Chapter Thirteen
I WAS TOO young to know what was going on when my Uncle Clive was drafted for the NFL, but I remember how my grandmother reacted when they called his name.
She wasn’t the most emotive person, actually she was kind of cold as far as grandmas go, but where anyone else would be jumping and screaming for their son’s success, she simply … sat down.
I was the only one looking at her; the day was about Clive.
There were too many people clustered around our TV and I didn’t like the noise, so I had retreated to my favorite hiding spot under the dining room table.
From under there I had a view of grandma and not much else.
They called Clive’s name and she sat down, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen her. But she was smiling.
Six-year-old me concluded that grandma needed a nap before she could be happy, but now I think I know the real reason for that smile.
She was relieved. The waiting was over, her work was done; all the years she spent sacrificing to give Clive the best possible shot at his dream had paid off. She could finally sit down.
This kind of feels like that, except the opposite, and not at all, and worse.
“Zora …” Trieu warns me without looking up from his phone.
He’s still trying to troubleshoot the connection between his phone and the TV, specifically so we can watch Brian Juno reveal the results of the Wizz-Algorithm’s week one calculations as if they’re an NFL draft, a parody video idea that I neither supported nor shot down because if these people find out I know anything about football, they might put together that I’m related to Clive.
I don’t know why I care about that so much, but I do.
I think I just want this summer to be something I do by myself, completely separate from his legacy.
Trieu follows up his warning with a command: “Stop. Picking. Your lips.”
My hand freezes a few inches away from my face.
Busted. I can’t help it, though. I feel all nervous and zoomy inside and when that happens, I pick my lips.
I’ve never been good at waiting, and with the Fourth of July tomorrow, this wait is unpredictably punctuated with the sharp crack-pop of fireworks echoing off the tar-sticky roofs of Lincoln Center.
At least I hope they’re fireworks. Great, let’s add the bloated American specter of gun violence to the list of reasons I’m crashing out.
It was Ivan’s idea to wait for the news in the lounge instead of at the Wizzard Theater with everyone else.
He said it was to give our content a more “intimate vibe,” which matches our brand as the tight-knit coalition where love can apparently blossom.
I suspect there’s another reason, though.
I think he did it to spare me the crowd and knew I wouldn’t ask for myself.
Which is so nice, like, genuinely thoughtful, and that’s really the heart of the problem.
Ivan Hunt is an amazing boyfriend. Or he would be, if any of this were real.
I don’t know if he went to Juilliard in a past life or what, but the boy can act.
Objectively I know there’s a difference between acting and lying, but it’s hard to remember that when Ivan is waiting outside my dorm room door with a bouquet of bodega flowers (with Kavi rolling digital tape to cut the staged gesture into a WiTch clip).
Or when he’s holding his jacket over my hair when a freak summer storm catches Team Vision on our way up Broadway with fifteen blocks to go and my twist-out barely a day old (not recorded, but only because by the time we got inside all three of them looked exactly like those oily ducks on the dish soap bottles. My hair was fine, though.).
This morning, he said “good morning” to me, as if he cares if my mornings are good.
Or yesterday, when Kavi showed everyone the outfits she pulled for me to wear for the ranking reveal today, he actually said “that one would look nice on you.” What gives?
Don’t even get me started about him offering to pick up my lunch after our seminar with the GLR character designers on Thursday, like some kind of love-bombing charlatan.
And yet, for all his fawning attention, he’s late to meet us here.
“There we go,” Trieu’s phone finally connects to the TV. A few taps later and we’re watching the countdown to Brian Juno’s first Saturday live stream from the academy.
“Can we see how many people are watching?” Kavi asks him.
“Fifteen thousand in the waiting room on WiTch. Getting bigger. Looks like they turned off the comments on the stream.”
“That’s fine,” Kavi waves her hand dismissively. “Would have been nice to get a temperature check, though.”
“Yeah, but our impressions are good. I know the comment section on WiTch is super moderated but the tone has been trending up. There’s excitement Ivan’s back, lots of curiosity about Zora, and that Kal Ho Na Ho x GLR parody video you did on the Brooklyn Bridge is still circulating.”
“Never underestimate the social sharing power of aunties,” Kavi adds, looking pleased.
