A/N: I updated... in less than two months. Actually, in less than one. Hold your applause, please. So here's a little chappie to make you feel better about going back to school/work in the morning! P.S. When you finish up, remember that I love reviews. Just saying.
To be completely frank, it's been a long day. At this point, I've been awake for at least twelve hours, and though that doesn't sound like much, it certainly feels like a lot when one is trying to operate on four hours of sleep.
But, as I heave a yawn large enough to feel a pop in my jaw, I tell myself I should be focusing on the match at hand, and not on how tired I am.
"Alek, wake up!" scolds Newkirk, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "We need you at your best right now!"
"I know, I know," I assure him, but he goes on as if he hasn't heard me.
"If you win this match, Alek, we qualify for the next meet. The Fighting Bears have a two point lead on us right now, so if you beat this kid—he's fifth for their team, and you're second, so it shouldn't be hard—we'll pull ahead." The boy's excitement shows through in both his fast words and the way he pulls at his jacket or his hair every few seconds. "If you don't, we'll be stuck with just the non-qualifying meets for the rest of the season."
I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck. "No pressure or anything."
He sighs, brushing a bit of dirt off the back of my uniform. "It's important to the team, you know? Last year we didn't make it past the first meet, and it was my fault because I was too preoccupied by fighting with Matt to focus on fencing. I know it's not up to me, but I just don't want that to happen to the team again."
"Yeah," I agree, trying to force enthusiasm into my words. "Yeah, I'll do my best."
"And with you," continues Newkirk, "we might even make it to the State meet."
I groan. "But really, no pressure, right? You're not helping my nerves, Newkirk."
"Oh. Right. Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do fine." He gives me a clap on the back and a sheepish grin before stepping back from the piste.
Standing still as I'm plugged into the electronic scoring system, I hold back another yawn. I cringe to think of how easy it would be to fall asleep if hunger wasn't eating at the edges of my tiredness, but I would have liked something more than the granola bar and yogurt I packed as lunch. And it's not as though I'm any more focused on fencing because of being hungry, just less likely to nod off because of how uncomfortable the rumbling in my stomach is.
"Ryan Thompson?" The voice belongs to the judge, who is looking at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. "Yes."
His eyebrows raise, pulling deeply wrinkled eyelids behind them. "Please take your starting position," he says almost tiredly.
"My apologies." I feel my face reddening as I step onto the piste, and although I would rather stare at the ground to hide the fact, I take the moment to study my opponent.
He is at least my height, if not taller, and his arms look a good bit longer than mine. I can use this to my advantage by getting in close, where he'll be forced into a smaller range of his mobility. It's impossible to tell if he is well muscled through the layers of his uniform, but I have to assume he is. The only thing I notice about his face before we salute and put our masks on is the smug grin that curls the edges of his lips.
It's already apparent that I'm faster than he is, even worn out as I am. As I get used to the weight of a foil in my hand, I can feel myself slipping into a calmer state of mind. A deep sigh makes moisture collect in my mask before it can escape through the metal mesh. I settle into a fighting stance, and my opponent mirrors the action. Moments later, the judge calls for us to begin.
My gaze flicks over every part of him at once, taking in the rhythm of his movements and the stiffness in his body. He's a better fencer than the boy I faced in the last round by far, but my skills are still beyond his. I have to wonder if, in the next round, my opponent will be more of a challenge.
The nervousness that has plagued me throughout the day jumps back into my throat with renewed intensity. When I was put on varsity, I decided that Ryan Thompson would never again be an exceptional fencer. So upon seeing the bracket this morning, I figured that a mediocre fencer wouldn't make it past the second round, and definitely not on to the semi-finals. That might draw attention, something I have to av–
"Point."
I nod and step back to my starting place. The other boy's shoulders droop slightly, but then he sets them square and takes a fighting stance. The judge's voice barks the command to begin again, and the boy launches a flurry of strikes, all of which I deflect with little difficulty.
But I'm not fencing like Ryan would, am I? Right now, in this moment, I am Aleksander. And even if the team is counting on Ryan to win this match, Alek is the one who can. And I care too much about my teammates to lose.
"Point."
The boy's shoulders and back are stiff as a rod now, betraying his anger at my having made two points on him. I pretend not to notice as we step back to the starting lines, but make a point of shaking out my arms to loosen them. If I could see through his mask, I'm sure the boy would be scowling at me now. And if he could see through my mask, he'd see me smirking.
Really, he's making this just too easy.
