The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak Page 10

  He’s still sprawled on the bench, leaning against the wall, looking battered and exhausted. His brown eyes are barely open, but still he doesn’t stop looking at me, his lower lip just twitching into a smile. I suddenly break eye contact and look down. The Viking has ripped away part of his shirt, revealing his pale chest. I remember again the scene back at the hotel, when he dropped his towel.

  “Right,” says Zak, mistaking my silence for irritation. “None of my business.” He doesn’t seem hurt, just very tired.

  I’m tired too. Tired of running around at this stupid convention. Tired of Mrs. Brinkham, my parents, Clayton the wonder kid, and Nichole, who always acts like none of this is her fault.

  I lean back on the bench, next to Zak.

  “Clayton and I . . . we have an older sister. Nichole. She used to be kind of wild. Always wanting to have fun, make a joke, just barely doing enough to get by.”

  I suddenly freeze in horror. I’m describing Nichole . . . but I’m also describing Duquette. Eww.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, one day she went too far. Way too far. Ended up pregnant her senior year of high school.” I realize this is the first time I’ve ever shared this story with anyone.

  Zak makes a painful hiss with his teeth. “Ouch. How’d that turn out?”

  “Not well, Zak. When my parents found out, they . . .” I trail off. What I’m about to say cannot be unsaid. Do I really want Zak to know? “They threw her out. Bang.”

  Zak’s eyes go wide for a moment. I fear he’s going to start talking, but he stays quiet and listens.

  “She never came home again. My parents never met their grandson.” Neither have I. “At any rate, that’s why tonight is such a big deal. I’m in charge of Clayton. I can’t just call up Mom and Dad and say I let him wander off. You don’t get a second chance at my house, Duquette. I learned that two years ago.”

  It seems weird to say this all out loud. The whole scenario would be laughable, if it hadn’t really happened.

  Duquette is staring at me again. And he’s smiling. I swear, if he cracks a joke or quotes a movie, I’m going to kick him in his busted ribs.

  Instead, he stands. Slowly, like some horror movie mummy.

  “C’mon, let’s find Clayton.”

  I rise. “Do we have a chance? You said—”

  “I say a lot of things. The night is young, and I’d like to think the two of us can outsmart a freshman.”

  Zak’s exhausted confidence is slightly contagious. Maybe we actually will find Clayton. Maybe we’ll do it without getting caught. Maybe we’ll win tomorrow. Maybe.

  He turns to me and takes my arm. No, not my arm. He kind of just grabs the loose sleeve of my cloak. “Ana, listen. I—”

  “Duke!” A man in a three-piece suit, black hat, and sunglasses comes strolling down the corridor. He has a pack of forbidden cigarettes in his hand, apparently ready to sneak a smoke in what he thought was an abandoned area.

  Zak bites his lip. Whatever he was going to say will wait. “Hey, Elwood.”

  They do that weird male hug thing with just their palms and shoulders. As they engage in brief conversation, Zak glances at me and winks.

  Man, that boy is cocky and annoying. But I remember what he went through outside. He did that for me, which is more than anyone else has done since Nichole left.

  I’m starting to not dislike Zak Duquette. I’m actually starting to really not dislike him.

  ZAK

  8:29 PM

  The con usually reaches critical mass between eight and eleven. Everyone who’s going to come is here, and the people who aren’t spending the night haven’t left yet.

  The building is now so packed that it’s hard to move. Each gaming room is filled with caffeine-addled players hunkering down for all-night marathon sessions. The corridors are brimming with conventioneers, talking, singing, and really beginning to drink. Most have shucked their complicated costumes for casual clothes. The air is stale with sweat, BO, and the fumes of the cheap beer that’s provided to anyone with an adult name badge. Many of these people aren’t completely on top of traditional social cues and stand talking in the middle of the passages, blocking pedestrian traffic.

  I press through the crowd, undaunted, with Ana close behind. I am determined to ferret out Clayton, even if I have to poke through every movie theater, gaming session, and room party in this building. I’m as brave and determined as Christopher Columbus.

