Chapter 32. In Which Freedom Has a Price
IN WHICH FREEDOM HAS A PRICE
The Bachelor Island Ghost isn’t a sheet-covered-looking apparition like I expected. He isn’t even slightly see-through. He wears a fringed cotton shirt, loose trousers held up by suspenders, and a farmer’s hat made of straw.
He’s just some guy.
I wake up on a short gasp, sitting up straight.
Jade snores on the other side of our cabin. The space heater hums. Early-morning sunlight filters through the windows.
A dream. Of course, it was a dream.
My heart still pounds like it was real. Dream or not, time is running out.
That’s proven as the weekend before the Monday morning Medal of Victory contest goes by in a blink.
Rivalry between cabins is over now that weekly tests are done, yet the sabotage—pranks, I mean—continue.
During Saturday night’s bonfire, Cabin Theta makes firecrackers out of cardboard and a mixture they found in the labs to use as a propellant, then stuffs small amounts into the marshmallows.
On Sunday morning, Jason’s and Samuel’s boxers get hung on the Canvasback Lake entrance awning for everyone to see.
They’re fun, though. Harmless.
It proves how misguided I was.
Then there’s me, who should be spending every waking moment developing a Medal-worthy project that Mom and Dad would approve of so that Luca doesn’t crush me for a thirty-seventh time.
But then there’s what Benedict told me: I need to piece my and Luca’s hearts back together again.
The thought lingers every time I half-heartedly open my notebook to come up with contest ideas.
I want Luca to win, but I need to submit something for him to be judged against regardless.
As much as I want to believe I’ve changed, the need to do what’s expected of me twists me up inside.
When I relay what Luca said to my cabin, they agree to work on their own projects, too, but I can tell they’re not putting their full brainpower into them, either.
My first instinct is to dig deeper into Dr. Li’s laboratory findings on gait stability to key areas of space exploration, since they’re already so impactful for an astronaut’s balance in space.
It’s what I find fascinating. Not what the rest of the world would.
Every stroke of my pencil and every piece of paper feel heavy in my grasp, knowing the work isn’t my best. Knowing Mom, Dad, and every Prince List student who’s supposed to look up to me would be ashamed.
Yet it also feels right.
It feels good.
Before I know it, the early-Monday-morning bugle blasts through our windows.
By the time I arrive at Lake River Amphitheater, rain sprinkles from the overcast sky and bodies pack the entrance.
Most likely parents of Cabin Gamma and my own cabin, who have come to pray that their kids win the Medal.
Stacked wooden bleachers shaped in a half circle surround the open stage, which perfectly frames its Lake River backdrop.
I hike my folded project board, which I only got around to creating and printing out early this morning, higher under my arm.
My oversized dress shirt slips off my shoulder in the process.
Felix sourced it for me, due to our clothes being shot into Canvasback Lake, along with outfits for the rest of my cabinmates.
“Rory!”
Mom rushes my way through the crowd, extending her arms. Once she reaches me, though, she stutters to a halt and grips my shoulders, keeping firm space between us.
Likely so she doesn’t screw up her satin dress or the ribbon cinching at her waist, which are magically unwrinkled after her early-morning six-hour flight.
“How’s my perfect little prince?” she asks.
The nickname scrapes against my ears like chalk to a board. Only weeks ago, it would’ve sounded like music. “Good. You?”
“Good!” Her gaze promptly drops to my shirt.
I look down and take in its incorrect size once more. Wrinkles are also wreaking havoc on the collar. Not allowed.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, then check over her shoulder. Dad is trailing behind her. Probably purposely keeping his distance from her.
“There you are,” Dad says, greeting me more calmly than Mom. His blazer is a deep forest green, and his crocodile-leather cross-body bag gleams in the sunlight, beaming directly into my corneas. “How’s camp been?”
Too many answers run through my mind. “It’s been … Well, the stars are amazing here.”
“We have bigger matters to discuss,” Mom interjects, the warmth in her voice from before suddenly jumping off a cliff. “Are you excited for the contest?”
I smile weakly. “Yep.”
“I am, too. Stacey and Julio in PR are still working overtime, but things are better. It’s almost impossible to find that video of you online anymore.”
“That’s great.”
