by Jesse Gordon
She started in the direction of Tompkins’ checkpoint.
Monica and the girls fell into step behind her.
“Where are we going?” asked Alana.
“Why, the promenade, of course!” Linda answered.
CHAPTER 21
Linda’s commandeering of the morning was both a blessing and a curse. Yes, she’d gotten the girls away from their home stripe, and yes, she was taking them to the promenade belt for the day—but R&R, unfortunately, had nothing to do with it.
“Flipz Magazine,” she explained during the ride, “has sent a camera crew up to do an interview and photo shoot for their January issue! Oh, isn’t this exciting?”
Lisa and Kristen (and Alana, to a lesser extent) nodded and smiled and agreed that there was nothing more exciting than an opportunity to grace the pages of Flipz. Monica gushed similarly, enthusiastic enough, but more than a little disappointed at not being able to bum around the promenade in a more leisurely fashion. She was still fuming over the level of mistrust Hades had shown her and the girls.
In due time, the transport stopped in front of a business lot flanked by jacaranda and sycamore. Linda led the way inside one of three single-story buildings—“The Behler Agency,” judging from the nameplate on the door.
Jackie and Britney were already gussied up and waiting in the lobby. Linda had the girls sit together so that she could take more photos.
Click. “Beautiful, Britney! Lisa! Those big blue eyes! Oh, Monica, what a magnificent smile!” Click-click. When she was finished (or perhaps her camera had run out of memory), she said, “The makeup artist will be over shortly, dearies!” and drifted off into the next room.
Monica turned to Jackie and Britney and asked, “I didn’t know we had a photo thingie scheduled for today, did you?”
Britney said, “It was supposed to be a piece on Jackie and me, seeing as how we trained together at Sunburst, but Linda thought it would look good to have us all together as a team.”
“Yeah,” said Jackie. “She says any good Patriot elite works as much on public relations as she does on pirouettes.”
How cute, thought Monica.
After a few minutes, Hades, looking quite laid-back, breezed into the lobby. He was followed by a Flipz staff reporter and the makeup lady.
“Ah, our ringers have arrived,” Hades said, reaching down and ruffling Lisa’s hair. “Allow me to introduce Lisa Trotter, Kristen O’Brien, Alana Chang, and—” He lunged forward; with incredible strength and grace, he grabbed Monica around the waist, hoisted her up onto his shoulder. “—Monica Sardinia, our team captain.”
Hades’ move had been totally unexpected. Luckily, though, Monica’s reflexes kicked in and kept her from tumbling onto the floor, kept her legs tucked appropriately together, her toes curled so that she wouldn’t lose her sandals. In spite of herself, she was impressed by Hades’ form.
The reporter smiled and nodded, shook hands with her. “Team captain, eh? Well, why don’t we start with you, then?”
Monica smiled when she noticed the look of betrayal on Jackie’s face. “Okay.” As they passed into the next room, Monica still perched on Hades’ shoulder and ducking to avoid the door frame: “Ringers?”
Hades chuckled. “Relax. I was just pressing your buttons.” He winked at the reporter. “She has a thing going with me. I give her a hard time, she gives me a hard time—but you’ll often find stubbornness is the mark of any good elite.”
The shooting area had been set up with lights, reflectors, and a half-sized balance beam. Hades set Monica down beside the beam so that she could be tended to by the makeup artist, whose name was Holly.
“I love your hair,” Holly said as she started dabbing away.
“Thanks,” said Monica.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, get used to it. Once the new season starts, you’ll be spending about as much time posing in front of the camera as you do training in the gym.”
Once Holly had moved on to do Hades’ makeup, the Flipz reporter came over and went over a list of questions, asked if there was anything Monica or Hades wanted to talk about during their interviews. Hades chatted freely as Holly worked on him. He was cheerful, charismatic, offering up insights, jokes, and heart-to-hearts—setting an example for his girls to emulate.
The interview got underway, Monica sitting on the beam at the reporter’s request and answering questions as the cameramen circled her with their restless lenses. When she was through, she stood off to the side with Linda, promised to be quiet as she watched the others do their interviews. Jackie, Britney, and Lisa seemed to warm easily to the camera crews, but Alana (not surprisingly) and Kristen spent most of the time blushing and apologizing.
“That was so weird,” Kristen said as soon as she’d found her way over to where Monica was standing. “I didn’t think I’d make it through that part about my grandmother.”
Alana, who’d gone before her, said, “They get personal, don’t they?”
“This was tame,” offered Jackie. “One guy—he was from The Elite Reader, I think—wanted to talk about underwear, leotards, and my bikini line. I was like, ‘No thanks, you pervert!’”
Monica caught herself laughing. “Did you really say that?”
“You bet!”
Lisa came jogging up.
“Gawd,” she said, doing a twirl. “We all look like movie stars! They never treated us this nicely at any ol’ junior conference. Isn’t this wicked?”
“Yeah,” said Monica, agreeable enough, but unsure whether or not she liked all the glamor. Gymnastics was supposed to be about training and competition, not sitting around talking about hobbies and favorite shampoos.
