When I’m with Dean I don’t have to think, or plan, or worry.
All I have to do is give in to my natural desires. However unnatural they may be.
It washes away the confusing complications of how I feel about Dean, or what I did to Rocco, or the highly inconvenient fact that the Sophomore Captain is none other than Lola-fucking-Fischer.
She looked like the cat that swallowed the canary when her name was posted in the commons. I hoped it would at least put her in a good mood. Unfortunately, it’s only emboldened her and Dixie in their tyranny.
Leo, of course, will be Junior Captain.
Claire Turgenev was chosen by the Seniors.
“They should have picked her last year over that idiot Simon,” Rakel says.
“Leo says he bribed people to vote for him.”
“Plus, they’re just plain sexist,” Rakel says. “The Enforcers always vote for the biggest dude.”
“It’s gonna be stiff competition,” I say nervously. “All the Captains are good.”
“Don’t call Lola ‘good.’ ” Rakel sniffs. “It’s like calling an atom bomb ‘pretty.’ Just doesn’t sound right.”
“She’s smart, though.”
“I think you mean conniving.”
“Talented.”
“Obsessive,” Rakel corrects me.
“Motivated.” I’m trying not to laugh.
“Unhinged,” Rakel says, and we both give in to giggling.
We’re less amused when we see the actual challenge.
The students file out onto the sprawling field outside the stone gates, where we see four large piles of lumber waiting for us. High overhead, a thin wire stretches from the castle wall all the way down to the tree line at the edge of the field. From that wire hangs four flags: white, green, gray, and black. The flags flap in the breeze, suspended fifty feet over our heads.
“Oh, dammit,” Rakel mutters.
We already know without Professor Howell’s explanation that this challenge is definitely going to involve retrieving those flags.
Sure enough, the professor waits until the students have assembled, then uses his theater-level projection skills to shout out, “Welcome to the first round of the Quartum Bellum! As most of you are aware, this is a single-elimination competition. The last team to finish the challenge will be eliminated. Those who finish first and second may win an advantage for the next round, so do your best to finish quickly, even if another team has already achieved the objective!”
We nod, as these are always the base rules. It’s only new information for the few Freshmen who don’t have older siblings to enlighten them.
Professor Howell continues his instructions. I wish I weren’t standing so close to him, because even though he’s only a few inches taller than me, his bellow is deafening.
“The objective today is to retrieve your team’s flag. The tool at your disposal is the lumber you see waiting. You can build any apparatus you like to reach the flag. But you have no hammer or nails—only the wood. There will be no sabotage of the opposing teams in this particular challenge.”
Lola pouts, clearly disappointed by that rule. Sometimes sabotage is allowed, and even encouraged.
“Gather with your team, and we’ll begin!” Professor Howell shouts, raising his pistol overhead.
I bunch up with the rest of the Sophomores, all dressed in identical olive-green t-shirts. Lola is hissing instructions to our team before Professor Howell can pull the trigger.
“The strategy is speed,” she says in an undertone, so the Freshmen and Juniors on either side of us won’t hear. “We need to build a tower as quickly as possible. August, Joss, Carter, take the biggest students and start hauling the wood over. Lyman, Sadie, you’re in charge of engineering—tell the others how to build.”
Much as I dislike Lola, I have to admit she seems to know exactly what to do. The other Sophomores ready themselves, motivated by her confidence.
Professor Howell fires into the clear blue sky.
We all take off running toward the stacks of lumber.
The pieces of wood are irregular in size, rough and untrimmed. Rakel and I grab a log between us, instantly filling our palms with splinters.
“Couldn’t give us any gloves, could they!” Rakel complains.
“At least it’s not raining,” I say.
The one and only challenge in which I competed last year was a morass of mud. Jogging over the springy turf on a sunny day is positively pleasant by contrast, even if I do have to carry this damn log.
By the time Rakel and I haul our burden over beneath the flag, August and Joss have already run to the woodpile and back three times.
“Move your ass!” Dixie David bellows at us on Lola’s behalf.