by Gwenda Bond
Until I glanced over and caught the expression on Anavi’s face. It was even more pained than it had been before.
For the rest of the class period, she sat folded in on herself, with only an occasional movement.
Every time, it was that same unnatural jerk, a flinch like an invisible fist had just punched her or a voice was hissing insults in her ear.
If there was one thing I hated, it was bullies.
CHAPTER 5
Finding Anavi in the crowded cafeteria at lunch was harder than I expected. But eventually I ferreted out her near-hidden spot in one of the back corners. Alone, which wasn’t a surprise. After what I’d witnessed in class, I felt sorry for her. I’d have to ask Devin if her being a loner was new behavior.
“You mind?” I scooted the chair opposite Anavi out with my boot and gingerly put down my lunch tray. I didn’t want to spook her.
The pizza on my plate was the sad-slice variety, staple of food courts and gas stations everywhere. But it was still pizza, and more recognizable than most of the other cafeteria offerings. And I was starving.
Meanwhile, Anavi was busy staring at me, wide-eyed. “Um, sincere apologies, but—”
“I’m sorry that you do mind. But I’m staying. Don’t worry, I’m not offended that you don’t want me to. My feelings don’t bruise easily.” Or at least I was good at pretending they didn’t. I sat down, putting my bag on the table beside me. “You should know I’m going to help you. Bullies like the Warheads don’t work like adults usually say. It’s not that they’re all talk and you just have to stand up to them. It’s that talk can be bad enough, but usually they’re more than willing to act too. And from what I saw earlier, it’s pretty clear these guys are not shy about acting.”
Anavi didn’t interrupt, which I took as a positive sign. I went on.
“Whatever those creepy Warheads creeps are doing to you, it’s wrong. I know there’s more to it than whispers.” Here it was. I was going to talk about things most people would call crazy with someone besides SmallvilleGuy. I didn’t see any other way to convince Anavi that I was on her side. “What you told the principal? After this morning, I believe you. I’m not going to leave you to deal with them by yourself.”
Anavi swallowed, but she didn’t speak.
I gave her time while I took a bite of pizza. Definitely sad, but, again, still pizza.
“Why?” Anavi asked finally, the question forcing its way out.
“Because they’re jerks of the highest magnitude,” I said, trying to speak the girl’s language. “The principal shouldn’t be letting them get away with tormenting you, or anything else. I didn’t like the way the teacher acted around them either. Like she was intimidated, afraid to put them in their place. Something’s definitely wrong here.”
I set down the sad pizza slice, puzzled again by how willing the adults were to indulge the Warheads’ behavior.
“No,” Anavi blurted. “It’s just . . . that’s not what I . . . Why do you believe me? About the rest.”
“Oh.” I had fallen into my old habit of barreling ahead and leaving whoever I was talking to behind by accident. I backtracked. “You mean about them messing with your head? This isn’t my first school. It’s not even my tenth. I’ve been a lot of places, and I’ve seen a lot of things. I can tell when things are . . . off. I also know that sometimes the explanations aren’t the obvious ones or ones that even seem possible.”
“But . . . ” Anavi hesitated.
“Go on. I’m on your side.”
“But I’m becoming more convinced that I am . . . losing my sanity.” Anavi looked away, into the corner. There was nowhere else to look if she didn’t want to meet my eyes.
Reaching into my messenger bag, I found a notebook and pen. I inched my tray back to make room to take notes.
“You’re not,” I said. “I won’t let you. How long have you been playing Worlds?”
Anavi looked at me then, which was progress. And she didn’t balk at the notebook, though she raised her eyebrows at it. “I’ve only been playing since I aged out of the bee. I had all that time to fill. No more flashcards and word lists and sessions with my coach. Studying for school doesn’t take as long. My neighbor, Will, was into it, and he taught me how to play.”
More progress.
“Tell me when it started. Them acting like this toward you. Were they always so mean?”
“In the game?” Anavi asked.
I thought back to what Devin had told me. “I heard that they’re cannibals in it.”
“I disagree,” Anavi said. “They were, they used to be. They used to turn on each other. I’ve been in there while they were fighting amongst the team, hurling each other into four-story monsters or into alien-probe traps.”
Alien-probe traps? “Yikes.”
Anavi went on. “But then they turned more . . . socio, serial. A couple of months ago.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sociopaths, serial killers.”
You don’t say. “Psychos. I got that part. What does it mean in the game?”
“It means they stopped griefing each other and started in on others. They began acting as a unit, no in-fighting. They weren’t cannibals anymore, not within the group. They were socios, serials, psychos . . . that means they go after other players together, no mercy. Rampaging.”
“Those other players included you?”
Anavi leaned forward. “No, not at first. My friend Will . . . He used to be my friend. My neighbor. They went after him. I should have helped him. But I was afraid they would come after me. The definition of absurdity, isn’t it?”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s one of them now. I could try to describe him, but . . . ”
“But they all dress alike, and so I wouldn’t know who you meant,” I said.
