by Jesse Gordon
“Are you sure they weren’t con artists? Did they ask to use the bathroom?”
“They were genuine, Pat. I mean, we’re still going to contact the NPAA office directly first thing tomorrow morning, just to confirm, but it’s the real deal. I’m still in shock.”
A wary grin spread across Pat’s face. He looked off-camera for a moment. “I don’t believe you. I’m at the NPAA Web site right now and you’re still listed as a retired junior.”
“Well, duh! We still have to turn in the paperwork.”
“Got any proof?”
“I didn’t exactly pose for pictures with the recruiters.”
“Okay,” said Pat. “A test, then. Look me in the eye and tell me, ‘Patrick, I am a Patriot athlete.’”
Monica leaned forward, framed herself dead-center. “Patrick, I am a Patriot athlete.”
“Now say, ‘Patrick, I want you.’”
“Dream on.”
“Seriously, be scientific about this, Monica. I need a control statement. Say, ‘Patrick, I want you.’”
“Fine. Patrick, I want you. Satisfied?”
“Good. Now say, ‘Patrick, I am a Patriot athlete’ once more.”
Monica gritted her teeth, scowling. “Patrick, I am a Patriot athlete.”
Pat narrowed his eyes, stroked his chin. “Hmm. Very interesting. Both statements seem to be genuine—”
Monica gave him a look.
“—however, as your right eye didn’t twitch during your Patriot statement, I’m guessing you’re telling the truth as you know it.”
“Gee, thanks. That wasn’t humiliating or anything.”
Leaning back, Pat folded his arms behind his head. “Don’t mention it—but hey, now that we’ve established the facts, does this mean your picture is going to be on cereal boxes and McDonald’s cups?”
“Well,” said Monica, “I’m going to be on the national team, but that just means I have a chance at competing during the Heroes’ Day events. It all depends on scores, how well I do during training—by the way, my coach is going to be Darren Hades.”
“Darren who?”
“Darren Hades. He was the gymnast who got perfect marks on Heroes’ Day, 2084.”
“Oh, him. I read his bio in history class. Wow, he’s still around?”
“Yeah, dork,” said Monica. “He was only twelve years old.”
“Oh, right,” said Pat. “I forget that all you Olympic types start your careers when you’re still in diapers.”
“You know the saying: train hard or go home.”
“I thought it was ‘fall hard, die young.’”
Monica yawned, stretched. “The longer you go without sleep, the more sarcastic you get. Did you know that?”
“Do you like me this way, Chalky Cheeks?”
“Chalky Cheeks?”
Pat was looking off-screen again. “Yeah, you know, when the girls get prints on their butt cheeks—dude, this NPAA site has a great photo gallery. The wedgie shots alone are worth—”
“I’m going to sleep, you pervert,” Monica said, reaching for the escape key. “Goodnight, Pat.”
“Monica.”
“What?”
“Congratulations on turning Patriot.”
Monica smiled. “Thanks, Pat. That means a lot to me.”
“And thanks for letting me be your first—with the news, I mean.”
“Ugh!” snorted Monica, the double entendre sinking in after a moment. “Goodnight!”
Pat laughed, waved goodbye as he signed off.
* * *
It was half past midnight when Monica, slipping upstairs for a drink of water, found her mother sitting at the kitchen table.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked.
Sharon sighed. “Just going over the fine print.”
Monica took ice cubes from the freezer, dropped them into an eight-ounce glass, filled the glass with water from the tank. She sat at the table and offered a sip to Sharon, who politely declined.
“They’re really thorough, aren’t they?” Sharon murmured as she leaned back in her chair and rested her eyes a moment. “We’ll have to sign you over to your new coaches for the year. Legal guardianship and all.”
Monica sipped her ice water. “They’ll just be my space parents—you and dad will always be my Earth parents.”
Sharon chuckled, leaned forward again and shuffled some papers about. “Did you read the part about the bodyguard thing?”
