Inside Straight wc-18 Read online

  Jonathan Hive was too slick. He had a studied detachment, a journalistic objectivity that went a little too far—he was always an observer. He'd put himself on the outside, and he was used to commenting on everything.

  He regarded Curveball and said with wry amazement, "You're actually taking all this seriously, aren't you? That's kinda cute."

  He'd failed to observe that she'd already taken a marble out of her pocket and gripped it in her fist.

  Ana spotted it. "Kate, no—"

  Too late. Curveball wound up her pitch and threw the missile at him.

  "Whoa!" His eyes went wide, and his shoulder—where the marble would have struck—disintegrated with the sound of buzzing. The cloth of his shirt collapsed as the flesh dissolved into a swarm of tiny green particles, which scattered before the marble as he flinched away. A second later, the hundred buzzing insects coalesced, crawling under his collar and merging back into his body. The marble didn't touch him, but hit the wall behind him. A faint insect humming lingered.

  To her credit, Curveball hadn't thrown the marble hard. She hadn't put all her anger into it. It would have only bruised him. But it did embed itself in the wall behind Hive and send cracks radiating across the paint.

  He glared at the wall, then at her. "I guess this would be a bad time to ask if you, ah, wanted to have dinner with me. Or something."

  She stomped out of the kitchen and through the French doors to the redwood porch. A moment later, Drummer Boy followed her. No doubt another camera would capture them and whatever heart-to-heart conversation they were having.

  Back in the kitchen, Hive shrugged away from the wall, straightened his shirt, and for once seemed uncomfortable that he was the center of attention. Without a word—uncharacteristically without a word—he hunched his shoulders against their stares and stalked to the back of the house to hide away in his bedroom.

  Seemed as good a plan as any, Ana thought, and did the same.

  Break to commercial.

  This was all Roberto's fault.

  A month ago, back home in New Mexico, Ana lugged bags of groceries into the trailer where she lived with her father and brother. Seventeen-year-old Roberto lay stretched out on the sofa, reading a magazine and watching the evening news in Spanish.

  "You should watch in English," Ana said. "They want you to speak English in school."

  "Being bilingual looks really good on the college applications. It shows I'm in touch with my roots. They like that. Makes 'em look all multicultural."

  She unloaded the bags on the kitchen counter, shoving aside a newspaper, mail, and other trash. Roberto immediately sat up and protested.

  "Hey—you're supposed to look at that!"

  "What?" She'd started unloading groceries: cans and boxes in the cupboard, hamburger and juice in the fridge.

  Roberto grabbed the newspaper and shook it at her. "This—I put it out so you'd see it."

  "See what?" she said, losing patience.

  "This!"

  She took the paper and looked at the half-page ad he held in front of her.

  Wanted: Contestants

  AMERICAN HERO

  Auditions in Seven Cities:

  New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Houston, Miami,

  Denver, and Atlanta

  The Search for the Next Great Ace Begins!

  The ad was simple, but the words screamed with purpose—somebody's crazy idea. What was Roberto thinking?

  "What's this?" she said.

  "Ana," Roberto said, clearly exasperated. "The next great ace? They're talking about you! You have to go to the audition."

  She shoved the paper at him and went back to the groceries. She had to get dinner started. Maybe Papa wouldn't feel like eating, but if he did, she'd have supper ready.

  "Ana!"

  "I don't have time. I can't take time off work. I can't get to Denver. Besides, they're not talking about me. I dig holes, that's all I do. There'll be people there who can do big things. Flashy things. Fireworks, you know? They won't want me." She was just la brujita.

  She expected more whining from him, her name spoken in an almost screeching voice. She didn't expect him to turn quiet, and very, very serious.

  "You're wrong. The things you can do—you're an ace. You can move the world if you thought of it. You have to try. It's your chance to get out of here."

  Get out of here? She'd never even considered it. Roberto had the better chance of that. And someone had to take care of Papa. "Roberto. I can't."

  "Ana. You have to." A tricky smile grew on his face. "I already called Burt. He gave you the week off. I got Pauli to loan me his truck. I'll drive."

  This was definitely a setup.

