Since its debut in 1965, the Blazewrath World Cup has taken the world by storm. Perry Jo Smith, British football legend and Silver Wand, founded the International Blazewrath Federation and began the tradition of handpicking which nations would compete every two years. Smith had been keen on including non-rider athletes in the tournament as well, which led to the creation of the Runner position. “Anyone can be a Runner,” Smith once said. “You are not less because you do not have a dragon steed. We hope to encourage youth from all walks of life to try out for their country’s team. It will be an honor for us to witness you thrive among marvels.”
—Excerpt from Harleen Khurana’s A History of Blazewrath Around the World
THIS ISN’T HOW I PLANNED ON GETTING FAMOUS.
For the past hour, all sorts of people have been trying to get a picture of me. Paparazzi. Newspaper photographers. Random Floridians who saw me when Waxbyrne’s surveillance footage interrupted their programming. The Regular police had to cordon off the lot. Since the incident on Level Five involved a dragon and magic, this isn’t their jurisdiction per se, but I’m grateful they’re here. It’s a straight-up circus, and I’m the main event.
The ambulance doors are shut. I’m sitting on a stretcher with Samira, who’s flipping through her phone in search of Sire and Takeshi updates. Her parents are on their way. Mom’s outside trying to get in touch with Papi, while Todd’s been rushed off to the hospital.
I press my knuckles to my sore, stinging eyes. I stopped crying after leaving the shop, but that itchy redness still plagues me. The throbbing in my knee has faded to a dull ache. At least my clothes, hair, and backpack aren’t wet anymore. The police allowed a Waxbyrne guard to use the Insta-Dry Charm on me. My minor cuts have been magically healed, too.
They won’t let me go home, though. An agent from the International Bureau of Magical Matters is coming to interrogate me. The faster I cooperate, the faster I can leave.
“Unbelievable,” Samira mutters. “Some people are talking about how hot Takeshi is. I mean, he is hot, but come on, world. The guy just tried to steal a crystal heart. He’s all dressed up like a Dragon Knight now, and y’all are focused on his abs? I can’t.”
“Why would he even need the heart? It only grants wishes to the dragon’s rider.”
Samira puts down the phone, her gaze narrowed and alert. “Did you see those golden orbs Takeshi had? Not only were spells trapped inside them, but I think the orbs themselves were spells, too. Gold Wand magic in physical form, similar to Madame Waxbyrne’s wands. Nobody in the magical community can trap magic like that.” She grimaces as if she’s about to say something unpleasant. “I think Takeshi needed to bring the crystal heart to a Gold Wand working for the Sire. Maybe they’re strong enough to force the heart to perform magic.”
It does make sense, I guess, except for one thing.
“Why have Takeshi steal it? Why couldn’t the Gold Wand get it instead?”
“Because I think the wish is for Takeshi. I think he wants real proof of Hikaru’s killer.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Antonio Deluca, the Runner from Team Italy, remains the only murder suspect because he hates Takeshi. He’d also fled Edinburgh hours before Hikaru’s body had been found. Only Gold Wands like Antonio have the magical strength to execute a dragon, but while everyone believes Antonio’s guilty, no one can back it up with proof. The surveillance cameras at Hikaru’s habitat had been torn apart with magic. The guards outside of the habitat had been struck with an irreversible Memory-Erasing Charm. If Samira is right, Takeshi’s going after the one thing that will guarantee Antonio’s imprisonment.
“He’s only doing this for Hikaru,” I whisper.
She puts her hand on top of mine. “Regardless of what he’s after, Takeshi Endo is Dragon Knight trash. I’m so sorry, but he’s canceled.”
I should tell her she’s right. I’ve seen this different Takeshi. This boy who hurts dragons. But if he’s really searching for proof, he’s just lost on his path to justice.
What if the boy in that Tokyo interview is still there?
The ambulance doors jerk open.
Mom stands between Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who both are gasping in relief.
“Oh, my sweet baby Jesus …” Mrs. Jones rushes toward her elder daughter. She crushes Samira in a rib-crumbling hug. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Samira says, even though her eyes are bugging out.
