CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I have no idea how, but I survive the rest of Atlantis Tech. I clench one hand underneath my desk, out of sight, where I can squeeze it as much as I need, while my knuckles turn bloodless and my nails bite into my palm . . . all so that I can keep the focus and make the notes without breaking apart.
I sing each note—clean, remote and emotionless, all along imagining myself disembodied, a machine—and move the orichalcum piece forward, reset it, then switch with Laronda. I have very little memory of most of it for some reason. Class is over soon enough, and then there’s only one more left for the day, which is Combat.
Relief. . . . I know this is just nuts, but I actually feel relief going back down again to the hateful basement and Training Hall, where I don’t have to make another musical sound.
When I get there, the gym is nearly empty, and the Instructors have not shown up yet.
A couple of people are milling around near the workout equipment, watching some guy use a punching bag. . . .
Oh great. It’s Wade and Derek with the neck tattoo. Their backs are turned, but I recognize Derek’s coiling spiked serpent pattern crawling up his muscular neck and disappearing into the dark short-cropped hair at the base of his head. The two of them stand with arms folded, watching a third, the one’s who’s working out with the punching bag.
Whoever the guy is, he’s moving fast. And I mean, fast. He’s throwing punches in a volley, right and left hooks, and the shirt portion of the grey uniform he should be wearing is lying carelessly discarded on the floor a few steps away. . . .
He’s naked to the waist, and he’s got an amazing upper body. Meanwhile, his uniform pants, tucked into short boots, show off impressive legs and a tight compact rear.
I gulp. . . .
The guy has long, raven-black hair, very dark and straight. It slides against his back with every movement he makes. His deeply bronzed torso is gleaming with sweat, and now I’ve stopped in my tracks. I am staring so hard, because, holy lord, what a body! There is so much amazing definition in his triceps and biceps, his deltoids emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders in contrast with the lean waist.
He wears a prominent red armband around his upper arm, right over the sexy bicep.
Okay, this guy has to be Atlantean. Yes, his hair is pure “black-hole” black, with not a trace of gold, but there’s just very little doubt he is not from our Earth.
Why? Because he’s just too impossibly fast. . . . He moves precisely like the other Atlanteans I’ve seen so far.
If I’m wrong, I will eat my words. I mean, my thoughts. All right, screw my thoughts—they are kind of making me blush right now.
While I am gawking, more Candidates fill the classroom. Now a small crowd has gathered, watching this guy destroy the punching bag. We all stand in silent admiration.
Finally he is done.
He stops and stands back, bringing his hands down in a stance so smooth that it is worthy of a dancer. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. He turns around to face us.
A stone-cold handsome face of lean angles meets us. His brows are well defined and his dark brown eyes are emphasized in kohl. Oh yeah, he’s Atlantean.
But, what’s with that amazing black hair?
While he stands looking at us, woots of approval follow his performance, and many of the Candidates clap.
At the same time, our Instructor from the day before, Keruvat Ruo, comes into the Training Hall.
“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says, then pulls out a whistle and blows it. “Line up! Two rows facing each other! Now!”
While we scramble to form the now familiar double line, the Atlantean with the long dark hair goes casually to pick up a towel. He wipes the sweat from his chest and arms then nods casually at Keruvat.
“I see you’ve started early.” Keruvat turns to the other, with a light glance, ignoring us for the moment. “No shirt, Xel? Really?”
“Get used to it.” The raven-haired Atlantean’s voice is low and cool, and fits his icy demeanor exactly.
Keruvat shakes his head, but there’s a shadow of a smile there. “Oh, I’m used to it, I just don’t think these Candidates should have to be.”
In answer, the other only shrugs, then tosses the used towel where his uniform shirt lies. He then turns to us and speaks in a hard voice of command. “Candidates! I am Xelio Vekahat, and I will be one of your two Combat Instructors for today. Your other instructor Oalla Keigeri is teaching Combat at Red Dorm Nine in my place. As you will see in the coming days, we will switch often, so that you will have exposure to a greater variety of instructors and fighting styles from all Four Quadrants.”
He then approaches Keruvat, and the two of them walk down the line and count us in both our rows.
“First, warm up exercises! Legs apart. Begin with twenty forward stretches, fingers touching floor—”
I move my feet apart and start bending forward, hands to the floor. On either sides of me the Candidates move in unison. As I come up each time, I glance to see the two Atlanteans walking to the equipment cabinets. By the time we’re done with the first set of stretches, they return carrying the familiar equipment bag.
