by Julian North
Our meet would be held in an annex to the old castle, but I intended to get into the real stadium one day. I had come too far, endured too much, to not claim that satisfaction.
“You coming?” Alexander called back to me before he left the bus.
I scrambled down the aisle, past the rows of plush leather seats, crossing the stone archway into the Armory. Coach led us to the locker rooms, which in turn had tunnels leading out to the secondary track. I counted fewer than ten girls among the four teams sharing the massive locker room. I was the first onto the track from Tuck.
The stadium was about twice the size of our practice facility back at school. Most of the extra space was utilized for seating, which stretched upwards for twenty rows. A retractable dome soared above us. A dozen translucent tubes resembling upside down glass lighthouses hung from the ceiling. These, I knew, would be used in the conditioned events to simulate rain, snow, sand—whatever the gamekeepers decided. I walked along the length of track where the conditioned events would be run.
“Focus on what is ahead, not on what you are doing,” said a rumbling voice behind me. I turned to find Alexander. “It’s different from the standard event in that way.”
“Got it,” I said. “Focus on what’s going to jump out at me. No problem.” I sounded robotic, numb. I couldn’t help it.
“You haven’t had a chance to practice conditioned events. But you’ve got the skills. I’ve seen you on the hurdles. You’re quick. The conditions impact everyone equally. Just don’t get surprised—like in tryouts.”
“I’ve run in tough conditions before,” I told him. “But I haven’t had conditions change from lap to lap in a single race.”
Alexander’s mouth twitched, his uncertainty nagging like an itchy sweater. “I don’t know why Coach Nessmier made such a sudden switch. And such an ill-advised one.”
“I’ll try not to ruin everything for everyone.”
“It won’t matter,” Alexander told me, as plain as if he were relating today’s weather. “I’ve run against you enough to know you can win any of these events. You’re faster than Drake, or anyone else here, except me…perhaps. Unless you make a mistake. With the conditioned events, your drive, your endurance, it matters less.”
“I know,” I assured him. “But thank you.”
“The conditioned events are at the end. Try to stay focused. Forget why, just run.”
I watched the stands fill out of the corner of my eyes as I stretched and bent and ran through my drills: high-knees, skips, swings, strides. I finished up with mock starts. I felt Kortilla enter the stadium before I saw her. I got the sense of someone watching over me. The filtered air of the stadium tasted a bit fresher. I had to scan the rows of stands several times before I found her eyes watching me from the sixth row of the eastern stands. My knees buckled ever so slightly, feeling warm on the inside. The cost to come into Manhattan was high for her. Too high. Even for her family, if they had helped, it was too much. She was alone. There was no one else in the world that would make such a sacrifice, just to see me run. I stopped everything, turning straight towards her, my arms locked at my sides. The mask I put up for the world fell away, for my sister in all but birth staring back at me. I let her know that I hurt, that I would fight, and that nothing meant more to me than her being here. After several minutes I dipped my head, just a fraction.
“What the hell are you doing, Daniela?” Anise asked me.
I didn’t answer.
An announcer’s voice filled the restless stadium. Events were to begin in five minutes. Coach Nessmier called us over. He spoke about strategy for each of the meets. Reminded us each of our opponents, their strengths and weaknesses, and of our own. He reviewed the possible weather scenarios and lighting possibilities for the conditioned meets, and how to adjust for each. He didn’t mention my name. I was already gone to him.
I watched the one hundred meter in stony silence, standing at the edge of the rest of the team. Our runners placed second and third. I knew their names, perhaps they knew mine. But we meant nothing to each other. I realized that now.
Anise paced along the edge of my vision wearing a deep frown. Drake looked over several times as well. I didn’t need to see his face to know the scorn it registered. Events came and went. Alexander won the traditional fifteen hundred meters, as well as the five thousand in my stead.