I just let them talk when they get like this.
They might be speaking English, but I’ll never know for sure.
I have only known Kavi and Trieu for six days, and it amazes me how they are my age and run their whole lives like a business.
Being a professional teenager is work, and now after a week of trauma bonding and after-hours scheming at the diner, two of the best ones are my … mentors? Fellow adventurers?
Friends. The word I’ll settle on is friends.
“There’s only like a minute left on the countdown,” Cass says quietly from his spot on the couch. “Somebody should probably find Ivan. Not me, though.”
“They should not. I come pre-found.” Ivan announces himself with a flourish. “Sorry I’m late, I had to, uh …” He looks at me, arms crossed and not not pouting in the armchair. “I, um.”
“Spit it out, dude.” Cass, from the couch, completely monotone.
“I left something at the Wizzard. And Zora, you look nice.”
I actually feel a shudder of pride at the compliment before I remember he’s just performing. For whom, I’m not sure. It’s just Team Vision in the room. Ivan takes his seat in the armchair opposite me and raises his eyebrows in some unreadable gesture.
It’s just a game, I tell myself. It’s a story.
You are a character in a story that ends with you as Brian Juno’s favorite person ever.
And that’s still not enough to stop me from feeling self-conscious around Ivan in a way that I’ve never experienced before.
Which is worrying, because before this summer I would have sworn that my awkward self has experienced every kind of consciousness one can have about feeling weird in public.
But, as it turns out, there will always be new lows for me to hit in that department.
The countdown ends with the grand, orchestral sting of the Guardians League series and tries to segue into the regular stream, but the video quality is so blocky it looks like a ten-year-old tried to recreate the Wizzard Theater in Minecraft.
The sound isn’t any better. It’s choppy and disorienting, to the point where I have to jam a knuckle in one ear to mitigate the noise.
“Hey! Turn it off,” Ivan says quickly. “Trieu, come on.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Trieu winces and stops screensharing to the TV.
“Is the stream any better on your phone?” Kavi leans over Trieu’s shoulder.
“Nope.” He holds his screen up to show us that the entire WiTch page for the summer academy is down.
Kavi throws her hands up. “Ugh! Brian, get your shit together,” she hisses with a vehemence I haven’t seen her express until now.
Bing. Din! Bada-boop. Bzzt. Zoop. Five phones, five email notifications coming through at the exact same time. Team Vision exchange panicked looks. Without the stream, there has to be a way to communicate the results to the academy players … and I’m pretty sure that’s happening right now.
This is it, the moment of truth. We haven’t said anything out loud, but I think all of us are waiting on the results of the first week to determine whether any of this is worth the effort.
I try to think of a number I want to hit, the cutoff after which I consider this a massive failure, and settle on the number forty-two.
Get me above forty-two and I’m in for the summer.
Anything below and I’m out. I’ll find a new strategy, I don’t care.
If I’m going to make a fool of myself with Ivan, it needs to be quantifiably worth it.
See, now I got myself doing math. My game performance shouldn’t drag me down.
I crushed it in the match this morning—top five, baby!
—but will my first match disqualification mess up those numbers?
Is Brian averaging them? Do comments pull more weight than likes?
I don’t know how the Wizz-Algorithm works.
No one does, and without that knowledge we’re all just flinging romantic, interracial spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks.
Five clicks, five phones unlocked. I hold mine far away from my face, tapping the email open at arm’s length.
Dear Academy Players,
Wow, what a week. After a shaky start, our Summer Academy Royale is blah blah blah, recap recap, whatever, I’ll read this part later. Show me the rankings, Brian.
“Holy shit.” Trieu actually puts his hand to his mouth and gasps. Spoilers! I scroll faster until I hit the bottom of the email and open the attached PDF and scan the columns only for the relevant information.
#8 Ivan Hunt
#20 Trieu Vu
#23 Kavi Khurana
#30 Cassius Sharpe
#32 Zora Lyon
Overshot my goal by ten. From the shocked, happy looks on Kavi’s, Trieu’s, and Ivan’s faces, we’re having the exact same thought. It’s Ivan who puts it into words.
“Okay”—he nods at the screen—“so we’re doing this.”