyed looks. I realized I hadn’t spoken to Alissa all day. I was sure I hadn’t even looked at her in Lit once I got the message about the track team. She had probably taken it the wrong way.
After class, Nythan ambled over. His face was as serious as I had seen it. “You blew her off in Lit and all of us at lunch?”
“I didn’t mean to, it’s just…” I noticed Drake lingering a row ahead of us, listening. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Very wise. Whoever told you that is a smart fellow.” He lifted his milky brows and left.
I intended to reach out to Alissa in Chemistry. Only she wasn’t in class. I could’ve pinged her, but I wanted to speak in person. Anyway, I had no idea what kept her out of Chem. It might be something serious. I resolved to check in with Nythan later. After which I spent the rest of class thinking about tracks, pacing, form, and about the Armory. It had multiple tracks, including the National Stadium on top. The best runners in the country proved themselves there: Moko Die, Vincent Anton Freeman, Thomas Glader. I had never dared to believe I’d race in the same place as such legends before. I did now. It was way more interesting than Chemistry.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I stepped into the den of wolves.
They, who just a short time ago had done their best to defeat and humiliate me, now milled before me, near docile—talking, laughing, stretching. Drake’s hulking form was easy to spot among them, as was Mona Lisa Reves-Wyatt, with her great height and mannishly wide shoulders. The rest of the team milled about. My arrival was like that of an objector at a wedding, an event imagined but never expected. Every eye fixed upon me.
“Nope to the damn nope,” came a mutter from the pack.
Unease rippled through the team. They looked at each other, unsure how to react. For that they looked to the alphas. Those who took their cues from Drake or Mona Lisa saw disdain, and took up the silent directive. If it had been only those two, I think the scene would’ve turned ugly. But Alexander’s presence kept the team in check. He fixed his eyes on the heckler, a gaze that warned a wayward pup he had erred. Most kept their silence as I walked towards the center of the track. I struggled to keep my pace measured, my knees steady. Of course, Nessmier didn’t make it easy for me by telling them…
Only Drake continued to defy Alexander. “You’re lost, nope. No do-overs. Crawl back to the slums.”
I stared back at him, not breaking stride. My throat felt dry, but I had to answer. I didn’t need to be liked to be part of the team, but I needed respect. I needed to answer without becoming the person that tore the team apart. I searched for the words. A high-pitched whistle intervened.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Pillis-Smith,” said Coach Nessmier. “We are all a team here.”
Surprise on most faces. Resentment on a few.
“Really, Coach?” Drake challenged, his words every bit highborn, in tone and attitude. This was their school, their world, said that voice. It was the first time I heard a student speak to an elder of this place with such arrogance.
“I asked the coach to give her a chance,” declared Alexander, putting himself between the rest of the team and me. Drake
looked as though he had been punched in the gut. “We’re about merit here. Not timing. It is not her fault she was not here for the initial trials. When she got her chance, she earned a spot. We all know it. On a different day, she might have done even better.”
I noted the diplomacy. Don’t insult the coach, don’t antagonize Drake by saying I would’ve won, don’t admit to anyone that I could’ve beaten you. He was good.
“Daniela has earned a spot on this team,” Alexander continued. It was the first time he had ever said my name. I felt a chill ascend through my spine. He extended a giant hand to me. I took it. “Is there anyone who would like to race her? Winner gets a place on the team, loser walks.” The gaze of a blue storm swept across the team. No one met the challenge. Then Alexander stared at Drake, who flushed a shade of crimson. Oh, if only Nythan could see that face—they’d hear his laugh in BC.
The silence that followed felt like a warm embrace.
“Welcome to the team,” Alexander said.
A roar of approval followed the pronouncement, then chants of “Tuck! Tuck!” as if Alexander had delivered to them what they had always wanted. I, who moments ago had been prey, was welcomed into the pack. I felt hands upon my shoulders, squeezes of approval, acknowledgments of my speed. Who the hell were these people? But then I realized it wasn’t them; it was Alexander. I looked through the crowd of new teammates to find him, standing next to Coach Nessmier. I kept my gaze on him until he noticed it. He finally acknowledged me with a slow tilt of his head, a gesture that told me: now hold up your end of the deal.
I did, at least that day. It was only practice, but I ran my tail off. When it was not my turn on the track, I was an attentive spectator. I forced myself to acknowledge their efforts, wringing a “great” or “blazing” out of my reluctant jaw. That I spoke the truth made the words come easier. These boys and girls were the fastest and most coordinated collection of runners I had ever beheld. Highborn—every one of them.
