Texas Hold 'Em

by George R. R. Martin

  She got a glare in return. “I’m trying to figure out who’re reptoids. Vicky could be at risk.”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “Seriously, these are high schoolers with their chaperones and music teachers. Why on earth would reptile people be here?”

  Jan stared at Michelle with amazement. “Reptoids! I thought I explained this to you. They’re everywhere.”

  “And I suppose they want to be our scaly overlords?”

  “They already are,” Jan said darkly. “It’s the conspiracy of reptoids and mind-control agencies.” She pushed her face into Michelle’s and looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Unless you’re about to kiss me,” Michelle said, “you better back the hell off.”

  Jan shrugged, then did so. “I don’t think you’re one of them. But you can never be sure. For instance, the Bushes are reptoids. So is the royal family in the U.K. I think they were behind Brexit.”

  Michelle knew she shouldn’t say anything. It would be a bad idea. Almost as bad as coming on the band trip, but she couldn’t stop herself. “And why would they do that?”

  Jan gave her a you-can’t-be-that-stupid look. “Because the queen wants British independence from Europe. Sheesh. Read a paper—or www .reptoids .com .”

  “Okaaay, how about we get you back to your room.”

  “No! I’m not finished patrolling.” Sparks flashed between her teeth.

  “How about we go together?”

  “That’s just what a reptoid would say to help throw me off the track.”

  “Jan, just let me come with you. It’ll go faster with the two of us. I swear, not a lizard person here.”

  “Reptoid! You better not be,” Jan said darkly. “I’d hate to have to kill you.”

  “Yeah, I’d look down upon that.”

  Thirty minutes later, Michelle escaped to her room. There was only so much glaring and staring at perfectly nice people she could take. Also, Jan was nuts and no matter what Michelle tried, Jan would double down on the cray-cray. It was with a sigh of relief that she sagged against the door of her room once she got inside.

  Michelle hit send and her e-mail made a swooshy noise. Just as she plugged in her tablet to charge, she had a text on her phone from Wally: Bed check done. Everyone’s where they should be. Cripes, this is a lot of work.

  One less thing to think about. She changed into her pajamas and robe, and tried to figure out what to do about God’s Weenies, the Plano Originals, and Bambi Coldwater. Blowing them up wasn’t an option, and that made her kinda sad.

  Michelle grabbed the ice bucket, thinking a drink while she watched TV wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Keycard, she reminded herself. She tucked it into the pocket of her robe and slipped out the door. The ice machine was at the end of the hall near the emergency exit. She caught a glimpse of the exit door closing. Weird.

  As she reached the alcove with the ice machine, she could have sworn she heard a giggle coming from the stairwell. A girl’s giggle. Then a lower-pitched voice.

  Michelle’s eyes narrowed. This could not be one of her kids. They wouldn’t be that stupid.

  She pushed the exit door open.

  Sitting on the stairs were Segway and Kimmie. They were holding hands.

  “Ms. Pond!” they said in unison. They dropped hands.

  “It’s the first night,” Michelle said sternly. But not too sternly, just sternly enough. Not I want to terrify you, just You’ve really disappointed me. She held the door open. “Peter, go back to your room. Kimmie, what floor are you on?”

  Kimmie stared down at her sneakers. “I’m on the fourth floor. Please don’t tell my mother!”

  “Ms. Pond, we weren’t doing anything,” Peter said. He looked scared. “We were just talking. Mostly about band stuff. And classes. Did you know Plano has special instructors who come in and give them lessons? Like they’re doing here at the competition. But all the time.”

  Michelle narrowed her eyes. “And how did hand-holding come to be involved in this academic conversation?”

  “Well, it’s not like we were kissing or anything,” Peter said. Kimmie’s cheeks turned bright cherry red.

  “You.” Michelle pointed at Segway. “Get back to your room. And you, Miss Coldwater, go on now.”

  Segway and Kimmie exchanged longing looks, then Kimmie started down the stairs.

  “I’m really sorry, Ms. P.” Peter opened the emergency door and peeked down the hall, then rolled out.