“Well, there’s no way to erase people’s memories of that video. So, not fully great.” She waves a dismissive hand. “We change this today. I sense good vibes in the air.”
“I’m against Luca Melendez today,” I say, even though I sincerely don’t want to inform her. “He’s beaten me at every other contest we’ve been at together.”
“Not the one you threw a smoothie at, no?”
“Y-yeah. That one.”
Mom’s face tightens. “I still sense good vibes.”
The more Mom talks, the more apparent it becomes that she had three glasses of wine on the plane. Most likely because those good vibes of hers were already weak to begin with, and now they’ve been KO’d by a tranq gun.
My chest aches. If only Luca had never come to brAIN, then Mom and Dad would be fine. Everything would be.
But he did come. And everything does not feel fine. Not anymore.
Is that fair? Why has this all been placed upon me?
I clear my throat. Stand my ground. Say what I finally need to. “What if I lose? Are you going to pretend I no longer exist?”
Mom blinks at me. “What?”
“That’s what you’d feel like you’d need to do, right?”
“You’re our kid. That’s not how that works.”
“Then why does it feel that way?” My voice grows louder, even though my media training has taught me to never raise my voice in public, and Mom would yell at me for it.
But when I never thought I’d gain enough courage to ask this, I feel like I have to be loud, like all of it will drain out of me if I don’t.
“Why do I feel like one screwup will make me no longer have a family?”
“You have a family,” Mom says, stepping toward me slowly and patting my shoulder with her hand again. I still wish it could be a hug. “Granted, a very untraditional, weird one. But you will always have it.”
“Even if I lose today?”
“If you lose today, then we’ll just have to figure something else out.”
“What if I don’t want to figure something else out? What if I’m tired? What if I don’t want to hold Prince List on my shoulders all by myself?”
Mom’s mouth parts. Her dark, intimidating brows narrow in offense. “Rory, your father and I do a lot for Prince List. Much more than you could understand at your age. We all equally do our part.”
She’s not getting it.
Dad sends an uneasy look between us. Almost like he might be listening to me. For a moment, I trust he’ll speak up. But he doesn’t. Just stays quiet with his arms crossed, the way he always does.
Benedict was right. I’ve wasted seventeen years of my life. It will be best for everyone if I don’t waste any more.
“I need to go set up my stuff,” I mumble.
“Rory!” Mom calls after me.
I’m already walking away with my poster board, heading for the amphitheater’s backstage. They’ve closed the curtains, hiding it from the audience’s view.
Each step up the left wing feels like climbing a mountain. Searching for where I’m supposed to store my poster board, dictated by rows of names written on duct tape before empty easels, feels like doing an impossible puzzle.
Someone grabs my arm.
Benedict. He’s beside me now, his other hand pointing a few slots away from his own project. “Your name’s over here, Rory.”
I silently follow his gesture toward the correct spot, ignoring his worried gaze boring into my back. As I set up my poster board on my easel, my body moves in slow motion.
It’s not fair.
“Thank you for attending brAIN’s illustrious annual Medal of Victory contest,” Jameson’s deep voice comes over the speaker system. “Please kindly find your seats.”
I peek out around the curtain to check where Mom and Dad sit in the audience. Instead, Luca catches my eye, rushing into the third row. A younger and older woman in the aisle seat rise and hug him. As he pulls back, he beams.
That must be Luca’s family. His mom and sister.
I look to my presentation board again. Three panels.
My introduction on the left is concise. My results, however, take up the entire center, with graphs and data that could convince anybody that nanocrystals are the missing puzzle piece to elevated astronaut exploration.
It’s not my strongest work by Mom and Dad’s standards, but the scope of the work is impressive, and there’s real heart behind it.
If I really wanted to, I could still try to win.
Walking back to my poster, I reach my hand toward the center panel. I grab the top of the results paperwork, where the glued edges meet the poster.
I tear the paper off, right down the middle.
The rip cuts through the chatter of the stage, pulling everyone’s attention. I barely care. I rip off the introduction next, the conclusion, and every other piece of paper on the board. I ball them in my hands and shove them into my pockets.
I wait for the shame to kick in. My failure in the eyes of the public to weigh me down, dragging me deep into Lake River.
It doesn’t.
I only feel freer. The way Luca said I would.