The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (14 page)

“Yeah.” But even as I respond, I know I'm lying to both of us. Because even in college, I'll still be living at
home. Going to a school that they picked for me. With a curfew and monitored phone calls, and parents who are waiting for me to screw up. Eighteen years of being a perfect kid, and college will just be another four years of high school.

I feel a tear start to form.

“Ana?”

“Shh. The ceremony is about to start.” I place my hand on his.

We sit there, hand-in-hand. I don't know what Zak's thinking. Me, I'm thinking about the future. And Nichole. And how I've been blaming everything on my parents because it's easy. And about this not-bad-looking goober who takes me on adventures.

I blew it. I should have said something cool, but I
completely screwed the pooch
.

This is the best time I've ever had at a con, just because
she's
with me, and I keep expecting her to ask me to stop following her around, but she never does, and I want to help her with her family problems, but what the hell do you say to a story like that, and all the time I just want to tell her . . .

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY

With a great deal of self-control, I squash the panic attack. Something tells me I'm going to need to keep my head come midnight, when we get our last chance to capture Clayton.

An organ chord silences the whispering crowd. The musician breaks into the theme from
Star Trek
, then seamlessly flows into “The Imperial March.”

“So nice when people can make a mixed marriage work,” I whisper.

“Is one of them Jewish?”

“No, but John's a
Star Trek
fan and Mark likes
Star Wars
. . .”

“Shh.”

John and Mark appear from opposite wings, wearing matching tuxes. They join hands at the front of the room and smile at each other. Normally, their physical demonstrations give me the heebie-jeebies (yes, I know, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it does, okay?), but tonight I'm touched by how much in love they obviously are.

The minister takes to the podium. Like all members of his sect, he carries an unlit briar pipe clenched in his teeth.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight in the
sight of the United Federation of Planets and the Rebel Alliance to join these two men in holy matrimony.” He says all this with the easy patter of a game-show host. The pipe never leaves his mouth.

“The good book says that what God has put together, let no man put asunder. Well, God couldn't make it tonight, but He sent me to close the deal.”

That Bible verse rings a bell. Where had I heard it? Somewhere unpleasant. The Grand Inquisition? No . . .

Six months ago. The almost-empty chapel at the United Methodist Church. Reverend Weiss reading that same verse in front of my mother and Roger
.

Mom looked very pretty, in a new dress and clutching some silk flowers. Roger, stuffed into the same shirt and tie he wore to work every day, and a jacket that was too small. They stared at each other like a couple of flirting drunks
.

I sat in the first pew, sickened by the spectacle. And with the world's fakest grin smeared across my face like the jaw trap from
Saw.
There were only about fifteen spectators. Some people from Mom's and Roger's work, me, and my grandparents
.

Not just my mom's parents. My
dad's
parents. The ones who had buried their son just a few years ago. And now they'd come here to watch his widow remarry. I hoped they'd avoid this tragic farce, but no, they flew out from L.A. just to be there
.

I sat, uncomfortable in my new suit, silently bending a
prayer book and trying not to scream
.

Two months she'd known him. Two months
.

I waited for the minister to get to the part where you're supposed to say something if you object, knowing full well I'd keep my mouth shut. As it turned out, they apparently only say that line at sitcom weddings
.

The minister officially blessed Roger's eternal position on our couch. I averted my eyes as Mom kissed him. The others applauded and we shuffled toward the receiving line
.

I was the last one through. I kissed Mom on the cheek and nodded to Roger. He stopped me
.

“Zak, I want to thank you for being here. This is the greatest day of my life, and, well, I hope I'll get a chance to get to know you more. I'd really like that.”

I smiled. Then things seemed to go in slow motion as I pulled back my fist and clubbed him, full-force, in his fat, smiling face. He didn't expect it and went sprawling
.

Mom screamed. The minister tried to grab me, but it was too late. I leaped on top of Roger and begin pummeling him in his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He moaned helplessly as blood poured from his ears, all the while the lifeless face of the altar Jesus stared down at me in mocking condemnation . . .

