I followed her gaze. James was at a nearby table, grinning at a couple of other Richie Rich polo-shirt types, all of them involved in teasing a few well-coiffed girls. The girls were tolerating it—maybe even enjoying it. Then I froze.
Maddy and her sister were majorly identical twins, so much so that James was an idiot—or blind—if he couldn’t see the resemblance. I also suspected based on yesterday that Maddy would be expecting me to react like I couldn’t believe they were related either. Her sister was like a make-up ad, all soft luminous smiles and no edge. She was probably perfectly nice. But given Maddy’s crimson-streaked hair and band fascinations, she was undoubtedly used to being lost in her glowing sister’s shadow.
No way was I going along with that.
“James was right. You and your sister don’t seem at all alike,” I said. Before she could be hurt, I added, “You’re the interesting one. I can see that from a mile away.”
Maddy soaked up the compliment like she had the crumbs of James’s notice at the office. People should pay more attention to her. She was interesting.
I had managed to keep her occupied long enough to reach the Warheads’ table. There was an empty chair at the next one over, and I hooked it with my hand and dragged it over to the corner of the gamers’ paradise.
Maddy hung back as I sat down and cleared my throat.
None of the six Warheads reacted, staring ahead into their fantasy landscapes. Remembering how rattled Anavi had been describing the way they’d treated her, I felt no urge to be subtle. Or nice.
I thought back to that morning when Lucy had ripped the holoset off me, and the warnings from the manufacturer that hard interruptions of the game could cause disorientation and maybe worse for regular users. The list of possible side effects had been long and I’d only skimmed it.
Seemed like a winning strategy.
So I took out my notebook, lifted it in my hands, and brought it down with a loud slap onto the top of the table.
Heads around the table shook, annoyed or dazed or both. Hands reached up to switch off holosets, killing the glowing gameplay. Each Warhead frowned at first in general and then, as they recovered, at me—still with that slight hint of mockery.
I smiled at them, like I hadn’t made a loud noise to force them out of the game. “Hi,” I said, and flipped open the notebook to the last page of my notes. “I wanted to ask you guys a few questions. I’m new and trying to get a feel for the atmosphere here at the school.” I cast a glance over my shoulder. Maddy was hanging out, if not exactly leaping in. “All the little weird subcultures. You guys definitely seem like one. It’s for a style piece at the Daily Scoop.”
Not a single game continued to run by then, every holoset switched off. The whole table looked at me with a force and focus that almost made me regret getting their attention.
Almost.
“Now,” I went on, “what do you think is the most important thing for me to know about the social scene here, from the gamer perspective?”
“You have got to be . . . ” a boy said, and a girl finished for him, “joking.”
“Yes, that right there is what made me notice you.” I couldn’t help wondering which one was Anavi’s former friend Will. Assimilated was a good way to describe them. “I’ve never met people like you in real life, let alone high school. You know what I mean . . . ” I snapped my fingers, let my smile die when I finished, “The mind meld thing.”
None of them reacted to that, not right away, but then one of the guys nearest me tilted his head. “What?”
“The way you finish each other’s sentences,” I explained. “You just seem to know each other so well. Like you’re practically the same person. How did you meet? Was it in the game? What is it again—Wuss War Three?”
The remaining gamers’ heads tilted, in mirror to the first guy, as they supplied:
“Worlds . . .”
“War . . .”
“Three.”
“Right,” I said, “my mistake. I hear there’s something called griefing in that, cyberbullying. Have you guys ever witnessed players being targeted? What would you do if you did?”
A snort, but I didn’t catch who it came from.
A couple of them wore slow smiles, and I was glad all of them didn’t. I’d never admit it out loud, but they were disconcerting in a way that went far beyond the typical creep. Part of me wished I’d approached them from a slightly less head-on angle.
Too late now.
“Well . . .” said one, and another jumped in, “We’d probably base that decision . . .”
And another, “On whether the player was weak. We like strong players on our team.”
“It’s a war,” one more jumped in. “Things happen. Especially to those who get in the way of a strong team. We do—”
“. . . like to recruit those with potential,” another interrupted. “The bigger we get, the stronger we are.”