Thirteen-year-old
Carswell Thorne has big plans involving a Rampion spaceship and a no-return
trip out of Los Angeles.
CARSWELL DUNKED THE COMB BENEATH THE
FAUCET and slicked it through his hair, tidying the back so
that it was neat and pristine, and the front spiked up just right. Boots sat on
the counter, watching him with her yellow slitted eyes and purring heavily,
even though it had been nearly ten minutes since he’d stopped petting her.
“Today’s goal,” he said to the cat,
he supposed, or maybe the mirror, “is eighty-four univs. Think I can do it?”
The cat blinked, still purring. Her
tail twitched around her paws as Carswell turned off the water and set the comb
beside her.
“I’ve never made that much in one
lunch hour before,” he said, pulling a skinny blue tie over his head and
cinching the knot against his neck, “but eighty-four univs will put us at a
total of 7,500. Which means—” He flipped down the shirt collar. “—the bank will
upgrade my account to ‘young professional’ and increase the monthly interest by
2%. That would trim nearly sixteen weeks off of my five-year plan.”
Carswell reached for the tie tack
that lived in the small crystal dish beside the sink. The school uniform only
allowed for personal style to show through in the smallest of accessories,
which had led to a trend among the girls of tying little gems onto their shoes,
and the boys of splurging on diamond stud earrings. But Carswell had only this
tie tack, which he’d dipped into his own savings for rather than ask his
parents, because he knew his mom would insist he buy something tasteful (code: designer)
instead. It hadn’t been much of a setback.
The tiny steel tack had cost merely
fifteen univs, and it had since become his signature piece.
A tiny spaceship. A 214 Rampion, to
be exact.
His mother, as expected, had hated
the tie tack when she’d noticed it for the first time nearly two weeks later.
“Sweetheart,” she’d said in that adoring tone that just bordered on
condescending, “they have a whole display of spaceship accessories at Tiff’s.
Why don’t we go down there after school and you can pick out something nice?
Maybe a racer, or a fleet ship, or one of those vintage ones you used to like?
Remember all those posters you had
on your walls when you were little?”
Returning her sweet smile, he’d
responded simply, “I like the Rampions, Mom.”
She’d grimaced. Literally grimaced.
“What under the stars is a Rampion ship, anyway?”
“Cargo ship,” his father had jumped
in. “Mostly military, aren’t they, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A cargo ship!” Exasperated, his mom
had set her hands on her hips. “Why would you want a tie tack of a cargo ship,
of all things?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said,
shrugging. “I just like them.” And he did. A Rampion had the bulk of a whale,
but the sleekness of a shark, and it appealed to him. Plus, there was something
nice about a ship that was purely utilitarian. Not flashy, not overdone, not
luxurious. Not like every single thing his parents had ever purchased.
They were just . . . useful.
“Presentable?” Carswell said,
scruffing Boots on the back of her neck. The cat ducked her head in a way that
was almost authentic, and purred louder.
Grabbing the gray uniform blazer off
the door handle, he headed downstairs. His parents were both at the breakfast
table (as opposed to the formal dining table in the next room), all eyes glued
to their portscreens while Janette, one of the human maids, refilled their
coffee mugs and added two sugars to his mom’s.
“Good morning, young captain,”
Janette said, pulling his chair out from the table.
“Don’t call him that,” said
Carswell’s father without looking up. “You can call him ‘captain’ after he
earns it.”
Janette only winked at Carswell
while she took the blazer from him and hung it on the back of his chair.
Carswell smiled back and sat down.
“Morning, Janette.”
“I’ll bring your pancakes right
out.” She finished with a silently mouthed “Captain,” and another wink before
drifting toward the kitchen.
Without bothering to look up at his
otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward him and removed
his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared
his throat.
Loudly.
Intimidatingly.
Carswell glanced up through his
eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost sitting over
them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?
“Would you like a glass of water,
sir?”
As a response, his dad tossed his
portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.
“The school forwarded your status
reports this morning,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, before adding,
“They are not up to standards.”
Not up to standards.
If Carswell had a univ for every
time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account would be
well into ‘young investor’ status by now (interest rate: 5.2%).
“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I’m
sure I almost tried this time.”
“Don’t be smart with your father,”
said his mom in a rather disinterested tone, before taking a sip of her coffee.
“Math, Carswell. You’re failing math.
How do you expect to be a pilot if you can’t read charts and diagrams and—”
“I don’t want to be a pilot,” he
said. “I want to be a captain.”
“Becoming a captain,” his dad
growled, “starts with becoming a great pilot.”
Carswell barely refrained from
rolling his eyes. He’d heard that line a time or two, also.
A warm body bumped into his leg and
Carswell glanced down to see that Boots had followed him and was now nudging
his calf with the side of her face. He was just reaching down to pet her when
his dad snapped, “Boots, go outside.”
The cat instantly stopped purring
and cuddling against
Carswell’s leg, turned and traipsed
toward the kitchen—the fastest route to their backyard. Carswell scowled as he
watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a
lot—sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does any pet they grew up with—but
then he would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot,
programmed to follow directions just like any android. He’d been asking for a
real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea,
listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She
didn’t shed on their nice furniture or paw at their fancy curtains or require a
litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her
settings to do so.
His parents, Carswell had learned at
a very young age, liked things that did what they were told, when they were
told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.
Or, as it turned out,
thirteen-year-old boys.
“You need to start taking this
seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the cat-door
swung closed behind Boots. “You’ll never be accepted into Andromeda at this
rate.”
Janette returned with his plate of
pancakes and Carswell was grateful for an excuse to look away from his dad as
he slathered them with butter and syrup. It was better than risking the
temptation to say what he really wanted to say.
He didn’t want to go to Andromeda
Academy. He didn’t want to follow in his dad’s footsteps.
Sure, he wanted to learn how to fly.