I should be a writer. That's a much better ending than what really happened, when I limply shook Roger's hand and left to get a slice of cake.

Ana jabs me with her bony elbow.

“You're growling,” she whispers. “Be quiet.”

I settle down.

The minister has reached a crescendo. “And do you, Mark David Danvers, take this man, to be your lawful—and by lawful I'm referring to the laws of the State of Washington and not the rest of the United States, not yet—wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death's icy hand comes for one of you?”

“I do.”

“Then, by the power vested in me by whatever gods are tuned in, I now pronounce you married!”

They don't kiss. Instead, they hold hands and just stare at each other for a long moment.

“I love you,” says John.

“I know,” replies Mark.

Everyone sighs and they kiss.

I glance over at Ana to explain the vows, but she's dabbing a tear from her eye.

“God, you can tell they're in love. The way they looked at each other.”

Yeah, I noticed too. That look of utter devotion.

Same joojooflopping way Mom and Roger looked at each other.
Still
look at each other.

I touch Ana's shoulder. “I need cake.”

We mill around the small buffet table. Ana is looking at one of the cakes, which has an image of the Death Star emblazoned on it.

“Is that supposed to be a moon?” she asks.

“THAT'S NO MOON!” everyone around her, myself included, loudly replies.

Ana's eyes narrow into the annoyed expression I'm so familiar with.

“Duquette, you're just a font of useless knowledge, aren't you?”

I'm a touch offended. “Said the captain of the quiz bowl team.”

“That's different.”

“How is it different?”

“It just . . .
is
,” she stammers.

“Great comeback. Seriously, you're as bad I am. I watched you at the tournament today—you know more random facts than I do. Face it, you wouldn't do quiz bowl if you didn't love trivia.”

She's quiet for a long time. Did I say something wrong?

“I hate quiz bowl, Zak,” she whispers. “Always have.” She laughs, but she's not kidding.

“What?”

“I hate it, Zak. Every week I waste hours practicing and memorizing pointless information, and now I've
dragged my brother into it. I've dragged
you
into it!”

I'm too dumbfounded to be articulate. The girl who chastised me earlier about how important the tournament was . . . she didn't want to be there either?

“But you're so good at it! Brinkham thinks you walk on water.”

She snorts. “I do it because it looks good on a scholarship application. They want people with a lot of interests. That's why I do it. Same with archery. It could have been fun, but now it's just another stupid thing I have to do.” She reaches out to touch the bow slung over her back, but stops. “It doesn't matter. It'll all be over in May. So how about you? What are your plans after graduation?”

I shrug, more interested in her revelations. “The junior college, I guess.”

“You guess?” She has a look of horror on her face. “You haven't applied yet?”

“What's the rush? It's community college. Not like there's a waiting list.”

“But classes might fill up. Zak, you have to take care of all that.”

“I'll get to it sometime.”
Geez, how'd we get on this subject? I feel like I'm on a date with Mrs. Brinkham
.

I see just a flash of Ana, the quiz bowl captain. “Are you kidding me, Duquette? And don't you have to meet
with an advisor? And what about your books? And getting your transcript in?”

“I'll look it up when we get back. Hey, where did that guy get the cocktail wieners?”

Ana flicks one of the mints off my plate. With an archer's precision, she nearly lodges it up my nostril.

“Ouch.”

“Focus, Jedi. What are you planning on studying?”

“Computers.”

“More specifically?”

Now I'm on a date with my mom
. “C'mon, Ana, why all the school talk?”

“Why? Because tonight I saw this really interesting guy fight a samurai, crawl through the ventilation system, and beat a bunch of excellent quiz bowl players without trying. And I'd hate to see him end up some sad, overweight, middle-aged fanboy who never did anything with his life.”

“I'll turn into a happy overweight fanboy, thank you very much.” Like the two grooms, I'm not at all ashamed of my lifestyle. So why is Ana's disdain rattling me?