  They left the night before the auditions, packed a cooler with sodas and sandwiches, and stopped at a rest area near Pueblo to get some sleep. Before dawn, they continued for the final three hour drive to Denver. Ana spent most of the ride listening to Roberto's chatter.

  "So maybe you don't make the show. But even if you do nothing else but dig wells for the rest of your life, you can do better than Burt. You oughta be getting paid more than what he's paying you."

  Burt didn't pay well, but he paid under the table, saving everyone a lot of trouble. She put away as much as she could for Roberto and college.

  "I hear you can make a ton of money in off-shore oil rigs. You should try that."

  "I don't think I could do that kind of drilling."

  "You could try, couldn't you? Or maybe houses. You could dig foundations for all the houses they're building around Albuquerque. Don't you think?"

  It was flattering, how earnest he sounded. He should have been the one born with the ace. He'd have made better use of it. "Maybe," was all she said, and he finally dropped the subject.

  When they arrived at the stadium at around 8 A.M., the parking lot was already full and a line stretched along the sidewalk. She and Roberto stared, amazed. At first, she'd been surprised auditions were being held at the football stadium—surely, that many people wouldn't show up.

  "Wow. This is crazy," he said.

  Even a brief glance at the line revealed that these were potential contestants, not spectators. Ana saw a woman with four legs and diaphanous green moth wings, a seven-foot-tall man with long, sharp-looking quills sprouting along his head and down his neck like a Mohawk, and another man with green skin and glittering red eyes, faceted like gems.

  Among them stood dozens who looked entirely natural—but what could they do?

  Roberto said, "You get signed up. I'll find somewhere to park."

  She didn't think she'd have the guts to stand in that line without Roberto backing her up. But he'd gone through all the trouble to get her here. He'd be disappointed if she chickened out. She climbed out of the truck and watched her brother drive away.

  A petite Asian woman holding a clipboard and wearing a headset with a microphone marked the end of the line. She had tribal tattoos crawling up both arms. Ana couldn't be sure, but they seemed to shift, literally crawling. She tried not to stare.

  She asked Ana for her name, then asked, "What can you do?"

  "I dig holes," Ana said.

  The woman raised a brow, but gave a tired shrug as if to say that wasn't the worst thing she'd heard all morning. She handed Ana a square of paper with a number on it—"68". "All right, Ana, we'll be getting started soon. We'll have chairs set up for you on the sidelines. When your number is called, you'll talk to the judges, then show us your stuff. You need any props? Any kind of target or anything?"

  Dazed, Ana shook her head. "Just some ground. Some dirt."

  The woman smiled. "You'll have the whole football field. Assuming it doesn't get blown up before you get in there."

  Denver was the second-to-last audition. The woman seemed to be speaking from experience.

  Secretly, Ana sort of hoped the whole thing blew up before she got in there. She shouldn't have had that sandwich this morning. Her stomach was churning.

  People were st
ill joining the line. The guy in front of Ana was practically bouncing, rocking on his feet and gazing all around him with a face-splitting grin. He was about her age, twenty-one maybe, a clean-cut white guy with thick brown hair.

  "This is so cool," he said. "This is going to be so cool. I so totally can't wait to do this."

  "What do you do?" she asked.

  "It's a secret." His grin turned knowing.

  What could any of these people do, and how did her power compare? She was from a small town in the New Mexico desert. She'd never met another person infected with the wild card virus, and here she was, surrounded by them. Sixty-eight of them. More, because the line now stretched a dozen people behind her. A woman with feathers for hair. A young boy whose fingers were long, boneless, prehensile.

  She was just another person in the line. It was almost a comfort.

  Ahead, the line shifted, shuffling forward in the way of crowds. A renewed bout of nausea gripped her stomach. Where was Roberto? It was going to be okay, she told herself. She'd dug a thousand holes in her life. She could dig this one, then go home.

  She rubbed the shirt over her chest, feeling for the medallion she wore around her neck. It was the emblem of Santa Barbara, patron saint of geologists, miners, and ditch diggers, the image of a gently smiling woman with a chalice in one hand and sword and pick ax in the other. Her mother had given it to her before she died, many years ago now. Most of her life, but Ana still remembered. So she wasn't on her own. A part of Mama was with her.

