QUALIFY: The Atlantis Grail (Book One)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (draft)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Everyone is super high-strung in Agility Training. The only consolation is, because of the Assembly time cutting in we get an abbreviated version of the class.

But first, true to her drill sergeant form, Oalla Keigeri makes us run nine laps, which is two laps more than the previous day. We all struggle, and by lap seven hardly anyone is actually running—more like dragging ourselves in a slow walking “jog” around the perimeter of the gym hall.

I come in dead last once again. But at least I make Jack Carell, the heavy kid, really work for his second-to-last spot, locked in a dead heat with Janice Quinn, who manages to beat him at the last minute and comes in barely ahead of both of us.

Oalla approaches me to scan my token for the last-place demerit. For once her face is unreadable, and she barely registers my presence.

She is still grieving. . . .

For some reason I find it more frightening than having her wrath directed at me head-on.

Later, we get out the hoverboards and practice making sharp turns on a flat and level plane, sticking to six inches above the floor—no going up and down, thank goodness, so that my fear of heights gets to take the day off.

I notice Blayne Dubois, riding his hoverboard and generally keeping away from the rest of us, as he is practicing rather advanced maneuvers from his lying-flat position. His form is sleek and he looks focused and confident on that board.

At the end of the class, he once again pushes himself up by this hands and arms into the wheelchair, sends the hoverboard away and instantly becomes the same withdrawn and angry guy who slouches with his hair in his face and who does not talk to anyone.

Once again I get the crazy impulse to approach him, but think better of it.

Instead I head upstairs to Atlantis Tech.

* * *

Mr. Warrenson starts out the class by teaching us a few more musical note sequences to orient and move levitating objects.

Laronda is not in my class today, so I am partnered with an older teen boy, Antwon Marks. Antwon has super dark skin and wears a smart earring in his left pierced nostril that has a gold chain running from it to the one in his ear.

 It does not seem to interfere with his ability to make rich tenor notes that sound like honey.

We face each other across our desks, with pieces of orichalcum hovering at eye-level before us.

“ . . . Just think of it as playing ping-pong,” Mr. Warrenson tells the class. “See if you can attempt an avoidance exchange so that your pieces do not collide head-on as they approach, but go around each other smoothly. Remember, three quick staccato notes, followed by one long one, sustained . . . Minor notes if you want to maneuver below, major notes to pass above. . . . Half-step up for a sharp note to go around and pass on the right. Half-step down for a flat note to go around and pass on the left.”

I face Antwon and try to sing the sequence, while gripping my hands in fists underneath the desk to mentally steady myself. Except, my lungs and throat are still sore from yesterday’s smoke inhalation, and I am unable to sing cleanly without breaking out into small fits of coughing after every few notes.

“Are you okay?” Antwon says, as I turn bright red from the effort to suppress the cough, then still end up coughing for yet another time in the span of five minutes.

“Yeah, sorry . . .” I choke out. “I think I might be getting a minor cold.”

“Yow, sounds more than minor to me. . . . Get some water.” Antwon’s expression is sympathetic. He then saves me by taking an extra turn to move his own levitating piece smoothly around the hovering obstacle of mine. His singing voice is beautiful and sends shivers down my back.