I giggle. While Samira’s as tall as her father, she’s a younger version of her mother. They have curly brown hair they tie up in buns, their eyes are the same shade of soft amber, and they have even more impressive hips than mine. Samira’s a bit more slender than her mother, though.
Mr. Jones tips his New York Knicks hat at me. It clashes with his pressed button-down and khaki pants, but that’s how he rolls. “Good to see you in one piece, Lana Lightning! You’re an angel for what you did today. How are you feeling?”
“I’m not dead, so there’s that,” I say with a shrug.
“Oh, come here, you!” Mrs. Jones lunges at me, too. Her grip is strong enough to rearrange my spinal cord. “Thank the Lord you’re both all right. I was so worried!”
“We’re fine, Momma. Just a little tired,” says Samira. She’s still hiding her broken Copper wand behind her back. Looks like someone’s not ready to fess up.
When Mrs. Jones lets me go, I gently pat Samira’s shoulder. “You should go home. Get some rest. I’ll call you after I wrap up with the bureau. They might not be ready for a while.”
“Uh-uh,” says Mr. Jones. “Leslie’s with an agent right now.”
He points to a thin white shield, rippling like ocean water. It blocks me from the onslaught of flashing bulbs. Mom walks through the shield, nervously running her hands down the front of her rumpled skirt. She lets out a quick yawn as she approaches.
“Todd has a concussion from the fall and a really sore neck, but he’s stable.” She looks directly at me, her expression somber. “Honey, your father is still unreachable, but I don’t want you to panic. The bureau hasn’t gotten word of anything suspicious at the São Paulo sanctuary.”
I’m clutching my chest like it’s about to explode. Your father is still unreachable. He could’ve misplaced his phone, but he’s the most organized and put-together person I’ve ever met. I’ve already lost my dream. I can’t lose my father, too.
“Good afternoon.” A tall, blonde white woman walks up behind Mom. She’s wearing an emerald coat and short cream pumps. Her silver badge has the acronym IBOMM engraved on it. The words AGENT HOROWITZ appear beneath the acronym, along with the tiniest Silver wand.
My jaw drops. “You’re the Agent Horowitz. Living, breathing legend!”
Samira and I read an article about her in The Weekly Scorcher, a newspaper that focuses on dragon-related updates. She remains the only bureau agent who publicly identifies as a trans woman. She’s also the bureau agent with the highest number of Dragon Knight arrests (seventeen total). One of her most famous captures was performed while dangling off a cliff in Cork, Ireland, when she’d snatched up six Dragon Knights at the same freaking time.
“Not sure about the legend part.” She gives me a crooked smile. “I’m sorry to bother you on what I presume has been a difficult day, but I have a few things to discuss with you, Ms. Torres. I swear this won’t take long.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Very well.” Agent Horowitz pulls out her Silver wand, which is bedazzled with amber stones in the shape of triangles. “Ms. Torres. Ms. Wells. We should get going.”
I rise from the stretcher with Mom’s help, even though I can rise on my own. Mr. Jones holds out his hands for me, too. I take them and jump down to the grass.
“Call me as soon as you get home, you hear?” Samira says.
“Loud and clear.” I give her a big hug and whisper, “And guess what I still owe you?”
“What?” she whispers back.
“Your fifth and last wand.”
“Pfft. Worry about taking lots of pictures of the bureau. That place must be ginormous.”
After I bid Samira’s parents farewell, Agent Horowitz raises her wand overhead.
SWISH!
White light pours all over me. It vanishes a split second later.
I’m standing in the middle of a long, chandelier-lit hallway with walls of the brightest gold. I sniff twice. There’s vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and a little bit of red apple in the air. There’s no furniture, no paintings or sculptures. There is, however, a massive gold door at the end of the hallway. It’s shaped like a full moon, with a doorknob as big as a soccer ball.
“Come along.” Agent Horowitz pockets her wand. “Our hosts are waiting.”