Finally, it was my turn. Until now, I had only seen conditioned racing on the net. These were spectator competitions—trials that couldn’t be fully appreciated except live and in person. People came to the stadium for the conditioned races. There were three events at our meet. Alexander and Drake were our usual champions in the conditioned fifteen hundred meter. They were strong runners, but the elements of the conditioned races required a supplemental skill set.
Lane assignments were randomly determined before the event, and I’d drawn lane five. Not great, but better than being on the extreme outside. Drake had drawn lane two, which was where I would’ve wanted to be if I’d had a choice. Redwell’s ace, Flavius Elias-Hammer, was just inside him. Flavius resembled a bullet, his buffed silver hair shaved to stubs on his tapered head, which in turn seemed to slide into his low-hanging, sloped shoulders.
“Runners, take your marks,” shouted the starter, his voice echoing through the stadium. The din quieted. I placed the fingers of each of my hands on the enhanced traction ground. I sucked in a deep breath and looked inside myself. Coach Nessmier was in my mind, that rat-like face, his squinting eyes. Slowly, I released my grip on the anger inside me, at my coach, at Drake, at everyone. Rage coursed through my veins, powerful and intoxicating.
“Get set!”
I reached for the cold. It came easily, the chill a comfortable embrace. My blood was liquid ice. The gun sounded. I pushed myself forward, firing out low, drawing upon the reserves I usually saved for the end of a race. My legs responded with such power that I had to lessen my effort at the last moment for fear of losing control.
My feet snapped forward. The artificial stalactites above hummed; the temperature dropped as if I had walked into a freezer. My joints stiffened. I eased my pace, wary of injury in the rapidly changing conditions. The steamy breath of other runners surrounded me. Drake hugged my right shoulder. My feet pounded the ground, my arms keeping precise cadence with each stride. I paced myself with Flavius-the-Bullet, who ran a stride ahead of me. I kept waiting for the hurdles to rise. But they didn’t. It felt like racing around the outside track at my old school in winter. No problem. One lap gone.
Wind blew hard into my face as I took the curve into the second lap. Drake raced ahead of me like a lion after its prey. I kept my eyes focused down the track, on what would come next. The first hurdle appeared, less than five feet ahead of me, its height gyrating. Timing was critical. Drake and Flavius took the obstacle easily, adjusting their strides without disruption to their rhythm. I had to slow to avoid hitting the hurdle. Deuces. Three more obstacles rose ahead of me. I mistimed my strides again and stutter-stepped to get my jump correct for the last two. I fell into fourth place, then fifth. Drake led at the end of the second lap, Flavius just behind him.
Sand and twilight descended on the third lap. My outline was illuminated as royal purple for the benefit of the crowd. Drake dashed ahead of us all in a green blur. I pressed for more speed, calling upon my inner will. My legs crossed faster. I moved back to third place, trailing Drake and Flavius by two strides. I remained wary of more hurdles, but the track was getting shorter. I couldn’t let Coach Nessmier have an excuse to throw me off the team. I couldn’t let anyone else win.
I sucked at the cold within me, demanding more from myself. The other runners had experience, but I wanted this more. My legs thundered so hard that I struggled to keep my balance as we hit the curve. I couldn’t see the ground. If I stumbled I was done. If I missed a hurdle I was done. Coach would love that. Each foot had to plant at a slightly modified angle. I had the geometry in my head; my legs knew just where to go.
I remained disciplined. I ached to let loose, but control was more important for now. I took a sudden hurdle without breaking stride. But so did Drake and Flavius. One stride behind. The third lap was over.
The cold surrounding me became heat. We were running through the desert, a blazing sun above. I tried to stay with them through the curve. The muscles in my legs loosened. I was ready. I grinned as the last turn ended. The straightway to the finish began, with only Drake and Flavius-the-Bullet ahead of me. Drake had me by about two strides, while the Bullet ran almost even with me. Tiny sand particles flew at my face. I barely felt it. I was fresh, powerful. No more curve to worry about. Just open space. I turned it on, everything I had.