“Duquette, are you that anxious to live with Roger for another couple of years? Have you even looked at other colleges?”

“Sorry, Ana, but the scholarship committees aren't exactly banging down my door.”

She cocks her head. “Listen. Did the fire alarms just go off?”

“I don't think so.”

“Oh. I could have sworn I heard something going
eeee-eeee-eeee
,” she says, imitating a high-pitched whine.

“What do you want from me, Ana?”

She steps closer to me. Very close. I hear mints tumbling off my plate, but I can't look away from Ana's face. I notice, for the first time, the little lines around her eyes. Laugh lines. Or, more likely, stress lines.

“Duquette, look around you. Any one of these people might wind up in the newspaper one day, but with them, it'll say something like ‘hundreds of cats' or ‘arrested for stalking.' You, I expect a little something more than the junior college and a cubicle.”

“Look who's talking. I'm guessing you could do a lot better than going to U Dub. So which one of us is really slumming it?”

I think I've pushed things too far, but she just tosses her hair. Or tries to. It's so kinky it doesn't really flip.

“Here's the thing, Zak . . .”

She then takes her wedge of cake and shoves it into my mouth. I have to take a drink to keep from choking.

“It's almost midnight. Our last chance to find my brother. C'mon.”

Coughing and sputtering, I swallow the cake. I still
have a thing or two I want to say.

Ana turns and looks at me. And winks.

Just a little thing. She probably doesn't mean anything by it.

But I close my mouth and follow her.

Dozens of stretchers line this hall. At first I think it's
fallout from the earlier battle, but then I see the signs:
VAMPIRE BALL BLOOD DRIVE
.

“That's clever,” I tell Zak, impressed at the unexpected charity.

“What is?”

“You know, having a blood drive with the vampires. Nice connection.”

Zak stops walking. After a moment, he smiles. “You know, they've been doing that as long as I've been coming here, and I never made the connection. Huh.”

I wait until I'm at his back and then facepalm. For
an intelligent guy, Duquette can be amazingly dense at times. If he'd just stop and think occasionally, and didn't always make a joke out of every stupid thing, and shaved and dressed up a little . . . oh, it's hopeless.

We enter the ballroom. It's tiny, no bigger than the room where we met Arnold. The lights, of course, are down very low. In a dim corner, a DJ plays something slow and Hungarian. The vampires lurk in shadowy corners, dressed in nineteenth-century finery: men in top hats, ruffled collars, and suspenders; women in ball gowns with corsets that jam their cleavage up under their chins. Everyone is wearing eye shadow and face powder to make them appear undead (at least, I'm assuming it's makeup). To my relief, no one is sparkling.

It's impossible to recognize anyone in the dim light. “You see anyone who could be Clayton?” I ask Zak.

“Yeah, but I'm not about to make that mistake twice. Let's hang out by the door and keep our eyes open.”

The undead begin to pair off. They remind me of wraiths, smokily waltzing in the gloom. People glance at us. With my cloak and Zak's T-shirt, we're kind of underdressed. Again, I don't fit in.

“Do you come to this every year?” I ask Zak.

“No.” For once, there's no elaborate story. We continue to stand there, quietly and awkwardly.

Another slow song comes on. People shift partners.
They silently move in time to the beat, with a rustle of silk and the tap of spatted shoes. Kind of reminds me of a high school formal.

Not that I've ever been to one. There was that time last year, when Landon asked me to the junior prom, and I told him no. I had no choice. I wouldn't have been permitted to go to a dance with a date. So he asked Sonya, and the rest is history.

“Hey, Ana, check it out.”

A chubby girl in a loosely laced corset stands near the door. Even in the dim light, I recognize her florescent red hair. Strawberry. She's lurking near the entrance with her hands clasped in front of her. When a boy enters the dance her face breaks into a smile, then instantly collapses.

“She's still waiting for your brother. Did he stand her up?”

I knew it wasn't going to be this easy to find Clayton. “So if he's not coming here, where is he?”