Desperately wanted to learn how to fly. But there were other flight
schools—less prestigious ones maybe, but at least they didn’t require selling
six years of his life to the military so he could be ordered around by more men
who looked and sounded just like his dad, and cared about him even less.
“What’s wrong with you?” his dad
said, not taking his eyes from Carswell, even as he swiveled a finger at
Janette. She began to clear his place setting. “You used to be good at math.”
“I am good at math,” Carswell said,
then shoved more pancake into his mouth than he probably should have.
“This report suggests otherwise.”
He chewed. And chewed. And chewed.
“Maybe we should get him a tutor,”
said his mother, flicking her finger across her portscreen.
“Is that it, Carswell? Do you need a
tutor? ”
He swallowed. “I don’t need a tutor.
I know how to do it all. I just don’t feel like doing it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I have better things
to do,” he said, setting down his fork. “I understand all the concepts, so why
should I waste whole days of my life working through those stupid worksheets?
Not to mention—” He gestured wildly—at everything, at nothing. At the light
fixture that changed automatically based on the amount of sunlight that
filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. At the sensors in the wall
that detected when a person entered a room and set the thermostat to their own
personal preferences. At that brainless robotic cat. “ We are surrounded by
computers all the time. If I ever need help, I’ll just have one of them
figure it out. So what does it matter?”
“It matters because it shows focus.
Dedication. Diligence.
Important traits that, believe it or
not, are usually found in spaceship captains.”
Scowling, Carswell grabbed the fork
again and began sawing at the pancake stack with its side. If his mother had
noticed, she would have reminded him to use a knife, but she was far too busy
pretending to be at a different table altogether.
“I have those traits,” he muttered.
And he did, he knew he did. But why waste focus and dedication and diligence on
something as trivial as math homework?
“Then prove it. You’re grounded
until these grades come up to passing.”
His head snapped up. “Grounded? But
mid-July break starts next week.”
Standing, his dad snapped his
portscreen onto the belt of his own uniform—the impeccably pressed
blue-and-gray uniform of Colonel Kingsley Thorne, American Republic Fleet 186.
“Yes, and you will spend your
vacation in your bedroom doing math homework unless you can show me, and
your teacher, that you’re taking this seriously.”
Carswell’s stomach sank, but his dad
had marched out of the breakfast room before he could begin to refute.
He couldn’t be grounded for mid-July
break. He had big plans for those two weeks. Mostly, they involved an
entrepreneurial enterprise that began with sending Boots up into the fruit
trees on his neighbors’ property and ended with him selling baskets of
perfectly ripe lemons and avocados to every little old lady in the
neighborhood. He’d been charming his neighbors out of their bank accounts since
he was seven, and had become quite good at it. Last summer, he’d even managed
to get the Hernandez family to pay him 300 univs for a box of “succulent,
prize-winning” oranges, having no idea that he’d picked the fruits off of their
own tree earlier that day.
“He’s not serious, is he?” Carswell
said, turning back to his mom. “He won’t keep me grounded for the whole break?”
His mom, for maybe the first time
that morning, tore her eyes away from the portscreen. She blinked at him and he
suspected that she had no idea what his father’s doled out punishment was.
Maybe she didn’t even realize what the argument had been about.
After a moment, just long enough to
let the question dissolve in the air between them, she said, “Are you all ready
for school, sweetheart?”
Huffing, Carswell nodded and shoved
two more quick bites into his mouth. Snatching up his book bag, he pushed away
from the table and tossed his blazer over one shoulder.
His dad wanted to see an improvement
of grades? Fine. He would find a way to make it happen. He would come up with
some solution that gave him the freedom he required during his break, but
didn’t include laboring away over boring math formulas every evening. He had
more important things to do with his time. Things that involved business
transactions and payment collections. Things that would one day lead to him
buying his own spaceship. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Just something
simple and practical, something that would belong to him and to him alone.
Then his dad would know just how
focused and dedicated he was, right as he was getting the aces out of here.
JULES KELLER HAD HIT HIS GROWTH
SPURT EARLY, making him a full head taller than anyone else in
the class, and he was even sporting the start of peach-fuzz whiskers on his
chin. Unfortunately, he still had a brain capacity equivalent to that of a
seagull.
That was Carswell’s first thought
when Jules slammed his locker shut and Carswell barely managed to get his
fingers out of the way in time.
“Morning, Mr. Keller,” he said,
calling up a friendly smile. “You look particularly vibrant this morning.”
Jules stared down the length of his
nose at him. The nose on which a sizable red pimple seemed to have emerged
overnight. That was one other thing about Jules. In addition to the height and
the brawn and the fuzz, his growth spurt had given him a rather tragic case of
acne.
“I want my money back,” said Jules,
one hand still planted on Carswell’s locker.
Carswell tilted his head. “Money?”
“Stuff doesn’t work.” Reaching into
his pocket, Jules pulled out a small round canister labeled with exotic
ingredients that promised clean, spot-free skin in just two weeks. “And I’m
sick of looking at your smug face all day, like you think I don’t know better.”
“Of course it works,” said Carswell,
taking the canister from him and holding it up to inspect the label. “It’s the
exact same stuff I use, and look at me.”
Which was not exactly true. The
canister itself had been emptied of its original, ridiculously expensive face
cream when he’d dug it out of the trash bin beside his mother’s vanity. And
though he’d sometimes sneaked uses of the high quality stuff before, the
canister was now full of a simple concoction of bargain moisturizer and a few
drops of food coloring and almond extract that he’d found in the pantry.
He didn’t think it would be bad for
anyone’s skin. And besides, studies had been showing the benefit of placebos
for years. Who said they couldn’t cure teenage acne just as effectively as they
could cure an annoying headache?
But Jules, evidently unimpressed
with the evidence Carswell had just presented, grabbed him by his shirt collar
and pushed him against the bank of lockers. Carswell suspected it wasn’t to get
a better look at his own flawless complexion.
