All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [208]
“We should start talking to some of the other students,” she said. “The ones on teams down two or three members already—before someone else snaps up the best of them.”
“Aye,” Jeremy said. “That be where my expertise is pure gold. I’ll be able to sort through the chaff for ye.”
Amanda gave a dismissive snort.
Fiona agreed with her assessment—at least that Jeremy was a relic, rude, chauvinistic—but she also saw the truth of the situation. The maneuvering for replacements, the politics of picking new teams; Mr. Ma had to have known this would happen in the later half of the year. She saw that this was part of gym class, too. Fiona had to learn how to recruit and, at the same time, stop other teams from getting her best players.
She imagined this process only accelerated as finals drew near. For most Paxington students, their loyalties would dissolve the instant they thought they were on a losing team.
“We’ll have to act quick,” Fiona whispered, more to herself than Jeremy. She was about to ask him what he had planned when she spotted someone on the far side of the field.
Mr. Ma emerged from the locker room. He wasn’t in his usual Paxington sweats. Today he wore camouflage fatigues, a khaki shirt, black combat boots, and a red beret. He looked all business, grim, and his dark eyes fixed upon her.
“Miss Post,” he said, as if her name were an accusation.
“We were just going to start,” she said, feeling suddenly guilty about not being on the gym.
But she stopped herself, disgusted at feeling so weak—when she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Fiona stood straight and told him: “We’re just about to figure out the best strategy to get to the very top of the new course.”
A flicker of irritation passed over Mr. Ma’s face as he turned and glanced up to the top of the gym structure. He then looked over Jeremy and Amanda.
“A fine idea,” Mr. Ma said, “but there will be no practice for you today. Where is Mr. Farmington?”
“No practice? We need it,” Fiona protested. “Team Scarab was signed up for this time.”
She decided not to say anything about Robert’s phone call and his ditching. Why she was protecting him, though, she had no clue.
“Team Scarab, yes,” Mr. Ma agreed. “But you are coming with me. There’s a special field trip for the Force of Arms class today.”
“A trip?” Fiona said. “Where?”
“South,” Mr. Ma told her. “We have a chance to study a revolutionary war in progress . . . firsthand.”
60
THE TROUBLE WITH TRUANCY
Eliot had never ditched before, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Study? That was the only thing that came to mind . . . but it sure seemed to defeat the purpose.
It was nice to be out of class and in the sunlight, though. And when Robert had picked him up (in a sidecar attached to his Harley) outside the Monterey Fairgrounds, the outraged look on Sarah’s face had been great. Ms. DuPreé, though, had said nothing, looking almost as if she approved of this rebellion.
He was sure he’d pay for it—but for now, he’d enjoy it while it lasted.
Robert slowed his bike as they got to the exit of the fairgrounds’ parking lot. “So where to?”
Eliot tried to think of something he’d always wanted to do, but never had the time or freedom for.
“How about miniature golf?”
Robert gave him a you’ve got to be kidding look.
Eliot shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Robert snapped his fingers. “There’s a Mardi Gras—a real blowout bash. Just a bit south, if you don’t mind the drive to Costa Esmeralda.”
There was something funny in Robert’s eyes, though; like this Mardi Gras thing was a deep memory surfacing . . . as if he was in a trace.
“Sounds good,” Eliot replied.
“Cool.” Robert grinned, and the look vanished. “Hang on.”
They drove fast—same as when Robert had chauffeured Uncle Henry’s limousine—breezing down the California coast to the border in ten minutes—then they blasted down the Pan-American Highway past cars and trucks, and through Mexico City traffic like it was frozen in amber.
Rocketing just a foot off the