“Now, legs wide, lunge with a twist to your left, ten reps, followed by twist to you right, ten reps. Begin!”
As I widen my stance then lunge, feeling my poor knees wobble, I watch Keruvat and Xelio go through the contents of the bag, removing and counting cords and netting.
“Now, ten deep squats, no stopping!”
I am already breathing hard, and trying to stay on my feet, while the now familiar sensation takes over, and my body has turned to pathetic malleable putty.
A few minutes of this, and we are told to stop and stand upright, and shake out our hands and arms at our sides.
I momentarily glance to the side and note that a much smaller pile of cords is now lying in the middle of the room.
“There are exactly forty-three Candidates in this class,” Xelio says.
“And there are exactly forty-two cords and nets in this pile behind you,” Keruvat adds.
We all stare in the direction of the pile.
“When you hear the whistle,” Xelio says, “you will run and grab a cord or a net. The last person to reach for a piece will end up without one. That person will receive a demerit, and will have to face me as sparring partner for the rest of the class.”
“Trust me, you don’t want him for your sparring partner.” Keruvat makes a deep noise that sounds like a snort.
I feel a cold sensation of terror wash over me, while my pulse starts to race wildly. The older teen boy to my right cusses softly.
“Are you ready?” Keruvat blows the whistle.
We all burst forward. It’s a stampede.
I am bumped and shoved from all sides, as I hurl myself bodily in the direction of the pile of cords. Fortunately I am not too far away in my original spot in the line, and it’s only a few paces. But it’s a grinder of bodies in front of me. . . .
I claw and shove and end up painfully knocked in my ribs, then forced backwards, as two large girls shove themselves in front of me. I shove back, then slide between them, and go for the closest piece of netting or cord—a green woven net—clutch it with my fingers, while other pieces are being ripped in all directions by multiple hands.
I’ve got my hands firmly on the netting and I fall back, clutching it anxiously, trying to find my place back in the line.
I turn, and there’s Derek.
He bumps into me, full-body, so that I can smell the musky aftershave along his skin, and his serpent tattoo is practically in my face, looming from above, since he’s over six feet tall to my five-feet-nine. His arms widen, come around me. . . . He presses the back of my left shoulder painfully with one hand, while the other clenches my hand holding the net. He crushes my fingers until I let go. Immediately, as if nothing happened, he releases me, and steps aside, holding my hard-won net. With it, he gets back in his distant place in line.
While I stand, my mouth gaping in outrage, I see Derek wink and sneer at me. Watching him, I lose precious seconds. There’s no time to try for another piece. The pile is no more, and everyone has either a piece of cord or a net.
I’m the only person stuck with nothing.
My mind races wildly, fury mixing with terror. I tremble with it, while I seethe. It is not fair! And all of a sudden a genuinely crazy idea comes to me.
I hurry back to my spot in my row. As the two Atlantean Instructors walk down the line toward me—yes, they’ve seen me with nothing, they know I’m the loser about to get a demerit—I crouch down and start untying the laces of my sneakers.
My fingers move, they fly like crazy, and I pull, pull, and in ten seconds I’ve got the shoelaces out and in my hands, and my sneakers stay open-flapped.
What kind of stupid idiot am I? What is this? What did I just do? I think, as I tie one end of one lace together with the one end of the other lace into a quick knot, so it’s a single long piece.
This is completely stupid. But now I have a “cord.” A really lame one, but a cord nevertheless.
Xelio stops before me and looks down at me. I stand, offering him the ridiculous cord I’ve just laced together. He glances at it, and then directly into my eyes.
I shiver. . . . Up close, I see the intense darkness of his gaze, the chiseled face with its fine aquiline nose, then glancing down, the sleek contours of his sculpted chest, his tanned skin still sleek with sweat from his pre-class workout.
“What is your name, Candidate?” he says in an unreadable voice. Standing so close to him, I almost feel the buzzing vibrations of his rich timbre along the surface of my skin. And his eyes never leave mine.
“Gwen Lark. . . .”
“Gwen Lark. What—is this?”
I cease breathing. . . . Then somehow find the ability to speak. “A cord.”
There’s a pause.
I think, for one impossible moment, I’ve rendered him speechless.