  I’m just as hopelessly lost, too. There’s no way we’re going to find Ana’s brother in this mess. Not if he wants to stay hidden.

  I glance behind me. Ana is still wearing her cloak, the bow and quiver strung across her back. She’s as silent as an elf assassin.

  I remember what she told me about her sister. Jesus. I know that getting pregnant is a big deal, but to kick your own kid out of the house . . . No wonder Ana had such a stick up her butt. I would too, if I knew my first mistake could be my last.

  It makes me really want to find Clayton. Just so she could stop worrying. And maybe be a little impressed by me.

  “Zak?” Her voice barely carries in the loud hallway.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re just wandering around in circles, right?”

  I could lie, but she’d see right through it. “I’m sorry, Ana. I’m . . . kinda running out of ideas.”

  Her stern, almost angry demeanor doesn’t change. But just for a second, I see a flash panic ripple across those green eyes. I don’t think I would have noticed that earlier today.

  I sigh. Nothing left but the nuclear option. “Maybe it’s time we call in an amber alert. Let security find your brother.”

  She shakes her head. “You said they’d call my parents. Or call Mrs. Brinkham.”

  Which is very true. But we’re running out of time. “Ana, I don’t know that we have much of a choice. I mean, wouldn’t your parents rather hear about this now, from you, rather than later from Mrs. B?”

  I’m unprepared for her response. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry!” Without waiting for an answer, she grips her boney fingers into my arm and drags me into a little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint.

  A waiter informs us that they’ll be closing in ten minutes, but takes our orders for a couple of personal pies.

  We sit across from each other in awkward silence.

  “Ana, what was that all about? You’ve been acting kind of weird since the card game.”

  She toys with a cheese shaker. “Um, remember how I said I kind of caused a scene when they wouldn’t let me leave?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . .” Suddenly, she laughs. “I pulled the fire alarm. Cleared the whole room. That’s why I can’t ask security for help. I think they may be looking for me.”

  I’m horrified and delighted by Ana’s confession. I picture the chaos she must have caused, with the earsplitting sirens and the scattered cards. I’ll have to ask James about it later.

  “Is that why you’re wearing that cloak? So no one will recognize you?”

  She nods.

  “You rebel. But seriously, I don’t think anyone’s going to be too pissed about a false alarm.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just a bell—” begins Ana.

  We’re interrupted by the voice of HAL 9000 singing “Daisy, Daisy.” I check my phone.

  “Sorry, just my mom saying goodnight,” I mumble.

  “Is it just you two, you and your mother?” she asks as I return the text.

  “Yeah.” And then I remember the invader. “Well, and Roger I guess.”

  Thankfully, the waiter brings out our two warmed-over mini pizzas, so I don’t have to explain.

  Ana takes a fistful of napkins and begins sopping up the pizza grease. “So is Roger your stepfather?” she asks.

  Great. “Let’s not call him that. Let’s call him the guy who swooped in last year and married my mom when she was vulnerable.”

  She looks at me. I assume. Actually, I still see nothing but her hood. “
Do you spend much time with your real father?”

  It’s like I’ve been slapped. How could she ask that?

  Wait. I never told her. She thinks my parents are divorced.

  “No. I never see him.”

  “Ouch.”

  Ouch indeed.

  “So what’s this Roger like?”

  If we were outside, I’d spit on the ground. “Big dumb jock. Always trying to get me to play football, be a starting quarterback or something.”

  Ana laughs, hard and loud. I glare at her. She doesn’t apologize. Her teeth grin at me from the cavern of her hood.

  “So is he really that big of a jerk?”

  I roll my eyes. “I used to come home and I could relax in my own house. Now Roger won’t leave me alone. He’s always like . . .” I make my voice cartoonishly stupid “‘Hey, Zak, wanna toss the pigskin around? Hey, Zak, wanna go shoot some pool? Zak, the regional bullfighting championships for Finland is on, wanna watch with me?’”

  Ana has picked every pepperoni off her pizza. One by one, they vanish into her hood. “Doesn’t he realize you aren’t into that sort of thing?”

