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

  “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 t
wo had locked gazes for a few seconds when Dresden spotted him, his grin twisting into a smirk.

  Chan had looked away. Again.

  It was what he always did. Turn away, look away, keep his mouth shut. Avoid the problem. Was this his punishment? Were the fates trying to tell him something? Perhaps the Rater knew more about him than he cared to admit. Maybe it wasn’t about what he’d done or hadn’t done. Maybe this was really who he was.

  He reached Center Street, which was unusually congested for this time of night. Excited chatter floated in the air above the graduates around him as they headed for the square. The graduates would have a bonfire there tonight to celebrate their scores. Every single person he saw had a green Rating.

  He longed to join them. Chan hadn’t changed, not really. He was still the same person he’d been hours before. Nothing was different.

  But somehow everything was. The students jostled around him, shooting him irritated looks when he refused to move. Some recognized him and chuckled; others simply looked away and ignored him.

  Things had definitely changed.

  Getting on his bike, he turned away from the crowd and headed home.

  Something was wrong. It was getting dark, and a single light illuminated the front porch as it always did. But his mother would never have stood for the junk that now sat by the door.

  He dropped his bike and approached, taking the long walkway to avoid stepping on the fragile plastic lawn. A number of items lay haphazardly strewn about the porch. A blanket hanging on the top step by a corner. A lamp, its shade dented. Plastic packages of unopened purple uniforms. His pillow. A half-empty tube of nutrition pills. That one sat closest to the door, as if the culprit had placed it there as an afterthought.

  He didn’t check his techband; there would be no message. The Norwell home was an honorable one, and Chan was no longer honorable. He was bù guangcai de. He examined his belongings with a dull, analytic eye. Nothing here was really his. Bedding, clothes, and food pills. The three necessary items for survival. It was generous that they’d even provided this much for a son who was no longer theirs.

  A small figure drew the shade upward and peeked out the window. Lin. She watched him for a moment, and he waved. The moment his hand moved, she jerked back and let the shade fall.

  Deshi. Chan hadn’t thought to call him yet. Deshi was probably still waiting to hear what had happened. Surely he would understand. Chan clicked his screen open and dialed, ignoring his shaking hand. It beeped several times before the call ended. Deshi was probably on a date.

  He dialed again. This time it didn’t even beep before ending. Deshi had silenced the call.

  Chan tried three more times before giving up. He let his arm drop, slapping his hand against his thigh. The screen was still open, and the device’s punishment mode sent a painful jolt up his arm. Techbands didn’t like being messed with. The pain fit his mood perfectly.

  He whacked the screen against his leg again, harder. The techband’s reaction was immediate. He doubled over, sliding to the ground in agony. It was probably a few seconds, although it felt like forever. Then the pain subsided, leaving him writhing on the ground. The lawn. His mother would be furious at him for crushing the blades.

  A laugh gurgled up from his throat at the ridiculousness of that thought. Fates forbid he ruin the plastic lawn as he died. A lifetime of conditioning was hard to overcome.

  Died. He glanced at his screen. It was still attached, although one side needed repair. If he hit it just once more . . .

  He could do it. All it would take was a solid blow to the techband, something purposeful and well aimed. A rock or a hammer maybe. But his limbs shook. He could barely sit, much less hit the band with the force needed.

  Chan clicked it softly closed.

  You don’t have the guts to do it, a voice taunted him from within. No wonder you’re a yellow.

  It’s not like you’re yellow material, Deshi had said. No Norwell’s ever been that worthless.

  His bike lay on the walk where he’d left it. With a grunt, Chan crawled forward and gripped it, using it to heave himself to his feet. Chan swung one leg over and gave his belongings one last look. They could keep the nutrition pills. He wouldn’t need them.

  He’d show them. He’d show them all.

  Chan shoved off in the direction of the tower.

  A crowd stood on the sidewalk outside the Olympus Credit Office tower.

  At first Chan was confused. Wasn’t everyone at the bonfire? And the way they stood across the street, looking upward—it seemed strange. But then it came to him——a startling, sickening realization. Of course. They’d come to see the jumpers.

  As he approached, the crowd parted to let him through. They ignored him, but when he neared the doors, every eye was drawn to him. It was the opposite of what he’d experienced earlier. The graduates—guys and girls, all greens—seemed excited, animated.

  And then it happened.

  The clapping and whistling. Cheers erupted around all around, punctuated by shrieks of laughter.

