LAYLA AND I walk toward class, and even though I’ve been up for some hours now, I still feel groggy from lack of sleep. Also, I’ve been getting more looks than usual all day, making me wonder if my conflict with Brendan and Charles is now public knowledge. And as though they knew I was thinking about them, I hear Brendan’s and Charles’s voices behind us.
Layla pushes through a classroom door and I exhale in relief. But it’s short-lived, because not five seconds later Brendan and Charles enter, too. And to make matters worse, Nyx is with them.
The five of us are the first ones in the classroom, where the desks, if you can call the large wooden tables that, have all been pushed to the edges of the room. There are two ropes tied securely around a thick dark wood ceiling beam, and hanging between them is a flag bearing the school crest.
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Layla,” Nyx says, and her gaze is direct and probing. “I thought you were the smart twin. But every time I turn around I think you’re less neutral than the day before.” There is no showmanship in Nyx’s approach the way there is when Brendan is toying with someone. And she doesn’t look back at her friends for approval and solidarity the way Charles usually does. She’s direct. You can tell she says what she means and a threat is a threat.
I look from Nyx to Layla, and it’s obvious by Layla’s expression and rigid posture that whatever Nyx is talking about is important. Then it clicks. Neutral. Ash used that word when he asked me about my Strategia Family politics—he said “for, against, or neutral.”
Charles is standing next to Nyx, and he’s a good foot and a half taller than she is. He’s also right between us and the door. “I think maybe Layla always fell on the wrong side of politics, and that it just took her sloppy friend here to shine a light on it.” The contradiction between his silky voice and the words he chose makes me do a double take. He’s like a toddler, cursing with a smile.
One look at Layla and it’s clear she wishes she could disappear.
“Sloppy?” I say, boisterously enough that the whole ominous mood breaks. “Pshhht. If you’re trying to insult me, you’re going to have to be more creative than that.” They all look at me with dagger eyes, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to take the heat off Layla for a second. I owe her that much at least. “I met an eight-year-old a couple of weeks ago who called me a Skittle fart. Now that’s creativity.”
“Every time you open your mouth,” Brendan says, spreading his hands out like he has an audience of four hundred instead of four, “it only confirms the fact that you don’t belong here.”
“Just because you—” I start, but the door opens and a middle-aged woman I’m assuming is the professor walks in with three more students behind her. I shut my mouth and the five of us break apart, like we were never talking in the first place.
I knew these three would be a problem for me, but I never thought they’d target Layla because of me. I watch Layla, who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am, and wish I could apologize. But I know that at this point the situation has escalated beyond what an “I’m sorry” can fix.
“So you’re all here but you’re still wearing your cloaks,” the professor says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you to always be prepared.”
The room goes silent and we move quickly to hang our cloaks on the far wall. Everyone returns to form a line in front of the professor, who looks directly at me. “I’m Professor Liu, November. Welcome to your first day of psychological warfare—or, as we affectionately call it, mind games.”
I nod my consent, careful not to speak out of turn like I did in Fléchier’s class. Liu—the name of the Chinese emperors of the Han dynasty…it means “destroy.”
Professor Liu begins to roll up the sleeves of her black linen blouse in nice, even folds. “Last class we were speaking about perception—how reality can be immaterial because what matters is what your opponent thinks is real. For instance, if you can convince someone that you are more powerful than you really are, you can potentially scare them out of battle. Anyone?”
Brendan answers before the others, which seems to be a pattern of his. “At night, Genghis Khan would order his soldiers to light three torches each to give the illusion of an enormous army and intimidate his enemies. He also tied objects to horses’ tails so that when they rode through dry fields they’d kick up clouds of dust and further enhance the impression of their numbers.” He delivers his answer with a clear voice and a smile. Upon first encounter, I thought Brendan, Charles, and Nyx were the equivalents of the popular crowd at Pembrook, but I’m now thinking Brendan’s confidence comes from being well trained and prepared.
“Right,” Lui says. “Influence perception and you have the ability to change an outcome without fighting.” She clasps her hands behind her back and looks up at the ceiling. “Today, we’re going to do something unusual and start class with a physical challenge. As you can see, I’ve hung a flag from the ceiling beam. There are two ropes and eight of you.” She opens a container of what looks like hand chalk for climbing and walks down the line of us; I watch as the students dip their hands in and pat them together. “You’ll have to be fast and you’ll have to be smart. There are no rules about the types of tactics you might use against one another. The only rule is that the first person to reach the desk directly behind you is the winner.”
I want to think I misheard her, but I didn’t. What I can’t wrap my mind around is the fact that Liu is encouraging us to fight our way up two ropes to a beam that’s at least fourteen feet off the ground. There’s no safety net, no rules. In fact, she gave us permission to fight it out any way we need to, which, knowing this bunch, probably means a lot of martial arts moves I’m not prepared for. Stealing a cloth in the dark was one thing, but this is something else entirely. And after last night and the conversation we just had with Brendan, Charles, and Nyx, this is basically worst-case scenario.
“Boxing,” I say, and take a jab into the air on our front porch. “Or wushu.” I throw a kick.
Aunt Jo sips her lemonade with her feet up on the porch railing.
“You know defensive moves, Nova,” Dad says as he whittles away at a walking stick with his favorite knife. It’s got a silver handle in the shape of a wolf’s head. “And you know how to get out of someone’s grip if they grab you.”
