Chapter 1. In Which I Cause the Apocalypse #2
I shove away her voice and power through with my carefully crafted poster-boy smile.
My ten years of media training have taught me well.
It’s helped me survive the competitive ways of Stuyvesant High School, with an acceptance rate close to Harvard’s.
And my student council speeches as vice president.
And especially Mom and Dad’s boring investor dinners. It won’t fail me now.
“When I conducted a blind search on a subset of data from the Chandra X-Ray Observatory,” I go on, “my automation had an accuracy of ninety-nine point five percent. Plus, I rediscovered the transit of M51 and thirteen new candidates within eight distinct systems.”
My faith that I can still win returns as the words leave my lips. I discovered thirteen new planetary candidates. A feat that NASA couldn’t achieve. How could Mom not think this is impressive, Prince List–level work?
How could Luca possibly beat this?
“This isn’t just a step forward in detecting extragalactic planets,” I add, close to fainting myself with the excitement shooting through me now. “It’s a leap toward understanding the resilience of planetary systems even in the most hostile corners of the universe—”
A bang resounds in the pavilion, echoing through the rafters.
I whip my head toward the double doors.
Everyone else does, too.
A figure is bent over in the doorway, heaving heavy breaths.
He doesn’t wear a proper competition suit.
Instead, a leather letterman jacket, jock shorts, and socks that go up to his knees.
In one arm, he holds a sports bag that screams LONG BEACH MARINES HOCKEY on the side.
A poster board is tucked under his other.
Even though his dark curls are scattered messily across his tan complexion and mask his face, I could pick him out in the dimmest black holes of the Bootes Void.
Luca Melendez sprints through the lines of poster boards.
He smacks his own board into several contestants’ bodies along the way, haphazardly tossing out apologies until he reaches his designated spot marked on the floor.
Dropping his hockey bag with a clunk, he surveys the area until he lands in front of my poster.
No, in front of Professor Hiller, still standing beside me.
“My bad, my bad, I’m here,” Luca says to Professor Hiller, cutting into my allotted three minutes.
His hand clasps on to one of the professor’s pristine shoulder pads like they’re best buds, his gold rings shimmering in the lights.
Every time I’m forced to see him, his hands are drowning in rings.
Does he seriously play sports with them on?
“Hockey practice ran late. Can I still show you what I got?”
My mouth hangs open.
Years ago, I would have assumed that Luca was purposely causing a commotion to cut into my time and screw me over. Now that I’ve endured him for three years, I’ve learned the cold hard truth: He’s simply too oblivious to notice others.
Or, in my opinion, care about them.
Whispers come from the crowd that gathered around me. A few laughs. As if this is funny.
In what universe?
Professor Hiller eyes his shoulder pad like he’ll need to burn it the moment he returns to his million-dollar Brooklyn penthouse.
Then he scans Luca’s letterman jacket, a new addition to his wardrobe as of last October.
At least, that’s the first time I saw the LONG BEACH CERTIFIED patches embroidered on the front and back.
And the student council president patch.
And the LB chenille letter on the left chest, labeling him the best hockey player on his varsity team.
Because having the highest grades in Long Beach High history wasn’t enough.
Finally, Professor Hiller lands on Luca’s shorts with an equal amount of judgment. “Do you believe your project is worth an exception?”
“Yessir, I swear on my mom’s life, you won’t be disappointed.” Luca grins widely enough to show his flawless set of teeth.
If I could say or do anything I wanted, I would shout that it’s still my time. But maintaining a perfect public image means never shouting. Or demanding.
So, I wait. The professor will restart my time when he returns to me. He has to.
In contrast to my stoically patient demeanor, Luca’s charm stands out.
It always does. While I put on my most professional voice at high-profile competitions, Luca seems to take pride in his higher-than-average pitch and dorky modulation in between, caused by the growing pains of puberty. He doesn’t even try to hide the cracks.
Then there’s his perfect face, which has always been an enigma.
His jaw is sharp and prominent from all that hockey, pinning him as frustratingly societally hot.
Yet his wide deep brown eyes and rosy round cheeks also soften him in a way that I’ve overheard other contestants refer to as cute. He can pull everything off.
And, of course, he doesn’t acknowledge I’m here. Doesn’t even spare me a glance.
Because he has no clue I exist.
As the face of Prince List, I’ve had every part of my life broadcast to the world.
When I got my cast in the second grade after Brian Lopez stepped on my arm during a recess baseball game.
When my personal stylist switched out my formal dresses for polos and slacks in the sixth grade.
When Mom and Dad changed every mention of their daughter to their son in official documents and advertisements a year and a half ago, which was discussed on practically every news station.
Yet, somehow, Luca has never noticed or acknowledged me. Not before I started presenting as a boy, and not now, either. He’s too egotistical to notice who he beats.