War Game

by Nancy Werlin

was thrilled. “Thanks tons,” I said to Lije. “This is great. How long can I keep it?”

  “Two weeks.” Now that we were back on familiar ground, he was feeling more comfortable. He leaned on the windowsill. “Jo, listen. I think the librarian is getting suspicious. She asked me if I had finished the books I already had out.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Oh, I just shrugged and said I was working on it. But then she started asking me what I found so interesting about France, and was I taking French, and stuff like that, so I had to get out of there fast. You know, I’m not supposed to take out books for other people.”

  This wasn’t news to me. Why was he suddenly making such a big deal out of it? “Look,” I said. “I’d get them myself if the public library still did interlibrary loan.”

  “I know. I just want to be careful and not get into any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “They won’t know anything you don’t tell them. It’s in your control. You’re in charge.”

  “You always say that,” Lije said, which was true. But I’d always thought before that he heard me. I looked at him and saw that he had that rabbity look that he got when he was tense, brooding about his father, or about his mother and money, or something. Life was rougher for Lije than it should have been, just because he took everything so hard, so seriously. He didn’t know how to protect himself at all. I wondered how I’d missed that before.

  So I said, “Okay. I’ll tell you some stuff you can dazzle the librarian with.” And even though I wanted nothing more than to be alone with the new book, instead I climbed up on the sill and leaned against the window frame, while Lije pulled up a chair to his window and propped his chin on his hands. I told him about the bread riots and how they guillotined the rich bastards and how, for the greater good, Charlotte Corday—what a woman, huh?—stabbed Marat to death in his bath. And as I talked, softly as I always did when I told Lije stories, the sun set, and if it hadn’t been for the smog and the city lights, there might have been stars.

  “You tired enough to sleep now, Lije?” I asked finally, long after midnight. It never got quiet in our neighborhood, not exactly, but most people were sleeping.

  He didn’t answer, and for a moment I thought he was already asleep. Then he said, “Jo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You like me, Jo, don’t you? You’re my friend?”

  He’d never asked me anything like that before. I said, “Is this about today?” Lije didn’t answer, but he did look at me, his cheeks all pudgy and his eyes, well . . . suspicious. I said, “I already told you I was sorry that happened. But Lije, you took it too seriously, you know what I mean?” But he was still staring at me with that odd look on his face, needing, and so finally I said, “Yeah. Yes, Lije. I like you. I am your friend. I’ve always been your friend.” Which was the truth.

  “Good,” Lije said. “I’m your friend, too, Jo. Always.”

  And then he stood up and leaned out the window and reached his hand across the alley. He held out his arm, suspended, for a few moments before I realized he wanted me to take it and shake hands. I did that. I think . . . now I think it may have been the only time we ever touched.

  Then he went to bed, and I read about Talleyrand until dawn, when my mother came home from her night shift and made me get some sleep.

  The next day it was nearly noon by the time I finally got outside, and Kevin was pissed at me for missing morning council. Worse, our planned morning kidnapping of Lina’s best sniper, Ricky Leone, hadn’t worked; instead Ricky had shot two of our guys, and by our rules—my rules—they were dead for the rest of the day. An hour later Janey got caught spying and ended up in the POW camp. Lina was triumphant, Kevin furious. There were about fifteen of us engaged in a huge argument about the rules, with me trying to cool them off and Lina nearly purple with rage.

  And that was when Lije came down the street again, looking dorkier than ever. I saw him see us standing there, armed of course; saw his eyes dart around as if looking for a hole to dive into. But then—because he really did have something underneath, like I said before—he squared his shoulders and came on anyway, marching like a windup toy soldier, looking neither right nor left. Hostility, fear, anger—they were almost visible, pulsing in the air around him as he tried to push his way right through us.

  Kevin stuck out his foot and tripped him. Lije fell onto his hands and knees. A few of the littler kids snickered. Lina laughed, and it wasn’t the friendly (for Lina) laugh of yesterday. She’d picked up on Lije’s hostility, of course, and taken it as disrespect. “You looking for trouble?” she said to Lije’s back. Two of her kids stepped forward and leveled their guns at Lije, grinning. “Soak him?” one said.