I groan. “Are you kidding? Those aren’t remotely the same as what I’m talking about. You’ve taught me about knives, swords, booby traps, and survival skills”—I count the items off on my fingers as I go—“but you won’t teach me boxing? Do you hear yourself?”
“Christopher is probably scared you’ll kick his butt all over town,” Aunt Jo says, and I giggle. “Embarrass him in front of all his buddies.”
Dad tries to contain his smile, but it sneaks into the corners of his eyes. “I’ll teach you when you’re older.”
“How old?” I say.
“Eighteen,” he says, and I nearly fall off the step I’m balancing on.
“Seven years? Seven?” I look pleadingly at my aunt. “Aunt Jo?”
“Don’t use that cute face on me,” she says. “I see what you’re doing.”
“Nova,” Dad says. “I’m intentionally not teaching you how to fight.”
“Because you think I’m going to get hurt?” I say.
He pauses his whittling. “Because you already have the skills to be an excellent fighter. You’re fast and strong. You have good reflexes. You’ll pick up boxing easily. But I don’t want you to think like a fighter. I want you to think differently.”
“Differently how?” I ask.
“I want you to think of unusual and creative solutions. And I want you to see the world in your own unique way. If you learn to hit a certain way in boxing or to jump a certain way in wushu, your brain will immediately default to them as an answer. I don’t want you to rely on the same answers every other person does. I want you to make up your own. If you learn how to approach a fight from an unexpected angle, you will become the weapon your opponent can’t predict.”
Liu has stopped in front of me and offers me the hand chalk.
“I…,” I start, but I have no idea how to tell her that I don’t know how to fight properly.
“Afraid to join in?” she says, and everyone looks at me.
“No, I just…” I look at Layla for help, but her expression is unreadable. Reluctantly, I dip my hands in the chalk.
“Everyone stay where you are,” Liu says. “November, take three steps toward the ropes.”
Nyx shoots me a disgusted look.
Oh, this is just getting worse by the second. “I really don’t need an advantage,” I say.
“Take three steps forward, like I said.” The professor’s voice has a commanding edge and I scoot forward.
If I lose now, it’s going to be ten times more embarrassing. My whole body tenses as Liu drags out the next couple of seconds in silence.
“And go!” she says loudly, and everyone makes a dash for the ropes.
I don’t get two strides in when a boot strikes the back of my knee, sending me flailing onto the floor. Nyx snickers and all seven students pass me full-speed.
Near the ropes, Charles takes a fast swing at Layla. She dodges gracefully, though I’m not sure how she could have anticipated his punch. But just as Layla eludes Charles, Brendan lands a kick to her stomach. She doubles over, and from the way she’s gasping, I know he knocked the wind out of her.
I jump up from the floor and start to move toward her, but as I do Brendan turns to face me. I somehow see everything at once: Charles has reached the rope, and when he grabs for the guy who’s clinging to it, he gets a swift kick in the face. Layla is upright and her breathing seems easier, but then my view of her is temporarily blocked by Brendan, who is now running toward me. From the little I’ve witnessed of his fighting skills, there is every likelihood I’ll end up with broken bones if he attacks me. His eyes narrow as he closes in, and I don’t think anymore, I run, too—all the way back to the tables near the wall. I arrive a split second before he does.
“Halt!” Liu says, and Brendan stops just before he collides with me. As the sparring at the ropes subsides, a few frustrated groans escape the fighters’ lips. Did Liu stop the challenge because I ran? I look from Brendan to the professor. I doubt Liu is going to let it pass without broadcasting my fear in detail to the whole class. And after the confrontations I’ve already had with Brendan, this might be one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. I can almost feel myself shrinking.
“November is the winner.”
Hold on, what? My head whips toward Professor Liu so fast, I’m lucky I don’t wrench my neck. I open my mouth but quickly shut it again before an admission of complete confusion comes tumbling out.
Brendan looks at me like I just solidified my role as competition, and I get the sense that the last place I ever want to be is between Brendan and his glory. I would back up another step, but the table and the wall make that impossible.
“Make a sound in the east, then strike in the west—from the Thirty-Six Stratagems,” Liu says. “We will be studying them closely over the next few months. These psychological tactics aren’t new. In fact, they were compiled somewhere around 500 BCE. What is interesting here is that you all are still falling for the same tricks people used twenty-five hundred years ago. People don’t change, the props around them do.” She smiles an amused smile. “I spoke so much about the flag that the only thing you focused on was how to beat each other, not on what I was actually saying. Think about it: I never said you needed to capture the flag to win. I said you needed to touch the table. However, I must admit that I’m shocked that only two of you were truly listening.”
I want to laugh at my pure dumb luck, except it’s not funny. Had I actually participated the way I intended to, and the way most of the students had, I would be knocked unconscious right now.
“And I’ll hand it to you, November,” continues the professor. “You acted naïve, and the way you protested about getting an advantage was brilliant. You demonstrated tactics in keeping with this class’s lessons. I look forward to seeing what else you’ll contribute.”
The other students’ frustrated expressions intensify, and I’m now getting openly nasty looks. I wish I could crawl under the table and pretend this never happened.
I try to catch Layla’s eye to see if she’s okay. But she won’t look in my direction. Brendan does, though, and he winks at me. But it’s not a friendly, flirty wink. He’s throwing down a gauntlet—he’s powerful, he’s smart, and he’s after me.