“I want my money back,” Jules
seethed through his teeth.
“Good morning, Carswell,” said a
chipper voice.
Sliding his gaze past Jules’s
shoulder, Carswell smiled and nodded at the freckled brunette who was shyly
fluttering her lashes at him. “Morning, Shan. How’d your recital go last
night?”
She giggled and ducked her head. “It
was great. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it. Um. I just wanted to say hi, and . .
. you look really nice this morning.” Blushing, she turned and darted toward a
group of friends who were waiting near the water fountain. Together they broke
into a fit of teasing chatter as they flitted down the hallway.
Jules pushed Carswell into the
lockers again, yanking his attention back. “I said—”
“You want your money back, yeah,
yeah, I heard you.” Carswell held up the canister. “And that’s fine. No
problem. I’ll transfer it over during lunch.”
Harrumphing, Jules released him.
“Of course, you’ll lose all the
progress you’ve made so far.”
“What progress?” Jules said,
bristling again. “Stuff doesn’t work!”
“Sure it works. But it takes two
weeks. Says so right here.”
He pointed at the label, and Jules
snarled.
“It’s been three.”
Rolling his eyes, Carswell tossed
the canister from hand to hand. “It’s a process. There are steps. The
first step is—” He respectfully lowered his voice, in case Jules didn’t want
the sensitive nature of their conversation to be overheard. “—you know,
clearing away the first layer of dead skin cells. Exfoliation, as it were. But
a really deep, intense, all-natural exfoliation. That takes two weeks.
In step two, it unlocks all the grease and dirt that’s been stuck in the bottom
of your pores. That’s the step you’re in the middle of right now. In another
week, it’ll move on to step three. Hydrating your skin so that it has a
constant, beautiful glow.” He quirked his lips to one side and shrugged. “You
know, like me. I’m telling you, it does work. And if there’s one thing I know,
it’s skincare products.” Unscrewing the cap, he took a long sniff of the cream.
“Not to mention . . . no, never mind. You don’t want it. It’s not worth
mentioning at all. I’ll just take this back and—”
“Not to mention what?”
Carswell cleared his throat and dipped
forward, until Jules had lowered his own head into their makeshift huddle. “The
scent is proven to make you more attractive to girls. It’s practically an
aphrodisiac, in aromatherapy form.”
A crease formed in between Jules’s
brow and Carswell recognized confusion. He was just about to explain what an
aphrodisiac was when a third form sidled up beside them.
“Hey, Carswell,” said Elia, the pep
squad captain, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She was easily
one of the prettiest girls in school, with thick black hair and a per sis tent
dimple in one cheek. She was also a year older and about four inches taller
than Carswell, which wasn’t particularly uncommon these days. Unlike Jules,
Carswell hadn’t seen even a glimmer of a growth spurt yet, and he was really
starting to get fed up with waiting, even though none of the girls had seemed
bothered by the fact that they’d been outpacing him in the height department
since their sixth year.
“Morning, Elia,” Carswell said,
slipping the canister of facial cream into his pocket. “Perfect timing! Could
you do me a favor?”
Her eyes widened with blatant
enthusiasm. “Of course!”
“Could you tell me, what does my
good friend Jules here smell like to you?”
Instant redness flushed over Jules’s
face and, with a snarl, he pushed Carswell into the lockers again. “What are
you—!”
But then he froze. Carswell’s teeth
were still vibrating when Elia leaned forward so that her nose was almost,
almost touching Jules’s neck, and sniffed.
Jules had become a statue.
Carswell lifted an expectant
eyebrow.
Elia rocked back on her heels,
considering for a moment as her gaze raked over the ceiling. Then—“Almonds, I
think.”
“And . . . do you like it?” Carswell
ventured.
She laughed, the sound like an
inviting wind chime. Jules’s blush deepened.
“Definitely,” she said, although it
was Carswell she was smiling at. “It reminds me of one of my favorite
desserts.”
Jules released him and, once again,
Carswell smoothed his jacket. “Thank you, Elia. That’s very helpful.”
“My pleasure.” She tucked a strand
of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you’re going to the Peace Dance
next week?”
His smile was both practiced and
instinctual. “Undecided. I may be cooking dinner for my sick grandmother that
night.” He waited expectantly as Elia’s gaze filled with swooning. “But if I do
end up going to the dance, you’ll be the first I ask to go with me.”
She beamed and bounced on her toes.
“Well, I’d say yes,” she said, looking suddenly, briefly bashful. “Just in case
you weren’t sure.” Then she turned and practically skipped down the hall.
“Well,” said Carswell, pulling the
canister back out of his pocket. “I guess our business is all concluded, then.
Like I said, I’ll return your payment in full by this afternoon. Of course, the
retail price on this stuff just went up twenty percent, so if you change your
mind later, I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge—”
Jules snatched the canister out of
his hand. His face was still bright red, his brow still drawn, but the anger
had dissolved from his eyes. “If nothing’s changed in another three weeks,” he
said, low and threatening, “I’ll be shoving the rest of this cream down your
throat.”
Well, most of the anger had
dissolved from his eyes.
But Carswell merely smiled and gave
Jules a friendly pat on the shoulder just as the anthem of the American
Republic began to blare through the school speakers. “So glad I could clear
things up for you.”
HE WALKED INTO LITERATURE CLASS FOUR
MINUTES late, his book bag over one shoulder as he deftly buttoned
his blazer. He slid into the only remaining seat—front row, dead center.
“So nice of you to join us, Mr.
Thorne,” said Professor Gosnel.
Crossing his heels, Carswell tipped
back in his chair and flashed a bright smile at the teacher. “The plea sure is
all mine, Professor.”
He could see her refraining from an
eye roll as she punched something into her portscreen. The screens built into
the classroom desks lit up with the day’s assignment.
