A ripple of whispers runs across the crowd of students as everyone tries to guess what that might mean.
“Each Captain will select one champion,” Professor Howell says. “Only the champion will compete in the first event.”
Now the mutters are louder and more excited.
“Be aware,” the professor continues. “Whoever you select as champion will not be permitted to compete in any other events of the Quartum Bellum. Also, Captains cannot select themselves.”
Now the mutter is a full-out babble as students begin shouting their suggestions to their Captains.
I can see Leo frowning, wondering who he should choose.
It’s an interesting paradox: you want to pick someone strong enough to win the challenge, whatever it might be. But if you select your strongest competitor, you eliminate them from all subsequent challenges. A choice you might regret in the second and third round.
“Leo Gallo,” Professor Howell says. “You first.”
Leo doesn’t canvas the Seniors to ask their opinion. And he doesn’t hesitate. He looks me dead in the eyes as he declares, “I choose Ares Cirillo.”
My stomach flips over.
Just what I needed: another massive burden on my shoulders.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say.
Leo grins, knowing I’m not exactly thrilled.
“You’ve got this,” he says.
“Your turn,” Professor Howell says to Jacob Weiss.
Jacob considers for several minutes, looking around at his team.
I know why he’s hesitating: the reason the Juniors have repeatedly lost the Quartum Bellum is because they don’t have any all-stars in their year. They have no Leo Gallo or Dean Yenin, no “full package” competitor. Jacob is forced to choose between brains and brawn, skill and strategy, without even knowing the terms of the challenge.
At last, as Professor Howell taps his foot impatiently, Jacob says, “August Prieto.”
August and his friends give a round of whoops. August is from a Brazilian Narco family. Handsome and popular, he was voted Captain in his Freshman year, but his team lost immediately. Jacob is clearly hoping this will be an athletic challenge and not one requiring much strategy.
“Kade Petrov,” Professor Howell says.
Kade takes a deep breath, naming his champion: “Tristan Turgenev.”
The blond giant steps forward with a look of resignation. Tristan is one of the Paris Bratva—an Enforcer already almost as tall as Leo and me, though he isn’t yet full grown.
He’s Kade’s roommate and closest friend. Like Leo, Kade clearly wants to use someone he trusts, willing to risk deploying one of his most valuable soldiers early. After all, there’s no point “saving the best” for the second and third round if you don’t make it past the first.
Now only Sabrina Gallo is left to make her decision. As Professor Howell gives her a nod, she answers without hesitation. “Nix Moroz.”
An uneasy murmur runs through the Freshmen.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Estas Lomachenko says loudly.
Sabrina ignores them all, secure in her authority as Captain. She smiles at Nix, who tries to smile back but only manages to grimace.
“Excellent,” Professor Howell claps his hands sharply. “Now, if you’ll all follow me to the river bottoms . . .”
We troop downhill in a long, snaking line of students. With the champions chosen, speculation runs rampant on what the challenge might be. I don’t bother to guess—we’ll find out soon enough.
Leo falls into pace beside me.
“You don’t mind being out for the rest of the challenges?” he asks me.
“No,” I say. “It’ll be nice to relax and watch for once.” I throw him a look. “You might be watching, too, if I fuck this up.”
“You won’t,” Leo says.
Even though I know Leo is an eternal optimist, his warmth spreads through me regardless. This is why people will follow him anywhere: Leo makes you believe. In this moment, I believe too. Leo chose me because he knows I can win.
As we reach the shady, sun-dappled river bottoms, I can’t help glancing at Nix. We ran through here together. The river is right in front of us—I can hear it though I can’t yet see it. It runs east toward the waterfall.
She looks over at me, a glint in her green eyes. I know she’s thinking the same thing.
The path is roped off, with scarlet markers every hundred yards through the forest ahead.
Professor Howell calls us to attention once more:
“You’ll be running an eight-mile race,” he says. “With several obstacles along the route. Spectators, you may spread out along the route, or you can take the shortcut to the finish line. DO NOT interfere with the course or the racers. If you do, your team will be eliminated. Racers, you must follow the red markers. If you attempt to take a shortcut, or you fail to complete any of the obstacles, you will be eliminated.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Leo says.
“You would think so,” Professor Howell says, with a suspicious look at the assembled teams.
He knows as well as I do that cheating and sabotage are second nature to most of the students.
I take my place at the starting line, right next to Nix.
She’s pulling her insane curls back into a ponytail so thick that she can barely get her hand around it. The elastic band does its best, but snaps after one twist.
“Goddamnit!” Nix curses.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got one,” Sabrina says, taking the band off her wrist and passing it over to Nix.
Nix successfully completes the ponytail, though the elastic is straining like a waistband at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
She sees me staring.
“Just . . . zip it,” she tells me. “I’m not in control of this hair.”
I can’t help laughing. “Have you ever tried cutting it?” I say.
“Yes.” Nix scowls. “It broke the scissors.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking.
“Ready . . .” Professor Howell says, raising his starter pistol.
Nix, Tristan, August, and I all drop to a half-crouch, looking straight ahead through the trees.
I can’t see the obstacles. I have no idea what we’ll be facing.
The pistol fires with an echoing boom that sends several birds rocketing up out of the treetops.
Daddy Issues — Sophia Gonzon
Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple
My legs are churning before I even register that we’ve started.
I dash across the pine needles and soft, springy earth, following once more the bright red banner of Nix’s hair. I can see Tristan on my left, and August ahead of all of us, but it’s only Nix I’m following, like we’re the only two people in the woods.
August is faster than all of us, Tristan the slowest. That means little in the first leg of an eight-mile race. August constantly plays soccer with the other Narco kids, and if this were a simple sprint, he’d surely win. His stamina is a different question.
Tristan Turgenev is in for the long haul. I can hear him puffing along behind me, steady as a freight train.
I feel intensely focused. When I have to wait and worry, my mind runs in circles. But when it’s time to act, I know what to do—at least, when it comes to physical tasks.