Chapter 8. In Which I Suddenly Hate the Irish, Even Though I Am Irish
IN WHICH I SUDDENLY HATE THE IRISH, EVEN THOUGH I AM IRISH
When “Reveille” blasts through the windows bright and early the next day, I’m already wide-awake. My brain, like usual, kept me up with nightmares of Mom and Dad telling me I’m a failure. Then of Luca. Then of Jade’s rat.
That won’t happen today. Despite my team’s equally nightmarish study session yesterday, I can carry us to the Medal of Victory alone.
I check my watch. Half an hour early.
Good, on time, Mom says in my mind.
A few other campers have arrived as well, sitting among the hundreds of open seats.
They could be from Cabin Iota or Theta, my competition for the day, but I have no clue what they look like.
I’ll need to find out. It’s necessary to analyze competition from afar as much as possible to gain an upper hand.
I pick up on one group strangely resting their heads and sleeping instead of chatting like everyone else.
When I ask a stranger sitting behind me for intel, she claims they’re from Delta and that lab timers from the Shared Instrumentation Facility were planted in their cabin, set to ring randomly through the night.
More campers file in, my cabinmates sprinkled among them. They join me at our table, but no one speaks to one another.
Fine by me. I don’t need them anyway.
Once the clock strikes exactly ten—late—Luca decides to grace us with his presence.
He walks down the aisle dividing the lecture hall seats with his typical unhurried gait, hands casually tucked in his jeans pockets.
He pulls one out to run his gold-ring-clad fingers through his dark curls, and the sleeves of his sports-branded T-shirt shift around his arm muscles enough to pull the attention of classless spectators.
He’s calm. Like he has no doubts that his cabin will win their bracket. Maybe he sabotaged Delta last night. He’s up against them and Beta today.
My blood boils in the way my body reserves solely for him as he approaches my row. I expect him to keep moving, but he stops at my side.
Then, more unexpectedly, he pulls a stem out of his pocket. No, a clover. He winks as he sets it down in front of me. “Good luck today.”
He seriously brought a clover. To imply just how much I’ll need it.
It doesn’t even have four leaves.
“Likewise,” I say professionally, the way I’ve been trained. I don’t dare touch the clover in case it’s been soaked in snake venom.
At the podium, two women in business casual start introducing themselves as admissions faculty who will be proctoring the exam, so Luca finds his seat.
They explain that we will be tested on speed and accuracy—being fast is good but not if you’re wrong, and being right is good but not if you’re slow.
These factors will combine to determine who wins.
They’ll only speak to announce the remaining time, and we can’t speak at all.
This is to test the efficacy of our preparation and teamwork.
One hour is put up on the projector screen, and they tell us to begin.
I reach for the test packet on Christiana’s desk at the same time as Benedict.
Our grips lock into a standstill, the packet pulling taut and nearly ripping.
Benedict glares.
I glare back.
Christiana seizes the packet from us, then silently starts to delegate questions with an opinionated pointer finger, blowing up my plan of completing this test alone.
After hearing the proctor’s speech about speed being a vital factor, though, I should allow my cabinmates an opportunity to complete their own questions.
I acquiesce and take my assignments without complaint.
Once I solve my first question about the density of paint cans in water, Benedict insists on double-checking my work, unnecessarily slowing us down.
When Benedict finishes his question about sodium-potassium pumps and membrane polarization, and I pointedly gesture to check him as well, he tosses his pencil in offense and opens his copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, tapping out of the test entirely.
Christiana attempts some peacemaking, but because speaking isn’t permitted, she’s stuck with puppy eyes that are left ignored.
Jade is passed a few social science questions, but she gets distracted by her rat in her sweatshirt, which she apparently recaptured.
A loud page flip comes from my right.
Cabin Gamma. Luca holds their packet, and he’s moved onto the second page. His upper lip is hitched, like he’s reveling in the fact that his was the first flip to cut through the hall.
I look down at our first page. Four more problems left.
“Forty-five minutes,” an admissions faculty member announces from the podium. Her sights are set on Cabin Gamma, like she’s stunned by how quickly they’re speeding along.
I pick up my pencil and write a guess for the question Jade left unanswered about the stages of sleep.
The letters on the page start to morph into visions of Luca speeding through his test, making me self-conscious about my own slow pace.
A page flip comes from Iota’s table, then Theta’s.
The clock may still tick, but defeat already forms a hole in my stomach.
Even if we had all the time in the world, we wouldn’t stand a chance.