Great Dramatists of the First
Century, Third Era, was
emblazoned across the top, followed by a list of names and which of the six
Earthen countries each dramatist had hailed from.
“For today, I want everyone to
select one artist from this list,” said the teacher, pacing in front of the
classroom, “and choose a drama from their body of work that appeals to you. At
half past, we’ll split into pairs and you can take turns reading the dramas
you’ve found with your partner and discussing how the themes in them relate to
our world today.”
A finger tapped Carswell gently at
the base of his neck, the universal symbol for “I choose you.” Carswell
struggled to remember who had been sitting behind him when he took this seat,
and if it was someone he wouldn’t mind being partnered with. Had it been
Destiny? Athena? Blakely? Spades, he hoped it wasn’t Blakely. Once she started
talking, it was difficult to remember what peace and quiet sounded like.
He slid his gaze to the side, hoping
he could catch his mystery partner’s reflection in the windows before
committing to the partnership, when his gaze caught on the girl beside him.
Kate Fallow.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Despite having been in the same
grade since toddler primaries, he doubted that he and Kate had spoken more than
fifty words to each other their whole lives. He didn’t think it was anything
personal. Their paths just didn’t cross much. As evidenced at that moment, she
preferred to sit in the front of class, whereas he did his best to end up
somewhere near the back. Instead of coming out to sporting events or school
festivals, Kate always seemed to rush straight home when classes were over. She
was at the top of their class and well-liked, but by no means popular, and she
spent most lunch hours with her nose buried in her portscreen. Reading.
This was only the second time
Carswell Thorne had stopped to ponder one Kate Fallow. The first time, he had
wondered why she liked books so much, and if it was similar to why he liked
spaceships. Because they could take you somewhere far, far away from here.
This time, he was wondering what her
math score was.
There was a thud as Carswell settled
his chair legs back on the floor and leaned across the aisle. “You probably
know who all these artists are, don’t you?”
Kate’s head whipped up. She blinked
at him for a moment, before her startled eyes glanced at the person behind her,
then back to Carswell.
He grinned.
She blinked. “Ex-excuse me?”
He inched closer, so that he was
barely seated on the edge of his chair, and dragged the tip of his stylus down
her screen. “All these dramatists. You read so much, I bet you’ve already read
them all.”
“Um.” She followed the tip of his
stylus before . . . there it was, that sudden rush of color to her cheeks. “No,
not all of them. Maybe . . . maybe half, though?”
“Yeah?” Settling an elbow on his
knee, Carswell cupped his chin. “Who’s your favorite? I could use a
recommendation.”
“Oh. Well, um. Bourdain wrote some
really great historical pieces. . . .” She trailed off, then swallowed. Hard.
She lifted her eyes to him and seemed surprised when he was still paying
attention to her.
For his part, Carswell was feeling a
little surprised, too. It had been a long time since he’d really looked at Kate
Fallow, but she seemed prettier now than he’d remembered, even if it was the
kind of pretty that was overshadowed by the likes of Shan or Elia. Kate was
softer and plumper than most of the girls in his class, but she had the
largest, warmest brown eyes he thought he’d ever seen.
Plus, there was also something
endearing about a girl who seemed entirely floored by no more than a moment’s
worth of attention from him. But maybe that was just his ego speaking.
“Is there a certain type of drama
you like?” Kate whispered.
Carswell tapped his stylus against
the side of his mouth. “Adventure stories, I guess. With lots of exotic places
and daring escapades . . . and swashbuckling space pirates, naturally.” He
followed this up with a wink and watched, preening inside, as Kate’s mouth turned
into a small, surprised O.
Then Professor Gosnel cleared her
throat. “This is supposed to be individual study, Mr. Thorne and Miss
Fallow. Twenty more minutes, and then you can partner up.”
“Yes, Professor Gosnel,” said
Carswell without missing a beat, even as the redness stretched to Kate’s
hairline and a few students snickered near the back. He wondered if Kate had
ever been reprimanded by a teacher in her life.
He slid his gaze back to Kate and
waited—five seconds, six—until her gaze darted uncertainly upward again. Though
she caught him staring, she was the one who instantly turned back to her
desk, flustered.
Feeling rather accomplished,
Carswell took to scanning through the names. A few sounded familiar, but not
enough that he could have named any of their works. He racked his brain, trying
to remember what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing for this assignment
anyway.
Then Kate leaned over and tapped her
stylus against a name on the list. Joel Kimbrough, United Kingdom, born 27 T.E.
His list of works spilled down the screen, with titles like Space Ranger on
the Ninth Moon and The Mariner and the Martians.
Carswell beamed at Kate, but she had
already returned her attention to her own screen, without any sign of her blush
receding.
The next twenty minutes were spent
scanning through Joel Kimbrough’s extensive body of work, while his mind
churned through different scenarios in which he could get
Kate Fallow to help him with his
math homework—preferably, just to let him copy off her so he wouldn’t need to
put any more time into that wasteful venture.
When Professor Gosnel finally told
them to choose a partner, Carswell scooted his desk closer to Kate’s without
hesitation. “Would you like to work together?”
She gaped at him again, no less surprised
than the first time. “Me?”
“Sure. You like histories, I like
adventures. Match made in heaven, right?”
“Um . . .”
“Carswell?” hissed a voice behind
him. He glanced around. It was Blakely behind him after all, leaning so far
over her desk that her nose was practically on his shoulder. “I thought you and
I could be partners.”
“Er—one second.” He lifted a finger
to her, then turned back to Kate and plowed on. “Actually, there’s something
I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you for a while now.”
Kate’s jaw hung, as Carswell feigned
a sudden onslaught of uncertainty and scooted his chair a bit closer. “You know
how we’re in the same math class?”
She blinked, twice. Nodded.
“Well, I was thinking, if you’re not
busy, and if you wanted to, maybe we could study together one of these days.