  The wild card had killed Mama—she was a latent, and it finally killed her when Roberto was born. Ana carried that part of Mama with her, in her power.

  Please, Mama, get me through this.

  The production company offered water, sodas, and sandwiches for lunch, and Ana forced herself to eat. They didn't want anyone passing out before they had a chance to show off. That was what they called it, showing off. To Ana, it had always just been her job.

  Some of the normal-looking people weren't aces at all. They stood before the three judges, glaring dramatically, and nothing happened. Ana caught one of the exchanges.

  The lead judge—at least the one who talked the most, the journalist, Digger Downs—asked the man, "What is it you do?"

  "I can control your mind." He grinned wildly.

  Downs stared back. "Is that so?"

  "Yeah. And you're going to let me on the show. I'm going to be one of your contestants, and I'm going to win!"

  "Right. Sure. Next, please!"

  "Hey, wait—"

  Security hustled him away before he could get in another word. The auditions continued. For every dozen duds or fakes, someone came along who left the audience gasping.

  Early on, a woman who called herself Gardener—slim, black, and intense—trailed a handful of seeds on the ground, in front of the judges' table. Instantly, they grew into trees, towering conifers that left the judges in their own little forest. Auditions halted for an hour while one of them, the strongman Harlem Hammer, uprooted them and cleared them away.

  Later, a good-looking, dark-haired guy in his twenties stepped onto the field and flexed his fingers. Donning a cocky grin, he flung out his arms like he was throwing a ball, and a stream of glaring blue flames jetted from his hands and struck the frame of a gutted car. A layer of frost and icicles formed on the metal, even in the midday heat. Then he fired yellow flames at the pile of Gardener's uprooted trees, which caught fire. Assistants were on hand to put out the flames with fire extinguishers. Finally, he faced the judges, hands raised, and he was on fire. His head and hands burned with writhing purple flames, and he was smiling, unharmed. He called himself the Candle.

  This was exactly what Ana meant when she told Roberto there'd be flashy stuff here.

  "Sixty-seven!" one of the production assistants called, checking her clipboard. "Sixty-seven, Paul Blackwell!"

  "Yes!" the guy in front of her exclaimed, then dashed for the field. He hadn't been able to shut up about how cool his power was.

  For a long moment, nothing happened, and Ana wondered if he was another one of those nats who claimed vast mental powers. Then, one of the judges—Topper, the former government ace—sneezed. And sneezed again. And couldn't stop sneezing. Then the Harlem Hammer sneezed. Both of them were incapacitated, wracked with violent seizures of sneezing.

  And Downs—he gripped the edge of the table, caught in some seizure of his own. He wasn't sneezing, but his eyes rolled partway back in his head, and his body twitched, almost rhythmically. Oh my, Ana thought.

  Paul Blackwell crossed his arms and regarded them with a satisfied grin.

  "Jesus Christ, would you stop that!" Downs shouted. The seizures stopped and the three judges slouched over their table, exhausted.

  Topper wiped her nose with a tissue and said angrily, "Mr. Blackwell—"

  "I am Spasm!" the guy said, punching both arms into the air.

  "Fine. I think we've seen enough of your—I hesitate to even call it an ace—"

  "Hold on, not so fast," Downs said, and Topper rolled her eyes. "Er, Spasm. You say you can do this sort of thing to anyone?"

  "Yes, sir!" he said, grinning. "At least, so far."

  The three judges leaned together to confer, and a moment later Spasm left the field, grinning. Downs scratched a note on the paper in front of him. Then the production assistant called, "Sixty-eight! You're up! Ana Cortez!"

  Ana's heart raced. This was it. Finally. She spotted a guy up in the stands, waving both arms wildly. Roberto, among the spectators. He seemed so happy. The sight of him settled her.

  Smoothing her hands on her jeans, she went to face the judges. The three looked so with-it, so assured of themselves. They'd recovered quickly from their encounter with Spasm, and their gazes were almost bored. Who could blame them? Surely they'd seen everything by now.

  Downs asked, "What is it you do, Ana?"