“Yes,” said Monica with a nod. “It’s only natural that there’ll be increased security aboard a space station.”
“I don’t know if I like that.”
“I’ll probably be safer than I was during that conference in Los Angeles. Do you remember the motel story where that guy with the camera kept bugging us at the swimming pool, and how he even tried to follow Amy into the restroom?”
“Oh, lord, yes,” said Sharon. “Thank God Greg was looking after you girls!”
Monica giggled. “Yeah—he sure put that weirdo in his place.”
“With a black eye, to boot!”
The two of them shared a moment of mutual laughter. Then Sharon got serious again:
“Really, though. Think about what it’s like to live in space. All those people up there and nowhere to go if things get out of hand.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Monica said. (She’d read over every piece of information in the NPAA packet, the rules, regulations, and security protocols, and none of it outweighed the basic, obvious truth that even if she did have reservations about going to Olympus, she would never get an opportunity like this again.) “Is it really any different than living on a small continent?”
“Olympus is big, but it’s no continent. In the event of an emergency, you can’t just grab an inflatable raft and be on your merry way.” Sharon looked Monica in the eye. “Then there’s the time frame. A whole year away from home, two strangers looking after you, bodyguards following you wherever you go. You’ll be spending Christmas away from your family. I know we were excited about this in the heat of the moment, but we have to consider these things.”
“I know,” Monica said, and took another sip of water, set her glass down and folded her hands together. Her contemplative half wished for a month to make the right decision; her competitive half was dying for morning to come so that they could turn the paperwork in, get the ball rolling. “I want this. You know I’ve wanted this ever since I mastered my first back handspring. I have to go, mom. I have to give it my best shot, for you and dad and Chris, for the Keenes and for my training partners and my community.”
Sharon smiled. She had that “I know my daughter” look in her eyes as she pushed her seat back and gestured for Monica to give her a hug. Then: “Come. It’s late. Let’s get you a good night’s rest before we sign you over to America.”
Arm in arm, mother and daughter left the kitchen, flicking off the light as they went.
CHAPTER 13
The NPAA liked to handle its affairs in an efficient manner. Monica had three days to pack her bags and say her goodbyes—it wasn’t nearly enough time. However, amidst a myriad of preparations, including being interviewed, getting a physical examination, and having her ID tag updated, she made a point of demanding a ride to Keene’s Gymnastics so she could deliver the news of her departure in person.
It was late afternoon. Sharon waited on the periphery as Monica strode into the training room and caught the girls’ attention. Everyone gathered around her as she gushed about being drafted—and by Darren Hades himself, no less! The younger girls covered their mouths and went wide-eyed; Sarah and Amy hugged her, cried tears of joy. The Keenes…their responses were surprisingly lukewarm. They paced off to the side, happy to see her, she assumed, but more eager to get on with their training session. Donna congratulated her briefly, and then clapped for everyone to get back on task.
Greg, smiling and waving at Sharon, motioned Monica into his office.
“Is she having ‘one of those days?’” Monica asked, leanin
g against the wall as Greg closed the door.
He ran a hand along the top of his head. “You know Donna. She’s never been big on emotional displays.”
“You don’t seem entirely thrilled either.”
“Oh, I’m happy for you—and of course I’m thrilled! I was chattering like a schoolgirl when the NPAA called me for an interview. My little Monica is going to Olympus!”
“Still, there’s something you want to say, right?”
Greg sighed. “I suppose the news of your leaving is merely anti-climactic.”
“Well, sure it is,” said Monica, “but isn’t this the goal? Besides the fact that it gets you state funding, you run an elite program so that your athletes will have the skills necessary to compete at the national level—the international level. Olympus. Heroes’ Day.” She frowned. “Why do I get the feeling you’d rather I stay here in Franklin?”
Greg knelt, held Monica’s face between his hands. “What is Heroes’ Day about?”