  “Go on,” Michelle said. So far, it appeared as if she was the worst chaperone ever, what with Segway and Kimmie canoodling on the first night. Michelle went to the ice machine and filled her bucket.

  She turned, and standing a few feet before her was a woman. Her gray hair was a knotted mess, and she had a hideous rictus expression on her face. Michelle was shocked, and gooseflesh raced down her arms. The woman started toward her and a bubble began to form in Michelle’s free hand. But before she could let it fly, the woman vanished.

  Michelle closed her hand, letting the bubble pop, absorbing its energy. Damn. I guess those ghost stories are real. Maybe I’ll have all the vodka in the minibar.

  Bubbles and the Band Trip

  Part 5

  POP, POP, POP.

  The report of the gun made her cringe. Soldiers screamed and collapsed. Michelle let bubbles go and they exploded. Then she blew up Aero.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Mom! Wake up!”

  Michelle woke with a start. Sunlight was pouring around the edges of the drapes. Why did no hotel make curtains big enough to black out a room? she wondered. Adesina was pounding on her door. Shit. This can’t be good.

  “Just a second.”

  Michelle glanced at her phone as she stumbled out of bed. She opened the door, still disoriented from her dream. Not a dream, though. Kazakhstan.

  “OMG, Mom,” Adesina said, holding out her tablet. “You’ve totes got to see this.”

  Michelle took the tablet and let Adesina into the room. Adesina was having better luck with her wings this morning. They were snuggled against her back.

  Michelle felt a little oogy from the drinks the night before. Those three vodkas from the minibar weren’t a superior life choice. She wasn’t much of a drinker and they’d hit her hard.

  Adesina’s tablet had a video queued up. Michelle saw herself frozen in motion, bubbles rising from her hands. She hit play. It was a .gif of her boxing the Purity Baptist Church with bubbles on a continuous loop.

  Don’t read the comments.

  And yet she did.

  I’malittleteapot1921: This is why people with the wild card virus should be locked up.

  Newton3: re: I’malittleteapot1921—You’re an idiot. You should eat shit and die. When they were handing out stupid, you asked for an extra helping.

  I’malittleteapot1921: re: Newton3—What’s a matter bro? You a joker? You scum should be wiped off the face of the earth …

  Michelle handed the tablet back to Adesina. She picked up her phone and checked Twitter and sure enough, #stopBubbles and #withBubbles were trending.

  Why do I look at this stuff? Really, it’s like picking a scab.

  “I have some more videos and .gifs if you want to see them,” Adesina said helpfully. “The ones with Jade Blossom are awesome! Though not as good as the ones from her date with Cesar.”

  “Yeah, not so much,” Michelle replied. It was already late, so she started taking off her pajamas. She could at least get a quick shower.

  “God, Mom!” Adesina said, and turned away.

  Michelle was perplexed. “Okay,” she said. “When did you get so weird about me being naked?”

  “Since I got all this,” Adesina said, gesturing with her body. “It’s just so gross. You’re my mother.”

  It made Michelle feel bad. Nakedness was just what she was used to doing during changes at runway shows. Maybe body stuff was a teenager thing. She needed to find someone to talk to about that. And that won’t be weird at all. She si
ghed.

  “Okay,” she said as she started to the bathroom. “I’ll just hide in here until you’re gone. Tell the kids to meet me and the other chaperones downstairs in fifteen minutes for breakfast.”

  She glanced at her phone again. “And I have a text from Miss Beecher saying we play last. Today at two P.M.”

  Beats, Bugs, and Boys

  by Diana Rowland

  Part 1

  LORIANNE’S STICKS FLEW OVER the drums, heavy beat pounding through the wild cheering of the stadium crowd. Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham looked on in awe while, off in the wings, Drummer Boy sat on the floor, all six hands covering his face as he sobbed. From the front row, Buddy Rich gave LoriAnne a thumbs-up—which was a bit strange since she was pretty sure he’d died about thirty years ago. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. Dave Grohl was about to finish up his solo, and then it’d be her turn.

  “Take it, LoriAnne,” Dave shouted. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee …”

  Her rhythm faltered. “Huh?”

  eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

  Dave Grohl and Buddy Rich burst into a million sparkles as the whine of a mosquito shattered the dream.