I gape at her. “Wait, what? I thought we were going to the bureau.”
“Not today,” says Agent Horowitz as she struts down the long hallway.
Mom steps right in front of her. “Where are we, exactly?”
“Nowhere. At least not on any map you may recognize.” Agent Horowitz turns to me with a kind smile. If she’s planning on murdering us and dumping our bodies afterward, at least she’s being nice about it. “Have you heard of the Other Place Charm?”
I gasp so, so loud. Oh. My. God. This is an Other Place. I, Lana Aurelia Torres, am actually for real in an Other Place right now!
“Yes,” I say. “It’s a spell that creates a location that can’t be found. Not even by other witches and wizards. It’s like a secret hideout or a private haven. They call it their Other Place. You can only access it if the witch or wizard owner invites you in.” I tap the wall to my left. Sure enough, it feels sturdy and real, but it’s not real at all. It’s a figment of someone’s imagination. This is one hell of a spell. “Is this your Other Place?” I ask Agent Horowitz.
“No.” She sidesteps Mom. “The owner is behind that door. He’s very excited to meet you both.” She continues down the hall as if she’s used to its every golden nook and cranny.
Mom snatches my hand as we reach the door. The steel knocker is a gleaming crescent moon coated in gold. A tiny, star-shaped viewer hangs above it. Instead of knocking, Agent Horowitz twists the huge knob. There’s a soft click, then the door swings inward. There it is again—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and a little bit of red apple. Agent Horowitz makes her way into the brightly lit room, where gold walls and chandeliers appear once more. There’s furniture inside, all darker than coal. Black-velvet chaise lounges. Black-velvet three-seater, demilune sofas. Even the coffee table in the center of the room is dark stained wood.
Three men sit in front of an unlit fireplace. I can’t see their faces, so I keep moving forward, dragging Mom with me. Two of the men shoot off the sofa. The third stands up at a much slower pace, sipping something from a glass. Agent Horowitz stands beside the white man wearing a gray tweed suit and red tie. He’s middle-aged and a bit plump, with graying black hair, blue-green eyes, and a smile large enough to restore anyone’s faith in humanity.
My eyes bulge out of their sockets. This is the same man who unveils the Blazewrath World Cup during the opening ceremonies. The same man who carries the Cup toward the winning team at the end. Papi and I have seen him in countless press conferences, interviews, and even one baking reality show as guest judge. He said he’d eat anything with vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry on it. And he enjoys a red apple every morning.
President Russell Turner, the most powerful man in the International Blazewrath Federation, is smiling at me like we’re old friends.
“Welcome!” he says in his British accent. “Make yourselves at home in my Other Place!”
I can’t speak. Mom’s grip on me tightens, but instead of reassuring her that this man isn’t a serial killer from Leeds, England, I’m drawing a blank as to how to behave in his presence. And, most important, what I’m doing in his presence at all.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re the shy type! I refuse to believe it.” President Turner walks up to me, his hand outstretched. “Not after what I saw you do back there at Waxbyrne, Ms. Torres.”
I stare at him, unblinking, still processing that he is, in fact, real.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” Mom has the ovaries to ask him.
“Mom,” I finally speak in my fiercest whisper. “Not cool.”
President Turner laughs. He shifts his hand over to Mom instead. “Russell Turner, madam. I’m the president of the International Blazewrath Federation. Lovely to meet you.”
Mom ignores President Turner’s hand. “Blazewrath?” She makes it sound like it’s filthier than any swear word. “If you don’t work for the bureau, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve invited President Turner to join us,” says the second man, who gets off of the sofa quickly. I can tell he’s Indian from his accent, but I don’t know which part of the country he’s from. His skin is a lighter brown than mine, with brown hair that’s been parted in the middle. He adjusts his navy blue suit jacket as he walks over to Mom. He seems ten years younger than President Turner, but he’s far more regal in posture and stride. “My name is Nirek Sandhar. I’m director of the Department of Magical Investigations at the bureau. Pleased to meet you both.”
