My hands prickle with sweat as I wander up and down the aisles, searching for a beacon of light.
My mom’s at the end of one aisle, chatting away in the corner to some other parent. She’s stayed mostly out of my way, except to report quietly into my ear, “Your project is one of the best here. You could win this whole thing,” and then sweep away, beaming.
I don’t want to win, I almost said, except that Meg was standing right there beside me, and of course, she doesn’t know that. Because I didn’t think she needed to. Because I didn’t think we would win. I mean, I didn’t win last year, at my old school. Why would we win now? We’re not going to.
At the start of the fourth row, a title pops out at me: “Dog Hair: Superman’s Kryptonite or the Hulk’s Radiation?” Clever. My heart levitates in my chest, unimpeded by the surrounding bone and flesh and sinew. I step toward it for a better look and start to read the introduction.
Have you ever worndered if having a dog meant your allergies were getting beater or worse? We decided to test and find out once for all wether allergies are better or worse with time.
I blink, rub my eyes, reread the sentences. They’re unchanged.
My heart is not floating at all, but tangled up in veins and strips of flesh. They constrict around it, tightening with every beat.
One Devil’s Snare . . . two trash compactor . . .
This project isn’t bad, really, in theory. But not exactly something the school is about to ship off to high-and-mighty Toronto as an example of our brilliance.
“Hey, Kat.”
I turn around to find the voice’s owner. Across the aisle and three poster boards down, Sunil, from my Ancient Civ class, gives me a military salute. I mentally bookmark my place in the aisle, then march toward him.
“You had your three judges already?” he asks. His partner, a nondescript brown-haired guy I don’t recognize, is deep in conversation with the girls at the poster board next to them.
“Yeah. You?”
“One more to go. Hopefully soon, ’cause I’ve got to—well, you know . . .”
I laugh, which jostles my still-constricted heart. And my lungs. I should really continue my search. I glance up at his poster board to keep from rudely looking over my shoulder at the rows of lackluster projects. Their board is simple—sky-blue background and black borders around the text and pictures—but sharp. “Retrofitting for the Future: Energy Solutions,” the heading reads.
“Energy, eh?” I ask.
He nods. “Not as glamorous as yours, but did you know that it wouldn’t make any sense to upgrade everyone’s cars to electric, because so many of the power plants are fueled by coal anyway? The energy savings are minimal unless the power plants themselves are upgraded to wind or water.”
“Water?” I sound like a dunce. I don’t know much about energy efficiency, other than that it’s important. More important than sugar. And definitely more important than video games. My heart starts to disentangle itself. Five windmills . . . six hope . . .
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not much of a thing yet, but it could be, maybe.”
“Can I—?” I gesture toward the board, and he steps out of the way, allowing me to move in closer. I read the introduction. It’s clear, intelligent, grammar-error free. Judging from our Ancient Civ paper, which we aced, by the way, I’m sure the rest of the board will be the same way.
My heart is fully free and racing. They could win this. They could be the ones trapped in a metal cylinder high above the earth. Is it wrong to wish that on them?
“Excuse me. Sunil? Chris?” Mr. Carter stands in the aisle with a clipboard. I back quickly away from the table as Sunil and his partner stand at attention, but I don’t go far. Oral presentation is a big chunk of the mark. No matter how environmentally consequential or grammar-error free their project, they could still bungle this. I press my hands against my thighs as if pressure could stop the flow of sweat the way it stops the flow of blood.
Sunil’s partner—Chris, I guess—starts the presentation. He’s not as good as Meg—not a single joke to keep it interesting—but he’s clear, succinct. Sunil explains the next section, confidently and smoothly, then it’s back to Chris.
They’re doing well. They can win this. Everything is going to be okay.
Then, in the middle of one of Chris’s sentences, Mr. Carter jumps in with a question, and Chris’s face pales. His mouth hangs slightly open like a feeding guppy. Sunil leans forward, ready to jump in, but Mr. Carter is looking directly at Chris, waiting for an answer from him. The silence grows.
Nine say something . . . ten say anything . . .
I can’t watch. I turn and stride away. And almost walk right into a middle-aged black man.
He’s wearing khaki shorts—even though it’s only March—and a navy golf shirt that says Rick’s Carpentry over the heart. His dark hair is shaved down short, but not short enough to hide the patches of gray sprouting from his temples. Whoever’s dad he is, I don’t recognize him, but that’s not saying much, since I haven’t recognized any parents so far except my own.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and sidestep out of the way. Behind me, Chris is finally fumbling out an answer to Mr. Carter’s question.
“You’re Meg’s partner, right?” the man asks. Sometimes I forget that Meg grew up in Edmonton and knows so many more people here than I do.
“Mm-hmm.” Lalalalalala, I sing in my head, trying to drown out Chris’s voice. If I can’t hear him, his answer will be genius, right? Right.
“You and Meg have a really great project. Top-notch.”
Great. Even other people’s parents are noticing our project. Crap. Crap crap crap.
“I haven’t seen Meg this focused in a while.”
“Yeah, well, you know, when you get the right motivation.” When I talk, I can’t hear Chris still stumbling through his answer. “There’s this convention for this game we like—LotS. Have you heard of it? Of course you have. Everyone’s heard of it. Anyway, LotSCON is in Toronto the day after the national fair. It’s never been in Canada before, which is pretty cool. Meg wants to go.”
And then that’s it. I’m not telling this random stranger that I’m afraid of flying or that LotSCON’s sold out when I haven’t even told those things to Meg. And I’ve got nothing else. Even when I babble, I have no idea what to say.
But it’s okay. From behind me floats Sunil’s rich tenor, then Chris’s almost smooth bass, confident again, and musical. Whatever lapse in brain function they had, it’s over. Hopefully it’s enough.
“I’ve got to go.” I sidestep around the guy for real this time and stride off down the aisle.
I left Meg on the other side of the gym, chatting with some girls from our science class, but when I round the corner, she appears out of nowhere and grabs my arm, jolting me toward her.
“Ow, Meg, be careful.”
“Why were you talking to Stephen?”
“What? I wasn’t—”