There were three Greens protecting the goal, Oz among them. He would have to take out all three to have a chance to deliver the required three consecutive shots into the heart of the goal. There was no more cover. He would simply have to shoot faster and more accurately than his opponents.
But just as he was about to make his charge, the speakers in his helmet buzzed angrily in his ears, signifying that he himself had been hit. His phaser momentarily disabled by the hit, he crouched and turned quickly to see who had gotten him.
It was David, standing not ten feet away and wearing a self-satisfied smile. Touching the barrel of his phaser to his temple, David returned the salute Bhodi had given him at the start. Then he slipped away before Bhodi's phaser returned to life.
Irritated at having been thwarted, Bhodi took one step to pursue David, then stopped and looked up as the overhead lights went to full white and the endgame signal sounded.
Not today, Bhodi Li thought resignedly, pushing his visor up. Not today -
"Thanks a lot, pal," Bhodi said, falling in step beside David as they left the arena for the changing area. "That's the first time I've been zapped in three weeks."
"I know. Took a little extra pleasure in it for that."
"Where were you the whole time, anyway? I don't think I saw you the whole match."
"Stalking you," David said brightly. "I knew you almost never look back. I wanted to see if I could pick you off without you ever getting me."
"Well, you did, damn your eyes."
"I didn't think I was ever going to catch up to you," David confessed. "You spent an awful long time standing in the foxhole. A long time for you, that is."
"The best cover is the kind you don't depend on for long."
"It's a shame you forgot that there at the end," David jibed.
Inside the changing area, they stopped in front of the wide-screen television suspended from the ceiling on which the match and individual player's scores were displayed. The Red team had won a slight victory, with most of the points beside the name BHODI LI. The more balanced Green team had five warriors over six hundred. Beside the name KUDA LAMBDA was the number 110.
"That's pathetic," Jarvis said, elbowing his friend as they turned away from the screen. "A hundred and ten?"
"Hey, I already told you, I did what I set out to. I wouldn't have cared if it was minus ten, as long as I didn't lose the ten points at your hands."
"Gee, thanks. What a buddy."
"Take it as a compliment."
"I'm trying."
"Your problem is you're too single-minded. There's more to this game than racking up high scores."
"No, there isn't," Bhodi said, unbuckling his battery belt and surrendering it to the attendant. "And you'll be glad of my two thousand points tomorrow in the tournament."
"You won't get two thousand points tomorrow," Reynolds said pointedly. "Not against the Shrike's team."
"Sure I will," Jarvis said cheerfully. "You can do what you did today, only turn around and protect my back instead of shooting me in it."
"I don't know," Reynolds said, rubbing his chin in an exaggerated caricature of indecision. "You'd do the same for me, right?"
"Sure. As soon as you're as good as I am."
"Today I was better."
"Is that what this is all about? Bragging rights?"
"Damn straight. And I've got 'em."
"But who knows it, except me and you?" Jarvis gestured toward the scoring screen. "They look at that and see something else."
Reynolds grinned crookedly. "You'll never understand, but nobody else has to know. You and me is enough."
"You're right," Jarvis said soberly. "I don't understand." He jerked his head toward the door. "Come on. Denise will be at the drive-in by now. Let's swing by for a shake."
"She's a lost cause," Reynolds warned, idly spinning the car keys on his forefinger.
Jarvis shook his head. "There's no such thing."
CHAPTER TWO
Martin's Drive-In made a serviceable archetype for that species of home-grown fast-food restaurant that seems to exist in the shadow of every high school. Hand-lettered signs promoting permanent Specials shared the windows of the tiny square building with generic photographs of burger platters and pizza slices. The unpaved parking lot that surrounded it made a perfect showcase for new Firebirds and old but lovingly maintained Darts and Malibus alike.
