Adamant Spirits, page 76
The ball sunk into the net.
Chan realized what had happened. While he’d been flying through the air, Dresden had switched tactics. He had gone in for a simple layup instead of a dunk. The ball had slipped in, just out of reach.
The crowd roared with laughter as heat rushed to his cheeks. What Chan had done was legal. The bars were often used by defenders who liked to hand or swing their way quickly down the court. Each level had them. Players who used them scored an extra point because it took extra strength to travel that way. But Chan hung there, looking ridiculous as he hung upside down, something he was sure nobody had ever done before.
Dresden trotted away, chuckling. He didn’t even look at Chan. Why would he? The guy had scored like Chan wasn’t even there.
And Chan had just made a huge fool of himself.
He looked up at the soccer court level to check on Lazer. His teammate headed for the opening in the glass floor, pointedly ignoring Chan. Lazer had had an amazing night, perfectly coordinating his attacks with his teammates’ advances. Too bad his points wouldn’t count for anything under their big, fat loss.
The buzzer sounded, and the basket locked. He didn’t need to wait for the final tally to know they’d been beaten soundly.
Chan turned around to see that Dresden had come back. “Good game,” the taller boy said, holding out a limp hand, still avoiding Chan’s gaze.
Chan wanted nothing more than to punch him in the jaw. Given the guy’s height advantage, he decided that wasn’t a wise idea and reached out instead. “Good—”
Dresden pulled his hand back and looked away before Chan could return the handshake. “Have a rough night, Terrias?” he called out to someone over Chan’s shoulder. Terrias was descending from the upper level, where he’d been defending Lazer’s advances.
Chan raised an eyebrow. This guy even taunted his own teammates.
“Go jump off the tower, Dresden,” Terrias muttered.
“Pretty sure that won’t be necessary.” Dresden pointed at Chan. “Although Monkey Boy here might.”
Chan glared at him for two seconds before looking away.
A squeal, high and shrill, sounded above the crowd’s cheering. Chan followed the sound to the other team’s stands. He recognized Dresden’s parents. They were high greens and seemed all too aware of it, clapping daintily, seeming almost bored, as if Dresden won tournaments every day. His girlfriend and her family sat next to them. He recognized her from the Olympus girls’ khel team. She looked excited but not enough to scream like that.
The squealing sounded again, and he finally found the culprit. Behind Dresden’s family stood a petite girl with blonde curls who seemed to be waving frantically at Chan. He raised an uncertain hand, but the girl looked right past him.
Dresden met her gaze and grinned. The girl began bouncing up and down, waving back with both hands. Chan squinted at her. She looked so familiar, almost like—his heart sunk.
Sora.
Chan walked numbly back to the locker room. His teammates said nothing to him, refusing to look at him altogether.
Chan was accustomed to pain, like the punishments he received at home for his failures. Pain had no pretense, no hidden layers. It just was. But it was the silence, the feeling of being ignored, that he hated above all.
Chan wasn’t the only one with a Rater in the stands tonight.
Our scores in previous games will count, he assured himself, slipping out of his uniform. It was more soaked in perspiration than usual. This was our only loss. Surely that counts for something.
“Chan,” Coach VanCott barked from behind him, making him jump. “What the fates was that?”
“I don’t know,” Chan muttered.
Coach got right in his face. “You spent the entire game off in another world and then wasted the last play flipping around like a psychotic freak! If you want to show off for the Raters, you should have found another place to do it. Not the championship.”
Chan ducked his head. “Dresden Wynn is a great player.”
“There will always be someone better than you.” The coach’s voice grew louder. “Always. But there’s no excuse for playing like you did today. None!”
Chan nodded and kept his head down.
“Look at me, for fates’ sake.” Coach grabbed Chan’s shoulders and shook him. “You know I respect your family. Your brother was an amazing player, Chan. Quick, light on his feet. But he also had a solid foundation of sportsmanship. He didn’t resort to tricks. He had raw, natural talent. I thought I saw glimpses of that in you.” He released Chan, who stumbled backward. “I was a fool.” He turned away and muttered curses under his breath.
