The fencing demonstration in the Kingstone town hall proved extremely popular. Aiden wasn’t as skilled a fencer as Harvard or Seiji, but he had better showmanship than either.
He demonstrated a few simple fencing moves, then opened his fencing jacket to show the body cord beneath to a murmur of increasing general interest and described the parts of his blade and the process of a match. He showed the cross-section blade and bell guard of the épée, while Coach sighed besottedly about sabers.
“We call the end the point both because it’s where the point would be if there was one, and it’s the only part of the blade with which we can score points,” Aiden explained. “Which is the point.”
When he laughed, an amused ripple went through the crowd.
“It isn’t a particularly useful sport, is it?” asked one woman with a crown of stiffly processed gold hair and a rope of pearls.
Aiden winked at her. “Is any sport more useful than another? Besides, I should hope it’s obvious I’m mostly decorative.”
She chuckled when he did, persuaded to be charmed, and Aiden whirled into another demonstration. He explained that the épée he held was made of maraging steel, like the blades rated for international competitions. Maraging steel was ten times slower to crack under endless tiny pressure than carbon-steel blades.
“Some fencers say that maraging steel breaks cleaner, but that’s actually a myth.”
Nothing broke cleanly. A break was always jagged and messy, and inevitable. The only thing to do was put off the day of breaking for as long as possible.
A little footwork, a lot more laughing, and Aiden was ready to be done. His plan was to execute a balestra, then end with a lunge, a bow, and a flourish.
Instead, his gaze was caught by watchful dark eyes, set in the face of a woman standing at the back of the crowd. She was making no effort to be seen, but he saw her. Aiden changed his mind and ended the demonstration with an inquartata, an evasive movement hiding the front of his jacket, partially concealing the point where he could be attacked.
Then he ended the demonstration with a showy bow. He was as he was, and he refused to show he could be hurt by anything.
Aiden’s hair had come loose during the demonstration. He was tying it back up and stowing away his fencing gear when she approached. He’d been braced for her to do so.
Aiden had told Harvard about her once, on their first sleepover, and cried. “She said she wanted to be my real mother,” he’d confided, curled up under the covers in Harvard’s room, much smaller than Aiden’s room at home, and much warmer. “It wasn’t true.”
Safe in Harvard’s house, he’d thought of his own home, so big that cold echoes stayed longer than actual sounds, crammed full of shiny things that never stayed long.
“Most things aren’t real,” he’d whispered.
Harvard had held his hand. “I’m real. So are you. And you’re my best friend.”
Then Harvard had told him a story until Aiden could sleep. It was the first time they fell asleep holding hands.
Aiden believed in Harvard, but he didn’t believe in much more. Belief seemed too great a risk. Harvard was real, but nothing else was. Love was a child’s dream, and Aiden didn’t set himself up to be broken any longer.
Aiden was much taller than the Brazilian now. He imagined she must be shocked, remembering that pitiful kid he’d been, by how much he’d changed.
“Hello, Aiden,” she said. “Do you remember me at all? I used to know you, when you were very small. I was… a friend of your father’s.”
Aiden gave her his father’s shark smile and saw her flinch. “My father has a lot of friends. Check the tabloids.”
“No need,” she murmured. “I know.”
If she was hoping she could get back with his father, she didn’t have a chance. His father didn’t do repeats, and she was still beautiful, but not young in the latest-model way Dad insisted on.
“I’m sure you felt you were a match made in heaven, or at least somewhere else golden and shiny,” said Aiden, “but he’s a busy man. I’d say ask him, but actually, it’s usually best to ask his secretary.”
She laughed then, though the sound was rusty and painful, not like the laughter Aiden usually wished to inspire. He wanted to be wry and in control, wanted to force life to be easy.
Only everything seemed difficult lately.
She said, “We were a match made in hell. Believe me, I didn’t come here to talk about your father. There was only one reason I stayed with him for as long as I did.”
“Let me take a wild guess,” Aiden drawled. “Could it be money?”
Her dark eyes were level. “It was you, Aiden. You were the sweetest kid, and I hated the thought of leaving you in that big empty house all alone. He didn’t even let me say goodbye. I know you must hardly remember me, and it might sound strange to hear, but I really loved you.”
She must need money now.
“That’s extremely touching,” Aiden drawled. “But what can I say? This is so embarrassing. I can’t actually recall your name.”
There was a silence, ringing like a hand slapping hard across a face. Neither of them moved. Far away over her shoulder, Aiden could see the indifferent bustle of his former audience.
With an effort, the woman smiled. Her smile wasn’t even a good fake.
“Ah,” she said, and nodded. “Sorry to bother you, Aiden. I wish you all the best.”
She turned and walked away. Aiden listened to the sound of her retreating steps, and the door slamming. He waited for the screech of car wheels.
Coach Williams approached him instead. The coach was dressed in a gray suit rather than her usual bright sportswear, her hair trying to escape its pins. She was also wearing a different expression than normal.
“Demonstration went well, didn’t it?” Aiden spoke lightly. “Don’t think I will be doing another, however. Next time you must content yourself with a less alluring model. Be brave, Coach. Don’t weep at the thought of unworthy substitutes.”
