Fence

by Sarah Rees Brennan

  Seiji, plainly unable to deal with this situation, looked around for his security idiot, Nicholas Cox. Nicholas and Eugene had gotten their bags first and wandered off while the others waited, only to return a few minutes later holding cardboard cartons of yellow ice cream. Nicholas offered Seiji his wooden spoon, and Seiji made a face.

  “That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”

  Nicholas seemed pleased to have Seiji’s attention.

  “Bro, we were looking for you to translate our French, but not to brag, we handled ourselves pretty well French-wise.” Eugene beamed proudly. “I take Spanish for the easy A,” he added.

  “The ice cream was free,” said Nicholas, offering it again, as though the information the ice cream hadn’t been paid for would make Seiji think it was more appetizing.

  Seiji waved the ice cream away irritably.

  “We were slightly worried, since it’s yellow,” said Eugene. “Which, nice color! Cheerful. Good vibes. But I’m allergic to pineapples. So we had to check if it was pineapple flavor. We were like, comment flavor, my French bro?”

  “Eugene said that, but I provided moral French support,” supplied Nicholas. “And he said something about perfume? And we were like, we don’t want any perfume. We eventually managed to convince him.”

  “Parfum means flavor,” said Seiji.

  “Oh,” said Nicholas. “Everything makes sense now. Well, we got the important part. The ice cream is ananas flavor, and ananas was obvious even to me. Banana ice cream! It doesn’t really taste like bananas, but honestly? Neither does banana-flavored gum.”

  “Wait. Nicholas.” Seiji frowned.

  Nicholas grinned. “Do you want some after all?”

  Seiji recoiled from the persistent ice cream offering.

  There was an important detail in Nicholas’s chattering, but Aiden couldn’t really hear over the humiliated pounding in his own head. If Seiji knew, then everyone knew. Everyone at Kings Row knew Aiden had feelings for Harvard, and they pitied him.

  Thank God they were in France.

  The connecting bus wound through narrow roads and chugged up steep hills to drop down into valleys that were dramatic scoops in the green earth. The sun sank lower and lower on the horizon, and Aiden stared out the window as the sunshine went from a blaze to a glow. In France, light lingered on the land with a glittering quality long after American land would have been dark.

  Aiden heard Bobby murmuring something about wild debaucheries. He wouldn’t have expected that of Bobby, but wild debaucheries sounded good to Aiden right about now.

  The bus was going through the town of Menton, almost at camp. The houses in Menton were as brightly colored as a box of candy, yellow and green and pink. They cast a multihued shimmer on the rippling turquoise waters, colors shifting on the waves like flags in a breeze. Nicholas Cox, who’d clearly been raised by rats in a gutter, had the tip of his nose pressed against the bus window. He seemed totally enraptured, dancing lights reflected in his eyes.

  “Seiji, do you see? Seiji, this is so cool!”

  Seiji, face impassive, looked at Nicholas.

  “Yes,” said Seiji. “I like it, too.”

  Nicholas and Seiji made Aiden feel sick. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were so stupid and young, or because they were happy.

  Five minutes away from Menton proper lay Camp Menton, a collection of rambling gray stone buildings and more modern houses, built low with their vast windows facing the ocean. The motley assortment of buildings was held together by a ring of lemon trees and a short stone wall.

  Ornate gates stood open to welcome them. Beside the gates, there were three people waiting. Aiden recognized one of them, because even though the setting sun reduced everyone to silhouettes, the sight of one silhouette made Seiji flinch.

  Jesse Coste.

  Seiji and Nicholas no longer seemed happy. Well, being hopeful and young had to end sometime.

  “I don’t feel great,” mumbled Eugene as the bus rolled to a halt.

  “Join the club,” Aiden snapped.

  Harvard helped Aiden get his suitcase out of the baggage hold. The perfect captain and the perfect best friend. “You ready for Camp Menton, buddy?”

  Harvard was calling Aiden that a lot lately. He was making himself clear, Aiden supposed. Maybe soon Harvard would take a leaf out of Eugene’s book and start calling Aiden bro.

  Aiden gave Harvard a glittering smile. “Sure am. But ask yourself this, pal: Is Camp Menton ready for me?”

