Chapter 16 #3
The rock flies. Sam’s friend yelps, windmills her arms, then drops, screaming as she tumbles.
Bracelets flash. A shoe flies off midair.
She hits the ground hard. Sam’s eyes narrow, and her face flushes crimson.
A flicker of guilt cuts through me, quick and sharp, but I ignore it.
This is the game we were raised for, and I always play to win.
I can’t waste time dwelling on Sam because Jackson’s got out his rocks now. His first one sails in my direction, but I’m too far away. It lands thudding at my father’s feet. A few inches higher and it would’ve hit him in the face. I would’ve paid to see that.
The rest of Jackson’s rocks strike true. He knocks six kids off their poles, including Lincolnson. They go down like dominos.
Now there are eleven of us left. Sam and her girls make five. Me. Thomson. Jackson just out of reach. Three other boys are scattered, one in the center, two on the far end.
As I watch, one of them wavers. Slips. Falls.
Ten.
Thomson clicks his tongue, a quiet summons. When I glance over, he gives a subtle signal, hands rising halfway to his face. I nod, muscles tensing. I know what’s coming. No one else notices when he lifts his pinkies to the corners of his mouth.
They sure as shit notice the whistle.
It rips through the air, sharp, shrill, and awful. I’ve heard it before, many times. He likes to use it when we play hide and seek in the woods or when our fathers come home drunk and he warns me to run. I’ve got my fingers in my ears before it even begins.
The others aren’t so lucky. Two of Sam’s girls flinch and fall, clutching their ears as they topple. Another boy loses balance and crashes down. Even Jackson stumbles, arms flailing, though he manages to recover, damn him.
Now there are seven of us.
I glance over at Thomson and raise my eyebrows to silently ask if he has any more ideas, but he frowns and shakes his head.
That’s when it hits me that our greatest enemy isn’t the other kids.
It’s time. How long can I stand here? How long can I survive in this precarious position?
Already my feet are falling asleep, pins and needles shooting up my legs whenever I shift my weight.
I won’t give up, though. Not with everyone watching me. Especially not with my father here. I pretend this pole is my throne, and I was born to stand on it.
Minutes, hours pass. The sun sinks lower on the horizon.
One of the girls next to Sam falls.
Six.
The air cools as night creeps into the clearing. Below me, the fallen kids sit in clumps, their bodies slouched, their voices soft. Every so often, a trickle of laughter floats upward, a sharp contrast to the agony of those of us still standing.
Even the High Council has taken their seats now, nibbling on sandwiches and sipping water like this is a relaxing evening picnic.
It irritates me, watching them eat like they’ve earned it.
Like watching us suffer has worked up their appetite.
I bet if more of us start dropping dead, they’d ask for dessert. The assholes.
Once the adults finish, they pass sandwiches and drinks out to the kids on the ground. My stomach cramps with hunger. It’s not just empty. It’s hollow, aching.
The council gathers a group of children and sends them into the woods.
I watch, curious, until they return carrying branches and logs as thick as my arm.
A fire is built, close to the poles, which I’m sure is on purpose.
When the wind shifts, streams of black smoke waft our way, acrid and stinging.
I gag, my eyes burning. I’m not the only one.
Jackson hacks into his sleeve. The other kid sputters, coughing so hard he loses his balance and plummets to the ground with a screech.
Five left. Two girls. Three boys, including me.
Even from this height, I hear when the crickets begin their nighttime symphony. A pair of bats wheel overhead, looping through the twilight sky. I cheer them on, rooting for them as they chase and devour the mosquitoes that have plagued me all day.
I crack my neck and wiggle my toes to keep the blood flowing.
We must’ve been up here six or seven hours by now.
Jackson’s got his eyes closed, and his posture softens.
His head dips to his chest, jerks up, dips again as he fights against sleep.
It doesn’t work. He keeps nodding off. I watch him closely, praying for him to fall, until finally he does.
For such a big guy, he has a quiet landing.
It’s a soft thud, like the earth didn’t want to catch him.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. That’s right. Sleep tight, asshole.
Time moves forward with excruciating slowness. Next to me, Thomson is a statue. So frozen I keep checking to make sure he’s still there.
The fire burns low, until it’s embers. Children sleep around it with hands flung out or tucked under their cheeks. The High Council is awake but not paying attention to us. They talk quietly among themselves, probably planning for world domination or destruction. It could be either with them.
The moon is high and full, a nightlight above me. My pole sways like it’s trying to rock me to sleep, but I resist, blinking rapidly. It’s probably been ten hours now.
I let my mind wander, so I’m not looking to see what exactly triggers it.
All I know is the girl next to Sam, Abbie I think, is suddenly dancing on top of her pole with an expression of terror.
