The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher Page B

a thirteen-year-old boy?” I yell without preamble. “Blond, glasses?”
    â€œClayton?” asks someone. “Yeah, I played him in the tiebreaker round. Came down to the wire, but I won.”
    â€œWhat? You mean he’s gone already? Did he say where?” I played this stupid game for nothing?
    â€œHe said he was going to check out the SCA event.”
    Another meaningless series of letters. “Where’s that?”
    He stares at me as if I’m the one not making any sense. “The courtyard. Hey, you can’t leave now!”
    I’m already moving toward the door. “Unless the Sixth Amendment has been repealed, yes, I can.”
    Someone blocks my path. A tall guy. When I look up at his face I suppress a scream at his hideous mask. Then I suppress another one when I realize he’s not wearing one.
    It’s Zak’s nemesis, Cyrax.
    Up close, he’s quite hideous. Nothing I can put my finger on, but there’s something about his face that gives me goose bumps. The dark circles under his eyes, his thinning black hair, his liver-colored lips, and his crooked nose . . . in a sea of unattractive people, Cyrax still stands out.
    â€œGoing somewhere, young lady?”
    His breath isn’t bad, but it has a weird, musty quality, like when you turn on the furnace for the first time in the fall.
    â€œI have to go. Family emergency.” I try to squeeze around him, but he leans to the side.
    â€œIn the middle of the game? But I’m to be your opponent. Surely you can finish the round.”
    I can see why Zak doesn’t like this guy. “I forfeit. You win. Get out of my way.”
    He doesn’t move. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that”—he glances at my name tag—“Ana. This is the winners’ circle. Either we see this through or there’s no victor.”
    I glance at the spectators. The guitarist nods in confirmation.
    Cyrax cracks a smile. I can hear it cracking. “Come, Ana. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long to quit now.” He extends a bony arm. “Let’s play.”
    While I of all people can appreciate the sweat and sacrifice that comes with being a champion at something, now is not the time. This may be my last chance to head Clayton off, and I’m not going to waste it talking to this overgrown ghoul. I attempt to force my way past him.
    He grabs my arm. His knobby fingers tighten around my wrist.
    â€œWe play.”
    Oh, hell no . I throw back my arm and drive my fist into his gut. Not as hard as I can, but enough to let him know that no one grabs me like that. Ever.
    It’s like hitting a scarecrow. My knuckles bury themselves in his shirt, but encounter no resistance. I may as well be striking a bag of leaves. I throw another jab with no effect. He does not let go of my arm.
    He begins to speak as if I hadn’t just slugged him. “You’re a friend of Zak Duquette’s, are you not? Yes, I remember. That must be why you’re so anxious to quit. Because you’re preprogrammed to lose. Just like Zak. Am I right?”
    I attempt to wrench my hand away, but he may as well have me in cuffs. I’m starting to get scared. I could yell for help, but James is gone and I somehow doubt these card players would do much.
    â€œSo will you play or continue to be a loser like your boyfriend?”
    Well, I tried to get away. I did my best. I have no choice. I have to stand up for myself. And for Zak, I guess.
    â€œWell, if you won’t let me leave . . .”
    Cyrax’s mouth expands, revealing his gray teeth.
    â€œThen everybody leaves.”
    With my free hand, I reach out and yank the fire alarm.
    A blaring siren fills the room, just like I expected.
    Cyrax lets go of my arm, just like I planned. Clutching my bow, I make for the door.
    Then the sprinklers activate. Streams of chemical-green liquid rain down on the room, drenching everyone’s very