  12 NICHOLAS

  It had been a long journey, and Nicholas was pleased to spot a woman waiting for them. She had an air of authority and was wearing the black-and-silver uniform of the Camp Menton coaches. He was looking forward to being shown around the camp and then shown to his and Seiji’s room. Nicholas was anticipating rest at the end of such a long day.

  But, of course, the day couldn’t end without taking a wrong turn.

  “Seiji! What a totally unexpected surprise,” declared a familiar voice. There against the lemon trees and the strange sky stood Jesse Coste.

  His father’s other son. Seiji’s other fencing partner.

  “You again,” mumbled Nicholas.

  Jesse didn’t seem to hear him. Jesse didn’t seem to even notice him. He only had eyes for Seiji.

  The Kings Row team stood in the dust kicked up by the bus wheels turning on the narrow road, silently staring at the apparition that was Jesse. Seiji seemed to have turned to wood, his whole attention on the boy in front of him.

  Jesse Coste wandered closer, blond as Nicholas’s worst nightmare. The more he grinned, the more Nicholas wanted to punch him, and the deeper Seiji seemed to enter his fugue state. Seiji said in a determinedly calm voice, “Hello, Jesse,” and continued to stare.

  Seiji and Jesse seemed in a world of their own, where nobody else existed. Certainly not Nicholas. Seiji was always more affected by Jesse than he ever was by anyone else. Jesse got everything, and Nicholas couldn’t help the resentful knot that formed in his stomach, even though Jesse had no idea Robert Coste was Nicholas’s father, too.

  Apparently, Jesse had no idea Nicholas was alive.

  Coach Williams saved the situation by striding out in front of her team and offering a hand to the woman in the Camp Menton uniform. “Sally Williams, Kings Row. Thanks for having us. Sorry we’re late. Our flight was delayed.”

  The woman shook Coach’s hand. She had exciting earrings and a very sculpted hairdo, and she looked like a film star from a super-old movie, cut out and superimposed onto real life. She said, “Je m’appelle Colette Arquette,” which Nicholas figured probably meant My name is Colette and not A woman named Colette has stolen my apple. Colette clearly didn’t care about any of the drama unfolding before her.

  “Je suis—” Coach Arquette’s gaze swept the team’s expressions of polite incomprehension. “I am one of the managers at Camp Menton. Welcome, all of you. How delightful to have American teams with us for the first time.”

  Her voice was entirely flat.

  “It will be my pleasure to show you around the camp,” she continued, voice still flat. “You can leave your bags here. They will be taken to your rooms. This is Melodie Suard, who volunteered to assist with the initiation of the American teams, and this is Jesse Coste, another American.”

  “Jesse’s been waiting here for your bus since this morning,” reported the girl by Coach Arquette’s side. “He says he knows one of you.”

  “Seiji,” Jesse filled in. “Since childhood.”

  Without looking at the girl, Jesse continued to direct the sunlike force of his attention back on Seiji, who was still doing his impression of a statue impervious to sunshine or rain.

  Nicholas looked over at Melodie. Initially, he’d been surprised to see her. Nicholas was familiar with girls, obviously. Coach was a girl. His mom was a girl. He used to go to school with girls. The guys back at his several other schools had talked, and seemed to think, about girls a lot. Nicholas didn’t
. He was busy thinking about fencing. Since starting at Kings Row, he’d almost forgotten about the existence of girls his own age. He wondered if she was any good at fencing. As she was at Camp Menton, he guessed she must be.

  “Follow me,” said Coach Arquette.

  She turned and made her way up the tree-lined avenue, their coach at her side. Harvard and Assistant Coach Lewis were right behind them.

  Even though he was with his teammates, Nicholas found himself feeling very alone. Seiji and Jesse were maintaining an intense silence, the air between them seeming to crackle with fraught, unspoken words. In fact, nobody was talking, except for the girl. Nicholas felt as though he might burst if he kept watching Seiji and Jesse watch each other, so he looked at her. Melodie was compact, had hair that was even lighter than Jesse’s tied up in a messy bun, and wore fencing whites. She was eyeing their whole group with a disappointed air.

  “I hoped,” she announced with a sigh, “that one of the American teams would show signs of a real workout ethic.”