“What did you say to her?” Coach asked.
“Who?” Aiden returned, slinging his bag carelessly over his shoulder and picking up an épée.
He swished the sword about, watching the play of light on steel, and the dancing shadow against the wall. He refused to meet Coach’s eyes after that first glance.
“She came to one of the very few matches you actually attended your first year on the team, and I saw how she watched you,” Coach informed him. “She came to a match you didn’t attend last year, and I saw she was disappointed.”
“Who wouldn’t be if they came somewhere hoping to see me in all my glory and didn’t get to?” Aiden shrugged. “Whatever her expectations were, it’s not my problem.”
Coach wielded truth like one of her beloved sabers. “She didn’t have any expectations. She’s married. She has kids. She just wanted to see you, because you mean something to her. When I went to talk to her last year, she said she didn’t want to annoy you. I was the one who told her you’d be happy if she approached you.”
That was… a different situation than the one he’d assumed.
Sometimes, when Aiden felt the impulse to act on all his worst instincts, he thought, Would Harvard be disappointed in you if you did that? And then he didn’t do it, whatever it was.
It had never occurred to Aiden that anyone else cared enough to be disappointed in him.
Disappointment was in Coach’s usually twinkling brown eyes now. “I always thought you were a good kid at heart. Careless, but careless isn’t the same as cruel. Tell me, Aiden. Was I wrong about you?”
Oddly, it wasn’t Coach’s eyes or the echo of a woman’s voice or even the thought of Harvard that changed his mind. It was that when Aiden turned away from Coach, his roving gaze fell on the stage where he’d stood, gleaming and empty, and he thought, Do you want to put on a show for the rest of your life?
Aiden threw down the bag and his épée, and ran. Out through the double doors, down the
flight of stone steps, and into the parking lot crowded with shining cars that would soon speed away.
She hadn’t got into her car yet. She was standing with her shoulders stiff under a thick camel coat, her hand braced against the door. He noticed the wedding ring on it now, and the way her knuckles went pale on the handle before she turned and faced him.
Aiden’s lungs were burning from his sprint. His hair had come loose again, flying strands suddenly a wild snarl getting in his eyes, and he was still wearing an open fencing uniform, his plastron lost somewhere in the town hall. He must look absolutely ridiculous. The wind had its freezing-cold claws curled in around the open jacket, he was breathing raggedly, and he didn’t know if he had a best friend to return to. All these years trying not to break, and he would anyway. It might as well be now.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aiden gasped. “Rosina, I’m sorry. Of course I remember you.”
The golden clock hands cut time like swords. She stood unmoving, watching Aiden in the clear cold light of day. It was just the two of them in the parking lot, with no audience left to impress, and Aiden knew the way he’d acted was unforgivable, that he would always mess up when it truly mattered, that every time he’d been abandoned, he’d deserved it.
Then she lifted a hand to his face and smiled.
“Look at you, Aiden,” said Rosina, in her familiar beautiful voice, speaking as if she were singing to him again. “You got so tall. And you’re still so cute.”
They talked for a long time, standing there in the parking lot. Rosina gave him her number and offered to give him a lift anywhere he wanted to go. Aiden said he’d walk back home.
“I mean to Kings Row,” said Aiden, grinning reassuringly when a flash of alarm crossed Rosina’s face. “School. That’s home.”
It always had been, since Harvard had said he wanted them to go there together. Home was wherever Harvard was, if Aiden could live there, too.
“I’m glad you like it at school,” Rosina told him. “I’m sure you have a lot of friends. Is there a special friend?”
“Yeah,” Aiden answered. “There is.”
Rosina smiled. “I’d like to meet them someday. Are you sure I can’t take you to the gates?”
“I’m sure,” said Aiden.
Several times over the years, Harvard had reached out to one stepmother or another on Aiden’s behalf, trying to form a connection between them. Harvard always did this from loving concern, but it humiliated Aiden. He didn’t want to be seen as begging for love he would never get. He didn’t want any of them to know that he minded when they left. What was the point? They would still leave. Everybody always left. There was no way to stop them. The only thing Aiden could do was protect himself.
Aiden never bothered to try at all, but Harvard always tried so hard, for them both.
There was no way to prevent Harvard from trying without telling him the truth: Nobody’s ever going to love me but you, and I know even you will leave me someday.
Maybe that wasn’t true. For the first time, Aiden felt ready to hope for something more.
For the first time, Aiden wanted to be honest about what he wanted. A plan was forming like a path opening up before him.
He intended to walk through the woods, clear his head, and practice what he was going to say. He would make his own way back to Kings Row, the school he’d chosen with Harvard.
He was going home, and for once in his life, he would tell Harvard the whole truth.
I love you. I always have. Today, for the first time, I hope that I might be enough.
28: SEIJI
Seiji was not having a good day.
He felt he’d been horribly misled by Eugene. He’d trusted him to be correct in his reading of social dynamics, but as it emerged, him was an imbecile, Nicholas hadn’t even been upset, and the whole prank had been an exercise in futility. As the illicit brown sugar sprinkled on this oatmeal of horror, he’d been hauled around like a deeply shamed sack of potatoes by weight lifters.