“Yes. He has been assimilated.”
In addition to her fear, she sounded like she was carrying a load of guilt around. I tapped my pen on the table. “You think this is revenge. That Will’s having them target you because you didn’t help him out. Is that why Butler thought one of them had a crush on you?”
“No, that’s just because I’m a girl. Isn’t that what adults always think when you complain about treatment by boys?” She considered the other question before she answered. “I did wonder at first, if the crush was part of it. But now I don’t think so. He’s just one of them. He’s not orchestrating anything. He used to be able to recite chapter and verse about soccer, every score, always streaming it when we weren’t in the game. He had an obsession with this UK team. The last time I went over to his house, he had taken down all his posters and I tried to make conversation about them, be normal, but he said he didn’t care about it anymore. That he had more important things to do. He wasn’t acting like himself.”
“And neither were you, this morning in class.”
“Correct,” she said. “They didn’t just mess up Will in the game. Before he started hanging out with them all the time, in the game and real life, he failed several tests. He couldn’t generate the right responses.”
“Again, like you this morning.”
Her nod was more like a wince.
“Sorry,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel worse about all this.
“If I forfeit my scholarship . . . My parents are going to slaughter me.”
“No, they’re not.” I clicked my pen closed. “You’re not losing anything.”
Anavi’s eyes met mine. She didn’t look convinced. “What if they force me to assimilate, like they did Will? I don’t want to be one of them.”
“I’m helping you, remember?” And I wanted to know who was conducting the bully orchestra, if not Anavi’s former pal. Both in the hallway and in class the group had been in such sync, no one had stood out as mouthpiece or mastermind. �
�Who do you think is the leader?”
“That’s another unlikely thing. You would assume there would be one commander. But it feels like they all are the leader, or none of them is.” Her glasses had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back into place. “I haven’t been back in Worlds in days. But it doesn’t seem to matter. In there, I can hold my own. It’s just bad play. But out here . . . When they’re near me and they want to . . . the only way I can describe it is that they disrupt my mind. Like they’re in my head, wearing jackboots and stomping around. Or not that, not precisely. It’s closer to a feeling of very fine control, like I’m a computer and they’re writing a piece of code that makes me perform however they want. An invading army, executing a coup in my mind.”
That was new. “So, they have to be close by for you to feel this way?”
“I think so. It only happens when they’re physically proximate. This morning in class, I knew the correct answers. They were at the forefront of my mind, but I couldn’t transcribe them. What I wrote was wrong, and I knew it was.” She lowered her voice. “But I could not stop. You know Occam’s razor? It’s a scientific principle that says the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. By that logic, the simplest explanation for this particular situation would be that I am absolutely losing my sanity. It defies any other explanation. Why else would I be telling you this?”
“Because I’m helping you.” Maybe I would regret not sending her straight to the counselor’s office. But my instincts said not to. “Give me a few days.”
“I should’ve known better than to bother reporting them to Principal Butler. He has always been kind to me, but his adoration for the Warheads this year is unparalleled. He allows them afternoons free. They get to leave campus.”
I clicked my pen again, noted that detail, and added a question mark.
Then I remembered the other question I had for Anavi. “Does the word ‘Hydra’ mean anything to you?”
“A mythological monster. The root’s Greek. There’s one in the game.” She shrugged. “Mid-level boss. Not that hard to defeat. You know what’s almost comical?”
“Nothing about any of this,” I said.
“I think in language roots, still, after all those years studying them. I notice them, the components of words. I don’t think I will ever stop. That term I mentioned the other day, the one I found that was closest to what’s happening . . . psychological coercion?”
I scribbled it into my notes too. “I didn’t remember it before, but I do now. What’s it mean?”
“The root, psyche, is Greek. It means breath, life, soul. Roots often have a certain poetry about them. Psychological coercion, it’s an elaborate way of saying that they’re stealing my soul. My breath. My life. That’s what my mind is to me.”
I couldn’t let that happen. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but would you be willing to go into the game again? Tonight? I’ll arrange to be there, too. I need to witness what they’re doing there so I can make the case that they’re targeting you. Don’t worry. I won’t talk about the inside-your-head stuff. Only what others can see.”
Suddenly, Anavi’s head ducked and she examined the boring plastic pattern of fake wood grain on the tabletop. I turned, expecting to see the Warheads lurking behind me.
But it was Maddy, standing at my shoulder. Her T-shirt today was another band that I hadn’t heard of: Danger Dames.
“Join us,” I said. “We’re almost done. Do you two know each other? Maddy, this is Anavi.”
“Hippopotamus,” Maddy said, sliding out the chair and scooting into it. She tilted her head at Anavi. “Come on, I can never remember how many P’s. Or U’s.”
I protested, “She’s not a trick pony—”
But Anavi rattled off the perfectly spelled—so I assumed—word. Maddy grinned. Anavi smiled back, the first time I’d seen any lightness in her.
I had to make sure that her breath, life, and soul stayed intact.