Fire hurled from my feet, but it was the cold inside that propelled me. The ice of my will, of my rage. I knew each footfall before it happened. And I foresaw each of my competitors’ strides. Only Drake was with me now. He ran with desperation too. I felt his urge to win, and his contempt. I realized then just how much he hated me, far more than I did him. As I pulled ahead, he began to fear. He too drew on something extra. His feet moved faster. He pulled even with me. For a second, then two, we were dead even. It was eternity; less than one hundred meters remained. He was taller than me. His lean at the finish would edge me if we stayed like this. I needed more.
I sucked at that icy pool within, my life’s essence, far more deeply than I thought possible before that moment. I stole more than I should have. Images of my mother, clearer than anything I could consciously conjure, flashed before me. I saw Mateo too, and Kortilla. Then it went black. I was above myself, watching the race, watching my legs churn in a tornado-like blur. It was more than Drake could match, more than any of them could match.
I crossed first. There could be no question about it, no way to manipulate the result. My eyes found Coach Nessmier. He was looking at the replay board, a frown as sour as rotten eggs etched on his face. I followed his gaze: three minutes and forty-one seconds. A new city high school record, I knew. Drake stormed off.
My teammates greeted me with unease, their congratulations sparse and hesitant. I sensed Mona Lisa’s words in their thoughts: There’s an order to things, girl. To hell with their order. Let Coach Nessmier try to cut me after that race.
Anise made a point of coming up to me afterwards, in front of everyone. She placed a hand on my arm. “That was the most amazing run I’ve ever seen. Congratulations.”
She walked off before I had a chance to answer. The words were harder for her to speak than she had expected, but that made me appreciate them more.
Alexander congratulated me too, in his own way. He betrayed no emotion of course; he displayed neither respect nor resentment.
“You kept control, that was the key,” he critiqued. “But you won it with that burst at the end. It comes from deep inside, that kind of intensity. But there is a cost, as we both know. A true champion is willing to pay.”
I set my eyes upon his carved face, hunting for the intent behind those words. Did he know about my cold place? Our teammates stood within an arm’s length. Now was not the time to ask, even if I had dared to. He was the highest of the highborn, a product of two generations of genetic perfection. Not someone with whom I would share secrets.
I climbed into the stands to find Kortilla as soon as I could, even before returning to the locker room to shower. Several of my teammates did the same. Even Drake set off, presumably looking for parents or friends, his face grim. The aisles were crowded with supportive students, parents looking for their favored offspring, college scouts, and aficionados of the competition. I ducked and dodged till I reached Kortilla, we two humble creatures of the barrio. I reached out towards her. She threw both arms around me.
“You stink,” she told me. “But you showed those richos about haulin’. It’s not even your event, hermana, and you took them. The lady next to me was asking everyone what family you were from. I told her you were from the Corazones of Bronx City.”
I smiled weakly. “Was she impressed with my pedigree?”
“She didn’t say. She left soon after. Didn’t see her again. Kept muttering something about XS drugs, or some other stim.”
I shook my head, unsure how much Kortilla was exaggerating, if at all.
She grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me closer. “I’m proud of you. We all are. Your mom would be too. Keep up the fight.”
In reply, I slumped before her, my true friend, letting the toll of the day show. I was exhausted, and I let it show on my face. Kortilla saw into me, her eyes heavy, waiting for me to speak. I raised both my hands, rubbing the inside corners of my eyes as I contemplated what to say here, and what to save for later. When I brought my hands down, Alissa and Nythan were standing beside Kortilla.
“That was some fine running,” Alissa proclaimed.
I had forgotten about her—and forgotten about my promise to stay over.
Kortilla arched a skeptical brow at what must have seemed a picture of Manhattan urban beauty, this girl who had pushed in beside us without a word of apology. Alissa wore a form-fitting navy-and-silver slip that shimmered when she moved. Golden stars twinkled in her midnight hair. The platinum cord around her neck was probably worth more than the Gonzales family earned in a year. On the other hand, Nythan looked like he could’ve come from BC, with fabricated navy slacks and a faded shirt with the words “Make It So” emblazoned across the front. But Kortilla’s attention was fixed on Alissa.