Inside Martin's, freezers, fryers and grills crowded a kitchen no larger than a summer porch, and teenaged girls in tan smocks and paper caps ferried shake cups and plastic baskets of fries through the narrow aisles to the order window. The most popular item on the menu was the half-pound Raider Burger, which was named after the school's athletic teams and in most years was considerably more imposing.
It was nearly five when Reynolds and Jarvis reached the drive-in. The after-school drop-ins were thinning out, and the early-evening cruisers had yet to gather. Even so, a dozen vehicles were scattered around the lot, the same music blasting from high-power radios in three of them.
Reynolds slid his Skylark neatly between a black-glassed van and Denise Barrows's rusting Volkswagen Beetle, and he and Jarvis vaulted out.
"Hey, Chris," someone called as they were spotted. "Martini give you a hard time?"
Jarvis grinned in the direction the voice had come from and raised a hand in greeting. "Nah," he called back. "No blood."
"Probably just wanted to show you her hornworts," another voice chipped in.
Swiveling his head, Jarvis saw that it was Kid Vandergriff. A junior who looked like a freshman (thus his nickname) but circled like a hopeful puppy around the seniors, Vandergriff hadn't been in the biology lab for the confrontation.
Brightening appreciatively at the discovery his joke had not only been remembered but been repeated, Jarvis took note of the underclassman's marching-band jacket and shot back, "Which she caught from you, the way she told it. When are you going to see a doctor?"
Jarvis and Reynolds continued across the lot toward the order windows, calling greetings to others they knew. As they neared the building, Jarvis scanned through the odd bare patch of glass for Denise.
"Do you see her?"
"In the back. I think she's working the food window."
Without a word but both knowing why, they drew up short and stood talking about the tournament, until Denise returned to the counter with the order for the young family waiting there.
"Hey, Denise," Jarvis said, stepping forward. He rested his folded arms on the counter, which brought his face down to her eye level. "How's it going?"
"Fine, until you got here," she said cheerfully. "What do you want?"
"A big Pepsi-and a date."
"The Pepsi you can have," she said, turning away.
Reynolds whistled sympathetically and leaned back against the counter beside Jarvis. "I warned you."
"She just hasn't learned to appreciate my better qualities yet," he said with a shrug.
It was said as an aside, but Denise reappeared with Jarvis's drink in time to hear it. "You have no better qualities," she said crisply. "Ninety-three cents."
"You're so cold to me," he said, digging in his pocket for change.
"You're confusing me with the drink. Me, I just don't care. You know the feeling."
"What do you mean? Today in biology? What's the problem?"
Head cocked to the right and hands on her hips, she stared at him a moment, as if deciding whether to continue the conversation. "Your problem is that you're always performing for the audience," she said finally.
"I am not." His reflexive denial was sincere. What is she talking about? he wondered.
Denise shook her head resignedly. "I've got customers waiting," she said looking past him.
"But-"
"Get lost, Jarvis," she said pointedly.
Looking past Denise, Jarvis saw Fritz Martin, the owner, come out from behind the grill and start in their direction. Reluctantly, he turned away.
; "I warned you," said Reynolds cheerfully.
"I'm just starting."
"You're out of your mind. All you're going to get from her is the back of her hand."
"She doesn't know me."
"Yeah, that's right. She probably thinks you're what you seem to be."
Jarvis missed the irony. "Well, sure. I mean, I don't care if her family lives in a mobile home. But she doesn't know that."
"A twentieth-century Cinderella, and you the misbegotten prince."
This time the irony penetrated. "Make all the fun you like. I'm not giving up."
"Preps in love."
"I'm no Prep."
They had reached the car. "To her you are," Reynolds said, then hesitated. "If you're that determined-"
"I am. She's the one."
Reynolds sighed. "I'm probably going to regret telling you this, but she's going to be at the tournament tomorrow."
Jarvis perked up immediately. "To see me?"
"Dream on," he said, climbing behind the wheel. "No, Joanne's coming to watch her brother. Denise and a couple of the other girls are going with her."
"How do you know?"
