19. Dean
19
DEAN
C at and I are openly dating now. We spend most of our time together, outside of class time.
I need to be with her, because when I’m not, I’m plagued with a sense of revulsion toward my own future.
I always knew the plan: graduate from Kingmakers, take a position under Danyl Kuznetsov, pay off my two years’ service, then work my way up in the Moscow Bratva until I’m Pakhan.
But now when I picture going back to Moscow, battling with Vanya Antonov for ascendency, forcing the rest of the Bratva to respect and support me, I just feel . . . blank.
I never liked Moscow. I always hated living there.
I ask Snow, “Did you like St. Petersburg? ”
He shrugs. “Well enough.”
“But you wanted to go to America.”
“I wanted to fight at Madison Square Gardens. To me, that represented the ultimate achievement in boxing.”
“And you stayed in New York after.”
“That’s right.”
He’s taking me through a heavy bag workout with intense three-minute rounds. I can only question him during the brief rest period, because otherwise I’m panting too hard to speak.
I pound the bag with all my might until Snow clicks his stopwatch, letting me know I can rest again.
“What’s New York like?” I puff.
“Loud. All the time. Horns, sirens, subway trains, people shouting when they think they’re just talking. It’s constant stimulation—the color and diversity and the scent of the food. You could eat a different kind of food every day and never have the same thing twice. It’s safe, too—surprisingly safe. You can walk around any time, day or night. It’s always busy, always people around.”
He clicks his watch again, prompting me to launch myself at the bag once more, punching, ducking, circling, hitting again, until my three minutes are up .
I flop down on the mats, taking a hefty swig of water. I’m pouring sweat and I’ve got four more rounds to go.
“My mother was from Chicago,” I tell Snow.
“I’ve been there,” he says. “Great city.”
“I was born there. But I haven’t seen it since I was little.”
“Maybe you should visit,” Snow says, clicking his watch once more.
I always thought of Chicago as the place from which we’d been exiled. Forced out by the Gallos.
But it is my heritage just as much as Moscow.
I have American citizenship, not just Russian.
I pound the heavy bag with both fists, enjoying the satisfying thud as it gives way before me.
The second round of the Quartum Bellum takes place in February. The Sophomores have already been eliminated, so I don’t have to worry about Lola Fischer endangering Cat again.
Instead, I have to endure the fiendish creativity of Professor Penmark, who organizes the competition for maximum discomfort. Usually Professor Howell sets up the challenges—this o ne has a sadistic flair that could only come from the master of Torture Techniques.
Professor Penmark orders the three remaining teams to form a horizontal line along the Moon Beach, with our asses in the sand and our feet facing the water.
Then he strings a chain all the way down the line, looped around our wrists and ankles, with several different types of padlocks between each student. The challenge is to pick the locks before the tide comes in and drowns us.
This would be difficult enough if the water weren’t freezing and the waves random and vicious, trying to tug us out into the ocean.
To add to the fun, each team receives only one lock pick that has to be passed along the line student by student.
As soon as Professor Howell fires his starter pistol, the pick begins to move down the line. Progress is spurty, with some students easily popping their padlocks, while others struggle for an agonizing period of time. Several of the locks are in hard-to-reach positions, and the padlocks quickly become jammed with sand and bits of seaweed.
The waves start washing over my knees before the pick is even halfway down the line. Each rush of frigid, salty water makes the students shiver until the chains clatter like castanets .
“I can’t do it,” Coraline Paquet sobs on my left. “My fingers are ice.”
“Pass me the pick,” Motya grunts. “I’ll help.”
Kade, Leo, and Claire have all stationed themselves at the very end of their respective lines, so they’ll be the last to be unchained. Unlike most years, I’ll be sorry to see any of the Captains eliminated, because I know how badly they all want to win.
The water is up to my chest by the time I get the pick. I have to work blind, trying to feel the tumblers when my numb fingers can hardly grip let alone sense.
