CHAPTER I: SPEED


42-38.

Never had defeat tasted so bitter.

But rather than ruminating, Troy should have watched his speedometer, given that as he drove off Dumbarton Bridge and onto Hacker Way, he was breaking the law. In fact, he had been violating the speed limit since entering the Nimitz Freeway.

Perhaps he could be forgiven; encroaching darkness combined with glaring street lamps obscured his dashboard. Apart from his engine's wheezing, the only other thing he heard was Dream On by Aerosmith, the chords reverberating through his truck and worsening his headache. Had he not longed to lurch past the lorry crawling in front, he'd have switched off the radio- but that meant moving an arm. Both were stiff and sore from the game, crying out for an ice pack.

Thus he only had time enough to consider the cruelty of 42-38. It couldn't have happened- he'd scored the equalizer, saving Berkeley's beleaguered CalBears from losing by more than a two-pointer overall. Job done. And then, in the blink of an eye, Stevenson from CUNY, the Stevenson who fouled him not ten minutes beforehand and was lucky to remain on court, stole the ball and scored the winning basket mere seconds before the whistle. Seconds!

Even now, speeding away from Berkeley like a fugitive from a crime scene, he wanted to snatch back time to a moment where he might have obstructed Stevenson, or allowed a teammate to score, maybe Eastwood… Or something. Just at least ten more seconds and Berkeley would have retained some self-respect after a third consecutive loss. Instead, the changing-rooms felt like a graveyard afterwards, each team-member a headstone planted into the lino floor. Every cheerleader who'd showered him with praise pre-match wandered off to watch the football instead, leaving a trail of crumpled pompoms littered everywhere. As if adding insult to injury, the football CalBears won their match- a decisive victory, the coach said.

Now cheerleaders weren't known for their loyalty, but still...

A siren cut through his thoughts, unusually loud. Probably some idiot on a high speed chase- no shortage of those around here. The lorry in front sped up a little and then disappeared at the next left turn. Hallelujah. Enjoying the free space, he gazed at Facebook HQ's electric sign for a moment before turning his attention back to the road.

Nearly there.

Not that it made much difference; already an hour late, he had no excuse convincing enough to appease Gabriella. Maybe she suspected that he'd fail to make it on time- again. His stomach twisted into the same knots as when he watched Stevenson sprint towards the hoop in those final moments, brushing Berkeley's defence away like flies.

In the passenger seat lay a rose bouquet, a box containing triple-layered chocolate cake, and a birthday card. A bottle of blackcurrant cordial peeked out of his backpack. It was safer that way; last time he travelled with an unsecured bottle of nonalcoholic Sangria (which cost a mint), it smashed. Gabriella had complained about the odour all the way to the movie theatre, accusing him of drink-driving and lecturing him about the consequences.

She often reprimanded him… which was fair enough, given her immersion in Pre-Law classes. How many other students aced every single subject in their sleep, or got admitted into Stanford's Freshman Honors Program? He was lucky to have a girlfriend destined for a high-powered legal career, probably charging $800 to win a divorce case, or getting crack-using celebrities a slap on the wrist. The fact that he was late- again- on her birthday, no less, made him even more pathetic than when he swallowed back tears after the game.

42-38, though! Impossible, unjust, insane. What the hell would he tell Dad? Better to just hope he didn't watch, let alone invite the same friends who'd dubbed him "The Basketball Guy" ever since he learned how to throw a ball into a wastepaper basket as a toddler. Those friends were in for a shock if so- or perhaps not a shock, given the third consecutive defeat. First match of the season? 60-32. A wipeout by all accounts which had dragged him out of the rose-tinted haze obscuring his view of new life in college. Second match of the season: 70-60. A more respectable loss, but none the less embarrassing, given his best shot was disqualified. And now this.

And now this.

The siren grew louder for some reason, but he kept driving, his engine kept wheezing and the radiator kept clunking. Damn thing couldn't heat porridge, let alone his truck.

Police often zoomed about this time of night. They must love speeding in the name of the law, laughing at time itself. Speaking of which, his clock read 20:50. Shit. For the love of God, what would it take for Gabriella to forgive him this time? A special dinner, perhaps? He hadn't had time to buy food, and he had once tried cooking sea bass for her, only to discover that he couldn't cook to save his life. Yet margherita pizza wouldn't suffice tonight.

Well… he'd think of something when he arrived.

Sighing, he swerved onto Willow Road, hoping the siren, whose discordant wails now made his ears ring, would die down. Shooting pains rippled up and down his legs when he shifted. Eminem now blared through the radio, the rapper's nasal, harsh delivery articulating every repressed spark of frustration inside his body.

