Shuffle: A Novel Part 18

"Pleeeeease?" I whined. "I have to go. Callie's making me. It's going to be horrible; please come."

"Ooh, and you make it sound so gosh darn tempting." She shook her head. "Sorry, Evi. I actually have a project I'm working on."

"You're doing homework on a Friday night?"

She glanced around, making sure n.o.body was listening in, and lowered her voice. "It's not exactly a school project. Not exactly... school sanctioned."

She ducked away from me, burrowing into her messy locker for something. Apparently everyone in my life was keeping secrets. What did Ellen have up her sleeve? Just then the bell rang, and I had to run to cla.s.s. I raised my eyebrows at her as I trotted off. I'm going to weasel it out of you at lunch. She just shook her head firmly and mimed zipping her lips.

Arbor was standing by the door to our Latin cla.s.sroom, leaning casually against the open frame. His dark eyes smoldered at me. As I walked through the hallway toward him, my heart did little flips in my chest.

"Ready for our presentation?" he asked.

I held up my flash drive with our PowerPoint file. "Ready as I'll ever be."

We were the first ones to present. Quentin brought our PowerPoint up on the screen and told us to nod when we wanted him to change slides. I took a deep breath and started talking.

This time, the words flowed beautifully. Instead of being nervous because Arbor was listening to me, I drew strength from his seemingly endless reservoir of calm. Cicero's early years and lawyerly accomplishments went by in a flash. When I was done, I barely remembered anything I'd just said. I wasn't positive I hadn't been mumbling gibberish the whole time, but from the affirming look on Arbor's face, I guess I nailed it.

Then he started to talk, and of course he blew everyone away. There's just something about an English accent...

"Cicero was elected consul at the age of 43. The consuls were the highest civil magistrates, the head of the Roman government during the years of the Republic. A most unusual success for a man of such humble beginnings, whose very name refers to the chickpeas his less ambitious ancestors probably sold to make ends meet. In 63 BCE he successfully uncovered a conspiracy led by a man named Lucius Sergius Catilina, usually called Catiline by historians. Catiline's plans to overthrow the Republic included a plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate Cicero. Thankfully, Cicero managed to thwart the conspiracy and run Catiline out of the city before the a.s.sa.s.sination was to take place. He escaped death. Others are not so lucky."

Arbor turned and gave me a steady look. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Is he talking about me?

There was a long pause. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I glanced at Quentin as Arbor's unblinking eyes continued to challenge me. Quentin looked confused and a little nervous. He cleared his throat and Arbor turned away, nodding his head to advance the slide.

"Cicero delivered three famous speeches denouncing Catiline..."

He was off and running again. But I was no longer listening. Others are not so lucky. It certainly sounded like a threat. My "Arbor's a psycho killer and he's trying to warn me that I'm next" theory sprang back into full bloom in my head.

But I pushed it aside. He was definitely trying to tell me something a trying to warn me of something, even a but that was not it. My doubts about his character were all but gone now. I had no real reason to trust him. But what he did for George... I felt as though I'd finally seen his true colors.

I guess it comes down to faith. And a gut feeling.

Others are not so lucky.

"When Tullia died in childbirth it was a huge blow to Cicero. He mourned her in his letters to friends and erected a memorial for her. Her death was inevitable. Most are."

He was staring at me again.

Most are. Most are.

"Most deaths are accidental. Like Tullia's."

More staring. More awkward silence. Finally Quentin said, "Yes, Mr. da Rosa. Get to your point."

Arbor flashed one of his fake smiles. "Sorry. Just lost my train of thought there." He put his finger under his collar as if he were nervous. "Public speaking, you know. We can't all be legendary orators."

There was a smattering of polite laughter and some unkind snickering.

"As I was saying, Tullia's death brought up the idea of mortality for Cicero in a very concrete way. It became a theme in his philosophical writing..."

Arbor managed to make it through the rest of our presentation without any other strange comments. We took our seats as Quentin clapped loudly and forcefully, ever-present copy of the Aeneid folded under one of his arms.

"Smas.h.i.+ng!" he said. "Fabulous job, you two. Arbor, very good. A bit tangent-y in places. Evi..."

I cringed inwardly waiting for his a.s.sessment. Had I talked too fast? Left out important details?

He smiled benevolently. "Bravissima," he proclaimed. "You've set a very high standard for everyone else. I suppose that's the reward for taking the plunge and being the first to present."