“The gathering of Earth’s Patriot nations in celebration of the competitive spirit—”
“No, no. That’s the program guide definition. What does Heroes’ Day mean?”
Monica faltered, shrugged. “You mean Patriot Grant stuff? Allocation of resources and all that?”
Letting her go, Greg moved over to the window and gazed out into the parking lot. “Most young people don’t have the sense to ask a question like that in the classroom. They don’t know any better. To today’s youth it’s just a game. Too many of us, and too little to go around. So we compete—we fight—for our factories and pastures, our reservoirs and feedstocks, the booty going to the biggest bully on the block. Just a few decades ago it was men and women in fatigues crawling along muddy trenches. Now it’s twelve-year-old boys and girls, in the gym, in the swimming pool, out on the football field.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Patriot System,” said Monica. “It’s not about who can take what by force anymore, it’s about who can earn their global rank.”
Greg sighed, hours of philosophical debate welling behind his eyes as he faced Monica again. “Why do you think I limit myself to three junior elites a season? Why do you think Keene’s Gymnastics is still a small-time club despite the fact that a dozen or so of our girls have turned Patriot in about as many seasons?”
“I always thought it was because you couldn’t afford a bigger gym.”
Greg glared at her. “It changes, Monica. In here, it’s for the sport, it’s for your family and your community. Out there, it’s for your country. Suddenly people you don’t know will heap their expectations upon you. They’ll want to watch you on TV and in person and have you sign your photographs. They’ll want to know everything about you, stats, favorites, musical tastes, personal beliefs. They’ll expect the world from you.”
Monica folded her arms, trying to glean the meaning from Greg’s words. She thought of her dinky little burg, the rusted fences and cracked pavement and overgrown lawns; she couldn’t understand why Greg was balking at her becoming a Patriot. Certainly he didn’t seem this down-tempo whenever his other girls made the cut. “I’m a lieutenant in the United States Army now. I have a chance at making things better for my family and my country. I can handle the fanfare.”
Greg smiled wanly. “Remember what I told you the night of our last barbecue?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a talented athlete, and a terrific mentor. We didn’t call you ‘Big Sister’ just for the sake of giving you a title. You always made a difference here, you always helped things run smoothly. You should know that when I retire, I can easily see myself turning the gym over to you. Donna agrees with me.”
Monica raised her eyebrows.
“How about it? You want to be a coach one day, kiddo? Run your own club?”
“I…I don’t know what to say.” The idea hadn’t crossed her mind; she’d been focusing on so many other things during the last two months—namely survival in the suburbs. “I’d have to think it over.”
“Well, you’d be good at it.” Greg crossed the office, heading for the door. “Oh, but don’t you listen to me, now. I have my own crotchety ideas about the sport, but this is your time. You’ve earned it.” As he passed Monica, he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Promise you’ll write to us while you’re up there dancing amongst the stars.”
“I promise,” Monica said, and stepped out of the way as Greg left the office, resumed his work with Donna and the girls.
“What was that about?” Sharon asked as they returned to the car.
“Bad day,” Monica replied, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling herself in.
“That poor man. He always looks several hours short of a good night’s sleep. At least your training partners seemed to be in good spirits.”
“Oh, you know Greg. He’s got his no-nonsense way of looking at things. That’s why we picked him in the first place.”
“I thought we picked him because of the family discount,” said Sharon, jokingly.
“You mean to tell me my elite career was the result of a bargain buy?”
Sharon started the car. “It’s paid off, hasn’t it?”
“That’s the Patriot spirit, mom.” Monica laughed and turned on the radio, tapped her fingers on the dashboard and hummed along to a somewhat familiar pop tune. In the back of her mind a strangely emotive feeling surfaced, if only for a moment, as they pulled out of the KG lot and onto the road. She told herself it was no different, the nostalgia, from what she’d been feeling last week, before her recruitment. Still, she was missing her friends already, albeit now for more prestigious reasons.