  “Hey,” a girl shouted. “It’s Monkey Boy! He’s gonna jump!”

  The cheering intensified and people started touching him, giving him high fives and smiles of approval.

  Chan felt numb. It seemed he was destined for cheers and applause after all.

  Someone patted him on the back and said, “That takes guts, man. Way to be brave.” The voice was familiar. Chan pulled away and looked up to see who it was.

  Dresden Wynn.

  Wynn chuckled as if he’d just recognized Chan. “Good luck.” The same words he’d muttered at the beginning of the khel match that now seemed a lifetime ago. His record-breaking Rating, 942, glowed green on his forehead. Over three hundred points above Chan’s. They had just played khel yesterday as equals. Both graduates, both from green families. What did Dresden have that Chan didn’t? Was Chan really so blind to his own inadequacies that he hadn’t seen his own worthlessness until now?

  Chan turned away and dropped his bike, pulling the door open. His bike disappeared into the crowd before the door even closed. Tomorrow some random kid would ride it across town or sell it on the black market. Not that it mattered to Chan.

  The building almost completely dark, the only source of light coming from the lift, an eerie sight in the middle of the blackness. Chan entered and said, “Floor eighty-two.” The doors closed.

  Moments later he stepped out into darkness. The rooftop edge was lit, but he had to stumble across meters of concrete before reaching it. It wasn’t until he looked down that a burst of lucidity hit him, pushing away the numbness that had crept over his mind on the way here. The crowd he’d just pushed through was barely visible on the lit streets below, but he could still hear their chanting, even if only in his mind

  Chan sighed and spread his arms out, letting his fingers test 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 would show—

  “Looks different from up here, doesn’t it?” a feminine voice said behind him.

  Chan jumped backward, bumping into someone and nearly toppling them both.

  “Whoa, there,” she said, reaching out to steady him. It was too dim to make out her face, but he caught a glimpse of thick, long hair outlined with orange in the light of her Rating. 592. “Didn’t mean to scare you to death. Literally scare you to your death, I guess.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Although I would’ve done you a favor. It’s harder to jump after you’ve looked down, see. If you imagine that you’re just stepping off a curb into the street, then it’s not so hard. But it’s harder to trick your brain when it k
nows what’s down there. You know?”

  Chan blinked.

  She sighed and sank to the ground. “Never mind. I’m just rambling now. I have a problem with that. Goes against the Standards and all, apparently.”

  Chan looked at the rail, tempted to lean over and peer down again. But she was right. He’d lose his nerve if he thought about it too much. Instead, he gazed at the city. It was breathtaking. Thousands of lights shone on buildings that few citizens ever saw after curfew. The city square was visible from here, glowing orange from the bonfire. Golden streets cut through the blanket of structures, their streetlights illuminating a tiny traveler here and there. In the distance a dark patch loomed. The Red District. Chan had never been there—his mother forbade it—but it wasn’t hard to imagine how they lived.

  “So what’re you here for?” the girl said casually. “You’re higher than I am.” She pointed to the yellow-orange glow of the numbers on her forehead.

  Chan wanted to tell her, to open up like he did with Deshi. But the thought of his brother made his throat tighten, and he couldn’t say anything at all. He shook his head.

  “Well, it’s not for rambling, that’s for sure,” she muttered. “Sorry. That was rude. I can’t help but say the things that pop into my head. Professor Salmond says I have no filter. Just told me that, right to my face. Like she didn’t even care about my feelings. The fact that I would’ve said it to me too is irrelevant.”

  “I can’t see you,” Chan said. He didn’t know why those words had come out and not what he wanted to say, but at least it was something.

  The girl paused, then flicked her techband light on. Her face was illuminated by a soft blue glow. Freckles dotted her skin, and Chan could see that her hair was a furious, curly red. “That better?” she asked.

  Chan nodded.

  “You’re not one for words, are you?” She sighed. “I can see you’re looking at my hair. Wondering why it’s not blonde?”

  He watched her expectantly, glad he hadn’t been forced to ask.

  “Well, see, my hair’s too frizzy to dye. It was just never meant to be blonde. I tried last year—even paid fifty credits for the best stylist I could find. He worked on it for three hours. Finally he said, ‘Let me show you some wigs I have in back.’ I walked out. That was my thing, see. I didn’t want to be seen as somebody else.” She brushed a lock of hair aside so he could see her forehead. “Yeah, you can guess how well that went.”