“I said the same thing, but I don’t think she believes me….”
Max trailed off as he caught a glimpse of David’s chest in the wardrobe’s mirrored door. A long, ugly scar trailed down its center from chest to navel. The small, pale boy pulled on his athletics shirt.
There was a knock at the door.
David shuffled up the steps. A moment later, Max heard a bloodcurdling shriek.
“Get it away from me! Get it away from me!” Mum’s voice screeched.
“Max, I think it’s for you,” called David evenly.
Bounding up the stairs, Max saw Mum backed into the hallway, slumped against the wall with her hands over her eyes. A small basket was overturned on the floor; a variety of nutrition bars were scattered around.
Mum stabbed an accusatory finger at Bob, who chuckled softly.
“You knew that Max lived with that thing!” she sobbed. “That’s why you insisted Mum do the knocking! You could have given me a heart attack tricking me into standing face to face with that hideous, wretched thing! A heart attack! Oh, it was so gruesome!”
David rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, Mum,” interjected Max. “Er, what are you guys doing all the way up here?”
Bob started to speak until Mum shushed him with a furious waving of her hands.
“You keep quiet!” she hissed. “Just you wait and see what I can hide in a grilled-cheese sandwich! Ooh! The soup will be even better!”
Mum started giggling and seemed to forget the original purpose of her visit. Bob cleared his throat, causing her to blink several times. Suddenly, the hag launched into a dramatic curtsy.
“Max McDaniels, we have come to nourish your body and provide an honor guard on this blessed day of greatest promise.”
“Excuse me?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.
“Bob and Mum are here to walk you to your tests,” Bob translated.
Mum glared at Bob for the intrusion.
This was the morning that the First Years would be undergoing their monthly fitness measures—a series of events similar to a modified decathlon. The periodic tests were not normally a matter of great interest except that Max was now very close to breaking several records. He looked down the hallway to see several sleepy Second Years who had poked their heads out their doors, apparently roused from sleep by Mum’s shrill voice. Alex Mu?oz’s brooding face was among them.
“Thanks for the…escort!” said Max, ushering David out the door and shutting it behind them. “We’d better get going.”
Mum took a slimy, possessive hold of his arm as the four walked down the hall. She insisted that David stay well ahead, so she could keep an eye on him. Several Second Years wished Max good luck as they passed; Alex merely closed his door. For the past week, the two of them had endured their daily punishment in relative peace, scraping and scrubbing the Kestrel’s hull in tense silence.
As they reached the stairs, Mum fished a nutrition bar from her basket.
“Eat this,” she whispered. There was a sly hint of conspiracy in her voice. “I got them special just for you. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you! They’re very modern!”
Max was hungry and glanced down at the granola bar in its silver wrapper. He unwrapped it and took a bite, causing Mum to swoon with pleasure and flash her fierce crocodile smile.
“Don’t tell anyone I gave you that,” she breathed quickly. “I’m not sure it’s legal.”
“I won’t,” Max promised, ignoring David’s giggle and giving her a nod of reassurance.
Despite the early promise of a clear day, wisps of cool, damp fog blew in off the ocean. David ran back to their room to grab sweatshirts, returning just as Old Tom rang eight o’clock. The four had to hurry toward the athletic fields, which shattered Mum’s hopes for a stately procession. She cursed the entire way.
Seeing YaYa alerted Max that something was unusual. The ki-rin’s great head was visible near the bleachers. Max called ahead to David.
“Is that YaYa? What’s she doing here?”
David just turned and gave a little smile.
They rounded the Field House to see the bleachers filled with several hundred students and faculty, who burst into a cheer as Max arrived. Nick raced toward Max, running tight little circles around him and shaking his tail with a metallic whir. Max bent down and scooped him into his arms. The lymrill promptly hooked his claws into Max’s sweatshirt and relaxed, becoming a considerable dead weight.
Max turned and scanned the chattering crowd. Jason Barrett was there, hollering and clapping with most of the Sixth Years. Sitting on one of the lower seats was Julie, holding her camera and laughing at something said nearby. She snapped a quick photo of Max. Mr. McDaniels was there, too, waving wildly and sitting with Mr. Morrow, who puffed steadily on his pipe.
Hearing a whistle, he turned to see M. Renard impatiently shooing away Hannah, who did not appear at all pleased about it. She waddled toward Max, the goslings in tow.
“Hello, dear,” her honey voice cooed. “Good luck today. We’re all rooting for you. And I had a few words with that man to keep it fair.”
“Thanks, Hannah,” Max said, taking another glance at the crowd, not at all sure he wanted an audience. The whistle blew again, and Max trotted to where M. Renard had gathered the class. The instructor had a cold and blew his nose into a handkerchief with a loud honk.
“All right, my little sausages. Today you make me proud, yes?”
The children nodded.
“We will do the tests in alphabetical order, as always, except for the races, which will be paired by your most recent times. Ignore all these people—focus on each task and do your best. Does anyone have anything to say?”
Connor raised his hand.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned across the circle of classmates and jabbed a finger in Max’s chest. “We went through a lot of trouble to drum up this crowd, so don’t you screw it up!”
Everyone burst into laughter; even M. Renard cracked a smile as he brought the whistle to his lips to signal the first task. Max shook his hands loose and took a long look at the stretch of track before him.
An hour later, Max was consumed by assorted cheers, roars, honks, and shouts. Hoisted onto the shoulders of Jason and another Sixth Year, he caught his breath and looked far across the fields to where his javelin’s flag fluttered in victory. YaYa stood to her full height and bowed; David held Nick tightly to keep the lymrill from hurting himself. Mr. McDaniels almost trampled a row of students in his hurry to reach the field, while Mr. Morrow merely doffed his cap and waved from the stands, his expression strangely sad. The Humanities instructor raised a bottle of champagne to Max and took a sip before passing it back to Mr. Watanabe and Miss Boon, who followed suit. Max waved back, trying to ignore Mum’s nearby shrieks that he owed his triumph to her “miracle treats.”
“That’s something, Max,” said Jason, raising Max higher. “Only thirteen and the best in Rowan’s history!”
Jason hosted a celebration party in his room, a timbered Viking hall. Some forty students lounged about, playing cards and darts or simply content to sprawl about in small groups, listening to music or tiptoeing through a minefield of pizza boxes to scavenge for leftovers.
Max was having the time of his life. After weeks of adhering to a strict diet, he now stuffed himself with pizza and sweets. Even better, he sat and talked with Julie, who seemed to have forgotten all about their awkward kiss during Kettlemouth’s song.
In mid-afternoon, the party was interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door. Max’s spirits sank as Jason opened the door and Miss Boon peered in at him, her face pinched and angry.
“Max,” she called, “please get your things and come with me.”
Max wiped his hands on a paper towel and stood.