Chan's Story: A Numbers Game Short: (Numbers Game 1.5) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chan's Story

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chan Norwell stood atop the tallest tower in Olympus, arms out and fingers spread as they tested the wind. The entire city of Olympus lay below him like a blanket of colorful lights. He had never been this high before. Would his family come up here and wonder what had run through his mind as he took his last step? Or would they simply forget him?

  Chan shook his head. He wouldn’t defile this moment with thoughts of those he’d once called family. Now he simply stood between ground and sky, part of both and yet part of neither——and soon he would cease to be at all.

  He couldn’t say why the fates had set him on this course. In some ways he had been destined for this his entire life. But he knew the events of the past forty-eight hours had clinched it.

  The beginning of the end had probably been his conversation with Sora as she walked home from school the day before.

  “Sora?” he had called after her. It had taken days of practice to say her name without revealing how he truly felt inside, to pronounce it as if they were equals. His insides shook, but he was determined to keep it together. “Sora, can I speak with you?”

  She paused on the sidewalk, allowing people to part around her like a rock in a stream. Her dark eyes searched the crowd before settling on him. “Did you say something?”

  “Yes.” Here it was. “I noticed you come to all the khel games. Since tonight is the tournament, I wonder if you’d like to sit with my family. They’re on row twelve.”

  She faltered but covered it with a smile. A polite one. “You speak so quietly. You said you want me to sit with you? What’s your name again?”

  “It’s Chan. No, I invited you to sit with my family. I’ll be playing.” He had reached her now. The sunlight streaked her golden hair with shiny white highlights. She’d left her hair down today, and it curled lightly at the ends.

  He half expected her to stalk away, but instead she cocked her head and looked at him. Really looked. “Oh.” A pause. “Wait. You’re on the team?” The excitement in her voice sparked the smallest tinge of hope inside him. “I don’t remember seeing you. What position do you play?”

  “Center level.”

  “Center? But . . . ” Her voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. His mind filled in where her words left off: You’re not very tall.

  He was shorter than most guys, in fact, an injustice that he made up for with special shoes and perfect posture. The only reason he was on the team was his agility. Chan had a few moves in store, tricks he’d saved for a special occasion. He planned on using them tonight at his very last game, the one that counted most—the championship game against their cross-town rivals, Olympus Level Three School.

  “Um,” she continued, looking past him, “I was going to sit with my friends. That’s great that you play, though. I’ll watch for you.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to make sure you have a good seat. Some of those benches are so far away.” The words came in a rush, tumbling over each other. “He felt his cheeks warm, mentally kicking himself. “Hopefully I’ll see you there.”

  She quickly masked her puzzlement with another white-toothed smile. “Sounds good. Thanks for . . . making sure I could see?” Her comment rose into a question, and she looked confused as she eased her way past him. “Good luck.”

  He watched her turn the corner. How did she manage to look graceful simply walking? He had her every movement memorized—the way she bit her hair when taking an exam, how she looked both ways twice before crossing the street, and her laugh. Her musical, carefree, happy laugh. It never failed to lift Chan.

  He’d talked to her. Years of dreaming and he’d finally done it. Her eyes would be on him tonight.

  Now he just had to make sure his practice paid off.

  Chan had expected the heavy weight on his chest to lighten somewhat now that he’d accomplished his goal. If he could talk to Sora—a feat he’d failed to do all year—surely a tournament game would be easy. But now as he made his way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, he realized what this meant. His parents, his friends, his Rater—and now the girl he’d loved since they were thirteen years old—would all be there. He’d set himself up for the game of his life.

  All his hard work would pay off tonight. The applause and cheering would finally be directed at him.

  As Chan trotted back to midcourt after his sixth missed shot in a row, his legs shaking, he refused to look through the glass wall at the crowd. His teammates were probably furious with him right now. Unlike the Old American sports, khel was a three-level guerilla-style fight for points that incorporated basketball, soccer, and rugby—except each was man-on-man, and players had to score as a team on all three levels at once, or their goals didn’t count. That meant their last six drives hadn’t yielded a single score because of him.

  Something was off tonight. He could usually push the outside pressure away and fall into a rhythm, but tonight his body and head felt disconnected. Maybe it was knowing that Sora’s eyes were on him, or possibly his Rater’s. This was his last chance to score athletic points toward his Rating, and so far he was fumbling and tripping like a drunken bear.

  He’d never been more embarrassed in his life.

  Chan took his stance as sweat trickled down his face, but he didn’t dare lift his arm to wipe it away. He stood, every muscle tense, ready for his opponent to move. Dresden Wynn simply stood there, one eyebrow raised as if amused. Chan knew that look well. It worked on most players. But Chan wasn’t like most players. This was far more than a championship to him. It was his entire future—his career, his pride. Chan felt his family’s eyes on him as well, and the weight on his shoulders doubled. Their reputation was also at stake.

  It was more than his mother’s position as Monitor Chief of Olympus. Chan had an exceptional older brother—a khel champion, sharp like molten flame when it came to athletics and strategy. The Academy had been right to snatch him up in the war department. His beautiful eight-year-old sister, Lin, was clever and as cool as ice. She’d nearly passed up Chan in school. She probably would have if their mother hadn’t held her back until after he’d graduated. Fire and ice. That left Chan mediocre and lukewarm. He was the glass of water nobody touched.

  It’s not over yet, Chan decided. There is still time to be extraordinary.

  The taller player twitched. Chan leaped to block him, not realizing he’d been tricked until it was too late. Dresden sped off in the opposite direction, the ball tucked under his arm. Chan sprinted after him, cursing. With his team down eleven points and just seconds left on the clock, Chan couldn’t allow another goal.

  The crowd’s cheering rose in volume as Chan and Dresden ran toward the hoop at full speed. The taller player clearly had the advantage. Dresden had nearly pulled away before reaching the basket, but instead of shooting he circled around the hoop to the right. He always dunked it on the right.

  A surge of determination surged through Chan like molten fire. Dresden’s cocky choice to dunk had bought Chan extra time. This was the scenario he’d practiced for. Most teams placed their taller players in this position for just such a situation. If Chan threw his arms up, Dresden would sail right over him. Luckily, Chan could do something taller players couldn’t. This was his extraordinary moment.

  He would show them.

  Dresden had circled the basket and begun to sprint toward it. Chan raised his arms, but instead of blocking his opponent, he bent over into
a flip. His hands sprung him forward and up, and he felt his body turn twice in the air. On the second turn, his legs straightened and caught the bars above the basket. He pulled them in and opened up. It had worked. He hung upside down now, arms wide, ready to swat the ball away.

  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 s
hort 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 biā?ozhì. 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?”