It was a pleasant surprise to find Pat grinding the curb in front of Deborah’s house.
“Hi, Monica,” he said, gathering his skateboard under his arm and strolling alongside the car as Sharon parked. “Hi, Mrs. Sardinia.”
“Hello, Patrick.”
Monica got out, waited with Pat beside the driveway until Sharon, nodding and smiling smugly, went inside the house.
“Running some last-minute errands?” asked Pat once they were alone.
“Yeah,” replied Monica. “What’s up with you?”
“I had to see you off, of course. Or were you planning on sneaking away to Olympus without giving your Big Brother a big hug?”
Monica responded with a polite embrace.
“I also wanted to give you this,” said Pat. Letting her go, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of woven bracelets.
“You sentimental fool,” Monica said, accepting hers and noticing that her name had been stitched into the fabric. “I didn’t know you could sew.”
“I can’t. I used the nanofibre machine at the mall—I hope that doesn’t disqualify me.”
“I’ll let it pass,” Monica laughed. She fastened the bracelet around her wrist; the letters (or, rather, the color of the fabric) rearranged themselves and began scrolling out a message, ticker-style: I FIT! NOW YOU’LL NEVER BE RID OF ME! MUAHAHA!
“I programmed in a couple phrases,” said Pat. “Nothing special, but maybe if you’re having a bad day you’ll get a laugh or two.”
“It’s nice,” said Monica. “Thanks.”
Pat nodded, turned and looked down the street. “It’ll be a year the next time we stand here like this—or wherever it is your folks get settled in.”
“I’m sure the time will fly by.”
“It’ll be different. You’ll be fourteen, I’ll be fifteen. Can you believe it? Halfway to thirty!”
“This year’s felt more like six months—and next year will probably be more like four.”
Pat started tapping the heel of his foot against the ground. “My dad’s going to have me work at the shop next year. Earn some of my own cash fixing cars and doing paint jobs. I guess it’s kind of cool to be part of the family business. Something to fall back on.”
Stepping beside him, Monica gazed down the street as well. It may have been presumptuous
on her part, but she had the feeling Pat was, on some subconscious level, trying to justify his own progress—still a commonplace citizen, but advancing enough in his own circle so that he wouldn’t fall off her radar once she’d been living as a Patriot elite for a few months. Hoping that maybe when I come back after my term we can pick up where we left off…hoping that maybe I’ll be ready for him then.
She reached out and grasped his hand, felt his warmth. “Thanks for coming, Pat.”
“No prob, sis.”
CHAPTER 14
Her final night before leaving for Olympus, Monica got absolutely no sleep. Most of it was pre-meet jitters, anticipation accumulated during three days’ worth of frenzied preparations for the transition back into competitive athletics—and in quite the unorthodox fashion, too, as she was skipping right over her obligatory term at the National Training Center to spend an entire year aboard Olympus (most Patriots only trained aboard the station for two to three weeks prior to the Heroes’ Day festivities). And she was doing it without her teammates, without her club coach.
There was also the matter of Greg’s office speech. His reaction to her turning Patriot was quite perplexing, and hadn’t been at all what she’d expected—he hadn’t been the same coach she’d grown up with, shouting and jumping up and down ecstatically whenever she nailed a conference routine.
But, she told herself between tossing and turning, he’s entitled to his opinions. He’s only looking out for my best interests.
When dawn finally came, she shut off her alarm clock and slipped from her bed, moving quietly through the darkness, checking her bags, snagging one last mental freeze-frame of her little weight machine nook, humble as it was, to take with her once the sun was up and the day began.
A knock at the doorway.
She threw on her robe, found her mother waiting by the threshold. It was obvious she hadn’t slept, either.
“Six o’clock,” Sharon said, yawning, smiling. “Better get dibs on the bathroom before the guys do.”
Monica padded upstairs. In the bathroom, she went through her usual grooming routine in a daze. The morning seemed to unfold around her of its own accord.