"I pray to God for answers

Maybe I'll ask nicer…"

A police car materialized from the gloom, filling his rearview mirror. Was it tailing him? No, surely there must be some mistake. Just as he turned round to clarify this fact-

-CLASH.

Jesus Christ! Thrown back against the seat, he panted and then felt his head for injury. Nothing. What on earth-? Some idiot had left two garbage cans on the fricking road and both of them had spilled black bin bags everywhere.

"Please God," he whispered, a trickle of sweat running down his nose and into his mouth. Sweat seeped in between his clenched fingers, sticking them together; sweat trickled down the back of his neck and under his cotton polo.

A car door slammed and moments later, an officer appeared, tapping on the passenger seat window.

This wasn't happening.

But he opened it, just in case fiction was reality. "C-Can I help you, Sir?"

"Get outta the truck."

Even from the driver seat, Troy smelt the officer's breath mints and he recoiled. Still, what choice did he have? Unstrapping his seatbelt, he obeyed, crossing round the spilled garbage cans to the sidewalk.

"Officer, I can explain-"

The cop thrust his chest forward like a peacock, hands on hips. "Doing 75 on the freeway? Turning a corner without indicating? Smashing into garbage cans? Hell, you better have a good explanation!"

75 on the freeway? Surely not?

"Don't play confused- we've been tracking you for miles, careening like a drunkard."

"I haven't been drinking!" he stammered. Hell, the stiffest drink he'd ever swallowed was orange juice! "Please- my girlfriend, I'm late…"

"Licence and registration."

Sighing, Troy retrieved both from his truck. He'd promised to meet Gabriella at seven-thirty: it was now five past nine. The officer, a swarthy man with an impeccable Afro, who now took far longer than necessary to examine his licence, thought he'd been drink-driving. Just like Gabriella. He never got by a single day without some attack of irony. Jesus, she would blow a fuse- no, worse. What was worse than blowing a fuse when your useless boyfriend showed up almost two hours late on your birthday because he was upset about losing yet another game, got caught speeding and was landed with an-

"-$82 ticket." The officer finished scribbling something into a pad. Under the street lamp, his badge said Officer E Weakwater. "Signed, sealed, delivered- it's yours."

"What?"

"Don't try pretend you can't afford it, buddy. I know your type."

If the Officer thought his disbelief was instead feigned innocence, perhaps he wasn't as strong an actor as he thought. This despite spending hours onstage reading laughable minor parts in plays for the last two months. Yes, he could indeed afford the ticket with the money he'd withdrawn for whatever it cost to keep Gabriella happy tonight… and their next date if he still had a girlfriend come sunrise.

Unless he lied… No, that could land him behind bars. Then again, they had beds in prison- and food, too. He had skipped lunch and dinner, his occasional shaking and dizziness a constant reminder of this.

"What you daydreaming about?"

"I-"

"Do you mind if I search your truck?" Officer Weakwater said, handing him back his licence, registration and a slip of paper.

Before Troy could say, "Don't you need a warrant?" (Boy, could Gabriella's lectures come in handy!), the officer yanked open the passenger seat. Oh no- the cordial! Why did it have to look too much like wine under hot orange street lamps?

"That's not alcohol! It's for my girlfriend's birthday-"

"I'll be the judge of that." His smile looked quite sinister as he marched back to his car and returned with...

...a breathalyzer.

Troy relaxed. On such a horrible night, passing a breathalyzer test with flying colours would be his crowning glory. The world might laugh at him for this atrocious stunt, but at least he would go down in history as a non-alcoholic. Weakwater's smile melted into a grimace of disappointment as the results came back as negative- so negative, he made a great show of checking twice.

"You still gotta ticket to pay, buddy. And I'm adding $35 for traffic school class- no, don't argue with me, or it'll be more. Plus this truck is a cut and dried disgrace. You got insurance?"

His victory now tasting like ash, Troy retrieved crumpled insurance papers from his bag, which Officer Weakwater again studied for too long before chucking it onto the bonnet.

"That'll be $117." He scribbled something else in a pad, tore off several sheets and thrust them at him, before mumbling something into his walkie-talkie.

Fleetwood Mac's The Chain was playing in the truck. Damn radio. What could he kick with minimum chance of getting arrested? Those garbage cans, perhaps. Or he could pound his fists into the bonnet, creating a big enough hole to swallow him. Yes, that seemed convenient enough, and he would sleep until he awoke to discover the whole thing had, just like in crap movies, all been just a dream.

"Pick up the garbage cans, then you're free to go," Weakwater said, his voice losing its edge of amateur bravado. "That's one point on your licence."

He handed back the cordial.

By the time the officer drove away, by the time the garbage cans were lifted and all their bags returned and he finally reached Stanford at a legal speed, it was quarter to ten. Barely registering his movements, he stumbled towards the dorms, twice getting lost, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Sometimes, Gabriella forgot their dates until the last minute. Please let her forget this one, so that he didn't need to explain himself under oath as usual.