The other students groaned accordingly. I sat back in my chair as the next group trudged up to the front of the cla.s.sroom. Relief should have been coursing through me. I'd just gotten a solid grade, and I was officially done being Arbor's partner.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to go very wrong.

Interlude The poet and the pale boy met again at dusk. The bright lights of the football stadium shone above them like diamonds nestled in the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, under a night sky washed with lavender and indigo. They circled each other at first, unsure.

"You called me here," said Arbor. "Say what you want to say."

The poet grinned. "I know what you're up to now. Searching for trinkets. Fis.h.i.+ng for lost souls. And that you're even more clueless than I am."

"Is that so?"

"At least I know who he is."

Arbor frowned. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me."

The shake of a head. The poet stalked around the shadows of the stadium, kicking an empty aluminum can. "Nope."

"You don't have to do this," Arbor pleaded. "Just give me his name, and you'll be saving so many lives."

The poet ignored him. "Sad, sad Arbor. Can't say anything but lies, lies... What happens if you do tell what you are, and who you're here for? Do you disappear? Die? Fade away into non-existence? What's the penalty? Let me guess." The poet was taunting now. "You don't know."

Arbor stood still. Steady. "If you won't help me, then why did you ask me to meet you here?"

A tinny, tinkling laugh flew up to the sky, nearly drowned in a roar from the crowd. "And you're even trying to seduce that little Wild girl! Pathetic. You should have gone for the older sister. Would have made it more believable."

Arbor crossed his arms and turned his back. "Is there a point to this?"

"I can't believe you didn't ask her to the Homecoming dance. Heard about the stunt you pulled with that f.a.ggy a"

"Shut up," snapped Arbor. "Don't use that word."

There was silence for a time. The booming voice of the football announcer echoed through the stadium and softly reverberated around them. "Why did you do it?" asked the poet, sounding almost curious.

"I've been the paragon," Arbor shrugged. "And I've been the pariah. Doesn't make much difference to me, and I didn't want to have to..."

"Oh. Right. I forgot, you don't enjoy your job. Not like some people."

The roars of the crowd were getting louder. The game clock was ticking down, and the score was close. The collective hope of the fans in the stadium rose, nearly capsizing Arbor in a deafening wave of sound. Even Evi was cheering. He could hear her voice.

"Enough small talk," he growled. "Say something relevant or I'm leaving."

The poet blinked, face straightening into grim lines. "He's been ignoring me. But now I'm going to make him listen."

Arbor's eyes flashed. As though, absorbing the light, they reflected the dark. "Don't add to his body count."

"I have to see him."

"So do I, and we can work together a"

"I have to help him."

"You're obsessed!"

Silence.

Arbor turned away. "This is a warning, then."

"I won't say when I will strike. Just that I will. Soon." The poet laughed again, gleeful. "And you can't even tell anybody... Poor, poor Arbor..."

I got out of the car with a groan. The sky was still bright, but the stadium lights were blinding. I could smell popcorn and the sticky, rumbling odor of cotton candy as it was gathered out of thin air. Callie tumbled out of the driver's side, loaded down with her purse, cheap plastic pom poms, and her foam finger. Her face was a mess of smudgy blue and white. She was already starting to sweat it off.

And she was ecstatic.

"Onward!" she called, like a general leading her troops. I trudged obediently behind her, past the people standing in line for tickets. It was unseasonably warm. The cattle men wore tank tops, still red-shouldered from the summer and potbellied. An occasional faded tattoo. The women looked like backwards camels, with larger hair and gold jewelry. They'd come to cheer on their sons and nephews, or to reminisce about when they'd been on the team, or worn those short skirts. These people were coming home.

"Let's get this over with," I grumbled, as Callie gave our tickets to a volunteer. We walked in under the bleachers, stopping to grab a bag of salted peanuts and a water bottle from a food stand. I saw a couple people I knew, waved to them.

"This is going to be a cla.s.sic game," she said. "I can feel it. They'll be talking about this one for years to come."

I rolled my eyes. We climbed up into the middle of the grandstand, still close enough to see and hear the action on the field, but high enough to take in the beautiful vista that was the main attraction of Peaks Stadium. The mountains rose to the west, and to the east the high plains spread out beneath us in a network of distant electricity.

There was a sting and then growing thunder from a line of snares, standing stiff at the edge of the track. The ba.s.s drum boomed as the pep band marched out onto the field in formation. The cheerleaders rushed in, and the crowd cheered. I sat down with a sigh.

Bleacher seats are hard. This was going to be a long game.