Mom squints at President Turner. She finally shakes his hand. “Leslie Wells.”
“Delighted, Ms. Wells. You’ve raised a splendid young lady, I must say. Such a brave soul.” President Turner turns to me again. “Would you like to sit down for a bit, Ms. Torres?”
I nod over and over.
President Turner waves me over to the sofa. “Right this way!”
Mom releases me, thankfully. I match President Turner’s steps as he makes his way back to Agent Horowitz, Director Sandhar, and the third man, whose face is now crystal clear.
I gasp the loudest I’ve ever gasped.
“What? You’ve never seen whiskey before?” The third man takes a sip from his glass again, this time slower. When he’s done, he says, “Tastes like chicken.”
President Turner chuckles, but I can’t move a single muscle.
The third man, this tan-skinned giant at six foot five, with salt-and-pepper hair, a peach button-down shirt, baggy jeans, and dark circles under his even darker eyes, is none other than Manny Delgado, Team Puerto Rico’s manager. The man who flips the bird at paparazzi like it’s the reason he was born, skips press conferences to have longer naps instead, and has publicly sworn to only drink coffee brewed in his hometown of Ciales. I close my eyes and open them again. He’s still here. I’m somehow in a room with Manny Delgado and President Turner, and I didn’t even make it to Blazewrath tryouts. Not even my wildest dreams are this wild.
“Please excuse Mr. Delgado’s sense of humor,” Director Sandhar says, indignant. “He’s only slept three hours, from what I gather.”
“Two and a half.” Manny plops back down on the sofa, his back to me.
“And does Mr. Delgado work for the bureau, too?” Mom asks.
“No, Ms. Wells, I’m very happy to say he does not,” says Director Sandhar. “Mr. Delgado is the manager for the Puerto Rican Blazewrath team. He’s in the States on official Blazewrath business, but he’s been invited to this interrogation at President Turner’s insistent request.”
Mom’s lips part, but nothing comes out. The last person she ever wants to meet is the man responsible for bringing the Puerto Rican flag to the Blazewrath field. “I see.”
Manny puts his glass on the coffee table, then leans back on the sofa. “Can we get on with this thing already? I have to get to the hotel in time for my Monday shows.”
“Always so patient …” Agent Horowitz puts a gentle hand on my back, leading me to the black-silk chaise to the left side of the room. We sit down together. Director Sandhar claims the matching chaise directly across from mine. President Turner and Manny Delgado sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, with Mom joining them at a snail’s pace. She’s studying everyone and everything like the whole room will explode at any moment.
As long as she doesn’t go into full freak-out mode, I’ll be fine.
Agent Horowitz pulls out her wand again, but this time, she also grabs a pearl-colored compact mirror in the shape of a square. There’s an inscription in the boldest blue letters across the cover: PROPERTY OF AGENT SIENNA HOROWITZ. She flips the compact open, revealing a silver screen made of glass. “Access request.”
A robotic male voice speaks back to her, “Identification, please.”
“Agent Sienna Horowitz, bureau ID number seven-seven-two-five-six-three-nine.”
“Access granted. Recording mode on.”
The mirror’s glass cracks into three separate shards, each floating out of the compact. They linger around her like stalactites that have broken free of their cave’s ceiling. At long last, the glass reflects everything in front of it, including me, and holy whoa, do I need a hairbrush. My flyaways have flyaways. Before I can fix the mess, the shards cast out a faint red shimmer, blinking in a synchronized beat. The Recorder is officially recording me now. I will go down in bureau archives’ history as the only witness whose hair resembles a whole family of ferrets.
Agent Horowitz slides closer to me. “Lana, I’d like you to walk me through the day’s events, starting with your arrival at Waxbyrne. Try to be as specific as possible.”
I detail everything about my trip to Waxbyrne—the moment I saw the Fire Drake, when I realized my forever favorite was attacking it, those golden orbs with spells inside them. Mom either flinches or looks to the fireplace. She must be having a hard time with the fact that her daughter was in the presence of a dragon again. Hopefully, she’s also realizing I survived again.