An embarrassingly loud rumbling noise interrupts my conversation, and I put a hand over my stomach as though that will quiet its hungry protests.
Rachel, walking next to me, laughs. "It seems someone's excited for dinner," she comments, brushing her ponytail behind her shoulder with her free hand, effectively hitting Newkirk in the face with it. The two have been inseparable since this morning. Even as we walk to the park a few blocks away from stadium and campus, they walk closer than any of the six of us, even Matt and Deryn. I feel like a third wheel at the moment, tacked awkwardly onto the side of the pairing, and I'm certain Robert must feel similarly next to Deryn and Matt, but the six of us wouldn't all fit abreast on the sidewalk.
I don't mind too much, though, as short as the walk is, and Rachel and Newkirk are rather entertaining. The girl is remarkably personable, especially considering she won the girls varsity tournament this morning and has every right to a large ego. "I'm starved as well," she continues. "Wasn't the concession stand food awful?"
Though the question is ostensibly aimed toward all of us, she looks to Newkirk as she flicks a bit of dirt off his blazer. "Absolutely," he agrees. "My hot dog was lukewarm."
Robert nods, tilting his head back toward us. "Mine too. And I think they watered down the ranch dressing to make it last longer." He skirts around a light pole, stepping on a few discarded cigarettes in the process. They crunch under his shoes, and he wrinkles his lip at them but continues walking.
"It's your fault that you're strange and put ranch on your hot dog," Newkirk tells him. "If you used ketchup, mustard, and pickles like a normal person, then watery ranch dressing wouldn't be an issue."
I watch my chuckle fog up a bit in the cool air, muttering, "I don't put anything on my hot dogs. Does that make me abnormal?"
The boy turns on me a look of horror. "You eat plain hot dogs? That's worse than ranch. It's just–inhuman!" To make his point, he takes Rachel by the shoulders and places her between himself and me.
She rolls her eyes. "Such loyalty, Eugene. And what if I told you that I eat my hot dogs plain, hmm?"
He pauses for a moment, thinking. "That's different; you're a girl, so you aren't human, anyway."
Deryn, several steps ahead, lets out a laugh. "Are we still in primary school? Be careful, or we'll get cooties on you," she threatens, and turns so she faces us, walking backwards. Matt takes a few moments to decide if he wants to do the same, and then shakes his head and stays facing forward.
We all slow to a stop at the edge of the park, clustering around a few benches but not sitting down. "Those pretzels look so good," Robert says, eyeing a vendor about twenty meters away. "I can almost smell them! I'll be right back."
The wet grass squelches under his sneakers as he jogs off. There isn't a line, so the slouched man already has a soft pretzel wrapped in wax paper by the time Fitzroy arrives. He exchanges the pretzel for a bit of cash, and then nods a thank you for the business. His eyes watch Fitzroy as he runs back toward us.
"What, no ranch?" Newkirk asks, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. Robert doesn't dignify the comment with a response, but simply takes a massive bite out of the side of his pretzel.
"Aren't any of you going to get something to eat?" he inquires around the mouthful. "There's about twenty other carts around here; you don't have to be as smart as me and get soft, warm, delicious pretzels."
My stomach rumbles again, but I try to ignore it by pulling my jacket tighter around myself, hands shoved deep into the pockets. I would love to have something to eat for dinner, but I didn't pack anything and I've been warned explicitly by Volger not to buy anything that isn't prepackaged or that I've seen prepared myself.
Newkirk rolls his eyes. "You're absolutely insane, Robert. You know that, don't you?"
"Of course. Now go and get something to eat. I feel right odd being the only one with food." He makes shooing motions with one hand, and with the other brings the pretzel up to his mouth to take another bite.
"That's not the only thing that makes you odd," Deryn says with a smile, and then dances away from Robert's playful swat. "I'm going to get dinner from over there." She points to a vendor that boasts a variety of foods, from scotch eggs to meat pies, and bounds off, trailing Matt behind her by their linked hands.
Scowling, I look away. Newkirk is conferring quietly with Rachel on which stall they should buy their food from. After a moment, the two set off, leaving Robert and I alone.
"Aren't you going to get something to eat?" He tugs his knit cap down lower on his head, covering ears that have turned pink in the chill.
I shake my head, glad for my own hat as I'm sure my recently shorn hair would do nothing to keep off the cold. "I'm not hungry," I tell him, though it's an awful lie and I know he doesn't believe it.
