The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak

  DEDICATION

  To my mother, Connie.

  Thanks for taking me to the library.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Ana

  Zak

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ZAK

  “Zak! Hey, Zak, where are you?”

  The sound of my stepfather’s voice fills me with dread. My mother is gone—we are alone.

  “Zak! Get out here.”

  I try to ignore it. Try to lose myself in an issue of Fangoria. For now, I’m safe in my little hiding place in the utility room. If I don’t answer, maybe he won’t find me. Maybe he won’t make me do those things . . .

  “Zak!”

  I look up at the sneering face of Han Solo on the wall, momentarily wishing he were here to back me up. But no, this is something I have to face alone. Steeling myself for what I know lies ahead, I exit my refuge.

  I find him upstairs, grinning that carefree smile of his. And holding a football.

  Mother of God, it’s worse than I thought.

  He stands there in my kitchen, wearing the fraternity sweater from a college he (probably) graduated from decades ago.

  “C’mon, boy-o!” he says in that chirpy voice of his. “It’s beautiful outside.”

  This being Tacoma, Washington, beautiful weather means it’s only drizzling. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather be doing, from organizing my DVDs to chewing on tinfoil. But Mom had asked me to make an effort to spend some time with him.

  Please, Zak. Just an afternoon. It would mean so much to me. She had the big sad mom eyes. I have no choice in the matter.

  I stomp out the back door, close enough that Roger has to scoot out of my way (small mercy, no one makes me call him “Dad”). Let’s just get this over with.

  Rog is oblivious to my discomfort. He stands there with the ball in hand, no doubt reliving his high school days. He then passes it to me. I bobble it a few times and drop it.

  “Good eye!”

  “Spare me your platitudes.” I grin internally as his brow furrows over that last word. I hurl the ball back at him and only fall short by a yard. A sad showing for the digital Football Frenzy champion three years running.

  We toss the ball in silence for a few minutes. I remember the chain gang prisoners from a movie and am tempted to break into a chorus of “Po’ Lazarus.”

  “Zak?” He breaks the silence. “Your school newsletter came in the mail the other day.”

  “Glad to see you reading.” Toss, miss, toss, miss.

  “Says that soccer tryouts are coming up for the summer leagues. I thought maybe you’d be interested.”

  This comment is so ridiculous, I nearly laugh. Luckily, I remember my vow never to smile in his presence. “You thought wrong.” I’m pleased with my voice. Disdain, just the slightest edge of sarcasm.

  Unfortunately, Roger does not shut up. “Well, maybe not soccer. How about baseball?”

  I catch the football with my chest. “I don’t really know how to play.”

  He smirks. “C’mon, everyone knows how. Didn’t your father show you?”

  The ball flies from my hand. I smile inside as it pegs Roger right in the eyeball. He falls to his knees.

  “Ow . . . Wow, good arm there, kid . . . ow . . . Um, that’s enough for me now . . . Geez, my contact . . .”

  I’m already marching back to the house . . . my house. I am livid.

  Roger, are you really that dumb? Or are you just a colossal prick? No, my father never taught me how to play baseball. Though right now, I wish I did own a bat.

  I slink down to the basement and return to the utility room. Like Superman and Doc Savage, I have my own little Fortress of Solitude. My laptop next to the water heater. My collection of movie memorabilia on the unfinished plank shelves. A mini fridge. I used to have this all set up in the den, but Roger has taken over that room. He says he needs it for his job. His job apparently includes a lot of fantasy football and buying crap on eBay.

  I rummage through a plastic bin and pull out a framed photo. Me and my dad, Christmas morning. We’re wearing the matching Indiana Jones fedoras we’d gotten each other. I think I was nine.

  It’s hard to believe I haven’t seen him in six years. Some mornings, I still wake up and expect to find him in the kitchen, charring a pan of bacon. Instead, I find Roger, sprawled out on my couch, watching the sports highlights.

  Sometimes I wish I was little again. That I could believe that Dad was off excavating Incan ruins in South America or something, and that one day he’d pull up into our driveway and . . .

  Grow up, Zak. You know that’s not going to happen.

  I return the photo to its place. I don’t display it. I don’t want Roger looking at it and feeling superior to the man in the picture.

  Two months. That’s how long my mom knew Roger before they got engaged. Two damn months.

  ANA

  I look at my watch. It’s just after three. Perfect. If I can finish things up in the library in under ten minutes, I’ll have just enough time to make archery practice.

  It’s my fault that I didn’t take care of this before school, of course, but my brother, Clayton, asked me to go over his math homework for him, and then Mrs. Brinkham stopped me to talk about the quiz bowl tournament, and I couldn’t very well tell her no because I’ll need her to write me a letter of reference for that scholarship later this month, and then lunch was a total disaster because . . .

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  No one is waiting at the library checkout. Perfect. Mrs. Newbold, the librarian, smiles when she sees me.

  “Ana! I heard you came in first place at the—”

  “Do you have the books I put on hold?” It’s rude to interrupt, but I worry that if I don’t get down to business, she’ll keep me here for twenty minutes, just chatting.