I wrap up my story with Takeshi’s final message. “Just when he was about to Transport out of the building, Takeshi told me, ‘The world you know is a lie. The world that’s coming, that’s the one you should believe in.’ Then he vanished.”
Director Sandhar’s jaw clenches tighter than my knotted hair. “Did you hear or see anything else that could better illustrate Mr. Endo’s motives?”
“Not really, no. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you have nothing to apologize for, Ms. Torres.” President Turner plays with his tie. “The Takeshi Endo I knew wasn’t like this. I don’t know who this boy is.”
“He’s the same boy you rooted for two years ago, only now he’s realized what a carnival of shit storms life really is,” Manny says unabashedly. “So he wants the crystal heart to maybe do something against his dragon’s killer? I can’t blame the kid.”
“Thank you for sharing your much-needed perspective.” Director Sandhar’s tone drips with sarcasm. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. “Ms. Torres, what about the Gold magic Mr. Endo was wielding in the orbs? What more can you tell us about them?”
“All I know is they were Gold and capable of paralyzing a dragon. Since Takeshi’s a Regular, someone else must have given him that magic. I think the Sire is working with a Gold Wand. Has the bureau heard of a Gold Wand who can trap spells?”
Director Sandhar keeps a straight face. “Whoever’s helping Mr. Endo is beyond what we’re accustomed to, but we’ll be pulling up every file we have on registered Gold Wands.”
“What if this Gold Wand hasn’t registered with the bureau?”
He flashes me a tight smile. “Then it’s time we push them into the light.”
Yikes. Now the bureau will be on the hunt for a rogue Gold Wand, along with a former Blazewrath superstar. An agent’s job seems pretty stressful, but to pile all this onto it?
Agent Horowitz doesn’t seem fazed. She’s patting my back like I’m the one who has a dangerous to-do list. Bless her soul. “Do you have any questions for us?”
“Yeah.” I lean closer to her.” Why is there a Fire Drake at Waxbyrne?”
Manny laughs. “Took her long enough. Go on, Sandhar. Tell her what you told me.”
Director Sandhar scowls in his direction. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that with anyone other than Madame Waxbyrne. My apologies, Ms. Torres.”
Manny clucks his tongue. “There you go, nena. Feel the burn.”
I don’t know which man to glare at the hardest. The one time I meet Team Puerto Rico’s manager, and he’s acting like a premium-level jerk. But Director Sandhar’s brushing off the fact that a dragon is living at a wand shop. And what’s worse, the dragon showed signs of having Bonded with a rider. Madame Waxbyrne isn’t British, so there’s no way the dragon is her steed. Dragons can only Bond with humans from their country. Something fishy is going on, and classified or not, I deserve to know why I almost died.
“But it’s illegal.” I speak a little louder. “Madame Waxbyrne is keeping a dragon that doesn’t belong to her. That Fire Drake may have attacked me, but when the guards swept in, it stopped. The dragon is Bonded. Where’s the rider responsible for its safety?”
“That’s not for me to discuss.” Director Sandhar nods to President Turner. “You’re up.”
President Turner stands with the speed of a boy who’s been told he can leave school early. “Ms. Torres, after seeing the surveillance footage, I’m certain of one thing: You, my dear girl, are the bravest talent I’ve come across in a long, long time. You’re fast, yes, but most important, you have a heart that beats for the right things. The whole world will know what you did today. They will know how fast, brave, and good you are.”
If Agent Horowitz hadn’t been tethering me to the real world, I’d think I’d entered the afterlife. Instead of God, the president of the IBF greeted me as I strolled through the pearly gates.
“Talent?” Mom sits on the edge of the sofa, all crinkled like she smells something foul. “Why are you calling her a ‘talent’?”
“Because she is! Your daughter is one of the fastest young athletes I’ve had the privilege of meeting, even though her tryout didn’t happen as initially scheduled.” President Turner shrugs as he looks at me. “Ms. Torres, what you did at Waxbyrne proved a much better audition.”