Seiji wasn’t sure he could look anyone at Kings Row in the face right now. Any escape from their watching eyes and embarrassing congratulations was welcome.
The last time Seiji’d been in the woods, he’d gotten lost in them. Seiji headed into the trees now, hoping he could again.
Perhaps by the time he found his way back, everybody would have forgotten about the prank.
He feared not.
Seiji stalked through the woods and brooded over the horrors of the past few days.
This whole business had been unspeakably humiliating, and worst of all, sooner or later he would have to face Nicholas. There was no way to avoid it unless Seiji took to wearing the shower curtain draped in the center of their room over his head. Seiji had made himself appear ridiculous. Nicholas was going to laugh at him. Seiji was not looking forward to that last humiliation.
He’d been through too much already. He remembered when he’d called his father on the day of the fair. He’d been slightly embarrassed making the call. He didn’t like taking up too much of his father’s time. His father always answered his calls, but Seiji knew he was a busy man and he didn’t want to bother him.
After waiting for his father’s secretary to connect them, and making their greetings, he’d explained: “I am calling because I have a certain situation regarding a friend I would appreciate your help with.”
His father had sighed. “Ah, I should have known this was about Jesse. Well, if you feel that Exton is the right move for you after all, I won’t stand in your way, Seiji. Your mother and I never have, I hope you’ll—”
“This isn’t about Jesse,” Seiji had told him impatiently. “Why must everyone talk to me about Jesse? Not everything is about Jesse.”
His father had said, “Oh.”
There was an odd startled note in his father’s voice, Seiji thought later, but at the time he was focused on achieving his goal. He explained about Nicholas and about Eugene and about the prank.
“I don’t see how this is a funny prank,” his father had contributed at last.
“Humor is difficult to understand, isn’t it?” Seiji had commiserated. “You know I never get jokes, so I don’t try to figure them out anymore. I didn’t understand Jesse’s jokes, either.”
“That’s because Jesse isn’t funny,” his father had muttered.
Seiji had frowned. “What?”
Perhaps he’d misheard his father. Almost all adults were charmed by Jesse, who had flawless and engaging manners, and a smile that made people smile back at him. His parents had been so relieved when Seiji introduced Jesse to them: a friend his own age at last, and a friend anybody could be proud of. Seiji always presumed his parents wished Seiji were more like Jesse. He didn’t blame them for wanting that. Any parents would feel the same way.
Only it was true that his father hadn’t smiled at one of the jokes Jesse had made at a party last year. Seiji had wondered about that at the time.
“Do you find humor difficult to understand as well?” Seiji asked his father tentatively.
“Not usually,” said his father.
Seiji sighed, and tried to think of a different way to explain the prank. He supposed it had been too much to hope for, that he and his father might have something in common.
“Apparently, it’s other boys’ faces once the prank is accomplished that will be amusing? The part about being amusing is not important. The part that is important is getting justice for Nicholas. Do you understand?”
Seiji hoped he had explained it right this time.
“Tell me about Nicholas,” said his father.
“About—Nicholas?” Seiji repeated uncertainly.
“Would I like him?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Seiji. “He has terrible manners. And a basically unfortunate way of speaking and interacting with the world generally. He’s very untidy, too.”
“Oh, but you hate it when things aren’t in the correct places,” murmured his father. “I still r
emember that time we had the ambassador’s son over for a playdate, and you made him cry.”
“What is the point of painstakingly building castles with blocks only to knock them down?” Seiji asked. “Or sniveling?” He dismissed his father’s reminiscences. “Anyway, that was when I was very young and it no longer matters, so I don’t see the point of bringing it up. The point is—”
“Justice for Nicholas,” said his father. “Is Nicholas—very good at fencing?”
“No,” said Seiji plainly.
There was a stunned silence.
“He has a certain raw potential, but he hasn’t been properly trained because of his socioeconomic circumstances,” Seiji continued. “I wish to discuss this topic with you on our winter vacation. I think there must be foundations and scholarships set up. Many valuable fencers could be lost. It is almost too late for Nicholas. I shall be forced to teach him extremely rigorously.”
There was more silence. Seiji wondered if his father had dropped his phone.
“What about your coach?” asked his father at last.
“She’s very good but she likes us to focus on teamwork in a way I don’t enjoy,” said Seiji. “And she often suggests we relax. Someone with Nicholas’s current technique shouldn’t be allowed to relax. The way he conducts his whole life is disgusting.”
“Have you said that to him—in those words?” asked his father, sounding somewhat apprehensive.
“I tell Nicholas how bad he is constantly,” Seiji said. “He does not listen.”
His father coughed. Seiji hoped his father wasn’t unwell. “May I ask how you made friends with this boy?”
“I didn’t make friends with him,” Seiji answered, bewildered by this line of questioning. “You know I don’t know how to make friends! He just said we were friends, so now we are, and people hurt his feelings, so—as should be perfectly obvious—I must do something about that. As I have already explained several times.”
Fence--Striking Distance Page 22