  The librarian blinks, then hurries off to find my material. I check my watch again. Two after. Still on track . . .

  “Achtung!” The voice barks from behind me. I nearly jump over the counter.

  On a table in the middle of the library, a half dozen kids have set up some sort of board game. I’ve seen these loud idiots here before. I thought about complaining, but there was no point. After school, the media center is always empty. I think the librarians are glad to have company.

  The desk phone rings and, much to my annoyance, Mrs. Newbold answers it, my books tantalizingly clutched in her hand. I tap my foot in frustration, then turn and glare when someone at the gaming table begins to bark orders in a painfully fake German accent.

  He’s a tall, skinny, pasty guy in a T-shirt that says NEVER TRUST A SMILING GM. I’m disturbed to see he’s wearing one of those spiked Pruss
ian helmets. Actually, everyone at the table is wearing some bizarre headgear: a furry Russian cap, a turban, a bowler hat. I’m intrigued enough to look at their game board. It’s a map of Europe, covered with little plastic soldiers and cannons.

  Boys, always playing at war.

  The librarian hangs up and passes me my books. I grab them without another word. I can just make practice with a couple of minutes to spare. Not that Coach minds it when other people wander in late, but that’s their problem.

  After practice, I’ll have enough time to change before dinner. Then I can start on my history project, before . . .

  “Herr Fräulein! Bitte komen ober here, mach schnell!”

  It’s the guy in the plastic helmet again. He’s turned toward me, standing there with one foot on his chair, grinning. His hat is about a size too big, shadowing his eyes. All I can make out is a long, narrow nose and a careless smile.

  I recognize him. He’s always in here running games, or in the cafeteria playing cards, or in the commons laughing with his goober friends.

  “What?” I ask, annoyed. I’m running out of time.

  His grin widens. It’s the smile of a guy who has nowhere to go and nothing to do when he gets there. Someone who wastes all his time.

  He tilts his helmet back, revealing brown eyes and shaggy hair. He’s let his scraggly sideburns and chin whiskers grow out in an unfortunate attempt at facial hair. Probably trying to look older. Someone should tell him to shave—he’d look a lot nicer. Someone should also tell him to get a haircut, buy a shirt that’s not split at the armpit, and not wear a hat that makes him look like a refugee from a Berlin mental hospital.

  He juts out his chin, making him look even more ridiculously self-confident. “How’d you like to help shape the destiny of 1914 Europe? Defend her soft underbelly?”

  His comments are so nonsensical, I turn to his tablemates, hoping they can explain. Or get this guy to shut up.

  An overweight guy in a French gendarme’s cap speaks up. “What he’s saying, ma chérie, is we’re short a player. Want to be Italy?”

  I turn back to Kaiser Jr., to tell him to sit on his helmet. But I notice his smile has wavered. His eyes look just slightly nervous, hopeful. No point in embarrassing him in front of the other commanders in chief. I sigh.

  “Listen . . . what’s your name?”

  Instantly, his sheen of arrogance returns. “They call me Duke.”

  I look down at a binder next to the game board. ZAK DUQUETTE, it reads.

  “Listen, Zak. Touched as I am that you’ve saved me a country that’s clearly vulnerable on four fronts, I’m late.”

  He attempts to suavely run his fingers through his hair and almost knocks his helmet off. “Well, we meet here every Tuesday . . .”

  “Maybe some other war.”

  I cut the conversation short by leaving the library. I’m going to be late as it is.

  Briefly, I wonder what it would be like to be someone like Zak. Not that I want to waste my time on a game like that, but it would be nice to just sometimes do something I want to do. To have friends that I can be with because we’re having fun, not because we’re at a club meeting or working on a project. To not have to account for every second that I’m not at home or in class.

  My sister, Nichole, used to be like that.

  I don’t have a sister anymore.

  ZAK

  Smeggin’ hell. Blew it.

  I watch, disinterested, as the Turks launch an improbable beachhead against England, bringing all of 1918 Europe under Ottoman rule.

  It was that girl who distracted me. Ana, that’s her name. She’s in the library all the time, but I’ve never spoken to her. I know she’s one of those smart, go-getter types—her picture is on every other page of the yearbook. Stupid me, I thought maybe she’d like to hang out with the rest of us geeks. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself. Nope. Guess she was too good for that.

  The Great War has ended. The plastic dead are swept, unceremoniously, back into the box. I grunt good-bye to my friends as they leave. Only James remains, twirling his field marshal’s cap on a finger.

  I pick up my helmet and put it back in the box. It occurs to me that, just maybe, there’s a reason that guys don’t generally wear military headgear when attempting to talk to girls.

  “Intimidated by the size of my Pickelhaube?” I mumble, then chuckle.

  “Excuse me?” asks James.

  I return to reality, such as it is. “That’s what I should have said to that girl, Ana.”

  I expect James to laugh at me, but he nods sagely. “The perfect comeback, ten minutes too late. L’esprit de l’escalier, as they say in France.”