Duquette isn't listening—he's still staring at his ex. “She looks so sad. Maybe I should go ask her to dance.” He takes a step away from me.

Oh, no you don't
.

I snake my arm out and grab him by the wrist. Heedless of his bruised ribs, I pull him toward me. I place his hand on my side. Then I smile at him.

Zak smiles back, but he looks kind of frightened as well. “Or I could stay here and dance with you.” He takes my other hand and begins to lead.

It's immediately apparent he doesn't have a bit of rhythm. He kind of swirls us around the dance floor in time to some much faster beat than the waltz coming out of the speakers. He grins at me and I smile back.

What the hell made me grab him like that? I guess I didn't want him to go dancing off with Strawberry when we're supposed to be finding Clayton. I need to keep him focused on the search, not remembering the good times he had with the living baby doll.

Speaking of which, I glance around the ballroom, trying to see if Clayton ever arrived. Zak's twirling is giving me whiplash and my longbow keeps poking me in the side of the head, but I see that Strawberry is still alone. I notice Arnold is here. He bows to a woman in a huge domino mask, who allows him to take her hand. There's a woman from the wedding. A guy from the SCA battle. But no Clayton.

Zak bumps into another dancer and lets out a groan. I'm reminded how physically grueling this evening has been for him.

“Do you want to stop, Zak?”

“I'm fine. Just a minor spinal injury.”

Maybe I shouldn't have asked him to dance. Maybe
he isn't enjoying himself.

The music ends and Zak slowly pulls away. When the next song starts, I wonder if he'll want to dance again. Or maybe he'd rather keep searching for Clayton. It's his choice. What do I care?

“Mind if I cut in?”

It's Gypsy, that bald-headed girl from registration. She's now wearing a dress that shows off her willowy neck, the cute freckles on her shoulders, and her ample cleavage. All things I don't have.

And I don't have Zak, either. She's leading him away. At least she's trying to. I think he's momentarily stunned.

“C'mon, Duke, you promised me a dance.” Already, she's trying to put her arms around his neck. She doesn't look in my direction.

And so what if he wants to dance with Uncle Fester? She's known him a long time, and it's obvious she has a thing for him and I'll be damned if I'm going to just let her waltz off with him
.

I've elbowed my way between them before I lose my nerve.

“Excuse me!” snaps Chrome Dome.

I refuse to back down. “You're excused. But I'm with Zak at the moment. Have a good evening.”

Her forehead wrinkles all the way to the back of her neck. She's about to say something, but instead we both turn to Zak. This is his decision.

For a horrible moment I think he's going to choose the human bowling ball, and I've just made a fool of myself. Instead, to my great relief, he takes my hand. “Another time, Gypsy.”

We're back on the dance floor. He's grinning. I fully expect him to make a wise-ass comment about having two women after him. But he just smiles. Wow, that smile.

I do a quick survey of the room, but my brother's still not here. Strawberry's gone, too. I look back at my partner. He's still smiling. I should tell him we should leave. I should tell him we're wasting our time here.

Instead, I keep dancing. Only we're not really dancing. We're both just kind of standing here, slightly swaying, our faces not too far from each other.

Zak moves slightly closer to me. I can just feel his hot breath on my mouth.

Oh, God, he's going to kiss me
.

Wow. That smarmy, self-centered jackass. Just because I let him dance with me a couple of times, he thinks he has the right to smash his lips up against mine?

But . . . he doesn't. He just kind of hovers there for a minute, then leans away.

Oh, God, he's NOT going to kiss me
. Here we are, together on the dance floor, me chasing away other girls, and now he's just going to stand there. What the hell?

Okay, maybe I did slap him and scream at him and
call him an idiot. But that was
hours
ago.

He moves closer again, his smile shy.

C'mon, Zak. Make up your mind
.

Our noses are nearly touching. His hand moves a strand of hair back behind my ear.

What are you waiting for, Duquette?

And he takes the plunge. It's awkward and it's beautiful.

My first kiss.