  Nicholas stared at her in bewilderment.

  “I pictured you Americans as rugged. I thought you were all so interested in training and in, oh, what is the English word… gains,” Melodie continued. “I’m very intrigued by the practice of using bodybuilding to enhance fencing. But you are all so skinny.”

  “I think of us as leanly muscular,” suggested Nicholas.

  Melodie scoffed.

  Silence reigned among the lemon trees. The glamorous coach named Colette was showing them the common area between the buildings, where people gathered for meals when the weather was nice. There were carved beech picnic tables set under an orchard of swaying green and gold. Nicholas already missed the fiery fall colors of the trees around Kings Row.

  Apparently, rich people donated their summer houses to act as dormitories for the Camp Menton kids. Through the trees, Nicholas glimpsed rambling cottages with rose briars growing up the walls, and modern buildings the sparkling-white color of fresh laundry. They looked like houses from magazines. It was beautiful, not like anything he’d ever seen.

  He glanced over at Seiji, wanting to share the wonder as he had when they were looking out on the town, but Seiji wasn’t looking at Nicholas. He was still totally focused on Jesse. He seemed entirely unaware Nicholas was there.

  Nicholas swallowed and tried to pay attention to the tour.

  The centerpiece of Camp Menton was not the orchard cafeteria or the fancy dormitories. Coach Arquette led them to a building made of crumbling gray stone, with a peaked roof and a tower with a bell currently hanging silently. She led them through an echoing stone corridor, past the armory, where sword maintenance was carried out.

  “The salle d’armes at Camp Menton was modeled after the Honved Fencing Club in Budapest. That was a converted synagogue, and this is a converted chapel,” announced Coach Arquette with justified pride.

  It was a cavernous space, white plaster walls curving to a ceiling stenciled with gold symbols against a blue sky, starting cerulean blue and ending in cobalt at the dome. The seats for the audience mimicked an amphitheater in ancient Rome, tiered benches enclosing the space rising up on every side. The converted floor had fixed metal pistes made of corrugated steel sheeting set into the floor, demarcated by broad swathes of smooth dark green.

  “Honved also has a record number of women champions,” piped up Melodie.

  Nicholas was distracted by the sight in the salle d’armes. There were fencers doing drills along each piste, their masks and fencing whites making them an anonymous, undifferentiated mass, shifting along the strips with unbelievably smooth precision. These fencers moved like the sea by the cliffside roads leading to this place only reversed: Theirs were the same fluid motions as the sea, but with white beneath and the silver of their clashing swords as the crests of the waves. Nicholas noticed that many of them were using a French grip, a different type of hilt on a fencer’s weapon that gave extra reach but allowed fencers less stability. Seiji was the only fencer he’d ever seen use a French grip before.

  The training of the Camp Menton fencers was being overseen by a tall, stern man with gray eyes and graying brown hair. He paused snapping out commands to nod in their direction.

  “That is Coach Robillard, one of our finest.” Coach Arquette raised her voice. “The Kings Row team is here.”

  “So I see,” said Coach Robillard, his sharp eyes focused on only one of their group. “I trained Seiji Katayama last year. Ice-cold mind for strategy, that boy. Can’t wait to see how you’ve improved, Seiji. Hope the rest of you are half as good.”

  He didn’t actually sound hopeful about that, but he’d change his mind.

  The fencers moved like an ocean and like an army. Like an army of people who were better than Nicholas. For now.

  Nicholas was lost in delighted amazement. It wasn’t that long ago that Kings Row seemed out of reach for him, like a whole other world he couldn’t hope to attain. Now here he was, part of a great team, learning that the world of fencing was vaster and more impressive than he’d ever imagined. He got to be part of this world, too.

  Nicholas had thought Seiji forced him to drill constantly, but his drills clearly didn’t compare to those of the Camp Menton fencers. He couldn’t imagine how long it took to move with this balletic precision.

  “Naturally, before we permit drills, we do all the usual exercises for speed, strength, and flexibility,” Coach Arquette continued. “After drills, the students are encouraged to keep sharp by fencing each other in practice matches in their spare time. Here at Camp Menton, you have the chance to fence against opponents at the highest level.”