A few feet away, Keruvat makes a stifled noise. It could be another snort.
“A cord?” Xelio repeats at last, and I see him blink. “And where did you get this—cord?”
“I—made it. . . .”
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
The entire class of forty-two other Candidates is staring at me—and at him—in stilled intensity.
Another long pause.
And suddenly Xelio exhales and casually reaches for the shoelaces in my hand. “This is not a very good cord,” he says, examining it, fingering the material and running his thumb over the knot. “Your knot is loose, and barely adequate. It will not hold. Nor is it thick enough. But—cleverly done. For your quick thinking, you will earn no demerit today.”
I let out my breath in relief.
“However—” Xelio continues and again looks into my eyes. “You will still be my sparring partner. And next time—” he turns to look at the double line of Candidates. “Next time, none of you will attempt to be this clever again.”
Meanwhile Keruvat shakes his head at me. But I see a bright expression in his very dark eyes. “Nicely played,” he says softly, raising one brow. And then the really tall, super-black-skinned Atlantean with the short golden hair winks at me.
But I don’t have any time to catch a break, because in the very next instant Keruvat barks out a command for us to take the first fighting form stance and face the person in the row across from us.
While everyone else lines up, Xelio takes me aside, and positions me two feet across from him and his amazing shirtless chest and muscled shoulders and biceps.
“Gwen Lark,” he says. “Try not to trip over your untied shoes.”
“Okay,” I say, and already I can feel my face flushing from a combination of terror and strange excitement. In seconds I am about as red as the armband on his muscular arm.
“I want you to look directly into my eyes. Do not take your eyes away, not even for a moment. Use your peripheral vision instead to see what I am doing, and simply mirror me—follow my movements exactly, with their opposites.”
His dark eyed gaze drills into me, unblinking, and he starts to raise his hands into a floating stance.
I follow his lead, and raise my own hands, shaking slightly.
He moves one hand forward at me, fingers angled in a deceptively loose yet precise figure.
I try not to blink, not to look away from him, as I bring my own opposite hand to meet his.
“Good,” he says. Then his other hand flashes out and stops inches before my face.
I immediately counter him, with sheer panic reflex.
“And again—” Another swift movement, this time around and from the inside, with a flexing at the elbow.
I mirror him, bringing my own hand up and on the inside, and bent at the elbow, somewhat awkwardly.
“Continue to think of a mirror and its reflection,” Xelio says, as he strikes again, and I counter.
I have no idea what I’m doing, or how I am doing it. But somehow the logic of the mirror has really resonated with me. Just to do the opposite of the other person! Sounds ridiculously easy in theory, but in practice it requires super concentration, and the ability to anticipate the movements of the opponent.
For several minutes that feel like eternity, I move my hands up and around my face to counter the Atlantean. The world narrows into super-focus, as I try to see him begin each hand motion before it happens. I stop hearing the rest of the classroom, the clumsy lunges and strikes and occasional yelps of pain as people miss and hit each other painfully.
“Stop,” he says at last. His dark gaze continues to bore into mine.
I freeze and stand panting. By now I no longer feel my hands or my arms, as they hang limp at my sides.
“Wow . . .” I say, blinking in relief. “That was fascinating! I never thought that martial arts fighting was based on a mirror-image thing!”
“This—is not fighting.” Is there a shadow of sarcasm in his voice? “These are simply forms-based exercises. You haven’t even begun to know the forms yet. You have been aping my free movements—adequately, for now. And, did I say you could look away from me, or blink?”
“Oh . . .” I say.
“Did I say you could speak?”
This time I know better than to open my mouth. Nor do I blink as I resume looking into his eyes until I can no longer tell if they are brown or black, or the color of the abyss.
A pause. . . . I can hear the rest of the class moving in exercise around me, and Keruvat Ruo’s sergeant drill commands in his deep booming voice.
But I neither move nor look around.
Xelio nods. “Good. Now you will learn the first true form, the basic fighting stance which begins and ends all other forms. We call it the Floating Swan. Watch carefully. And yes, now you may look away from my eyes so that you can understand and observe the details of the form.”
I allow myself to breathe and glance away, breaking eye contact. It feels almost tangible, the sudden cessation of intensity.