“So, tonight? Ten o’clock in the game?” I asked. “We’re on?”
“What article?” Anavi asked instead of agreeing, her forehead creasing in concern. “You mentioned something about an article.”
“Maddy and I work for the Daily Scoop. We’re going to do a piece about bullying, in game and out, using you as a case study.”
“But I don’t want anyone else to know it’s me.”
I understood. “I promised I’d help, right? Trust me. I’ll figure out a way to not use your name.”
“All right,” Anavi said. “I will be present at ten, but I make no commitment for how long I will remain if they’re in attendance.”
“You probably know the exact location of the Warheads at this very second, don’t you?” I asked.
“Always. How else can I avoid them effectively?”
“Point us in their direction. I want to officially meet them.”
Anavi lifted her finger, which trembled only a little. “Next to the doors. They linger. I’m always late for my first period after lunch . . . I wait them out.”
“Not today. Today they’ll be leaving early.” I stood and waved for Maddy to join me. “They have their methods of attack. I have mine.”
CHAPTER 6
Maddy stayed by my side as we navigated the cafeteria with its walls of good old patriotic red and blue.
I had discovered that the school mascot was the Generals. Dad really would love that. It might even be why my parents had picked this school.
There were a few obvious groups in the cafeteria, but school cliques were never as clear-cut as they were on TV or in the movies. Jocks, preps, nerds—there was too much overlap to pretend it was that simple these days. But I did recognize some discrete factions within this crowd, ones that had been at most of my previous schools.
The Nerdfighter contingent would have been identifiable by the fact that half of the table was reading (or more likely re-reading) one of their favorite author’s books—alternately laughing or weeping, depending how far in they were—even if a few weren’t also wearing T-shirts featuring him and his brother, along with tiny video cameras for making their next vlogs beside their trays.
And then there was the basketball team, always the tallest and cockiest of the sporty types, though here it seemed refreshingly like the girls’ team was part of the same echelon, sharing the table in an assortment of practice T-shirts, a welcome change from the usual.
Maybe the relative equality was the influence of the debate clubbers at the next table over. Or they might just be combative arguers with green political concerns; it was hard to say based on their heated discussions and environmentally friendly water bottles and lunch containers.
“What’s your plan?” Maddy asked. “You’re not going to confront the creeps face-to-face, are you? In front of everyone?”
We passed by a table housing a handful of drama club members, spottable by large gestures and supreme enunciation that gave way to a song more rehearsed than impromptu, complete with harmonizing. Maddy shivered in disgust at the singing, the crimson streak in her hair hiding her grimace from the table that was in full-blown a capella Broadway mode. Her expression reminded me of Lucy’s when she disapproved of something.
“Not a musical fan?” I asked, instead of answering Maddy’s question about what I had in mind.
“I cringe because that hurts me,” Maddy said. “My ears. My taste. I can’t.”
“Got it,” I said. “You’ll have to make me a playlist. I never seem to find good music on my own.”
“Sure,” Maddy agreed, smiling.
SmallvilleGuy was the source of most of my music, not that I was about to tell Maddy that. Not yet. It would be nice to have a friend to talk to in person, and especially about the weirdness of my relationship with him, somewhere between friends and maybe-more-than-friends. I thought we were, anyway. Sometimes. Like last night w
hen he’d said how much he wanted to tell me.
But, then again, defining where exactly on that spectrum we fell didn’t matter that much, since we were stuck there, in whatever uncertain spot it was. Because I literally didn’t know who he was and he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to change his mind and reveal all anytime soon.
Maddy’s pleased surprise at being consulted on music faded fast, and she started to plod along. She slowed with every step.
I saw why.
The Warheads were dead ahead, sitting around a table near the doors, as Anavi had said they would be. At every school I’d attended, holosets and portable game consoles—and sometimes even phones—were prohibited during school hours. Not here. At least not for these particular students.
They were all playing, focused in on scenes impenetrable from outside their own holoset views, but glowing right in front of their eyes. Other than darting pupils, and the occasional low-spoken command, they remained frighteningly motionless.
Something told me they were all in the same gaming scene, and not having harmless bad unicorn fun either.
“Where does James sit at lunch?” I asked.
“Why would I know that?” Maddy returned.
When I gave her a pointed look, complete with raised eyebrows, Maddy sighed and said, “At my sister’s table.”
I followed her gaze. James was at a nearby table, grinning at a couple of other Richie Rich polo-shirt types, all of them involved in teasing a few well-coiffed girls. The girls were tolerating it—maybe even enjoying it. Then I froze.
Maddy and her sister were majorly identical twins, so much so that James was an idiot—or blind—if he couldn’t see the resemblance. I also suspected based on yesterday that Maddy would be expecting me to react like I couldn’t believe they were related either. Her sister was like a make-up ad, all soft luminous smiles and no edge. She was probably perfectly nice. But given Maddy’s crimson-streaked hair and band fascinations, she was undoubtedly used to being lost in her glowing sister’s shadow.