  It was addressed to Lina, but Kevin answered. “Go ahead.” Kevin hadn’t even finished talking when Lina’s kids opened fire on Lije.

  First just those two. But then more of them, in a circle around Lije, shooting down first at Lije’s back. Then somebody—Lina?—kicked Lije viciously, forcing him over. And the rest of the water reservoirs pummeled down on his face and chest. He was pinned to the concrete by the force of the water.

  Talleyrand—master strategist and supreme survivor—always knew how to improvise on the moment. He would have been proud of me, because I knew immediately that this was the moment to help Lije. I didn’t even have to think how to do it. I knew.

  I waited until everyone else was done. Waited until Lije got up. His palms were scraped and bleeding. He didn’t say anything. He looked at me. And it was that look, the one I’d seen on his face last night. Help me, it said. Protect me. Be my friend. I can’t do it alone. But he didn’t say anything, he just watched me. Waited.

  I emptied my own gun into his face. Then I said, “Run on home, kid. You don’t belong out here. You might get hurt.”

  After a few more excruciating seconds, Lije left, dripping.

  That night, I lay alone in bed watching the light in Lije’s window and reliving those minutes. I waited until after it was full dark. Then I went to the open window and called his name. I didn’t really think he would come, but he did. He looked terrible.

  “Give me back my books,” he said. It was what I was expecting. It still hurt, though. Inside, I felt the way he looked. But I didn’t show it. I handed him the Talleyrand biography—at least I’d had one night with it—and the others he’d got me before. I wondered how I’d get books now. Somehow. I’d figure something out.

  “You’re going to be okay, Lije,” I said evenly.

  Lije shook his head. He was standing awkwardly, arms tense, hands dangling out of sight below the windowsill. “You lied to me,” he said.

  I shrugged. Stared right back at him as his arms bent and lifted. I saw with pride that he had his own Super-Soaker now. He aimed it at me. His aim was lousy because he was crying, shaking, and so most of the water missed me, but I stood there and took it, as he had, until his reservoir was as empty as mine.

  “I hate you, Jo,” Lije said. “You’re not my friend.”

  He went back into his room. I went and got a towel and dried myself. Then I waited. And after a while Lije put his light out and, to show me he could, for the first time slept—if he did sleep that night—in the dark.

  Okay, yes, I was sorry to hurt him. But the French have a saying about things like this. C’est la guerre. Literally, it means “that’s war,” but really it means “that’s life.” And … Lije doesn’t understand. Not now. But you can. He was wrong about my not being his friend.

  I am the best friend he will ever have.

  THE END

  About the Story “War Game”

  by Nancy Werlin

  I have never seen—let alone touched—a real gun in my life. In deciding to try to write this story for a commissioned anthology, I thought at first I would fake some gun knowledge. That was story number one, which died a death too horrible to relate. So there I was, with one weekend between me and the deadline, and no
story. I realized then that my last hope was to write a piece centered around the only kind of gun I’d ever handled myself. Of course that was a water pistol.

  Originally, I thought this story was about peer pressure. But within a few paragraphs of beginning to write, I understood that the narrator, Jo (who had come along from story number one), was not really interested in fitting in with the group, though she knows that pretense is important. Something else was on Jo’s mind; something more important to her personally. So a second story developed, one that pivoted on Jo’s view of the world and of friendship.

  Writing “War Game” left me with a question that I find intensely disturbing: What if Jo is right about the world?

  About the Author

  Nancy Werlin is the author of several young adult novels, including the fantasy novels Extraordinary and Impossible (a New York Times bestseller), the science fiction novel Double Helix, the suspense thrillers The Killer’s Cousin (winner of the Edgar award), Locked Inside (an Edgar award nominee), and Black Mirror, and the realistic novels Are You Alone on Purpose and The Rules of Survival (a National Book Award finalist). She also writes short stories and essays.

  For more information on Nancy and her books, visit Nancy’s web site at https://www.nancywerlin.com, and friend her on Facebook.

  About the Cover

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