  “Aw, man, that was cold,” LoriAnne groaned. “You could’ve at least let me have my big solo.” She cracked one eye open to give the nightstand clock a bleary peek: 5:24 A.M. “Go ’way, skeeter. Got six whole minutes.”

  No such luck. The skeeter had been content to stay by the window last night, but now it resisted her attempt to send it away. Instead, it crawled to her ear to sing a cheery skeeter wake-up song.

  eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

  “Okay okay okay. Jeez. I’m awake.” She threw off the comforter, unable to keep from smiling as the skeeter danced happily around her head. It was tough to stay annoyed with the little thing. It had stayed tucked in her curls all the way from Louisiana and was probably just as excited as she was. Heck, LoriAnne was amazed she’d slept at all. Not only was this the biggest competition she’d ever been in, but it was the first time in her almost fifteen years she’d spent the night in a state that wasn’t Louisiana.

  Holeeeee crap. San Antonio. Texas! She’d been worried there wouldn’t be any mosquitoes here, but San Antonio had plenty. She’d counted a dozen in the hotel lobby alone. It sure helped her nerves to have some of her little friends nearby.

  And boy, did she have a lot of nerves. Not only was LoriAnne the youngest member of the Folsom Funkalicious Four, but she’d only been their drummer since December, after Reese Fowler’s mom got a promotion at her job and moved the whole family to Australia. And Reese had been the drummer when the band got the invite to the competition. Sure, LoriAnne had busted her butt to learn everything, and the band director, Mr. Sloane, seemed real happy with how she played, but she couldn’t help but be nervous.

  Her roommate’s bed was empty and neatly made. Man, Cassie was up and out early. Knowing her, she’d either found a quiet place to read or was off practicing piano. Not that Cassie needed more practice. She was ah-maze-ing.

  LoriAnne flicked on the light then did a double take at the clock: 6:24, not 5:24! She scrambled out of bed, excitement shifting to horror. She knew she’d set the time for the alarm, but she must have forgotten to turn it on. And on an important morning like this! Mr. Sloane had a six thirty A.M. reservation for the five of them at the restaurant downstairs, and had warned them not to be late. “We don’t want to lose our table,” he’d said. “Plus, it’s sure to be a madhouse in the morning, with eight bands all wanting to fuel up before heading over to the Tobin Center.”

  Now she was going to be late on the very first day of the biggest competition her band had ever been in. Way to make an impression, LoriAnne.

  Good thing she’d laid out all of her stuff before she went to bed. But too bad she didn’t dare skip a shower—not after spending eleven hours in the car yesterday on the road trip from Folsom, Louisiana. And the award for Stinkiest Musician goes to … LoriAnne Broom!

  No time to wash her hair, which sucked, but her hair was so darn thick and curly that it took a good fifteen minutes to dry. A freezing shower and a manic scrub of her smelliest bits took less than a minute, followed by a frenzied toweling off, a quick slap of deodorant, and a dash for clothes. She wasted two precious minutes trying to tame her insane cloud of curls before she finally gave up and shoved a sparkly clip into it to get it out of her face, letting the rest be a dumb brown curl-palooza.

  She pressed a hunk of curls to her nose and took a deep sniff. Ugh. Smoky, but at least it was from wood and not cigarettes. Halfway through the drive to San Antonio, they’d run into a hailstorm so nasty that the band ended up waiting it out at Buck’s BBQ and Bait Shop. The food was great, but the whole place had smelled like mesquite smoke with a side of day-old minnows.

  6:32 A.M. She was late, but maybe she could pull off being only kinda late? Makeup was a lost cause. She’d have to do it in the lobby bathroom after breakfast. Though she doubted she’d be eating much, with the way her stomach was busy twisting itself into knots.

  LoriAnne slung her stick bag over one shoulder and her tie around her neck, grabbed her backpack, and spun to leave. Then stopped, door half-open. “Well, c’mon already.”

  With a happy whine, the skeeter settled at the nape of her neck.

  At the elevator, she jabbed at the button then anxiously watched the numbers scroll lazily up toward “7.” Eventually the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

  The woman within the elevator gave LoriAnne a friendly smile. “Going up?”