  I smile at my chubby friend. As usual, he’s wearing a mishmash of clothes that may or may not be a tribute to his favorite comic book characters. I recognize Cyclops’s sunglasses, the Punisher’s black T-shirt, and Archie Andrews’s checkered pants. With a knowing smirk, he removes a glossy booklet from his bag.

  WASHINGCON! March 2–4th, Seattle. The Pacific Northwest’s Biggest, Baddest, Boldest Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Comic Book Convention!

  On the cover is a drawing of our state’s namesake. The august general and president is decked out in a frilly collared tux, clutching a chain gun in one fist and lighting a cigar with the other. To the left, a buxom woman in petticoats and skirts attacks a vampire with a poleax.

  “Steampunk,” I say, staring at the image like a prisoner viewing an unconditional pardon. “Nice.”

  “Just got it in the mail yesterday,” says James. “You make your room reservation yet?”

  I flip through the scheduled events. “Of course. I told my mom that I’m staying in a hotel room with you and your parents.”

  “Funny, I told my mom the same thing.”

  We both laugh. For years we’ve been going to this con together, and not once have we worried about where we’ll stay. I could always count on a friend of a friend to have a room where we could crash. Barring that, I could sneak into one of the quieter movie theaters and take a catnap. And caffeine was always my friend.

  James glances at his Dick Tracy communicator watch. “So are we doing the X-fighter Turbo battle this year?”

  “You gotta ask? When is that, anyway?”

  “Four a.m., I think.”

  “Good. I hate it when they schedule it at some weird time.”

  James stands. “See you ’round, Duke.”

  “Right. Hey, that girl, Ana . . .”

  He holds up a palm and shakes his head. “Forget it. Not a chance.”

  I am a touch offended. Ana isn’t that hot, after all. Scrawny, flat chested, with a mane of frizzy, dark hair. She does kind of have a Barbara Gordon thing going on, though. “What, I’m too dorky for a chick on the math team?”

  “You’re too lazy. Trust me, that girl only dates National Merit Scholars, and she doesn’t even date them. Take care, Duke.”

  Okay, so she’s out of my league. I’m used to it. Very used to it, actually. That’s another reason I was looking forward to the con. Whole new set of dating rules there.

  I grab my things and leave, thoughts of the convention running through my head. Just ten more days.

  Most years, the idea is exciting. This time . . . let’s just say I really need to get out of the house. To get away from Roger and his attempts to make me into a stepson who doesn’t embarrass him. Seventy blessed hours with my own kind.

  I’m almost out the door. Almost outside into the dreary, late-winter day.

  “Zak!”

  A woman’s voice calls me from inside the school. Adult. Teacher. I pretend not to hear. Just ten more steps.

  “Zak Duquette!”

  Too late. I turn. Mrs. Brinkham, my health teacher, rapidly approaches, awkwardly cradling a sheaf of papers. “Zak, I’m glad I caught you. I need a word.”

  “Ah, Mrs. B, I kind of have to get home.”

  “It’ll just take a moment.” She pauses to
move a lock of dark hair out of her eye, almost causing her to lose the pile of homework she’s clutching. As usual, she’s a living example of entropy. She has a run in one of her stockings. There are Band-Aids around two of her knuckles. A coffee stain dots the front of her white blouse, and she’s missing an earring. Though she’s got to be pushing forty, she still has an awkward, confused air about her that makes her seem much younger. Last year a new school security officer asked to see her hall pass.

  Annoyed, I follow her to the health room. I slump on a desk, pretending to be interested in the model of the Visible Man, as Mrs. Brinkham awkwardly sorts her papers. Not for the first time, I ponder what she would have looked like twenty or so years ago. She was probably pretty cute, and it hasn’t totally faded with age.

  Finally, she pulls up her chair and sits opposite me.

  “Zakory, you know I’m your faculty advisor, right?”

  We have faculty advisors? I guess I was vaguely aware of that, the same way I’m aware that I have a spleen. It’s just not something I’ve ever really given much thought to.

  “Yes. My advisor. Of course.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken with you yet. I’m so busy with this class and all, sometimes it’s hard to find the time.”

  I stifle a laugh. Health class is an absolute joke. It’s a required course, but it’s not like it’s hard studying face washing and the importance of not shooting heroin. I cherish the fifty-minute nap her class provides me every afternoon.

  Mrs. Brinkham continues. “I’d like to know what your plans are after graduation.”

  I shrug. “I’ve been accepted into Tacoma Community College.”

  I move to leave, but she actually wants to know more. “Did you apply anywhere else?”

  “Nah. Figure I can get a job with computers with an associate’s. Listen . . .”

  She presses on. “What kind of job?”

  “Computers,” I repeat.

  She shakes her head. “Zak, you’re a smart boy. A talented boy. Have you given any thought to—”

  “TCC. That’s where I’m going.” Why is everyone so down on the ju-co? It’s cheap, easy, and I won’t have to move.

  “Do you participate in any extracurricular activities? Any sports or—”