Xelio takes a wide stance with his feet and then raises his hands to float at chest level, one outstretched at a 45 degree angle off to the side, the other hand pointing directly at me, hand bent at the wrist, palm vertical, thumb curving inward. He stills in the stance and I cannot help noting the beautiful definitions of his abdomen and chest, slick and bronzed, the proud lines of his shoulders, the muscles tensing in his powerful neck, and the way his long black mane of hair falls like midnight silk. . . .
Someone, for the love of God, please slap me!
“Now, you,” he says. “Keep your body pliant and flowing, and do not tense your limbs. Nothing should be tense. Your muscles should not be locked but relaxed. Knees and elbows bent slightly.”
He comes around to check me while I widen my stance on wobbling knees and try to copy his hands. My arms are shaking from tension, muscles unused to so much relentless exercise.
“Keep still,” he says, then adjusts the placement of my arms in the form. At his light touch I feel a blush exploding across my face. I struggle to maintain my stance and my composure.
Okay, what is it with these Atlanteans, and the oozing sex appeal?
* * *
Half an hour later, it is over. I’ve been taught five forms, and I’m to practice and repeat them on my own time, as homework. Somehow I survived Xelio’s hot proximity, and managed not to melt into a useless hormonal girl puddle. Lucky me, it occurs to me, I got one-on-one lesson time with an amazing Instructor, while the rest of the class had each other and Keruvat’s barking commands.
We are dismissed and it’s dinnertime.
As I lamely stagger up the stairs in exhaustion, and emerge in the Common Area lounge on the first floor, there’s my brother George. And Gordie is right behind him.
“George!” I say in surprise, wiping sweat from my forehead and adjusting the wisps of hair sticking out from my messy ponytail. “And Gordie! What are you guys doing here?”
George looks pretty awful himself. His grey T-shirt’s got sweat stains and his dark brown hair is sticking up in awful messy spikes as if he hasn’t been combing it at all, like ever. And Gordie, is not much better, a sweaty mess, and in addition he’s got a purpling bruise around the bridge of his nose and upper cheek. At least his glasses are in one piece.
“Let me guess, you just had Combat or Agility, Gee Two? You look great, babe. Yeah, I know, we look great too. And, sorry if we reek.” George makes a tired half-grin thing with his face.
Gordie just waves, then continues the hand motion to rub his bruised cheek with the back of his hand and finally moves his glasses up his nose. Ah, my baby brother, always the economy of movement.
“You guys are alive,” I mutter with relief. “Glad we all made it through day two.”
“Yeah, just barely,” Gordie says. “Only fifty-eight more days to go.”
“What’s with the shiner on your cheek, Gordie?”
“Nothing. . . . Accident in Agility Training.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I believe, his face connected with someone’s fist,” George elaborates. “But—he can tell you all about it at dinner. Let’s go grab food, I’m starving, and we can catch up.”
I pause in confusion. “How are we going to eat together? Aren’t you guys supposed to eat in your own dorms?”
George raises one eyebrow and wiggles it. “Who’s going to notice or care?” And when he sees my doubtful expression, he continues, “No, really, I checked with the Dorm Leaders, they say we can eat in any cafeteria we like, any time, as long as it’s within the grounds of this compound. So take your pick, Gee Two—your dorm or mine, or even this pisshead’s here—” and George snaps Gordie’s forehead with his fingers.
“Hey!” Gordie makes a quick avoidance twisty motion that’s actually kind of sleek.
“Whoa!” I say. “You’ve learned some new moves there, Gordon Lark! Looks like all that Atlantis training’s paying off with positive results. Way to go, bro!”
“Yeah, a whole two days’ worth of it.” Gordie rolls his eyes. But he appears pleased.
As I consider our next move, I see Laronda. She’s coming down the stairs, probably from the fourth floor classrooms. She waves at me.
I wave back then turn back to my brothers. “What about Gracie?” I say. “Have you guys seen her? Should we go get her?”
“Gracie’s decided to skip dinner and get her beauty sleep.” George glances at Gordie. “What did she say to you exactly?”
Gordie shrugs. “I went to her dorm and she was right there, hanging out in the lobby, looking beat. She was just about to go in the Red cafeteria with some people and grab food quickly. Then afterwards she was gonna nap, she told me.”
“Okay, so no Gracie,” I think out loud.