Reynolds started the Skylark's engine. "Joanne told me. Anyway, even if she's not coming to see you-"
"I'll make sure she notices me."
"That's what I was afraid of." Reynolds looked back over his shoulder as he nudged the car into reverse. "Where to, rejected suitor?"
"Home."
Reynolds spun the steering wheel and then the wheels. "Prepville Express, all aboard."
Despite the fact that Jarvis did not feel it strongly himself, there was, in truth, a potent classism among the students at Montclair Senior High. Superficially, the cliques divided along their principal interests: academics, sports, or tomorrow-be-damned fun. But the underlying discriminator was money.
The classism was expressed daily by the names the various cliques gave themselves, or had given to them. The Hall Rats were proud of their name; some even wore it embroidered on jeans or embossed on jackets. The Preps hated theirs, but were for the most part proud of the things that made them different-trendy clothes, new cars and ample pocket money.
Beyond the Preps, Jocks and Hall Rats there was also a silent, nearly invisible middle class within the school, without enough of an identity to even warrant a nickname. As many as two in five students belonged here, among them Denise-though because of her looks, she drew continuing attention from the Jocks and at times was taken for a Jockette.
Jarvis had friends in every clique. He was bright enough to not be in awe of the Preps, even if his grades didn't reflect it; like them, it was presumed that he would go to college. With his blond hair and tanned, trim body, he looked like an athlete and knew their language, though his last organized competition had been as a sophomore on the track team. And the occasional flash of wildness endeared him to the underclass, who thought of him as kin under the skin.
But to those looking for a quick or simple reading, where and how Jarvis lived placed him firmly among the Preps. Home was a five-bedroom split-level in a new subdivision north of town. The sprinklered lawn was always lush green. There were golf clubs in the garage, a deck with a barbecue in the backyard, and a ten-year-old sister with braces. Except for Jarvis's own room and the unfinished third of the basement, the house typically looked as though it were ready to be shown to prospective buyers.
His mother, Barbara, called it comfortable, and perhaps it was nothing more than that to her. But Jarvis had been in enough of his classmates' homes since they'd come to the community three years ago to know better, heard enough of them say, "Boy, this is nice" on their first visit.
Jarvis had trouble accepting such compliments gracefully. Part of the reason was that, after all, it wasn't his, was it? It was Barbara and Joshua's house, paid for with her tax consultancy fees and his office manager's salary. But the major reason was that Jarvis would have gladly traded it for something with a little texture, something containing a slightly less predictable and less ordered life.
Something less boring, if honesty compelled him to confess David dropped him off at the entrance to the cul-de-sac where his house sat, beeped a goodbye, and sped off. His hands empty except for the well-doodled, blue school folder that contained the American History assignment due Monday, Jarvis ambled along the sidewalk as though neither he nor anyone else cared when he arrived.
But someone did. Almost the moment he turned up the driveway, he was accosted by his sister Felicia. The ten-year-old dashed out through the front door, jumped off the side of the porch, and headed straight toward him across the grass.
"It's about time you got home," she scolded. "Where is it? Where's the kit?" Then she saw his nearly empty hands, stopped short, and ran back toward the house, this time crying plaintively, "Mom, he forgot it. Make him go back-"
The moment he had seen her, he remembered. Three days in a row he'd been asked to bring home the draftsman's kit, a dozen shiny little compasses and other drawing tools in a deep blue felt-lined case. He had taken it to school for some now-forgotten project, and it had been residing under the clutter at the bottom of his locker for more than two months.
He followed Felicia into the house just as his mother was coming down the stairs in response to her plaint. She was wearing a white slip, and her makeup seemed to be incomplete-obviously she and Dad were going to be going out, which meant dinner would be courtesy of Chef Swanson or Chez Del Monte tonight.
"Hello, Christopher. What's happening down here, Felicia?" she asked.
"Chris forgot the kit," she said with fierce childish indignation. "He promised and I need it this weekend. He's got to go back and get it."