Beep beep.

Beep beep.

Please God, let her pick up. He shifted from leg to leg in a vain attempt to find reprieve from the dull aches and cramps that seized his body. Stanford University, a huddle of looming dark shapes, light only by the odd window, stared at him in disapproval, knowing he was an unwanted stranger. Indeed, he often received funny looks from students who saw his lack of a university lanyard and silently wondered how he got past security.

He shivered, having forgotten his coat.

Beep beep.

Beep beep.

Gabriella picked up on the twelfth ring and his stomach knots tightened to the point where his breath came in uneven gasps.

"Hello?" Her voice seemed amplified for some strange reason, until he recognized California Love blaring in the background. And were people- a whole city of them, from the sounds of things- shouting? Yes, although that probably counted as rapping. Then something crashed and several people laughed.

"Hey- Gabriella? It's me."

"Uh huh?" More laughter and crashes. She had forgotten their date, but somehow this knowledge brought a cold pang of disappointment to his stomach rather than relief.

"I'm outside."

"Outside where?"

Why didn't she know where? The noise grew, making it difficult to respond until California Love ended to a chorus of exaggerated cheers.

"Your dorm."

"What are you doing outside my dorm?" Her voice was louder. Someone in the background shouted her name, and she giggled. "Do you realize it's after ten? You're so crazy, Wildcat."

For a moment, Troy stood frozen, unable to speak.

"Y-Your birthday…?"

"Yeah, I'm in LA."

LA?

His knees felt weak. "I- I just drove all the way here to-"

"Look, that's sweet of you, but you should have checked first to see whether I was going to be on campus, right?"

"R-Right. Of course. My mistake."

"Sasha threw a $300 surprise party for me, so I can't exactly walk out just to meet you."

"Sure." He couldn't hear his own voice. The air had just gotten colder.

"I need to go, Wildcat." Another crash and more laughter. "Talk later."

"Happy Birth-"

Click. The phone line went dead.

He didn't remember what happened after that, but sometime before eleven, he returned to Berkeley, stumbled from his truck and limped back to his dorm carrying his bag, the cake, roses, the birthday card, phone, licence, registration and tickets. All were dumped in a pile on the floor and without undressing or showering, he crashed facedown into bed, every ache and pain magnified tenfold.

When he raised his head an inch, the bedside alarm read midnight. His laptop, sitting on his desk, still had bubbles dancing over its screen. Clambering out of bed, he sat down and pressed Enter. Christ, he hadn't logged off Facebook, around 30 notifications glaring at him.

Sighing, he logged out.

A drink- he needed a drink and that blackcurrant cordial tasted like cough syrup. His dorm-mate, Josh Li, owed him orange juice after "accidentally" drinking the rest of his last week. Time to try his luck.

He limped into the shared kitchen. The light was still on, and to his dismay, Josh was sitting on the table reading Scientific American.

"Oh hey, man!" Josh, who wore a look of permanent surprise, always greeted people as though they'd appeared from thin air. "Didn't see you come in. Bad luck about the game. That Stevenson's a bastard!"

Despite the callous behaviour of his opponent, Troy only pursed his lips and shrugged. "Win together, lose together."

"Clear foul, man. Should've been turfed out. Do you think the ref was being bribed? I've read about that in Scientific American. It's all a matter of probability and statistics, not to mention a splash of good ol' behavioural science. Spot anything suspicious?"

He rubbed his head in a feeble attempt to stave off a worsening headache. Was there a fast-forward button for this conversation, allowing him to get his juice in peace? And maybe a bagel. His stomach growled and clenched. The kitchen smelt like roast potatoes and something bitter. Parsley, perhaps. But he just didn't have enough energy or concentration to cook anything, let alone the skill. A bagel would have to suffice.

"Dude, that's not how it went down."

"Ah, sure. I suppose we'll find out in twenty years. That's how long the average criminal investigation into cheating takes- I've read about it somewhere."

"Uh huh."

"Anyway, how'd the girlfriend's party go?"

Troy made a beeline for the fridge so that his back was to Josh before replying. "Great. It, uh, went great."

"You get pissed?"

He pretended to laugh. "Sure, yeah."

"Where'd you take her?" Josh said, throwing down the journal and leaning forward. "Girls love big nights."

"Uh, LA."

Josh's eyes widened and he whistled. "Sweet! City of Angels- wow, she must be putty in your hands, man!"

"S-Sure." The kitchen floor was swimming before his eyes. "Anyway, I'm beat, so-"

"Sure, man."

He rushed back to his room with juice, glass, plate, and shut the door.