  Nicholas had read a lot of Seiji’s books about the history of fencing. He cheered up. “Like a match at a competition?”

  “Yes, like a competition,” confirmed Melodie. “There’s a judge, and the matches are scored.”

  Nicholas stared at the sea of fencers again, the light on their foils shining like stars. He imagined all the new people he could fence and the new skills he could pick up while he was here. “When can I fence my first match?!”

  “Not until after you have completed several hours of training exercises. You will come to learn the Camp Menton ways soon enough,” Coach Arquette assured Nicholas. “I’m sure your team is very disciplined,” she added, addressing Coach Williams.

  “Indescribably,” said Coach Williams.

  “That’s good,” Coach Arquette told them. “Because we have strict rules. Classes must be attended and not skipped, and lateness will not be tolerated. We also have a curfew. No camp attendees out after nine PM. This is what Menton expects from a serious fencer.”

  Aiden laughed, a shockingly loud sound in the intense, cavernous space. Several heads turned.

  “Oh, sorry,” drawled Aiden when Coach Arquette focused an outraged gaze on him. “I thought you were making a joke. You couldn’t call me a serious fencer. I’m more the flippant type.”

  “He’s kidding,” said Harvard. “Ignore him.”

  Usually their captain sent Aiden a fond smile when Aiden acted out, showing Harvard wasn’t really mad, and Aiden settled right down.

  France must have had everybody off balance. Harvard didn’t give Aiden the smoothing-down smile, and Aiden stayed all bristly.

  “Ignore me?” he asked. “With this face? Be serious. Apparently, we all have to be in this dreary place.”

  With that, Aiden turned and strolled out of the salle d’armes.

  Coach Arquette cleared her throat. “Yes, perhaps it is time to show you to your rooms. You must all be exhausted.”

  The rest of the Kings Row team, Melodie, and Jesse Coste retraced their steps out into the light and away from the shining spectacle of all those flawless fencers. Coach Williams already looked embarrassed. Harvard and Aiden were both being weird. Bobby seemed intimidated, and Dante was hovering over Bobby. Seiji wasn’t responding to anything Nicholas said or did.

  He fell back to join Eugene, who was at the rear of
the group, dragging his feet. That wasn’t like Eugene at all.

  “Bro…,” Eugene said slowly. “I don’t… I don’t feel super good.”

  Nicholas looked to Eugene, his true bro, and noticed the alarmingly gray cast to his face. Nicholas cupped Eugene’s elbow and was even more concerned when a good amount of Eugene’s weight hit his palm. Nicholas wasn’t going to be able to hold up Eugene on his own. Eugene was all muscle. Luckily, Melodie hadn’t gotten too far ahead. She noticed that Eugene and Nicholas had stopped in their tracks and trotted back to them.

  “Oh no, is one of the Americans broken?”

  She appeared to notice Eugene for the first time. Her eyes went wide. Nicholas was glad to see she shared his concern.

  Eugene was looking more and more unwell by the moment. His face was dazed, and his eyes had gone unfocused. Nicholas, badly worried about him, patted Eugene’s hand where it rested on his shoulder.

  “A little help? Jesse?” called out Melodie. Seiji and Jesse were the only two people still in view. Jesse reluctantly turned away from Seiji. “This boy should go to the infirmary.”

  “The infirmary?” Eugene, who was drooping, raised his head and met Melodie’s concerned gaze. “I’m really okay.”

  A look came over Jesse’s face that, oddly, reminded Nicholas of Harvard. It was an I’m the captain and I will handle this expression. Jesse was, Nicholas recalled, captain of his team at Exton. Still not glancing at Nicholas, he took Eugene’s arm from Nicholas’s grasp and efficiently draped it around his own shoulders.

  “You’re going to the infirmary with us,” Jesse informed Eugene.

  “I’m not leaving Eugene!” protested Nicholas.

  “Actually, bro, it’s cool,” said Eugene slowly. “Maybe I should get checked out. I’ll just go to the infirmary with these nice blond people. Did I hear you mention something about workout ethics?” he continued, addressing Melodie. “I’m sure we all have lots to say to each other about training exercises.”

  Melodie lit up. “I have many thoughts.”