Maybe after school? ”
Kate could not have looked any more
stunned if he’d just proposed that they move to Columbia State together and
become coffee bean farmers. “You want to . . . study? With me?”
“Yeah. Math, specifically.” He
rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not doing that great in it. I could really
use your help.” He added a drop of pleading to his expression and watched as
Kate’s eyes widened and softened simultaneously. Those pretty, enormous brown
eyes.
Carswell was surprised to feel a
jolt behind his sternum, and suddenly, he was almost looking forward to his
studying time with Kate Fallow, which was a rather unexpected twist.
Because, of course, she would say
yes.
Although it was Blakely who spoke
next. “Carswell. We should get started on this assignment, don’t you
think?” There was an edge to her tone that Kate must have noticed. Something
that hinted at jealousy.
With a glance back at Blakely, Kate
looked more flustered than ever. But then she nodded and gave an awkward shrug.
“Sure. All right.”
Carswell beamed. “Great. And also—I
hate to ask this—but would you mind if I took a look at today’s assignment? I
tried to do it last night, but was completely lost. All those equations . . .”
“Mr. Thorne,” said Professor Gosnel,
suddenly hovering between him and Kate, “this is literature class. Perhaps you
could use your time to discuss literature.”
He tilted his head back to meet her
gaze. “Oh, we are discussing literature, Professor.” Clearing his throat, he
tapped the screen, pulling up Kimbrough’s 39th published work, Marooned in
the Asteroid Labyrinth. The explanation bubbled up as smoothly as they
always did, a skill he’d been cultivating since childhood. “As you can see,
dramatist Joel Kimbrough often played on themes of loneliness and abandonment,
in which the protagonist is forced to overcome not only external obstacles like
space monsters and malfunctioning spaceship engines, but also the internal
devastation that comes with complete solitude. His works often employ the vast
emptiness of space as a metaphor for social isolation. In the end, his
protagonists overcome their feelings of insecurity only after they
accept the help of an unlikely assistant, such as an android or an alien or . .
.” His mouth quirked to one side. “. . . a pretty girl who happens to be a
skilled marksman when she’s handed a high-powered ray gun.”
A wave of tittering rolled through
the class, confirming Carswell’s suspicions that he now had an audience.
“So, you see,” he said, gesturing
again at the screen, “I was just telling Miss Fallow that the themes in
Kimbrough’s work are symbolic of my own personal struggles with math homework.
I so often feel lost, insecure, confused, completely abandoned . . . but, by
joining forces with a pretty girl who understands the problems I currently have
to work through, I may yet overcome the obstacles laid out before me, and
achieve my ultimate goal: high marks in math class.” He gave a one-shouldered
shrug and added, for good measure, “And also literature class, naturally.”
Professor Gosnel stared down at him
with her lips pressed and he could tell that she was still annoyed, although
simultaneously trying to hide a twinge of amusement. “I somehow doubt you’ve
ever felt insecure about anything in your whole life, Mr. Thorne.”
He grinned. “I’m a teenager,
Professor. I feel insecure all the time.”
The class chuckled around him, but
Professor Gosnel sighed. “Just try to stay on task, Mr. Thorne,” she
said, before turning her back to her own screen and listing some of the
literary terms students should be using to discuss their assignments—words like
themes, metaphors, and symbolism. Carswell smirked.
Then a voice broke out of the mild
chatter, loud enough to reach Carswell, but quiet enough to make it seem like
it wasn’t intentional. “If it’s a pretty girl that he needs to help with his
‘problems,’ it’s a shame Kate Fallow is the best he can find.”
Someone else guffawed. A few girls
giggled, before putting their hands over their mouths.
Carswell glanced back to see Ryan
Doughty smirking at him—a friend of Jules. He shot him a glare, before turning
back to Kate. Her smile had vanished, her eyes filling with mortification.
Carswell curled his hand into a
tight fist, having the sudden, unexpected urge to punch Ryan Doughty in the
mouth. But instead, as the class quieted down, he ignored the feeling and once
again scooted his chair closer to Kate’s.
“So, like I was saying before,” he
said, teetering on the line between casual and nervous, “maybe we could eat
lunch together today, out in the courtyard.” He would have to cancel the
afternoon’s card game, which would put him behind schedule, but if he could
submit today’s homework during math—complete and on time—it would be the
fastest way to start turning around his marks. And he only had a week to show
his dad that things were improving before mid-July break started. “What do you
say?”
Kate’s jaw had dropped again, her
blush having returned full force.
“Carswell?”
Sighing, he didn’t hide his glare as
he turned back to Blakely. “Yes, Blakely?”
Her glower put his to shame. “I
thought you and I were going to be partners today.”
“Uh—I’m not sure, Blakely. I’m
afraid I already asked Kate, but . . .” He grinned in Kate’s direction. “I
guess she hasn’t given me an answer yet.”
Blakely harrumphed. “Well then,
maybe we should call off our date to the dance, too. Then you two can go fight
obstacles and achieve goals together.”
He sat up straighter. “Huh?”
“Last week,” Blakely said, curling
her fingers around the edge of her desk, “I asked if you were going to the
Peace Dance and you said I’d be the girl you asked if you did. I’ve been
planning on it ever since.”
“Oh, right.” Carswell was
losing track of how many girls he’d said some version of this line too, which
was probably bad planning on his part, but at the time Blakely had asked, he’d
been hoping to get her to invest in his Send Carswell to Space Camp fund.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “it’s
looking like I may be babysitting my neighbors’ toddlers that day. Two-year-old
triplets.” He shook his head. “They’re a handful, but so blasted cute, it’s
impossible not to love them.”
Blakely’s anger fizzled into warm
adoration. “Oh.”
“But if they end up not needing me,
you’ll be the first to know.”
She squinched her shoulders up from
the flattery. “But do you want to work together today?”
“Ah, I’d love to, Blakely, but I did
ask Kate already . . . er, Kate?”