Laronda comes up to us. There’s another girl trailing her, a slim younger teen, probably a freshman, with waist-long black hair, dark eyes and light brown skin. “Hey,” I tell Laronda. Then I turn to my brothers and introduce everyone. “This is Laronda Aimes, a friend from my dorm,” I say. “Laronda, these are my brothers, George and Gordie Lark.”
“And this is Dawn Williams,” Laronda tells us. “She’ll be hanging with us for dinner. So, where are we eating? Here, or Blue or Green?” She glances at the blue and green tokens lit up on my brothers’ shirts.
Dawn says “Hi,” in a soft, shy voice then stays quiet, leaving the tough decision making to us.
“Hmm.” I look at everyone. Great, it’s like that eternal “where shall we eat” idiot game that people play when a whole bunch gets together and no one can agree on a restaurant.
“Decisions, decisions,” George says, reading my mind. “Shall it be Chez Yellow or Le Bleu, or Frou Frou Greenz, or Trattoria Rouge?”
“How about none of the above?” Gordie swipes his purplish bruise again. “I want to go check out the big Arena Commons building. There’s supposed to be a cafeteria there too, I think.”
“Hey, not a bad idea,” George says. “It’s neutral ground, where all the Four Quadrants can come together and mingle in a perpetual bliss state of cease-fire, all hostilities forgotten, everyone all kissy-lovey—”
“George, huh? What are you talking about?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “What hostilities?”
“Oh, come, Gee Two, didn’t they tell you all about it in your Culture class yet? The Four Quadrants are all supposed to be rivals, way hardcore. And this super duper rivalry, it’s some kind of eternal ongoing thing in Atlantis society. Real classy and honor-bound, sure, but still hardcore.”
I blink. “Okay, no. Our class didn’t exactly get to it. We’re still on the Atlantis Grail part.”
“The Atlantis what?”
“Grail,” I repeat.
“What’s that?” George is staring.
“It’s a cup, George. A round thing you drink from. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table had a holy thing for it. Well, not for it, to be precise, but for another grail, but same idea. Except, less holy.”
Gordie chuckles, then quickly evades George who once again tries to finger-snap his forehead.
I pause and glance at Laronda. She rolls her eyes then says, “It’s the annual Atlantis Olympics. Except, it’s not. It’s this freakish evil Games-to-the-Death thing, and if you win, you get citizenship and everything else you’ve ever wanted—you basically hit the life lottery jackpot.”
“Yeah, that’s one way of calling it.”
“And if you lose, you kind of die.”
George snorts. “Great!”
“We’ll talk about it on the way, meanwhile, let’s go, I’m starving!”
Right on cue, Gordie’s stomach rumbles in confirmation.
* * *
We get out of Yellow Dorm Eight and head for the big adventure that’s the Arena Commons super-structure. It’s still light outside, but bluish twilight’s starting in the east. The air is cool and crisp, and we’re all underdressed in our sweaty T-shirts, but no one absolutely cares.
There are other Candidates waking about, and a few campus guards on patrol, moving to and fro. The Arena Commons looms several buildings ahead. At about six stories, it is considerably taller than the other four-story buildings around it. I squint and see a four-color Square Logo in the distance. The roof of the Arena Commons appears to be a dome made of glass panels, kind of like the ceiling of an enclosed indoor shopping mall.
“Oh, look!” Dawn Williams says suddenly, pointing in the opposite direction, against the sunset sky.
We turn, and there are two dark spots rising in the burning orange sky, as sleek silhouettes of Atlantean shuttles fly upward beyond the outer buildings. The sonic booms hit us right after, and the shuttles disappear above the clouds, briefly becoming points of searing light as the setting sun hits them at the angle when they are no longer in the Earth’s shadow.
“Wonder what they’re doing?” George says.
“More VIPs?” Laronda, walking in front of me, glances at him. “They’re probably checking us out and reporting on our progress back on their Mama Starships.”
“Maybe they’re just rotating Instructors,” I say. “Some finish their shifts and go back up, others come down in their place.”
“Yeah,” Gordie snorts. “Or maybe they can’t digest Earth food or breathe our atmosphere for too long, so they have to go up and replenish their bodies with some kind of special Atlantis nutrients and drugs—”
“That’s right, Gee Three,” I say. “They probably suck blood up there, or eat big bowls of live crawling worms harvested from the green hills of Atlantis—”
“Hey, you never know.” Laronda shrugs.