His words are an eighteen-wheeler speeding right through me. This is why he’s here? Does he want to give me the chance to try out at a later date? Could my dream really still happen?
“My daughter hasn’t signed up to play your atrocious excuse for a sport.” Mom’s laugh is a short, cold burst. “I’m sorry, but you’ve confused Lana with someone else.”
“Stop it, Mom!” I press my palms against my temples, half regretting my outburst and half wishing I were somewhere far away from the mother who doesn’t know squat about me. This isn’t how I wanted her to find out, but I can’t lie now.
She’s watching me with a narrowed gaze. “What was that?”
I drop my hands. “President Turner’s right. I did sign up for Blazewrath tryouts. I want to join Team Puerto Rico and play in this year’s Blazewrath World Cup. I want to be a Runner and represent my country on an international platform. This is the only dream I’ve ever had.”
Crickets. My mother is on a different plane of existence, seemingly grappling with reality. Even Manny’s glued to her as if waiting for a bomb to go off. Mom, however, isn’t detonating.
I gulp down. “Are you okay?”
“Does she look okay to you?” Manny says.
Director Sandhar shushes him, then addresses me. “If you’d like some privacy, we can—”
“The only dream you’ve ever had …” Mom repeats in a robotic voice. It’s like she’s trying out a foreign language for the first time. “Does that mean … you’ve played before?”
“No. There’s just one dragon in the States. You need six dragons to form a Blazewrath team. And you can only play with a formal invitation from the IBF to participate in the Cup. They don’t teach Blazewrath in schools or practice it anywhere else.” I motion to President Turner. “Anyone caught playing amateur Blazewrath gets arrested and has to pay a high fine.”
“That is correct,” he says. “Blazewrath is illegal outside of IBF grounds and supervision for a variety of reasons, including several past incidents of non-rider Regulars who were known for baiting Un-Bonded dragons into playing with them. Most of those Regulars died, and the Un-Bonded dragons caused a lot of damage to private property. The invitation-only policy is one of the ways the IBF guarantees the sport is being played safely.”
Mom nods. “Because dragons can’t be trusted.”
“They can be trusted,” I cut in. “That Fire Drake was defending itself from someone who’d hurt it. The Pesadelo that tried to kill me in Brazil was Un-Bonded. I survived by outrunning its flames at five years old. You saw me on that surveillance footage today. I’m way faster now.” I’m speeding through each word, but I can’t stop. “Blazewrath is more than my favorite sport. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I belong in this world. Like I actually have a purpose.”
Mom slumps in her seat, shaking her head. “Honey, how can you feel like you don’t belong or have a purpose? Your parents love you. You have Samira’s and her family’s love. You’re going to be a high school senior in two months. You’re heading off to college next year.”
“Am I? Have I told you what I want to major in?”
“Well, no, but you still have time to decide.”
“I don’t want to decide!” I snap. “I want to play the sport Papi taught me to love and to represent our island—our real home.”
A shadow settles on Mom’s expression, a storm that’s yet to land. “I see … So everything I’ve done to keep you safe has ruined your life? Is that it? Have I ruined your life?”
I stare at her, unblinking. Of course she’s ruined my life, but I love her. I always will. Even if living with Papi would’ve been so much better. Mom isn’t the worst person in the universe. She just did what she thought was right.
Now it’s up to me to show her what the right thing was all along.
I’m sitting on the edge of the chaise, hands in prayer position under my chin. “You haven’t ruined my life, Mom. You just made it harder for me to live my truth. I didn’t want to tell you about my plans like this, but if President Turner will still let me attend tryouts, I’d love it if you could give me the chance to make my dream a reality. Ground me for lying and sneaking around. Take my phone and laptop and Whisperer and everything else. But please let me do this.”
She studies me as if she’s been sucked into a flurry of flashbacks—her screams back in Brazil, or the panic she must’ve felt during the Waxbyrne attack. Finally, she glances at President Turner. “Why are you really here, Mister President?”