“You know,” said Kristen, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice until now.”
“Notice what?” asked Monica.
“Tracie’s not here.”
Britney said, “I overheard Darren telling the reporter that it was her day off.”
Monica snorted. “It’s our day off, too.”
“Oh, this isn’t so bad.” Lisa did another turn. “Don’t you feel like a Patriot now?”
Monica shrugged. “I guess it’s not as bad as having to do conditioning all afternoon.”
Lisa frowned, stuck her tongue out before turning to Jackie and Britney and taking on more lively topics. Eventually Kristen joined in, leaving Alana to her quiet fidgeting, Monica to her introspection. Off to the side, Linda chattered into her cell phone; over by the balance beam, Hades’ photo shoot had turned into an impromptu striptease, with him taking off his shirt and posing for the cameras. His chiseled musculature earned him more than a few woos from the women.
“Ooh-la-la, Darren!” squealed Linda, momentarily covering her phone with her hand. “Give us the real you!”
Monica clapped along with everyone else. There was a sour spot in her stomach. You want the real Darren Hades? Come back tomorrow morning when he brings out the weight scale. Come back when he’s telling us we’re lazy underachievers hitching a free ride on taxpayer earnings. Come back when he’s telling us what he really thinks and not just what’s fit for video.
Hades’ shoot seemed to go on forever. When it was finally over, when Monica thought that at last she would be released from her Patriot responsibilities for the afternoon, the photographers decided to get some “action” shots of Team USA to go along with the studio shots—and so the girls were transplanted back to their home stripe, rushed into their training gear. Then it was off to the gym, onto the beam, around the bars, over the vault, across the floor, and though the work was no more taxing than that of a normal training session, Monica found herself bored silly during the camera crew’s numerous blocking and lighting adjustments.
Throughout, Hades was an ever-present entity, the impeccable coach, the endlessly patient mentor, hugging and kissing his girls as if they were his daughters, his flesh and blood. The others played along, no doubt taking advantage of a rare
opportunity, but Monica kept her distance, and at the earliest opportunity she sneaked off by herself to practice layouts while her teammates swarmed around the camera crew and asked questions.
After a while, Hades came over, stood with his hands on his hips.
“Monica, what’s the matter?” he asked.
She looked at him, acknowledging his presence before performing another layout. When she landed, and was lining up for another, she said, “Nothing’s the matter. I just don’t like all the bright lights and bold questions—we could be putting our time to better use.”
“Seems to me,” said Hades, “that you don’t like me much, either.”
Monica tumbled again, landed with the slightest of wobbles. She turned and faced Hades. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I could tell by your body language during the photo shoot. A flex, a flinch, a curling of your toes or fingers at the mere mention of my name—I bet you three-quarters of the megabytes on the photographers’ memory cards are useless.”
“Why, because my smile wasn’t dead-on all the time?”
“Because you acted like you’d rather be anywhere else than with your team.”
“I wasn’t aware my mood was so apparent.”
Hades folded his arms. “Do you want to be here?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then act like it.”
Monica spread her arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I didn’t mean that literally and you know it. You’re an athlete and a performer—don’t give me any lip about the publicity part hindering your sportsmanship. A proper presentation is good sportsmanship.”
Monica didn’t say anything. What could she say? She knew she wasn’t a typical athlete—nor was she a typical thirteen-year-old—but she also knew that Hades had chosen her because of her inconsistency in that respect. Else she would still be down on Earth.
“You know,” said Hades, “they mentioned this in your file.”
“Who mentioned what?”
“Your ‘dark side.’ Doom and gloom—Gloomy. That was your nickname during your pre-elite days, right?”
“Yes,” said Monica, stifling a groan, “it was, as in past-tense.” The Keenes hadn’t called her that since she was ten years old. They’d adjusted to her penchant for raw, technical performances, which weren’t exactly flashy, but certainly intense. Greg had used her style as a team asset. Hades, on the other hand, was after conformity. Six identical little girls marching in step.
“See?” Hades shook his head. “There you go, spacing out on me, considering, no doubt, all the hundreds of reasons I brought this up. Am I up to something? Am I merely concerned for your well-being? How your tireless little mind must be running itself dizzy just trying to figure out the sinister mechanics of Darren Hades, Patriot athletics, and everything else under the sun.”
Though there was some truth in what Hades said, Monica was careful to keep her expression opaque. “I’m not manic depressive or an introvert or anything.”
“Then why the cold shoulder all day? You’ve only been with us a week, yet you’re acting like it’s been a year. I don’t expect any of my girls to take instantly to training aboard a space station, of all places, and I can understand an athlete having been cooped up here for months, but when a fresh-faced little tart decides to turn sour after her first week…well, I have to wonder about her dedication, her loyalty to the rest of her team, the rest of her term.”
“All right,” Monica said, taking a deep breath. “You want honesty?”
“Please.”
“I don’t like the way me and the girls are being kept locked up. I don’t like how we’ve been forced to forfeit our recoup day—we should be able to spend it outdoors without having to get permission in writing from you or Coach Tracie.”
