“For complex scenarios, the feedback can be pages long,” said Mr. Vincenti, standing again. “Each quarter you’ll receive a booklet profiling your performance on the Course along with some commentary and feedback from a team of analysts. Any questions?”
“When can we start doing scenarios?” asked Connor.
“Today,” said Mr. Vincenti, chuckling. “I’m a big believer of jumping in with both feet. Anyway, the system won’t let you screw things up too badly.”
David came over to Max once the students had left the room and begun gathering near the elevator.
“Pretty cool, huh?” said David. “I’ve got to go feed Maya. Want to come?”
Max shook his head immediately, eyeing one of the silver control panels.
“No,” said Max with a smile. “I think I’m going to stick around here a bit.”
“I thought you’d say that,” said David, grinning as he stepped inside the elevator.
11
ALL HALLOWS’ EVE
By the weekend of All Hallows’ Eve, Rowan was bustling with alumni who had returned for the celebration. They had arrived from all over the world: ancient crones in wheelchairs, well-dressed men and women, and handfuls of college students wearing the sweatshirts of their respective universities. Max was surprised to see some familiar faces: several politicians, a world-famous scientist, even a movie actress who was a favorite of Mr. McDaniels’s.
Max slipped past several alumni in the great hall and ducked down a back stairway. Tomorrow, the First and Second Years would play one another in a Euclidean soccer match, with the rest of the school and alumni as spectators. The First Years were convening on one of the Manse’s sublevels to choose their team.
The scene was a nightmare, and Max soon had a headache. The First Years were permitted to have twenty players on the team, but each of the five sections seemed to think they had ten worthy candidates. Max and David sat off to the side while the arguments persisted, leaving the negotiations for their section to Rolf, Sarah, and Connor. Rolf and another boy were in the midst of arguing when David quietly got up and walked to the front of the room.
“Excuse me—” said David.
The arguments persisted and David began coughing.
“Excuse me—” he repeated.
Max breathed a sigh of relief when Cynthia stepped in to rescue him.
“Everybody shut up!” Cynthia bellowed, clamping a hand over Connor’s mouth to interrupt an unintelligible stream of Dublin slang. “David’s got something to say,” she concluded.
David turned bright red as all eyes focused on him.
“Well,” he said, his voice barely audible in the large room, “we’ll never get anywhere this way…. We have twenty spots and five sections. Each section should choose their best four players and that will be the team.”
“But that might not be the best twenty players,” scoffed a boy from Brazil.
“Well, you can argue for as long as you want,” said David. “The game starts tomorrow at nine and I want to have a team to cheer.”
David sat back down next to Max while the debate continued.
“Remind me never to do that again,” David groaned.
That night, Max could hardly sleep. He paced the room in anticipation of the match against the Second Years. Rolf, who had been chosen captain for the First Years, decided on a lineup that would emphasize the First Years’ strengths, one of which was Max’s rapidly blossoming speed.
“Get to bed early, Max,” Rolf had urged at dinner. “I’m counting on your legs. You may be playing most of the game.”
Max had promised and hurried through his visit with Nick, who was visibly annoyed. Getting to bed early made no difference, however, and Max tossed and turned for an hour before finally creeping downstairs to fetch one of his Mystics texts. He spent the next few hours conjuring small orbs of dark blue flame and concentrating on making a pencil roll back and forth on his book. Near dawn, he caught his image reflected in a dark glass pane of the observatory dome. A small sphere of blue flame still flickered about his hand before disappearing altogether.
“You’re changing,” he whispered, and collapsed into bed.
David was already dressed in his navy Rowan uniform when he shook Max awake. Max bolted upright, knocking the Mystics text off his bed onto the floor.
“You have to be at the field in ten minutes for warm-up!” said David, running to get Max’s soccer shoes.
Max leapt out of bed and threw on his navy jersey. A minute later, he raced to the athletic fields, passing by the Second Years’ team as they ran through drills in their white uniforms. The First Year players were all stretching at the far end of the field—except for Rolf, who stood with his arms crossed. Max tried to ignore his captain’s purple face, focusing instead on his stretches and a pair of scarecrows that had been placed as spectators in the stands.
David brought him some toast.
“Here you go. Better to be late this morning than tonight…,” he said with a smile.
Max narrowed his eyes as David started giggling and ran off to the stands. His roommate had enjoyed teasing him ever since Sarah had finally accepted Max’s invitation to the festival.
It was a crisp autumn day with a pleasant breeze scattering fallen leaves into golden drifts. Students and alumni were already filling the stands, settling down with thermoses and spreading cotton throws on their laps. After the stretches, Sarah tapped Max on the arm, pointing over his shoulder with a giggle: Nolan was leading the players’ charges across the grounds from the Sanctuary. The enormous shedu, Orion, clopped out in front; a white sheet painted with victory slogans had been thrown over his back. Max wondered how Rolf had managed to cajole the proud shedu into serving as a billboard.
Max sighed as he saw Nolan abruptly scoop up Nick to prevent the lymrill from running out on the field. Nick was entrusted to a somewhat nervous-looking pair of alums, and Nolan assembled the other charges to watch from the grass.
M. Renard strode out on the field and raised his arms to quiet the crowd. Max’s stomach felt queasy. Several thousand spectators clapped and chattered with one another as they perused little programs and matched names and numbers to faces. Max’s attention shifted as M. Renard’s voice boomed out, magically amplified.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s All Hallows’ Eve match between Rowan’s young Apprentices!”
The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers. Max saw that Nick was shaking so wildly that Nolan had to retrieve him from the alumni couple. The man scowled and removed his camel’s-hair coat, holding it up to examine its shredded sleeves. Wincing, Max turned back to M. Renard, who seemed to enjoy the crowd’s attention as he gestured at the First Years with a dramatic flourish.
“It was only two months ago that these little globules arrived here, fat and squishy like little pats of butter!” said the Games instructor.
The crowd chuckled as Max blushed with his teammates.
“You should not laugh!” scolded M. Renard. “I see several pats of butter in the crowd. Remedial training may be in order for some of you,” he deadpanned, wagging a finger in the direction of several plump women sharing a tartan blanket. One of them stood and shook her fist, shouting, “Never again!” to the delight of the alumni.
The instructor continued. “Yes, only two months ago did they arrive, but as you shall see, they have learned a thing or two. Please give them a warm Rowan welcome.”
Max squinted in the morning sun, trying to make out more faces as the crowd issued a friendly round of applause.
“And our Second Years,” said M. Renard, trotting over to the other team. “Who can forget them? Ah, the ‘middle children’ of Rowan. I sympathize with them in this match—always cast as the scoundrels, the villains, the bullies, as they compete against our poor, innocent First Years…. It’s not fair, is it?”
The Second Years laughed and shook their heads.