  LoriAnne stood frozen. Tall, blond, a bit chunky, and totally gorgeous. It was the Amazing Bubbles. Here, honest to God no lie, right in front of her! LoriAnne had watched Every Single episode of Every Single season of American Hero, and Bubbles was hands down one hundred percent her second favorite ace of all time—especially after she’d saved New Orleans. At the mixer last night, LoriAnne had been too worn out from the road trip and overwhelmed by everything else to work out something actually intelligent to say to her. And then, of course, everything went south when Jade showed up. Ugh. Cassie had darn near cried when the piano got destroyed.

  “Going up?” the Amazing Bubbles repeated.

  LoriAnne blinked, then flushed. “S-sorry. Down. Wrong button.”

  Bubbles smiled. “No worries. The Detonators are on eight, right? Oh, and good luck today!”

  The doors closed. LoriAnne took a few seconds to quietly thunk her head against the wall then pressed the button for down.

  “Smooth,” she muttered. “Real smooth. You wasted a minute and totally froze up.” LoriAnne desperately wanted to have an actual, real conversation with a wild card. Ace, deuce, joker—didn’t matter one bit to her. There weren’t any wild cards back home except for Miss Bethany, and she was old, more than a little crazy, and threw beer cans with her eleven-fingered hands at anyone who came near her house.

  The down elevator arrived. LoriAnne dove in and pressed the button for the lobby, praying for a speedy trip.

  No such luck. The elevator began a leisurely descent then shuddered to a stop on the next floor. A man in a business suit got on, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other. He glanced up to check that the lobby button was lit then returned his attention to his phone, ignoring LoriAnne completely.

  “Hold the elevator, please!” a voice called from down the hall.

  LoriAnne shot her hand out to keep the doors from closing, then had to clamp down on a gasp of delight at the sight of the new arrivals.

  Jokers! Adesina and Yerodin—whom LoriAnne recognized from reading Every Single article she could find online about wild cards. She’d blown it with Bubbles, but here was a second chance.

  Her delight dimmed as the businessman eyed the newcomers then shoved his phone into his pocket and eased to the back of the elevator. He acted like he’d rather be anywhere else, especially when more jokers came in. Two boys—one with wheels instead of feet, and one whose skin rippled with all sorts o
f cool colors. LoriAnne couldn’t remember their names for the life of her, but she’d seen them at the mixer.

  She’d also seen the picket line of protesters with their ugly-nasty signs and heard their anti-joker chants. Stupid discrimination wasn’t new to her—not after growing up not-quite-white in a small, conservative town in Louisiana. Yet even though she’d followed the whole stink over the court ruling that allowed jokers to participate in the band competition, she’d still been shocked at how horrible the protesters were.

  Yesterday, after the band made it through the lines and into the hotel, Mr. Sloane had sat them all down for a super-serious talk about how they were all to behave and not engage in any ugliness. He’d summed up with, “The lawsuits and rulings don’t change anything for you four. You’re going to participate and learn and play your best. Nothing else matters.”

  Easy for him to say. The rulings mattered to the jokers. How much harder would it be for them to learn and play their best with protesters screaming at them?

  Meanwhile, all LoriAnne wanted to do was get to know them—in fact, had been dying to do so ever since she learned that the Jokertown Mob would be at the competition. Now here she was with four jokers right here beside her. This was her chance.

  The elevator descended. LoriAnne’s mind raced to come up with what to say. Something neutral and friendly that wouldn’t sound weird. Easy. Right. Maybe she could ask what they played? Except they were all carrying instrument cases, so she’d come off like an idiot who had no idea what a clarinet or trumpet case looked like.

  Argg. Why was this so hard?

  The skeeter hummed against her neck in encouragement. A bit of her angst retreated.

  The elevator stopped on the next floor, where two teen boys waited, each carrying a sax case. They started forward then hesitated, glancing at the occupants and then at each other.

  “There’s plenty of room,” LoriAnne said with a cheery smile. “We won’t bite!”

  The boy on the left gave a tight smirk. “Not so sure about that.” His gaze lingered on the jokers. “We’ll wait for the next one.”