Silence. That's all he heard these days. Two months after beginning college, believing his future knew no bounds, he found himself stuck in this cell passing as a bedroom, still crammed with two packing boxes of useless shit. He kicked one and ripples of pain shot up his leg.

On second thoughts… Setting his drink and bagel on the desk, he sat down and rifled through one box.

Yeah, useless shit: a pair of lucky socks, a picture of the scoreboard from Senior Year when the Wildcats won back-to-back championships… Damn. How hollow that victory tasted compared to tonight's disaster- this April gone by was a century ago in someone else's life. Now it was October, the month of golden leaves and sunsets with just a hint of approaching winter. Speaking of winter, he pulled out a photo of himself dressed as Arnold in Twinkle Towne. Another lifetime away. He stared at it for a few moments without blinking.

"Who am I?" he murmured. "Was that really me?"

Theatre at Berkeley had thrust him from the spotlight to oblivion. He hadn't intended it, confident enough in his skills onstage since graduating. And then he met his new fellow students, people who had memorized Shakespeare's soliloquies, won prestigious prizes, had their names in local papers, trained in classical singing or studied dance since childhood. Everything he achieved in East High paled into laughable insignificance. Who was he? Some kid who thought he might dabble in the Performing Arts as a break from basketball and got lucky in two musicals plus a Talent Show (almost losing all his friends in the process), bystanding far more talented candidates each time, who could carry a decent tune, but couldn't stand Shakespeare, hadn't won a scholarship to Juilliard and relied on stellar composition and choreography to be worth watching.

Thus he kept his head down, read as much as possible, still hated Shakespeare and enjoyed his anonymity.

Had he sought anonymity on the Basketball Team, he might not have contributed to today's defeat.

More useless items slipped through his fingers. A broken watch, his Wildcat jersey, the videotape for Metropolis which he carried everywhere, several crumpled sheets of manuscript paper…

About to drop those too, he unfurled one. Fading notes in pencil danced across every line with neatly written lyrics wedged in between. Spreading the sheet out further, he traced a finger over each word, the faint and familiar melody soothing his headache.

"And I've never had someone as good for me as you

No one like you

So lonely before, I finally found

What I've been looking for."

Tonight, everything had happened in the reverse. His fault, of course. Nobody forced him to mope in the changing-rooms for an hour after the game, replaying every error, missed opportunity and foul, searching for a different outcome. By the time his phone reminded him of Gabriella's birthday, he was already too late. Of course her friends weren't so incompetent; perhaps if he had a spare $300 like Sasha, he could have taken Gabriella to LA instead. Obviously, she was enjoying herself. Why hadn't he saved up for a romantic trip? Or even shown up on time- he couldn't even show up on time!

And that fucking ticket…. He sniffed and turned over the manuscript. There was a short note at the back:

"Dear Troy- here's your copy like you asked. I'm so glad you like this song; I felt so proud of myself when I finished it. Thank you for taking an interest in my music and thank you for being so kind to me. Love, Kelsi."

In spite of such a terrible day, he smiled- a ghost of a smile, but there all the same. Funnily enough, despite poring over this song whilst rehearsing "Breaking Free", he didn't remember her note.

The Winter Musicale… He'd had so much fun- not just from deliberately earning himself detention for more free time onstage, not just from that thrill that accompanied watching the stage come alive with lights and costumes and the school orchestra… Not even guiding Gabriella through "Breaking Free" during the callbacks, which left the entire school on their feet, cheering- blatantly disproving any fear that he'd be the laughing stock of the century.

No, his favourite moment was one particular practice with Kelsi Nielsen. Having shown him how to rehearse, having dispelled his fears and played the melody for "Breaking Free", he just sang the first line and… That was it. He sang whilst flying around the room, somehow not crashing into tubas and cellos, somehow not annoying Kelsi, who suddenly transformed from shrinking violet to eagerly improvising, all smiles.

Kelsi won a scholarship to Juilliard- no surprises there. Despite their friendship, they hadn't spoken since graduation, sucked away by the allure of college life. What had he said to her on graduation? After a moment's thought, he gave up. Sad, really. She might not even remember him. Of course not; he wasn't even remotely as interesting as New York or Juilliard. Besides, she, just like his other friends (who rarely ever called now), wouldn't want to hear about his failures today. Just like his other friends, she must be having a ball. Everyone had let East High's Primo Boy go. Much as he hated the moniker, why did the thought hurt so much?

And why did he long for a conversation that lasted longer than a minute? Too bad he and Kelsi never exchanged numbers or followed each other on social media. Such was their friendship- based onstage. When offstage, he remained as much of a Wildcat as ever. No, he was unlikely to get hold of her again.

Then he glanced at his laptop, still in sleep mode.

Unless...

Perhaps the night wasn't a waste after all.