“This is the first year a few select American high school teams have been invited,” she continued. “Kings Row, along with several of our rivals for state. Please tell me you can all come. This could be what gives us the edge we need to win.”
Harvard was the one who spoke up. Their captain was the best fencer aside from Seiji, and he was great at dealing with people, which was… not one of Seiji’s strengths. Nicholas knew everyone at Camp Menton would like Harvard. Their captain was the coolest.
“Coach,” Harvard said in a low, thoughtful tone, “there’s the issue of cost.”
Their coach’s face fell, as though she’d been so excited that she hadn’t even considered this.
Oh. Yeah, that made sense.
“Other state teams are attending?” Seiji asked in a sharp voice. “Which ones? Exton?”
“MLC and Exton,” Coach admitted. “Of course, it’s not mandatory to attend Camp Menton! None of you should feel you have to go. It’s an honor to be invited. I only wanted to tell you guys about… the honor.”
She didn’t sound convinced, though, and Nicholas didn’t find her convincing. Kings Row had never won state. Nicholas had really been hoping this would be the year—showing everyone that he really did deserve that scholarship.
And if Nicholas’s father found out, he might be proud.
“I don’t need to train at Camp Menton,” Seiji said sharply. “I can train here.”
Eugene sighed. “Yeah, I guess we can train here. Still, it would be amazing to go.”
“If you want to go, then go,” snapped Seiji, as if the solution was obvious.
There was a silence. Eugene stared at the floor with sudden fixed concentration.
“Be serious, Seiji,” said Nicholas, because he deeply enjoyed offending always-serious Seiji when he said that. “It costs millions of dollars to go to France.”
Seiji’s eyebrows judged Nicholas. “Thousands at the most.”
Nicholas shrugged. “Same thing.”
“Mathematically speaking,” said Seiji, “no.”
“Practically speaking, Seiji,” Nicholas riposted, “yeah. Doesn’t really matter how much it is if you don’t have anything.”
Seiji paused, brows now drawn together in a vehement black V, as though he were solving a complex calculus problem.
Eugene’s head hung low with embarrassment. Harvard laid a hand on his shoulder. Eugene didn’t have as much money as the other kids at Kings Row, but he still seemed pretty rich to Nicholas; Eugene said it was all relative. As the resident scholarship kid, it was obvious to Nicholas that fancy European trips were out of the question. Nicholas didn’t understand what was so embarrassing about that.
It felt like they were disappointing Coach, though.
“Sorry, Coach,” Nicholas added.
“No, Nicholas,” said Coach. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Seiji and I were having a practice bout,” Nicholas offered. “We’ll get back to it.”
“You do that,” said Coach, and when everyone got up, she held up a hand. “Hang back, Captain, would you? I want a word.”
Harvard sat back down, but the rest filed out of the coach’s office, in lower spirits than before. There’d been other guys who’d tried out for the fencing team, good guys and good fencers like Kally and Tanner, who could’ve afforded a trip to France easily, but they hadn’t made the cut.
“Do you want to go to Camp Menton?” Seiji demanded abruptly.
“Sure.” Nicholas tried to smile. “Same way I’d like to fly around in a private jet or have superpowers. Have I told you what my superhero name would be? I’ve figured out a cool one.”
“No, Nicholas,” said Seiji. “For the last time, I don’t want to hear your superhero name. Do some drills. I have to go make a call. I mean, take a call.”
“From who?” Nicholas yelled after him.
The call had to be from Seiji’s dad. Nobody else ever called Seiji. Even though Nicholas thought Seiji was very cool, he was pretty sure he was Seiji’s only friend. Seiji seemed to generally dislike people and didn’t even talk to his former fencing partner.
Seiji’s dad had started calling more over the last few weeks. Nicholas didn’t listen in, but he could hear from the other side of the shower curtain Seiji’d hung up in their room that the calls seemed oddly brief and businesslike. But it must be nice to have your dad call you. Nicholas’s dad didn’t even know who he was.
Nicholas glanced over at Eugene, but he was already slinking toward the gym, obviously crushed that he couldn’t go to Camp Menton. When upset, Eugene liked to lift his feelings away. Nicholas headed out. It was almost sunset, and when he could, he liked to be outside for the magic hour.
Nicholas had been at Kings Row for weeks now, longer than he and his mom had lived in some of their apartments before getting evicted. He’d never, for any length of time, lived anywhere like this. He’d never even dreamed of a place like this.
When the sun set on the sprawling buildings, the mullioned windows shone as brilliantly as gold, and the redbrick glowed crimson. Nicholas could go outside and sit in the open on the lawn, like he was doing today, or wait under the shadow of the trees, and just marvel that this school was his.
He didn’t need Camp Menton. He had this.
He loved Kings Row. He loved fencing. He loved—
Just then, his reverie was interrupted by Seiji marching toward him.
“I thought you would return to the salle and practice your footwork!” said Seiji sternly. “Come back with me at once.”
Nicholas stretched as he scrambled up from the grass. “Don’t know why we’re suddenly in a hurry, but okay.”
“There’s no time to be lost!”
Sometimes, Nicholas saw what people meant when they said Seiji was “very, very, very intense.” Mostly, though, he thought people were being ridiculous.
Seiji accelerated, dodging and weaving around the throng of Kings Row students who just hung out in their free hours. Nicholas tried to catch up and almost slammed right into Aiden, the last member of the Kings Row team, who was leaving a dorm room that wasn’t his.
“Watch where you’re going, freshman,” Aiden snarled.
Usually when Aiden appeared anywhere, his fan club fluttered around him like adoring bluebirds, and the sun danced in his hair. His voice was typically warm and amused, like he was mentally on a tropical beach.
This evening, it seemed as if a tropical storm had arrived, sending the tourists running and turning the white sand gray. Aiden’s hair, normally imperfectly perfect, was wild. It looked as if someone had pressed ash-covered thumbs under both his eyes, leaving dark marks beneath them. He was buttoning up his wrinkled uniform shirt, concealing a string of small bruises running up from his chest to his chin, as though he’d been hit multiple times with the hilt of a sword.
Nicholas truly had no idea why anyone would be getting dressed in somebody else’s room, let alone how someone would get those bruises. But somehow even those things weren’t as weird as the blankness in Aiden’s eyes.
Nicholas shook his head.
Aiden. What was up with that guy lately?