Kate had her head down, her hair
falling over her face so that he could only see the tip of her nose. Her body
had taken on a new tenseness, her knuckles whitened as she gripped the stylus.
“It’s all right,” she said, without
looking up at him. “I’m sure the teacher will let me work on my own. You can
work with your girlfriend.”
“Oh—she’s not—we’re not—”
Blakely grabbed his arm. “See, Kate
doesn’t mind. You said that you chose Joel Kimbrough?”
Clearing his throat, Carswell looked
first at Blakely, then back up at Kate, now hidden behind her wall of hair.
“Um, fine.” He leaned toward Kate
again. “But, are we still on for lunch? So I can, you know, check out that
homework assignment?”
Kate tucked her hair behind her ear
and leveled a look at him that was both annoyed and intelligent. It told him
that she knew exactly what he was doing, or trying to do. To her. To Blakely.
To every girl he’d ever asked a favor from. Carswell was surprised to feel a
tingle of shame down his spine.
Her jaw twitched. “I don’t think so.
And we probably shouldn’t study together after all.”
Turning away, she fitted a pair of
speaker-plugs into her ears, and the conversation was over. In its wake was a
feeling of disappointment that Carswell couldn’t quite place, but he didn’t
think had very much to do with math.
“SEVEN CARD ROYALS,” SAID CARSWELL,
DEALING another hand of cards. “Aces are wild. Triplets
beats the house.”
“Why don’t we ever play that doubles
beat the house?” asked Anthony, picking up his cards and rearranging them in
his hands.
Carswell shrugged. “We can play that
way if you want. But it means the pots will be smaller. Not as much risk, not
as big a payout.”
“Triplets are fine,” said Carina,
needling Anthony in the side with her elbow. “Anthony’s just afraid he’s going
to lose again.”
Anthony scowled. “It just seems like
the odds are a little biased toward Carswell, that’s all.”
“What do you mean?” Carswell waved
his hand over the pot. “I’ve lost the last three hands in a row. You guys are
bleeding me dry over here.”
Carina raised her eyebrows at
Anthony as if to say, See?
Do the math. Anthony duly
fell quiet and tossed his ante into the pot. They were playing with markers
scavenged from the school’s lunch bar—olives were micro-univs, potato crisps
were singles, and jalapeño slices made for fivers. The trick was to keep Chien,
who was seated on Carswell’s left and had the appetite of a whale, to keep from
eating them in between games.
At the end of every school day,
Carswell—as “the house”—would divvy up the wins and losses between the players’
real savings accounts. He’d based his system on the same odds that the casinos
in the valley used, allowing him to win about 60% of the time. It was just
enough to turn a consistent profit, but also to give players frequent enough
wins that they kept coming back. It had turned out to be one of his more
profitable ventures to date.
Carina took the next hand without
much competition, but that was followed by a round in which no one could beat
the house’s required triplets-or-better, ending Carswell’s losing streak. He
kept the grin from his face as he raked the pot of food scraps into his
dwindling pile.
He quickly did the math in his head.
He was up from where he’d started the lunch period, nearly fifty-five univs.
Just twenty-nine more would put him at his goal for the day and push him into
the next bracket of his savings account.
Twenty-nine univs. Such a small
thing to just about anyone in this school, just about anyone in the entire city
of Los Angeles. But to him, they equaled sixteen weeks of freedom. Sixteen
weeks of being away from his parents. Sixteen weeks of total in dependence.
He brushed his thumb over the
Rampion tie tack for good luck, and dealt another hand.
As the betting began, he glanced up
and caught sight of Kate Fallow sitting against a palm tree at the edge of the
courtyard, the pleated skirt of her uniform pulled snugly around her knees. She
was reading from her portscreen—no surprise there—but it was odd to see her out
here at all. Carswell had no idea where she normally spent her lunch hour, but
he was pretty sure it wasn’t in this courtyard, where he could always be
found.
The betting ended and Carswell began
to dole out replacement cards, but now he was distracted. His gaze kept
flicking back to Kate. Watching how she smiled at something on the screen.
Mindlessly tugged at her earlobe. Seemed to sigh with a hint of longing.
Maybe she came to the courtyard
every day and he’d never noticed. Or maybe she’d come here today because he’d
suggested it, even if the offer had ultimately been declined.
Either way, it was clear from the
faraway look in her eyes that she wasn’t in the courtyard right now, not
really, and he couldn’t help wondering where she was.
Holy spades. Was he developing a
crush on Kate Fallow? Of all the girls who smiled and swooned and
giggled, all the girls who would have handed over their math homework for
nothing more than a flirtatious compliment, and he suddenly couldn’t keep his
eyes off one of the most awkward, isolated girls in the school?
No, there had to be more to this. He
was probably just confusing his desperation to raise his math grades and lift
his dad’s punishment with something that bordered on romantic interest. He
didn’t like Kate Fallow. He just wanted Kate Fallow to like him so he
could swindle her out of her math homework.
Just like he swindled everyone.
There it was again. That peculiar
tingle of shame.
“Ha! Suited triplets!” said Chien,
laying out his cards. The other players groaned, and it took Carswell a moment
to scan the hands and determine that, indeed, Chien had taken the round.
Usually he could pick out the winning hand in half a glance, but he’d been too
distracted.
As Chien scooped up his winnings,
Carswell determined that he probably should have quit while he was ahead after
all. He was back down to thirty-eight univs won for the day, forty-six behind
his goal.
Boots would not be impressed.
“Well done, Chien,” he said. “One
more hand?”
“There won’t be time for it if our
dealer goes out to space again,” said Anthony. “What’s wrong with you?”
He cringed, the words reflecting his
father’s question from just that morning. “Nothing,” he said, shuffling the
cards. “Just had something on my mind.”
“Oh, I see what he was looking at,”
said Carina. “Or should I say who.”