A look of confusion crossed Hades’ face. “What are you talking about?”
“We tried to leave the stripe this morning, but Mr. Tompkins wouldn’t let us. He said we needed your permission.”
“Really, now?”
“Really.”
Hades smiled. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just forgot to set up clearance with the stripe’s security team?”
“Well…no. But what about the Internet? How come our video messenger is blocked?”
“Everyone’s video messenger is blocked,” said Hades. “There’s a problem with the stripe’s routing system. Mine’s the same way. Look, I’ll talk to Mr. Tompkins right after we finish up here. That way you can go to the promenade—the computers are working there. Will that make you happy?”
Monica nodded.
“Promise me something, though.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Play the part. You can hate me and revile my evil ways when you’re away from the gym, but when we’re together, there needs to be chemistry. I don’t expect you to fall head over heels for me, but I do expect my best gymnast to work with me, in the training room, on photo shoots, and anywhere else we’re required to get along for the greater good. I know it’s a stretch, but can you do that for me?”
Monica nodded again and felt her apathy towards Hades diminish somewhat. She didn’t know if he really thought of her as his “best gymnast,” or if he was still putting on a show for the media folks, but his smile seemed genuine enough—and it would be beneficial to the team as a whole if she worked with her coach and not against him.
Maybe she was being too gloomy for her own good.
“Okay,” she said. “I promise to get along better.”
Hades pulled her close for a moment and kissed the top of her head. “It’s all for show, Monica. Remember that and you’ll do fine.”
He walked away.
CHAPTER 22
Once every photo had been taken, every question asked, the girls were returned to their home stripe for showers and dinner. By now it was obvious Monica needed some time alone, so the others went about their business without bothering her, gathering their towels, their bags, and exiting the room quietly.
She sat at the computer, checked her e-mail. There wasn’t anything from her family, but she did find a new message from John:
Subject: From Your Secret Admirer
From: “John Matusik”
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 2099
To: “Monica Sardinia”
I hope you don’t mind that I sneaked your e-mail address from the NAU roster, but I’ll be at the Cafe Tu Tu Tango at 17:00, and I would absolutely love to buy you dinner, if you’re not busy. Just give the transport the name and it should take you there. Hope to see you soon. :)
Oh, that boy! Monica thought, her melancholy instantly banished as she logged out, sprang from the desk to fetch her towel and a change of clothes. Hades had promised her free access to the promenade belt; she was going to test that promise.
* * *
At just past 17:00, Monica, accompanied by one of Tompkins’ men (Kim—the short, stocky Asian), hopped off the transport outside of the restaurant. It looked like a Spanish loft.
John met her at the door, holding it open as she slipped inside. “You made it!” he said. Then, paying Kim a dubious glance: “And you brought a friend.”
“Team policy,” Monica said. “Didn’t you get your own lug?”
John shook his head. “That’s for the conferences and conventions. Here, well, we trust the Olympus screening process to weed out any troublemakers before they come aboard.”
“What are you doing here, then?” Monica asked.
“Sleeper cell. Come, let’s get settled in.”
John’s table was set against the rear wall, where the brick-and-wood motif was decorated with several authentic-looking oil paintings. Monica seated herself and glanced over the menu.
“I called you earlier,” John said, sitting across from her.
“Yeah,” said Monica, “my team has been doing publicity all day.”
“You’ve become qu
ite the pop star.”
“I can think of better ways to have spent my Sunday.”
John smiled. “Well, there are still a few more hours before bedtime. You can just be Monica, and I’ll be John.”
Monica smiled back. “I’d like that.”
“We’ll start with dinner—my treat.”
Glancing again at the menu, Monica suppressed a groan. “My coach would kill me if I had more than an iced tea.” She fumbled in her purse, pulled out her carb card, waved it in the air. “This is his idea of responsibility.”
John took the card, examined the chart. “You’ve done pretty well. I’d say there’s room for us to share a garden thin-crust pizza. We can work it off later in the park.” He handed the card back to her. “What do you say?”
“Bring it on.”
As John waved over one of the waiters, Monica looked around the cafe, her gaze invariably falling on Kim. He stood a pace away, against the wall, staring stolidly out at nothing. It was kind of embarrassing: no one else in the restaurant had a bodyguard.
She leaned forward, whispered to John: “I feel bad for this guy. Everywhere I go, he has to go.”
“Even the bathroom?”
“Well, I assume he’d stand watch outside the door.”
John grinned. “Hmm…you could have fun with that. Go clothes shopping, make him wait in the women’s section while you try things on.”
Monica laughed, picturing it, considering. “Maybe next weekend, if my publicist doesn’t have me wasting more time in front of the camera.”
Momentarily, the waiter brought iced tea, and assured them that their pizza would be ready in a few minutes.
“I should try calling my parents,” Monica said, glancing around for a terminal.
“Here,” John said, pulling out a palm console from his jacket pocket. “It’s my dad’s, but I don’t think he’d mind you using it as long as you keep the call under an hour.”