Chan slowly dressed, then sat on a bench, his back turned to the team. He waited until they’d all left before emerging from the locker room. His family stood outside, lined up in order of rank; his mother was to the far left, her arms folded. As always, she wore her Monitor uniform. The implant in her forehead blazed a bright green 868. His father stood in the middle, hands in his pockets. 812. His sister, Lin, on the right, wore a scowl to match that of their parents. There would be no sympathy tonight.
“We’ll talk about it later,” his mother said, her voice clipped. What that meant, of course, was the staff—a piece of bamboo his grandparents had used on his mother and which she was all too happy to use on him. Chan’s ribs ached with dread.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chan said, keeping his eyes on the ground.
Wincing as he lowered himself to the floor, Chan sat down to call his brother. The bed was more comfortable, but he didn’t want to crease the blankets. He waited for the call to connect on his techband, then forced a smile at the screen. “Hello, Deshi.”
“Hey, Chan.” Deshi’s dark eyes were bright and filled with excitement. “About time you called me. Although I figured you’d call me tomorrow night after the ceremony.”
“I’ll do that too.” Assuming his Rating was decent, of course. “Thanks for answering.”
“Why wouldn’t I answer? Although I’m surprised to see you sitting there and not stretching your legs over your head or something.”
Chan kept his face impassive. Deshi was one of the few who knew about Chan’s love of gymnastics. He had spent many hours in Chan’s room, helping him stretch and limber up. Occasionally, when their parents were gone, the boys had snuck outside so Chan could practice his back handspring. Since gymnastics was in the same category as other time-wasters like art and music, they kept Chan’s pastime a secret.
But now Deshi was gone and the whole world knew Chan was a freak. “Just a little tired. How’s school?”
Deshi sighed. “Aw, man. My battle tactics class is amazing.”
“Learning a lot, then?”
Deshi snickered. “Uh, sure. The girl next to me taught me all kinds of things, and the girl before her.”
Chan couldn’t help himself. He grinned, feeling his shoulders relax. He was glad he’d called. He missed Deshi. His brother made him laugh when nobody else could. He shoved the pain into a metal box and hid it deep inside. “Glad to hear you’re getting a good education.”
“Just paving the way for my little brother.”
“Sure you are. Don’t take all the redheads, okay?”
Deshi snorted. “Dude, you need more sleep. If there is a single strand of red hair here, it’s covered in delicious blonde. Appearance scores, remember?”
“Yeah. Don’t know what I was thinking.” He’d dyed his own hair last year when it was announced that blonde hair scored the most points. It still shocked him when he looked in the mirror. The golden strands clashed with his skin tone, but it was as close to the appropriate shade as he could get. Sora’s face came into mind, and he shoved the image away. “Save me a short girl, then. There must be a few of those.”
“By the time you get here, I’ll have dates lined up for you every weekend for a month.”
“Only a month?”
“After that I have to start charging for my time. It’s hard work, you know. Plus, you count the hours taken away from my studies...”
“Right. All you have to do is glance at the material ten minutes before an exam.” Chan didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his voice. He had to study for hours to get the same scores his brother did. It wasn’t his fault—the letters seemed to arrange themselves in ways that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t just school. Chan also practiced khel for two extra hours each day on top of regular practice, which Deshi hadn’t had to do either. Not that the extra hours had mattered today.
“Hey, don’t get too crazy. I didn’t say what I’m studying. Or more specifically, who.”
“Mmm.”
Deshi fell back onto his bed. He could sit on his without reprimand. Didn’t they check the crispness of blankets at the Academy? “So,” Deshi began, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or should we keep pretending you care about my study habits?”