He eyes me warily, then shuffles a few steps closer. "If you need me to, I could buy you something to eat." He looks profoundly awkward as he says it, but I can tell he means every word. I bite my lip, not sure how to respond. It's difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that someone so common as Robert would be offering to pay for my food, as if I didn't have enough to pay for it on my own. But he doesn't know about my family's money–he doesn't know anything except the cheap Lunchables I eat at school and the second-hand clothes Klopp found for me a few days after we arrived, both to help stay unnoticed and because we didn't yet know if our accounts would be accessible.
"That's not necessary," I say by way of reply, but he doesn't seem convinced.
"It would be no trouble, really." We stand for a moment in silence, both of us unable to meet the other's gaze. "Just-–just ask, okay?"
I'm saved having to respond because Deryn and Matt have returned. Deryn has a foil-wrapped potato in one hand and a scotch egg in the other, and Matt carries a carton of cheese curds and two cans of soda. The other two are not far behind them, and they both have items wrapped in foil and bottled water.
"Let's find a table, shall we?" Matt suggests, waving his cheese curds at a few nearby. We follow him toward a circular table that will sit the six of us comfortably, everyone consumed by conversations about the meet.
"I do hope you aren't upset about this morning, Deryn," says Rachel with an apologetic smile.
Deryn shakes her head. "Not at all; in fact, I feel better that the person I lost to is also the girl who won. Then everyone else lost to you, too, aye?" She unwraps her baked potato and takes a bite out of the side, skin and all.
Rachel laughs. "I'm glad you see it that way, really. It would be awful to be on the outs with one of Eugene's friends so soon after I've met you."
We all quirk a grin at the use of Newkirk's first name, but none of us comment.
"Speaking of friends," Newkirk says, "wasn't Nathan going to come over after the boys finished their team meeting? He does know how to get here, doesn't he?"
"He's my brother, not my friend," Rachel corrects him. "There's a difference. But, yes, he shouldn't be far off now. I got a text from him a few minutes ago."
Robert, having finished his pretzel, crumples the tissue it had been wrapped in and stands. "Be back in a squick," he offers and dashes off to the nearest waste bin.
Popping a cheese curd in his mouth, Matt remarks, "This is just like old times, isn't it, Newkirk?"
The boy raises an eyebrow and folds back the edge of the foil on his food, exposing a cheeseburger. "Except that we're not tearing at each other's throats at the moment," he replies.
Matt clears his throat. "Indeed, and I quite like it this way. Remember year nine, we came to this same park and the ducks stole half of my dinner? I was so mad because I hadn't had anything to eat all barking day." He shakes his head, oblivious to the odd look Newkirk has fixed on him.
"Yes, I remember that," hedges Newkirk. "A lot has changed in two years," he reminds Matt, not subtly at all.
Fitzroy returns, now with a periodical in hand. "Before any of you say anything, yes I read the newspaper every day, yes I know how strange that makes me, and no, I don't care." He sits down next to me, dropping the papers on the table in front of him.
Newkirk's hands fly up in mock surrender. "So jaded for one so young." His tone drips with sarcasm. "I wasn't going to say anything except to ask for my horoscope."
"Don't lie to me, Eugene Newkirk. We all know you wanted the advice column."
"Guilty as charged. Hand it over, then, I haven't got all day," beckons Newkirk, reaching across the table and grasping a few random sheets of paper before tugging them from Robert's hands. Ignoring Fitzroy's scowl, he straightens the paper and begins to stare at it, though I'm not certain if he is actually reading.
I occupy my hands by picking at my fingernails, trying not to look too longingly at the food the others are eating. I don't want to give any of them the opportunity to offer to buy me something like Robert did–I'd have to refuse, and I can hardly tell them that I won't eat because I am afraid of being poisoned.
"I need page A four, Newkirk," Robert says. "It has the rest of the article I'm reading on it."
Newkirk passes the sheet back casually, asking, "Which one are you reading?"
"'Waiting for Prince Charming'," reads Fitzroy, scowling a bit as he says the title, "It's about the missing son of the assassinated nobleman and his wife, and does an awful lot of speculation as to where their son is now. I don't always care for Malone's writing, really."
I want to say something, but it feels like the temperature has dropped below zero and I've frozen solid. My fingers feel twice their size and made of lead, but I force myself to continue picking at them, as if the war is no concern of mine, and they aren't talking about me. But below that, I can barely breathe and blood pounds in my ears, dulling the sounds around me.
"You read the newspaper often enough that you have opinions on the journalists?" Matt asks, a single eyebrow raised.
"Yes. But it's an interesting article, really," Fitzroy continues.