President Turner slips his hands into his pockets, cocking his head in my direction. “I was hoping to formally invite Lana to join Puerto Rico’s Blazewrath team as their new Runner.”
I’m knocked back into a stiff, straight position. I wait for him to tell me this is an April Fools’ joke, even though it’s the middle of July. A few hours ago, Takeshi Endo had plucked my dream out of the realm of possibility and smashed it to smithereens. Now it’s come back to life even more beautiful than before. I get to honor my island, my father, and myself, after all.
Then I remember that silver-scaled face on TV.
“What about the Sire?” I ask in a hushed voice. “His attacks won’t cancel the Cup?”
President Turner’s forehead creases. “Not at all, Ms. Torres. The Cup will go on.”
“Trust me. He’ll be caught in no time,” Director Sandhar reassures me.
If the director of the Department of Magical Investigations promises me the Sire will be behind bars soon, who am I to believe otherwise? The Sire is a force to be reckoned with, but I foiled one of his plans today. I can only imagine the level of badassery the bureau is capable of.
I turn to President Turner with the hugest fangirl grin. “So I’m on the team?”
“The spot is yours if you want it.”
I lunge at him to shake his hand. “Yes! Thank you so much, sir. This is amazing.”
“Lana is seventeen,” says Mom. “In order for her to play, you need a parent’s signature.”
“Right you are, madam. Legal guardians of minors are required to sign their contracts.”
Mom takes a deep breath. “May I see it?”
At first, I think the Fire Drake’s roars have messed with my hearing, but when President Turner pulls out his plain Silver wand, I feel a little faint. I sit back down before I topple over.
The president flicks his wand twice. A yellowed papyrus scroll appears out of nowhere. It rolls down just inches shy of the floor. President Turner offers the scroll … my contract … to Mom.
I’m welling up, dumbfounded with the fact that my mother is taking this seriously. She’s choosing to put my happiness before hers. I memorize the way she pulls her blue pen from her purse, the loose hold she has on it while she signs on the dotted line.
Leslie Anne Wells, my impossibly stubborn mother, has signed my Blazewrath contract.
I walk over to her, arms spread wide open. “Thank you, Mom.”
She holds up a hand. “My signature is all the support you’ll be receiving. I won’t suffer through my only child putting herself in danger again. Go on and play for your real home. I’ll be in the one you hate, waiting for you when you’re done.” She gives my contract to President Turner. “I’d like to Transport back to my car. I need to visit my nephew at the hospital.”
I back away, my lips parted, but nothing comes out. Of course she’d never attend any matches or even watch them on TV. There’s a difference between picturing something and having it drawn in bold colors right in front of you, though. Mom’s choosing my happiness over hers, but she’s also choosing not to be a part of that happiness. It’s not that she doesn’t fit in the equation. She just doesn’t have the energy to try fitting in.
Mom follows Agent Horowitz out of the room. She doesn’t say goodbye to me.
I rub my eyes over and over, refusing to cry.
“Ms. Torres, if you would like a moment alone, we won’t mind,” President Turner says.
“No. I’m fine. I, um … I’d like to sign now.”
“Certainly!” President Turner gives me the contract.
I read it even slower than Mom. My obligations are in super-clear detail. So is my salary. Runners get $7 million. My eyeballs almost fall out. That’s a lot of cash for someone like me, regardless of how well I live thanks to Mom’s job. The money will be transferred to my account as soon as I put my signature on the page. Mom’s signature means she agrees to have the money sent directly to me, even though I’m a minor. President Turner conjures a pen with his wand. I use it to sign my contract. Regardless of how financially stable my future feels, I still taste rotten apples in my mouth. This is supposed to be the best day of my life. There was supposed to be a choir of angels, dancing animals, a marching band, and free ice cream for everyone.
Instead, Mom’s last words keep swirling like a tornado in my mind, slicing me deeper with each spin. I still have a mother, but why does it feel like she’s gone forever?
Keep it together, Lana. You can cry when you’re at home.
I hand the contract back to President Turner.
He flashes me one last smile. “Welcome to the Blazewrath World Cup!”