The microphone winced and then echoed. "And here are the Boulder Bulldogs, hot off their win last week against Loveland. This season is really heating up, folks..."

The sun was beginning to dip. Stadium lights drowned the field; the crisp white lines and s.h.i.+ny purple helmets of the Boulder Bulldogs almost glowed. People dutifully booed as they did their warm ups. I, of course, was above such things. But Callie let out a deep, guttural "BOOOOO" that caused me to laugh at her.

"That's your cheering voice?" I teased. "What are you, suddenly, a truck driver? I swear, you just dropped like five octaves."

"Shut up," she said. "Here's your program."

It was a pretty amateur job compared to the yearbook, but I'm partial. Individual photos of the starters, each one with a s.h.i.+t-eating grin plastered across his face. Ads from all the local shops. The usual crop of embarra.s.sing 2x2s taken out by parents and grandparents, with little messages of love and grainy black and white baby pictures. George Farmer was holding a lollipop in his. Pretty d.a.m.n cute. Jim was riding a wooden c.o.c.k horse.

Ha.

I quickly checked their numbers as the Minutemen ran out onto the field to a standing ovation. Callie elicited a thick, throaty "WOOOOOOF" of approval. I nearly fell over in my seat, shoulders shaking and tears of laughter blurring my vision. Okay. George was a wide receiver, number 86. Quarterback Jim was number 12.

I quickly spotted them both. They were standing on opposite ends of the bench from each other. In fact, there was a noticeable gap between George and the rest of the team.

I wondered if they'd let him play. I mean, he's good, right? He's a starter, normally, and they want the team to win...

Before I knew it the bra.s.sy song was over and it was time for the opening kick off. The padded men lined up and the ball was placed on a little orange tee thing. A referee blew his whistle, and the carefully s.p.a.ced arrangement of football players suddenly dissolved into a chaos of clas.h.i.+ng bodies. I couldn't follow what was happening, but I could tell from Callie's hoa.r.s.e man grunts that the Minutemen were giving as good as they got.

Every play, they lined up. The cheerleaders kicked and twirled in front of us. (I had to admit, Amanda was good at twirling. Hey, everyone has to have a skill.) The next second the whistle would blow, and I'd lose track of everything, hearing Callie's voice in my ear a "THAT'S HOLDING! ARE YOU BLIND, REF? DO YOU NEED CATARACT SURGERY? I WILL PAY FOR YOUR CATARACT SURGERY, REF!" a until the whistle blew again, revealing the ball under a pile of sweaty jerseys.

The first half went by in a flash. It's hard not to get wrapped up in something that a thousand screaming people care about. Okay, okay. So I was enjoying myself. Every now and then I glanced at the Minutemen bench, trying to find number 86. His uniform was spotless. They hadn't let him play a single snap. He sat still. Hunched over.

Poor George.

The score at half time was Minutemen 7, Bulldogs 13. Still anyone's game. But Callie seemed worried; the Bulldogs were apparently "looking good out there." "Outcla.s.sing us on defense," even.

"Well, they wouldn't be outcla.s.sing us if George were on the field."

"I know," she growled. "I did not factor that Amanda Petrov into my betting calculations."

I'd told her all about what happened, and who I suspected was the mastermind behind the "IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT" at school the other day. As far as I knew, Princ.i.p.al Davis had no evidence. He'd summoned a few members of the football team to his office for questioning, but no one squealed. Amanda had gotten away with it clean.

I glanced around the bleachers. I knew Britta and Vi at least were here somewhere. I couldn't tell who anyone was in the crush of blue and white. I got up as Callie stared at her program, crunching peanut sh.e.l.ls with her teeth and muttering.

As I walked down the steps and made my way across the bottom of the bleachers, gazing up at all the faces and trying to pick out Britta's, I had that feeling again. Something bad was going to happen. To one of these people...

"Evangeline!" I turned around and there was Quentin, Aeneid open on his lap, Minutemen beanie on his round, pink head.

"Hi," I said. "I didn't take you for a football fan."

He sat up straight and cleared his throat. "I always do what I can to support my school. In fact..." His eyes gleamed, and he ushered me in closer. "George and I worked out a secret strategy for the team. They were practicing it all last week, until..." His face fell. "Now they probably won't use it."

"Too bad."

"Well. Have fun, Ms. Wild," he said, tugging down his beanie. "Mayhap the G.o.ds of football will smile on us in the second act."

Secret strategies. Secret projects. Not to mention Arbor, who didn't seem to be in attendance. I wondered where he was.