Another reason Chan was glad he’d called. Deshi was the only one Chan could talk to freely. He knew his silence made people think he was shy and timid, but it wasn’t that at all. He simply had nothing to say. But Deshi could pull conversation from him like no one else. “My game was awful tonight.”
“Ah,” Deshi said knowingly. “You look like you’re in pain. Mom’s affection again?”
Chan nodded. Deshi’s code word for the stick, affection, came from something his mother was fond of saying as she disciplined them: Aidǎ shì qīn qíng de xiàngzhēng. Bèi mà shì ài de biāozhì. To be beaten is a sign of affection; to be scolded a sign of love. She made Chan recite it on occasion.
“So this was your championship game,” Deshi said. “Your Rater was there, right? And that girl you like—what’s her name again?”
“Sora.” To think he’d invited her to sit with his family. Thank the fates she’d rejected his offer. She’d probably spent the entire game laughing at him in all his pitiful glory.
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Deshi said. “Who did you play again?”
“Olympus Level Three.”
“Ooh. Rivals, eh? No pressure there.”
“Yeah. We got decimated.” He paused. “Wynn played center.”
“Ouch. Please tell me Coach didn’t make you guard him.”
“Yep. And I tried that trick I told you about. You know, hanging from the bars over the basket? Didn’t work so well. Wynn sunk it like I wasn’t there.”
“Wait. You did your flipping thing and hung from the bars? Upside down?”
“I told you I was going to try it someday.”
“Seriously? At a championship game? Against Dresden Wynn? I’m surprised Coach didn’t take a stick to you himself.”
Chan’s ribs throbbed again, but Deshi’s words hurt far worse. He would have never said that a year ago. He was Chan’s biggest supporter. “Thanks a lot.”
“Oh, come on. ” His expression soured. “Well, look at it this way. You don’t have to hide your flipping and monkey tricks anymore. And don’t worry about Wynn. He’s one of the best players in city history. Everyone knows that. I’m sure your Rater will take that into consideration. It’s not like one bad night can erase a good season.”
It can when that’s the only game they see.
Someone must have walked in on Deshi’s end, because he stiffened and sat up. “Hey, Nerma. Give me a sec. Almost done here.”
“I know you have to go,” Chan said, stifling his disappointment. “Glad you were up.”
“Anytime,” Deshi said, but something in his demeanor had changed. He looked almost embarrassed. “Look, I know you had a rough day. But you’ll be a high enough green to come here, Chan, and that’s all that matters.”
“What if I’m not?”
Deshi gave an uncomfortable shrug. “You will be.”
“But if not?”
“You’ll get here. It’s not like you’re yellow material. You’re a Norwell. Nobody’s ever been that worthless.” He snorted, and a girl chuckled in the background. “Just . . . keep the monkey-flipping stuff at home, okay?”
“Right.” Chan frowned.
“Talk to you tomorrow. Can’t wait to hear your score, man.”
“Call you then.”
Deshi closed the call before Chan could say good-bye.
“Why are you still here, Chan?” his mother snapped. “The Rating Ceremony is about to begin, and I’m on duty. Go sit down with the other graduates.” She sat poised in her chair, eyes on her techband. Probably catching up on reports.
“Yes, ma’am.” Chan dipped his head and turned to leave, feeling his cheeks redden.
“Good luck, hon,” a man nearby said to his daughter.
“Thanks, Dad,” the girl said. She wore a purple bow in her neatly braided hair. “I’m so nervous!”
“Don’t be. You’ll do great.” He opened his arms as she rushed in for a hug.
Chan scowled as he walked away.
The boys were separated from the girls by an aisle, as was tradition. The girls chattered excitedly to each other. The guys’ nervousness was a bit more muted, but he could see pieces of it everywhere. A twitch of the mouth, a too-loud laugh. Chan caught a glimpse of the back of Dresden’s head near the front. His team members sat on either side of him.
If only the Rating Ceremony were separated by school instead of city. Then he wouldn’t have to sit behind the Dresden Wynn fan club.