I take a deep, steadying breath. "I thought he went to America," I offer, trying to sound nonchalant but also knowing what a thin line I walk.
"That or France," adds Deryn around a bite of her scotch egg.
Robert shakes his head. "Wherever the lad is, that's not what the article really focuses on. Mostly, it's discussing the effects his disappearance has had on the country and the war, and–hey, Rachel, is that your brother?"
It feels like a punch to the stomach. I need to know what that article says, and though my fingers itch to reach over and snatch it from him I turn with the rest of the group to see a boy at the edge of the park, looking lost.
Rachel raises an arm and waves. "Nathan! Over here!"
The boy, looking relieved, hurries over and takes a seat next to Rachel and Newkirk, who have squeezed together even closer. As he settles in, I realize this is the boy I fenced earlier, winning my team a qualifying place. In the back of my mind, I find myself hoping that he isn't sore about having lost, especially considering that his team pulled ahead of the Ipswich Zeppelins and took one of the other qualifying spots.
He seems to recognize me, too. Our eyes meet and he nods, and I return the gesture before his gaze moves on to Fitzroy. I can't help but notice that it lingers there.
Conversations start and continue, but I find it hard to pay attention. After a while, Matt happens to look at his watch and informs us, with a surprising amount of disappointment, that we need to leave. Reluctant as we are, we gather ourselves and set off.
"Just a moment," Robert says, shoving a hand in his pocket and drawing out a few folded bills. "I want a sandwich." He pauses for a moment, scrunches up his face and says, "Blisters! And I need to call my mom, too."
Newkirk groans. "We don't have time for this, Robert."
"What if," Fitzroy says, thinking, "Ryan, can you go get me a turkey and cheese sandwich from the stand over there?"
His eyes betray nothing, but I think I know what he is doing. I look at the group around me, all fidgeting and anxious to leave. Grudgingly, I accept the cash from Robert. "Tomatoes and ranch if they have it, please."
I narrow my eyes at him and walk away, closing the distance to the cart shortly.
"I'll take your order when you're ready." The woman's accent isn't quite British, but I can't place it. She looks oddly out of place here, among all the middle-aged men working the rest of the food stands.
"One turkey and cheese sandwich, please. With tomatoes and ranch dressing."
The woman says nothing, reaching into the refrigerated compartment on her cart and pulling out a prepackaged sandwich. She unwraps it and pulls back the top layer of bread, throws on a few tomato slices and a squirt of ranch dressing, and then closes the sandwich again before slicing it in half. It is, at least, given a fresh wrapping of parchment paper before she holds out her hand for payment.
"Three pounds," she says, and I reluctantly exchange the cash Robert gave me for the sandwich.
Upon my return to the group, we head off at a fast pace.
"How's your mother?" I ask Robert.
"Hmm?" he replies, then nods quickly. "Oh, brilliant. I–uh–needed to make sure the dog got fed this afternoon."
My eyes roll, almost of their own will. "Of course."
Fitzroy takes the sandwich from me with a grin, promptly announcing, "This is way bigger than I thought it was going to be. I expected one of the finger sandwiches my grandmum serves at Sunday tea; I don't think I can eat all this! Ryan, you want half?"
My glare is colder than ice. Apparently, I wasn't clear enough earlier in that I don't want his charity. I've opened my mouth to tell him, yet again, that I'm not hungry, when my stomach emits its loudest roar yet.
Wonderful.
I hold out my hand, sighing. He detaches half of the sub-style sandwich from its wrapping and places it in my palm. "Thank you," I tell him, but I don't know if I mean it or not.
It doesn't look dangerous, really. And Robert is eating the sandwich, too, so I doubt it is the least bit harmful. Slowly, I raise the food to my mouth and take a bite.
Even though it tastes a bit unusual–I assume it is the ranch dressing, something I've never tried on anything other than salad–my stomach ceases its growling and starts digesting quietly.
I feel considerably more content by the time we make it back to the gym. Rachel and Newkirk look awfully upset to say goodbye, and Robert and Nathan must know each other as well because they exchange farewells. We toss our bags onto the bus by the lights of the parking lot, because it grows darker with each passing minute.
The darkness does nothing to dampen the mood, and I listen with half-interest to my friends chatter about the events of the day. Robert, though, is as quiet as I am and has taken on a rather sickly expression. I wonder if I look the same–my stomach is churning now, and with each bump on the road I wince.
The bus grinds to a halt in the parking lot of the school. As I stand, my vision immediately swims and my limbs feel like stone.
I don't make it down the bus steps before I fall, vomiting.