My face morphed into its usual mask. “Thanks,” I managed. “Alissa and Nythan, this is my oldest friend—my sister really—Kortilla Gonzales.”
“No hyphen necessary,” Kortilla quipped, her lips tight.
Alissa flashed a wide smile, the one Tuck students generated for school visitors, and gave a small head bow. Kortilla was unimpressed with either gesture, but she played along. In contrast to Alissa’s manufactured pleasantries, I had no doubt about Nythan’s genuine delight at meeting Kortilla. He practically knocked Alissa over reaching across her body to introduce himself. I believe he considered kissing her hand, but lost his nerve at the last minute. Bad call. Kortilla would’ve liked it.
“So you’re the person who’s gotten Daniela this far? And you came all the way into Manhattan to watch her run?” Alissa asked. I knew she meant well, but she didn’t know Kortilla.
“Blood takes care of blood where we come from,” Kortilla said, her words a hard whisper.
“Maids take care of spilled milk where we come from,” Nythan interjected into the tension. “And we all loved watching Daniela wipe the track with the rest of them today.”
“Hell, yes,” Alissa enthused. “Drake was probably pumped full of XS, and you still whipped him.”
She said it too loud. Remembering that I had seen Drake in the stands earlier, I twisted my head about, searching, expecting the worst. His height made him easy to locate. He stood several rows above us, surrounded by a clutch of adults and students, none of whom I recognized. I thought for a moment that he was far enough away not to have heard, even with the acute senses of the highborn. But he turned as my gaze began to leave him. Those deep tunneled eyes lingered on me for just a moment, then moved to Alissa. Hate rose off Drake like smoke from a chimney.
Kortilla followed my gaze. She didn’t know Drake, not by sight anyway, but she knew danger the same as I did, the way no Manhattan kid could. On the streets of BC, we answered to no honor council. Kortilla saw the hate; the eyes of a person pushed, and ready to strike.
“It’s been a pleasure, Alissa and Nythan,” Kortilla said. “But Daniela and I should be crawling back to where we belong. Smelling like she does, she’ll fit right in again.”
Alissa made an awkward sound, looking at me expectantly.
Deuces.
I wanted to go with Kortilla. I wanted to blow Alissa off. Kortilla had come so far, at such cost. Nythan and Alissa didn’t understand how much it meant to me. And I wanted to go home. Nythan shot bullets at me from both eyes, guessing my thoughts.
I cursed myself for not mentioning my evening plans to Kortilla.
“Lo siento mucho.” I knew Alissa and Nythan understood the apology too, but I wanted it to be more personal. “I need to stay.”
The surprise in Kortilla’s eyes was like a slap; the hurt that followed, however quickly she hid it, was like a knife sliding into my gut.
Kortilla shrugged. “I need to get going then. Stores to rob before dark.”
I snatched her hand before she turned, slinging an arm over her shoulder, as much to keep her from getting away as to hold her close.
“I need you, hermana,” I whispered into her ear.
“Do you?” Kortilla huffed. “What color is your blood?”
“I need a gang here too,” I tried to explain. “I need someone. Even if they aren’t you.”
Kortilla gave me a curt nod. “I need to go.”
I let her.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
I wanted a shower, a bed, and to be left alone. I got Alissa, Nythan, and Lara instead.
We gathered at Alissa’s place after I had cleaned up from the meet. My unwillingness to expend precious dollars in overpriced Manhattan establishments may have played a part in the choice of location, but I think the absence of Alissa’s parents was the real determinant. Although we weren’t exactly alone. Alissa’s housekeeper, Irena, was there.
Alissa’s childhood nanny and servant wasn’t quite Alissa’s height, but she made up for it in width. By the look of her, she could’ve eaten the lot of us and had room for dessert. Irena had rounded features, a head of dirty gray hair and sausage-like fingers that looked well used. She spoke with a slight Polish accent. Whenever Alissa spoke to her, Irena displayed the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.
