Chapter 7
“Fix what?” In stampede of feet, Blane suddenly crowds into the dining room with his troop. They’re loud and sweaty and handsome.
“His jacked up face,” laughs Jan.
“We’re going to play soccer,” Radius claps Armonk on the back. “You be our goalie.”
“I don’t play,” says Armonk.
“Me neither,” I add.
“It’s mandatory,” Blane states.
“Chop, chop, we don’t have much time.” Vesper ferries us down to the basement with her long, waving arms.
I exchange uneasy glances with Armonk, as we head downstairs. His fake leg catches on a steep step but he reaches out for the wall and rebalances.
It’s a large space, cooler than the rest of the compound, and full of sports equipment. I see weights and a hoop set up high, for some kind of ball game. The court also has goal nets on each end. My heart aches for my friends back home, what fun we could’ve had here! We could’ve used a gym to stretch and play in. We had nothing like this. Even it its battered state, this array of equipment floors me.
Blane, Jan and Radius begin to boot the scuffed ball into the goal nets, while trying to steal the ball away from each other. Bea and Vesper join in, with giggles and light pushing.
After a few minutes of this, Blane approaches. “Okay, Peg-Leg and Cult Girl are on one team. The little kid sits on the sidelines.” Thorn looks at him blankly, goes over to the side but refuses to sit. “Bea, you join the gimps,” Blane adds with a flick of his hand in our direction.
“Armonk and Ruby,” Armonk corrects.
Bea’s annoyed. “You join their team, Blane.”
Blane’s square brow bristles into a flush. “I’m the head coach. Follow my rules.” He wags his head at Radius. “You be on their side too. Otherwise, it’ll be too easy.”
Radius mutters something under his breath but stalks over. He gathers us around him and, in a voice dry with resentment, explains the rules. Armonk nods as if he knows already. Does everyone in the desert know how to play soccer but me?
Even with Bea and Radius on our team we’re no match for the rest. Vesper is a natural athlete, tall and lean with coiled muscles that spring easily into attack. She keeps pace with the boys, and I picture her on a real, varsity team, like in that old college catalog of my father’s. Jan, all angles and elbows, streaks by me time after time and slams the ball in the net. Blane is a beast, and a dirty cheater. He holds out his foot when Armonk runs by and snags his artificial leg. Armonk goes flying, face first.
I hurry over and lend a hand. Armonk must not want to look weak in front of all of these hardheads. He doesn’t take it.
Our next task is to pick Fireseed leaves. We suit up and put on our burn masks, because it’s hot enough to see mirages of sparkling water, even under the tarp. Back at my compound we never went out until nightfall, even under a canopy.
Nevada tells us to pick the leaves and press them under wide rocks she’s set on a shelf so they flatten. It goes against everything I’ve been taught to pluck Fireseed limbs from their stalks, but I do what I’m told, because Blane is keeping a close watch over us. As he said before, he’s clearly Nevada’s henchman. At one point Armonk disappears and Blane asks me where he went. I tell him I have no idea. I have enough trouble trying to keep an eye on Thorn.
Thorn seems as disturbed as I am, to pluck off leaves, and, with a sad grimace, he points out more than a few blotches. The blotches are white and fuzzy. The leaf around each blotch puckers and wilts. It hurts to see it, and I ask Thorn what’s wrong with them. He’s my radar after all. His eyes pool with hurt but he stays silent. No one-word hints this afternoon. Instead, he wanders off and disappears behind a clutch of red leaves. Maybe he needs time alone, I think, as I head off in a different direction.
I’m absorbed in collecting more leaves when heavy footsteps crunch up ahead, and I hear fast, labored breathing. Blane appears through the crimson foliage in front of me with an armful of Fireseed leaves.
He puts them down and brushes off his hands. “So, what’s your story, your real story?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why did you leave your compound for this place?” he asks.
I shrug. There’s no way I’d tell him about Stiles, or any other details of my life. Would he tell me his? “Why did you leave your home?”
“That was a long time ago,” he declares.
“Where was it?”
“East Coast Sector, near New York. I went to a reputable school, where the kids had money, good families.” Blane kicks at a stone. When he looks back at me, his gaze radiates the pain of people and things long gone. “You wouldn’t know that kind of thing.”
“Sure I would. I love my folks back at home.”