Her arms flail, searching for something, anything, to hold on to.
She grabs Sam. It’s not calculated, not a betrayal, just pure, panicked instinct.
Sam jerks and tries to wrench free, but it’s too late.
They teeter for one drawn-out second, and then they’re gone.
They tumble to the ground, where Sam lands on top of Abbie in a tangle of limbs.
I hold my breath, releasing it only when they both stand uninjured, with Abbie pulling Sam to her feet.
Sam shakes her off, then sends me a resentful glare.
I don’t blame her. In a weird way, I feel cheated too.
I wanted to beat her fair and square, not watch her get dragged down by someone else’s panic.
I turn to Thomson and give him a thumbs up, to let him know we’re close now. Just me and him. At least one of us will win, I think to myself, comforted by that idea. Instead of returning my gesture, he lifts a hand in a lazy salute and steps off his pole like he’s going for a stroll.
I watch, stunned, as he drops without hesitation. No struggle. No drama. He hits the ground and easily springs to his feet. My mouth goes slack, unable to believe he gave me the win. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or abandoned. Maybe both.
Silence falls over the clearing. Then, from below, a single sharp whistle. It comes from one of the High Council members. My father, I think. A signal to show the test is over.
I’ve won.
I expect to feel pride, elation, triumph, but all I feel is sore. My body aches, my feet burn, and my hands are skinned and throbbing. My chest hurts too, but in a different way. It’s empty. A bitter, uneasy feeling.
I stay perched on top of the pole, unsure if I’m allowed to come down. Unclear about what happens next. Do I get applause? A pat on the back? Maybe a parade?
Doubt it.
I look down at the carnage. The kids on the ground.
Some bruised. Some broken. Henryson dead.
The High Council rises slowly. They stretch.
My father doesn’t smile. No one does. They just gather themselves and wait, expectantly, as if I’m a product they’ve been testing for flaws and now it’s time to clock out.
The kids who are awake stand too, and I feel their eyes on me. They’re jealous, resentful. I wanted to get a medal I could hang around my neck, but all I won was a target on my back. After this, I’ll be the boy to beat, which means they’ll come after me harder than ever before.
My stomach churns, but I swallow it down. I force my legs to move. Swing one over. Then the other. Slide down the pole inch by inch until my feet finally hit dirt.
It’s done.
I’m the last one standing.
***
I jolt awake, released from the dream now that the story is over. My chest heaves like I’ve been running. Sweat slicks my skin, cold and clammy despite the blanket tangled around my legs.
For a second, I’m disoriented. I don’t know where I am. The pole. The clearing. The children. It all lingers in my head like it’s still happening. Like I’m still up there, waiting for someone to tell me what it meant. What all that suffering was for.
I shake my head and look around to confirm this is my room at Ashford House. My bed. My breath loud in the quiet.
The ache in my body is a leftover memory, but the bitterness? The sorrow? That’s real. It always is after that particular dream.
Some victories don’t feel like wins. Just proof you survived what should’ve killed you.
I sit up, elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. It takes a few minutes to calm my breathing, to settle my heart rate back to its normal speed. Finally, I lay back down, but my mind stays alert and restless, shifting through the past.
I roll over to find Laurel next to me, bathed in moonlight that paints her silver and gold.
With her eyes closed, there’s no reason for me not to stare.
To take in the gentle curve of her cheek, her lips slightly parted, her hair spilling across the pillow, a dark tangled halo.
Her hand stretches toward me with her palm open like even in sleep she’s offering me something.
Last time I had a nightmare, her presence helped. Maybe it’ll work again. Carefully, quietly, I inch closer. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing remains slow and steady.
I hesitate. My pride flares to life and tells me to be strong. Not to need this.
But I do.
I press my fingers to hers, just the tip to her skin which is warm, soft. At that simple contact, something inside me loosens. My breath comes easier. My frantic thoughts slow and settle.
My hand curls gently around hers, not enough to disturb her, just enough for comfort.
I wonder what Laurel would do if I woke her, told her about my dream, my brutal past. Would she pull me close?
Tell me it’s okay to be upset or afraid.
That not every battle has to be fought alone.
Or, more likely, would she respond with revulsion?
Knowing the scars in me run deeper than the skin on my back.
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to pollute how she sees me or risk the fragile equilibrium we’ve built recently.
One more precarious than the balance I had on that pole.
I don’t wake her. Instead, I hold her hand gently in mine. I let that touch push back the darkness that waits every time I close my eyes, knowing she can’t find out about this, about how I reached for her like she’s a lifeline and I’m drowning.
I’ll keep it a secret. This weakness of mine.