"Oh, Chris," Barbara said with cow eyes of disappointment. "You didn't forget again-"
"I had to stay and talk to Mrs. Martini about biology, and Dave almost left without me. I didn't even have time to go to my locker."
In truth, he had gone to his locker, but on a dead run, pausing only enough to throw in his unneeded texts and notebook. His excuse was true in principle, at least, he consoled himself-it was the distraction of Mrs. Martini and the resultant haste that made him forget.
"What about going back?"
"It's too late."
"Aren't any of the teams practicing tonight? You should still be able to get in-"
"The hallways are blocked off with gates at four. I couldn't get to my locker." He turned to his sister. "I'm sorry, Felicia. I didn't mean to forget."
"Yes, you did," she fumed, then turned on her heel and fled up the stairs.
"This is too much, Chris," Barbara said, shaking her head. "You've really disappointed her. She was counting on working on her space station design this weekend. I thought you were going to write yourself a note?"
"I did," he confessed. "I left it on my dresser this morning."
"Oh, Chris," she said again. "Why were you in such a hurry? It wasn't that game, was it?"
"We were scheduled for a four o'clock match-"
"How much difference would two minutes more have made?"
"David was driving. I didn't have any choice-"
She clucked. "You're going to have to start being more considerate of your sister, not to mention more reliable. Isn't there any way that you can get the kit for her?"
"Sure. But I don't think you want me breaking into school."
Despite herself, his mother smiled. "That might not be the best idea," she agreed, her expression turning thoughtful. "Well, that is your father's kit, after all, and it is twenty years old. I guess I'll take your sister out shopping tonight, and we'll see if we can't find something that'll be all hers."
When he nodded and took a step toward the kitchen, she quickly added, "But Monday that kit comes home with you and goes back in the desk drawer where it belongs, even if I have to have you called out of your last class to remind you."
"I'll remember," he promised as he rounded the corner.
"And don't think this means that you're of
f the hook," she called after him, then turned and headed upstairs to complete her toilette.
But it did, in fact, mean he was off the hook, and that was nothing new. As a rule, his mother was unable to stop herself from rescuing him from the consequences of his own bollixations. Whether it was some sort of favoritism toward him (his sister's charge) or simply her desire to keep family peace (his father's opinion), he had profited from it more times than he could count.
That awareness had not yet led to any guilt, and this incident wasn't going to be the exception. He hadn't meant to forget, after all. And Felicia would be happier with her new tools-read toys-than if he had remembered the first time he'd been asked.
So it had all really worked out for the best, he told himself as he studied the back of the box his dinner had just emerged from. Christopher Jarvis, catalyst for growth and progress, he thought to himself. Better living through amnesia. Now-five and a half minutes on high, then rotate a half turn -
CHAPTER THREE
For once, Christopher Jarvis awoke on a Saturday morning before his sister had a chance to invade his bedroom and wake him. There was none of his customary heavy-lidded groaning and stretching. His body was alive with energy and anticipation, as though it were ready for the tournament to begin that moment.
But the clock on his cluttered dresser advised him that it was just past 6:30, too early even to start helping with the family's traditional Saturday morning breakfast. The window of his bedroom faced east, and he sat on the sill in the T-shirt and briefs he'd slept in to watch the sun rise over the little copse of trees across the street.
As he sat, he thought a little about Mrs. Martini, a little about Denise. But most of the time he spent envisioning the arena he would enter at ten o'clock, cataloging its shadowed hiding places, visualizing his own success there.
In an idle moment in study hall, Jarvis had once paged through a copy of Sports Illustrated containing an article on the new breed of sports psychologists. Though he had skipped over the piece, he was nevertheless following the advice of one of the leading psychemasters profiled in it: Visualize the moment. See yourself in the act of hitting the clutch home run, breaking the tape in record time, sinking the winning free throw. Prepare your mind for the challenge, and your body will respond.
Thieves of Light Page 2