* * *
We arrive at the Arena Commons and go inside past the tall glass doors, moving through throngs of Candidates wearing token IDs in all four colors.
A comparison with an indoor shopping mall promenade is not at all off base here. At least it seems so for the length of the first small entry corridor, that resembles a mall nook, minus the inviting storefronts.
And then you turn the corner, and whoa! It looks like a small sports stadium.
The bulk of this area, domed off with a glass ceiling, encloses a sizeable oval sports arena, with an Olympic-style running track along the inner perimeter, and various sports scaffolding and truss structures taking up sections of the middle.
The outside walls are taken up with five story-levels of balcony walkways that circle the perimeter, and appear to have offices or other commercial looking doors and window displays running around the entirety of the structure.
“What the heck is this place?” Laronda cranes her head up.
“Better to ask, when did they have time to build this thing?” George retorts, looking around. “Must’ve taken months! It’s like a decent-sized ballpark!”
“Looks like my idea of purgatory,” I mutter, glancing at the running track and the various scaffolding in the center. “I’m guessing at some point we Candidates are going to have to go in there and use all that equipment. Otherwise, why else would it be here?”
“Hmmm, you could be right, sis,” George says. “For Qualification Semi-Finals, maybe? Or even Finals?”
“Ugh,” Dawn says with a shudder. I am guessing she is not all that athletic either—though I could be wrong, since she looks the least sweaty of all of us.
Gordie points to one end of the sports arena, in the very back. “Hey, there’s a pool!”
And he’s right. Way toward the rear, barely visible through the thicket of metal scaffolding, there’s a stretch of shimmering blue that sparkles under the overhead lights. I think I even see a diving board. The pool does not look overly large, but it’s probably long enough for some basic fifty-feet laps.
“Ya-a-y, pool,” George says in a semi-enthusiastic manner. “I could go for a swim later. But first, feed me! Let’s go, ladies!”
We follow a minor crowd to the interior wall side of the structure where there’s something resembling an open food court. It’s definitely another cafeteria, and we get our trays and get in line. They are serving what looks like American diner food basics.
At this point, I find that I’m starving. I point out my choices and the server in a gray uniform with a rainbow armband gives me a burger and a slice of pizza and some mashed potatoes. Then, at the self-serve bar I pile veggies in a salad bowl and get two glasses of some kind of unidentified fruit punch. Gordie is jostling after me, and I see his tray is even more loaded than mine, with corn and coleslaw, a ton of fries, and three burgers.
“Yeah, girlfriend, go for it. We’ve burned up enough calories to eat a whole cow,” Laronda says, seeing my guilty pause at the dessert bar as I consider adding a slice of cherry pie to my tray. I turn and she’s got a mountain of food on her tray also.
“Let’s find a table,” Dawn says, balancing her own full tray with one hand and an ice cream cone in another. “Oh, there’s an empty one there. . . .”
We head for the table and park there, before other Candidate groups grab it.
As we settle in, it appears we’ve picked a busy walk-though area, good for people watching. Our table is at the edge of the food court, close to the overhanging balcony of the first upper level, so we can see the walkways overhead all the way up to the top floor.
“Hey, this is good . . .” Gordie is speaking with his mouth full of burger.
“Easy there, please chew!” Laronda swallows a long French fry with a ketchup-smeared tip, and raises one brow at Gordie with amusement. Meanwhile on both sides of me my brothers dig into their burgers.
Candidates are walking all around us in large and small groups and it’s getting loud, and tables are filling up. I guess everyone else had the same idea and decided to check out this Arena Commons place for dinner. Interesting, looks like many people from the same Quadrants seem to be sticking together—Green with Green, Red with Red, Yellow with Yellow, et cetera.
As I take a big bite of pizza, I happen to glance up and see a group of teens with mostly Red tokens passing by. I recognize one immediately—the familiar dark brown hair, broad shoulders, tall muscular back and toned runner’s legs—even before he turns around, and yeah, it’s Logan Sangre. . . .
Now I am starting to choke on my pizza—or rather, I’ve forgotten to chew and breathe, and not sure what’s happening in my mouth.
Next to Logan, there’s his dark-haired friend, Daniel Tover, with the slightly crooked nose and pleasant face. He’s walking with a girl who has long dirty-blond hair and who’s hanging onto his arm and giggling in a hyper, slightly unnatural voice.
It’s Gracie.
* * *