“I dropped it!” a hysterical Freshman girl shrieks. “I dropped the pick!”
“Find it!” Kade cries. “Comb the sand.”
Chained where he is, he’s incapable of assisting.
“It’s too late!” she cries. “The waves took it!”
I can see Kade gritting his teeth, furious and helpless.
“Find something else!” he cries. “Who has a Bobby pin?”
“I do,” another girl says, further down the line.
“Pass it along,” Kade orders .
The girl pulls the pin from her bun, straightens the minute metal rod, and passes it down the line.
It doesn’t work as well as the lock pick formed for that purpose, but after a few minutes of struggling, the first girl manages to free herself. She passes on the Bobby pin.
The Freshmen are behind now.
I fumble with the last padlock on my right ankle, finally finding the appropriate angle and popping the hasp. I pass the pick along to Ares, glad to get the fuck out of the water.
Now only Ares, Anna, and Leo are left on our team.
Ares finishes quickly, taking only a few seconds to pop his locks.
Anna takes a little longer, as she has four separate padlocks on her length of chain. She grits her teeth, her slim shoulders shaking as the icy water hits her again.
“You’ve got this,” Leo murmurs to her.
“Almost there . . .” Anna mutters, and finally the chains fall away.
She passes Leo the pick.
The water is up to his neck now, and the next wave hits him right in the face. He holds tight to the pick, jamming it into the lock .
Meanwhile, the shorter Claire Turgenev is already almost entirely underwater. She has to tilt her head all the way back to catch a breath between the waves.
Stubbornly, she refuses to submit.
“Don’t you fucking stop, Jasper,” she says to the second-last Senior, spitting out a mouthful of seawater.
Jasper Webb pops the last lock and presses the pick into her hand.
Claire takes one final gulp of air, then lets the waves wash over her as she blindly tries to pick her locks underwater.
I watch the place where she disappeared, wondering if she’s really going to drown herself rather than give in.
“Got it!” Leo says, popping up like Harry Houdini with the chains dropping away.
Claire still hasn’t emerged. I glance at Professor Howell, wondering what he’s waiting for.
He watches the spot where Claire submerged, silently counting the seconds she’s been under. A full minute passes.
Professor Howell frowns, unable to even see air bubbles rising in the rough surf. He uncrosses his arms, ready to intervene.
Right as he takes a step forward, his sneaker sinking into the wet sand, Claire jumps up, drenched and shaking .
“Done!” she coughs.
The waves tumble over Kade Petrov and the three remaining Freshmen, dragging them out with the chains still wrapped tight around them. Professor Penmark and Professor Howell rush forward to haul them out of the water. One of the Freshman boys retches up seawater and one of the girls looks close to tears.
“No!” Kade sputters. “We weren’t done!”
“You’re out of time,” Professor Howell says. “The other teams are done.”
Kade stands on the beach, shaking with cold and acridly disappointed. He can’t meet the eyes of his teammates.
I clap him on the shoulder, making him jump.
“You did well,” I say. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“We lost,” Kade says. “We’re out of the challenge.”
“Not everything is in your control.”
“Then how come Adrik always manages to win?” Kade says bitterly.
“I don’t know.” I shake the seawater out of my eyes. “I’m not Adrik, either. ”
Kade looks up at me, remembering who he’s talking to—not a perpetual champion like Adrik or Leo. Just another person who sometimes takes it in the teeth, despite all he can do.
“Hey, I meant to tell you,” Kade says awkwardly, “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“He made his choice,” I say, shrugging it off.
I hate that my father had to embarrass me one last time in such a public way. I’ve squashed the attempts of any of my friends to talk about it. The only person I’ve discussed it with is Cat. And Snow, the day I found out what happened.
We all have to make the long walk back up to school, shivering beneath the towels that Professor Howell handed out.
I walk with Kade, even though we’re not talking, because I know how it feels to be alone with your failure.