  She'd said it a hundred times by now. "I dig holes."

  "You dig holes." His expression was blank.

  "Yeah."

  "Well." He shuffled some papers in front of him. "Let's see you dig a hole."

  She stood alone at the edge of the field, a hundred yards of green spread before her. She'd never had an audience like this—not since she was little, digging mazes in the playground, when all the neighbors gathered and whispered, brujita, es una brujita de la tierra. This crowd didn't make a sound. The silence marked thick anticipation.

  She closed her eyes so she couldn't see them.

  Kneeling, she touched her medallion, then put her hands on the ground.

  Had to be big. Something flashy. The holes she dug for work—nobody could see how far down they went. So she had to do something else. It didn't need to be precise, no one here was measuring. Turn the hole sideways, and dig it fast.

  Now.

  Particles moved under her hands, the dirt shifting away from her. The ground rumbled as it might in an earthquake. It vibrated under her, no longer solid, sounding like the soft roar of a distant waterfall. She opened her eyes just as a trench raced away from her. In seconds a cleft opened, splitting the earth to the opposite end zone. A hundred yards. Wide and gaping, it was four feet deep, angled like a steep canyon. Earthwork ridges piled up on either side, and a gray film of dust floated in the air above it. She'd cracked open the earth like an egg.

  A few spectators coughed. The air was thick and smelled of chalk. She breathed out a sigh. Her heart was racing, either from the nerves or the effort. Her hands, still planted on the ground, were trembling, like they still felt the vibrations of the earth. She brushed them together, wiping the dust off.

  Still, no one said anything. Ana didn't know what to do next. Stand up, she supposed. Go home. She'd shown them her trick, done what Roberto wanted her to do. Now he could take her home, as soon as the judges told her to leave.

  The judges were staring. Ana realized: the whole crowd was staring, wide eyed, eerily silent.

  She stared back for a long time before Do
wns pointed his pen at her. "You're in."

  When he met her outside, the first thing Roberto said to her was, "Told you so."

  The next week passed in a haze. The production company took care of everything—plane tickets, schedules, publicity. Even a stipend. She gave the whole check to Roberto. They weren't going to have her pay anymore, at least not until she got back. She assumed she'd get back quickly—that she wouldn't win.

  The production assistant with the tattoos, who called herself Ink, wanted to know what Ana's name was. The show seemed to have hundreds of assistants, each with their own little task, clipboards and cell phones never far away.

  "Your ace name," Ink explained. "What we're going to call you on the show."

  "I don't have an ace name," Ana said—then realized she did. She always had. She'd just ignored it.

  "Well, we need to come up with one. Any ideas?"

  "Brujita—" she started to say, then changed her mind. That was a name for a little girl. If she was going to do this, she ought to do it right. "La Bruja de la Tierra. That's what people call me."

  Ink frowned. "That's kind of a mouthful. What is that, Spanish?"

  "Uh, yeah."

  "What's it mean?"

  "Witch. Witch of the Earth."

  "Earth Witch." She scribbled on her clipboard. "Yeah, cool, that's great."

  She walked off before Ana could argue.

  She'd grown up in a rickety trailer home at the edge of the desert, surrounded by Mexicanos like her, yet marked as different by her power, always the odd one. Now, suddenly, she'd been plucked from her old life and set down in a new one. She certainly wasn't the odd one here.

  At the meet-and-greet party in the dining room at a fancy old hotel in Hollywood, the contestants met each other for the first time and learned their team assignments. All of it was being filmed. Don't look at the cameras, Ana kept telling herself.

  After a while, she almost forgot they were there.

  She recognized the Candle, Gardener, and even Spasm from the Denver audition. Spasm waved at her across the room, hoisting his drink in salute. Everyone else was new, and she tried to figure out who they were and what they could do. There was Diver, the woman who had real gills. Rustbelt, whose skin was iron, whose touch could turn a car to rust, and who clanked when he moved. Then there was Drummer Boy, already a star as the front man for the band Joker Plague. Hard to miss, at seven feet tall. Not to mention his six arms. Ana felt even smaller among these—sometimes literal—luminaries.