  “Hell if I care. All I know is, Mom only knew him a couple of months before he moved in. Why would she invite him to do that?”

  Ana shrugs. “Because she’s a woman.”

  “Of course she’s . . .” And then it hits me. What she’s implying.

  “Ana!”

  “Hear me out, Zak.” She tosses off her hood. Her voice takes on that slightly bossy tone that irritated me back at the tournament. “I know you don’t like to think of her that way, but it’s true. You’re just going to have to accept the fact that your mother needs a man in her life.”

  She had a man in her life. One who loved her more than anyone. Not like Roger.

  Ana continues. “Now, I take it it’s been a while since your father left? You’d really do yourself a favor by acting grown up about—”

  “My father is dead, Ana!”

  I said it. I almost never talk about that, but I said it. And now Ana’s staring at me, stunned. Too late to stop now.

  “He died a few years ago. Cancer. It was real slow and way too fast. And that’s why I can’t stand Roger. Yes, I know Mom needs him, but I don’t care. She loved Dad. She’d still be with him if . . . you know. You understand what that’s like, Ana?”

  Those few sentences took a lot out of me, physically. I almost never talk about my father, except in hushed, reverent tones with Mom. And Ana just sits there gaping at me and my attack of TMI.

  Good one, Zak. Plop your dead father out on the table. That’ll make this evening even more uncomfortable.

  And then, much to my shock, Ana Watson reaches out and takes my hand in both of hers. Startled, I look up.

  She’s smiling at me. It’s a sad kind of smile. She continues to grasp my hand. Not in what you’d call a romantic manner, but it’s comforting just the same. We look into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and it’s . . . it’s nice.

  “Zakory? I’m sorry about what I said earlier, about you not knowing what pain is. You . . . hide it well.”

  Her smile widens and I return it. “You know me, always good for a laugh.”

  Ana lowers her eyes. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose your dad. But I did lose Nichole. So . . . I kind of understand where you’re coming from. I mean, I know it’s not as bad—”

  I place my free hand on top of hers. “Loss is loss, Ana. I miss my father, you miss your sister. But listen. Just before we lost Dad—I mean, that very last week—he told me something that always stuck with me. Something that kind of helps me get through the rough patches.”

  Her hand tightens on mine. “What was it?”

  A cardboard takeout box plops on the table next to us.

  “We’re closing up here, guys,” says the waiter.

  I release her hand. “I’ll tell you later.”

  ANA

  8:58 PM

  The metal security gate closes on our heels as we leave the restaurant. I readjust my cloak as Zak texts someone.

  I’m haunted by the look in his eyes when he told me about his father’s illness. I would have bet money that nothing tragic had ever happened to that boy. I wonder how he buries it so well.

  Same way I do, I suppose.

  “Zak? It’s almost curfew. Are we sunk?”

  His face breaks into a confident grin. “No. Almost, but not quite. Just let me—”

  “Oh, Huckleberry!” someone shouts from across the lobby.

  I take no notice, but Zak has such a look of terror on his face, I think he must have spotted that Viking again. I follow his gaze, but all I see is some girl of about fifteen approaching us at a fair clip. She’s very short, with hair dyed crimson and forced into pigtails. She has on a gingham dress and white-and-green-striped tights. She’s painted large freckles on her cheeks and is wearing badly applied cherry-red lip gloss. A cloud of fruit-scented perfume surrounds her.

  “Oh, Huckleberry!” she cries, in an affected falsetto. “You never called meeee!”

  Duquette stands there like he’s been Tasered. “Oh, um, hello, Jen.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Tee-hee, who is Jen?” She jabs her index finger into her cheek and gouges a dimple into her jawline.

  Zak swallows hard. “Sorry. Hello, Strawberry. Um, this is my friend Ana.” He physically grabs me by both arms and positions me in front of him.

  The girl curtseys. “I’m so berry pleased to meet you, Ana Banana! I can tell we’re just going to be extra-special friends!” She then turns back to Zak. “You told me you weren’t coming this year.”

  He glances at me, but I just adjust my hood. “Um, it was a last-minute thing.”