Chan found a seat near the back instead. His insides were churning like a bad chemistry experiment. It would probably be wise to stay close to the exit.
Just as he sat, a flood of silver military uniforms burst through the doors. They moved as one, streaming down the aisle and then separating to take their places, one for each row. Sprinkled among the silver were a few soldiers dressed in black. The audience murmured, but Chan sat up in anticipation, trying not to cringe at the pain in his rib cage. This had never happened before. Maybe the Rating Ceremony would be canceled. Maybe they had a few more days—
Professor Bold stood at the front and took a deep breath.
Chan slumped in his chair as the ceremony began.
He didn’t pay close attention. It was the same speech Bold gave every year about the history of NORA, the New Order Republic of America, and how Richard Peak had pulled the country back together after the Old American government had split apart and war destroyed most of the continent. The words blended together in Chan’s mind like a bad historical painting—a huge mess of muted color.
People said that when you died your life passed in front of you in a series of flashbacks. That was what it felt like now: a slow death—the end of his previous life, the beginning of a strange new unknown. His mind marched through a series of memories. His father praising Deshi’s clean bedroom and criticizing Chan’s unkempt hair. His mother’s delight at Lin’s education scores. His professors ignoring his hand tentatively raised in the air. His khel team members all towering above him, refusing to pass him the ball in practice.
Chan looked at his fingers, scrubbed clean this morning, his nails trimmed. They had never looked like the big, rough hands of a khel player. They were average. Boring. They’d never held a girl’s hand or fingered her hair during a kiss. The Rating system was supposed to encourage citizens to excel. What about the ones who tried hard and failed?
Chan had spent his entire life applauding others. He wanted people to cheer for him, just once. It wasn’t like he was asking too much.
The introduction ended and the Ratings began. He half listened as Professor Bold announced Lile Demenger’s score. Chan almost didn’t hear it when his own name was called. It sounded thick in his ears, like it came from another world. When he froze in his seat, the guy in front of him turned around. With a chuckle, he shook his head and turned to his neighbor. “He’s too scared. Look at him. He can’t even move.”
Shame coursed through Chan’s blood like fire, and he stood and approached the front. He felt the eyes of a thousand people on his back. His mother. Dad. Lin. Sora. And he thought of Deshi, who would be awaiting the news while he sat in class.
You’ll be a high enough green to come here, Deshi had said.
Deshi believed in him. He knew Chan better than anyone, and he was confident. For now, Chan would have to cling to that.
He stopped next to Professor Bold, who took the card from his assistant. Bold glanced at it casually, as if it were a shopping list. “Your score is . . . 636. Congratulations.”
Chan’s mouth dropped. Shock slammed through him. 636. Surely it was a mistake. He’d said 736, right? 636 was . . . yellow.
Yellow. Subpar. Mediocre. Worthless.
The pain in his ribs felt like fire now, sharp and insistent.
Chan was officially a loser.
The newly Rated graduates were herded straight to implantation after the ceremony. It took all afternoon and into the evening for them to get to him. Once his procedure was over, Chan started home. He walked his bike along the sidewalk as the sun grew lower in the sky, deliberately avoiding the bike lane designated to yellows. Some small part of him still refused to believe it. Chan Norwell, a yellow. Son of an engineer and the Monitor Chief of Olympus, both well-respected greens. Brother of the child-prodigy khel star. A nobody. Chan had humiliated his family as much as himself.
He was in no hurry to get home.
His mind wandered a little more than usual, touching on the ceremony, before he could redirect it. After Chan’s score had been announced, Dresden had received the highest green score in Olympus history—because obviously Chan’s humiliation wouldn’t be complete until Dresden Wynn shattered every millimeter of Chan’s dignity. He couldn’t say for sure, but he could swear Dresden had looked for him in the crowd while returning to his seat. The two had locked gazes for a few seconds when Dresden spotted him, his grin twisting into a smirk.