Chien and Anthony followed Carina’s
gesture. “Kate Fallow?” said Anthony, with a curled lip that said he highly
doubted she was the person who had caught Carswell’s interest.
Ducking his head, Carswell
redistributed a new round of cards, but no one picked them up.
“He was flirting with her in lit
class this morning,” said Carina. “Honestly, Carswell. Do you really need to
get every girl in the whole school to fall under your spell? Is this some sort
of manly conquest you’re on or something?”
Cupping his chin in one hand,
Carswell leaned toward Carina with a suggestive smirk. “Why? Are you feeling
left out?”
Rolling her eyes, Carina shoved him
away, at the same time that the speakers announced the end of lunch hour. A
groan rose up from the courtyard, but was hastily followed by the sounds of
footsteps padding back into the buildings, and friends bidding each other
good-bye for the whole ninety minutes they were about to be separated.
Carswell gathered up the cards he’d
just dealt and slipped them back into his bag. “I’ll tally the winnings,” he
said, shooing away a fly that was buzzing around the pile of food.
“How do we know you won’t take a
little extra for yourself?” asked Chien, with unhidden distrust.
Carswell only shrugged. “You can
stay and count up your own if you’d prefer, but then we’ll both be late to
class.”
Chien didn’t argue again. Of course,
a lost univ or two was nothing to any of them, so what did it matter if
Carswell skimmed a little off the top?
By the time he’d entered the
balances into his portscreen and put in a reminder to shuffle the money between
their accounts when he got home, the courtyard had emptied but for him and the
seagulls that were creeping in to pick at the scraps of abandoned food.
Carswell slipped his portscreen back into his bag beside the deck of cards, and
heaved it over one shoulder.
The second announcement blared. The
halls were abandoned as Carswell made his way to second-era history. He would
be a couple minutes late for the second time that day, but the teacher liked
him, so he couldn’t bring himself to be worried about it.
And then, through the quiet that was
laced with the padding of his own footsteps and the hushed conversations behind
closed classroom doors, he heard a frustrated cry.
“Stop it! Give it back!”
Carswell paused and traced his steps
back to the hallway that led off to the tech hall.
Jules Keller was holding a
portscreen over his head, grinning, with Ryan Doughty and Rob Mancuso
surrounding him.
And then there was Kate Fallow, her
face flushed and her hands on her hips in a semblance of anger and
determination, even though Carswell could tell even from here that she was
shaking and trying not to cry.
“What do you keep on this thing,
anyway?” said Jules, peering up at the screen and scrolling through her pages
with his thumbs. “Got any naughty pictures on here?”
“She sure does stare at it a lot,”
said Rob with a snort. Carswell’s shoulders sank, first with embarrassment for
Kate, then with that inevitable feeling that something bad was about to happen.
Bracing himself, he started down the hall. No one seemed to have noticed him
yet.
Kate squeezed her shoulders against
her neck and held out a hand. “It’s just a bunch of books. Now give it back. Please.”
“Yeah, sleazy books, probably,” said
Jules. “Not like you could ever get a real date.”
Kate’s bottom lip began to quiver.
“Seriously, there aren’t any games
on here or anything,” said Jules with apparent disgust. “It’s the most boring
portscreen in L.A.”
“We should just keep it,” said Ryan.
“She’s obviously not using it right.”
“No—it’s mine!”
“Hello, gentlemen,” said Carswell,
at the same moment that he reached up and snatched the portscreen out of
Jules’s hand. He had to get on his tiptoes to do it, which he hated, but seeing
the flash of surprise and bewilderment that crossed Jules’s face made it
worthwhile.
Of course, the look didn’t last
long.
Carswell took a few steps back as
Jules’s hand flexed into a fist. “What a coincidence,” he said. “I was just
coming to look for Kate. So glad you found her for me.” He raised his eyebrows
at Kate, then quirked his head back down the hallway. “Come on.”
She swiped at the first tear that
started down her cheek. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she dodged around
the boys to come stand beside him, but Carswell hadn’t taken two steps away
before Jules grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him back around.
“What is she, your girlfriend now or
something?” he said, nostrils flaring with, if Carswell hadn’t known better, a
hint of envy.
Which just blasted figured. Mocking
and bullying a girl would be the way that Jules attempted to show
interest. It seemed to fit with that completely messed-up head of his.
Carswell stifled a sigh. Maybe he
could start an afterschool Flirting 101 class. There were a lot of students who
could really use the help.
What could he charge for that? he
wondered.
“Right now,” he said, drawing his
attention back to the numbskull in front of him and placing a hand on Kate’s
arm, “she’s the girl I’m escorting back to class. Feel free to spread whatever
rumors you want from that.”
“Yeah? How about the rumor that I
gave you a black eye because you wouldn’t mind your own business?”
“I’m honestly not sure people are
going to buy that one, given that—”
The fist collided with Carswell’s
eye faster than he’d have thought possible, sending him reeling back against
the row of lockers with a resounding clang.
The world tilted and blurred and he
thought Kate may have screamed and something clattered on the ground—her
portscreen, falling from his own hand—but all he could think was, Spades and
aces and stars, that hurt.
He’d never been punched before. He’d
always assumed it would be easier to bounce back from, but now he had the
instinctive desire to curl up into a ball and cover his head with both arms and
play dead until they all went away.
“Carswell!” yelled Kate, seconds
before Rob grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him away from the lockers, and
then Jules’s fist was in his stomach and he’d probably broken a rib and
Carswell was on his knees and Ryan was kicking him and all his senses were made
up of pain and grunts and Kate’s shrieks and he really would have thought that
he’d have lasted a lot longer than this, but . . .
A gruff voice bulleted through the
haze of fists and feet and Carswell was left blessedly alone, curled up on the
school’s tiled floor. He tasted blood in his mouth. His entire body was
throbbing.