  “I’ll never forget the pinkalicous time we had at Con-demnation, Huckleberry. I was so berry blue when you never called me.” She rubs a fist at the corner of her eye.

  Zak doesn’t say anything—he just stands there, repeatedly swallowing, his eyes round and terrified. While I find this whole spectacle hilarious, and while I’d really like to know the full story here, I decide to rescue him. I’ll make fun of him later.

  “Um, Strawberry? We hate to run, but Zak, er, um, Huckleberry and I have to find my brother. He’s lost.”

  Strawberry clutches her hands to her chest and tilts her head. “Oh, golly, such gloomy news! How dreadful! Can I be of help?”

  Any other girl, I would assume she’s being sarcastic. Strawberry, I decide, is merely insane. I turn on my phone and find a picture of my brother. “Have you seen him?”

  “Clayty Waity!” she shrieks, much to my utter shock.

  “You’ve seen him?” asks Zak, equally surprised.

  “He was in the karaoke room. We sang ‘Summer Lovin’’ together. I had such a pepperminty good time!”

  That was Clayton, all right. He loved that movie. What a stroke of luck.

  “Do you think he’s still there?”

  Strawberry shakes her head, releasing a cloying burst of fruit-flavored pheromones. “That was this afternoon. But he said that he’d meet me at . . .” She suddenly stops.

  “Yes?” Zak prods.

  Strawberry’s smile fades. “You know what I want, Duke.” Her voice is now lower, normal. Almost sultry.

  Duquette glances at me with the air of someone about to do something shameful. He then straightens his spine and smiles at Strawberry.

  “You’re as wonderful as a smile made of rainbows made of ice cream. You’re as pretty as a daffodil in a field of gumdrops. You’re as adorable as a kitten dressed like a bunny.”

  She pinches his cheek. “You’re darling. Clayton said he was going to go to the Vampire Ball tonight.”

  “Thanks, Strawberry.”

  “Zak?” She’s frowning now. “Call me, okay? Seriously.” There’s a touch of hurt in her voice.

  He nods. “I will. I promise.” He actually sounds sincere.

  I clutch Duquette by the shoulder and lead him away. When I glance back,
Strawberry grins at me and waves with her fingers. I don’t wave back.

  I wait to speak till we pass into a little alcove where a man sits selling CDs with his own picture on the case.

  “Huckleberry?”

  “I was lonely,” Duquette mumbles. “I don’t want to talk about it.” The slight, dopey smirk on his face shows that he’s willing to at least think about Strawberry.

  What on earth was up with this place? First Baldy, now this. Were the rules in this place so backward that Zak was some kind of Adonis?

  “So, when is this Vampire Ball?” I ask. “Wait, let me guess: midnight.”

  “You’re catching on. Do you want to wait that long, or should we go get Warren to send out an APB?”

  No, I can’t get security involved, not after I pulled that fire alarm. Zak still doesn’t realize that I triggered the sprinklers. Maybe I should make a full confession.

  And suddenly Zak’s head explodes in a haze of red mist. For a stunned moment, I think he’s been shot. It’s only when the plastic cup hits me on the shoe that I realize someone’s dropped a drink on him from above.

  One floor up, a mezzanine runs the length of the hallway. A girl with a bandage across her face stares down at us with fire in her eyes.

  “What the hell!” barks Zak, squinting through the sticky syrup.

  “You stupid bitch!” calls the girl, but not to Zak. “You almost broke my nose, dicking around with my bow! You still have it! Get back here! That’s mine! Hey!” She’s rushing for the stairs, but I’m already off and running. Zak’s trucking after me, though at the moment, I only care about escape.

  The men’s room is every bit as noxious as I expect. Lines of guys snake behind the urinals, grunting and twisting as they unfasten their plastic body armor. No one seems to notice me by the sink.

  Duquette has his head stuck under a tap. The water is red from Slushee residue. It’s in his hair, his ears, his shirt, everywhere.

  That was meant for me.

  He turns off the water and sticks his head under the hand drier. It refuses to turn on. Sighing, he begins to dry his hair with paper towels.