As his senses began to register his
surroundings again, he realized that Vice Principal Chambers had broken up the
fight, but Carswell was too woozy to make sense of his angry words.
“Carswell?” said a sweet, soft,
horrified voice.
His left eye was already swelling
shut, but he peeled open the right to see that Kate was now crouched over him.
Her fingers were hovering just off
his shoulder, like she was afraid to touch him.
He tried to smile, but felt it
probably looked more like a grimace. “Hey, Kate.”
Her eyes were filled with sympathy,
her face still flushed, but she wasn’t crying anymore, and Carswell liked to
think he’d put an end to that, at least.
“Are you all right? Can you stand?”
Flinching, he forced
himself to sit up, which was a start. Kate helped a little, although she still
seemed hesitant to touch him.
“Ow,” he muttered. His entire
abdomen was throbbing and bruised.
Aces, how embarrassing. He would be
investing in some good martial arts simulators after this. Or maybe boxing.
Outnumbered or not, he’d never be on the losing side of a fistfight again if he
could help it.
“Are you all right, Mr. Thorne?”
asked Mr. Chambers.
Squinting upward, Carswell saw that
they’d been joined by two of the tech professors, who were standing with their
arms folded over Jules and his friends. Everyone was scowling. Rob even looked
a tiny bit guilty, or maybe he just hated that they’d been caught.
“I’m grand,” said Carswell. “Thank
you for asking, Mr. Chambers.” Then he cringed and rubbed at the spot on his
side where the jolt of pain had originated from.
Mr. Chambers sighed. “You know that
all fighting is against school policy, Mr. Thorne. I’m afraid this calls for a
one-week suspension. For all four of you.”
“Wait—no!” said Kate. Then, to
Carswell’s surprise, she laced their fingers together. He blinked at their
hands, then up at her profile, and doubted she even realized she was doing it.
“Carswell was defending me. They’d taken my portscreen and wouldn’t give it
back. It’s not his fault!”
The vice principal was shaking his
head, and though Carswell could tell he felt bad about the decision, he also
had an expression that suggested there was nothing he could do about it.
“School rules, Miss Fallow.”
“But that isn’t fair. He didn’t do
anything wrong!”
“It’s a no-tolerance policy. I’m
sorry, but we can’t make exceptions.” Mr. Chambers glanced back at the other
boys. “Mr. Keller, Mr. Doughty, Mr. Mancuso, you can follow me to my office so
we can comm your parents. Miss Fallow, why don’t you assist Mr. Carswell to see
the med-droid.” He attempted sympathy when he met Carswell’s one-eyed gaze
again. “We’ll comm your parents later.”
Chin falling to his chest, Carswell
cursed under his breath.
“Miss Fallow, I’ll ask your teacher
to forgive your absence for this period.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chambers,” she
murmured, full of resignation.
As Jules and his friends were
escorted away, Carswell allowed himself to lean against Kate and push himself
onto his wobbly legs, with another handful of curses and groans.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as he
draped an arm around her shoulders and she began escorting him toward the
med-droid office.
“Not your fault,” he said through
his teeth. Although, now that he had the strenuous effort of walking to focus
on, the pain almost seemed to be dulling. Almost. “You get your portscreen?”
“Yes. Thank you. And I have your
bag.” Then she huffed. “I can’t believe they’re suspending you. It isn’t fair.”
He tried to shrug, but it came out
as a vague flopping of his free arm. “I was already grounded for mid-July
break. A suspension can’t make it that much worse.”
“Grounded? For what?”
His gaze flickered to her, and he
couldn’t avoid a wry smile, even though it pinched his throbbing cheekbone.
“Poor math grade.”
She flushed. “Oh.”
Carswell pressed a hand against his
ribs, finding that by applying a slight amount of pressure he could relieve
some of the jarring as they walked. “Yep, I’m grounded until I bring my score
back up. Of course, that’s not going to happen now that I can’t even go to
class.” He tried to laugh as if it didn’t bother him, but quickly realized what
a bad idea that was and the sound turned into something of a pained cough. “Oh,
well. Just more time to catch up on my Joel Kimbrough reading, I guess.”
She tried to giggle, maybe to make
him feel better, but it didn’t sound any more authentic than his laugh had.
“When you’re done,” she said, “I’m
sure you could write an amazing paper that explores the parallels between the
dangers of space travel as compared to navigating school hallways and social
status and . . . and . . .”
“And parents.”
Her laugh was less forced this time.
“And parents, of course.”
“I suspect that Martians have always
been a metaphor for parents in those books.”
“They must, being that they’re so .
. . otherworldly.”
“And terrifying.”
This time, her laugh wasn’t forced
at all, and it gave Carswell a warm, tender feeling somewhere under all the
bruising. He wished he could have laughed with her, without it causing a flash
of pain in his chest.
“Think Professor Gosnel would give
me extra credit?”
“I’m sure she would,” said Kate. But
then her sympathy was back. “It wouldn’t help with your math grade, though.”
“True. If only studying algebra
formulas was half as much fun as corny space adventures.”
“If only.” Pursing her lips, Kate
glanced up at him through her cascade of hair. Then she took in a deep breath.
“I’ll let you copy my math homework.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Until . . . until your grade is up.
And when we come back from break, I can help you study, if you still want me
to.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, and he
didn’t even have to fake his gratitude, even though the relief came with that
peculiar undercurrent of shame again. He knew that she felt guilty, that she
felt as though she owed him something. He knew he was taking advantage of those
feelings.
But he didn’t even think to reject
her offer. Because in the back of his head, he was already counting up the
hours this would save him, the money he could earn with that time. He was
already moving past Kate and her portscreen and her gentle laugh and the
lingering pain from his first fight.
Already, he was thinking of the next
goal, the next dream, the next obstacle. Carswell grinned, just to the point to
where it started to hurt, and rubbed a thumb over his tie tack.
For good luck.
