All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [68]
These thoughts came skidding to a halt, however.
The water at Fiona’s feet steamed.
It wasn’t cold the way it should have been. It bubbled, boiling hot.
18
THE UNPREPARED TEST
Eliot had changed into his shorts and gym T-shirt (which had a nifty gold scarab embroidered on the right breast) and now stood on the field before the six-story-high obstacle course in the Ludus Magnus coliseum.
If there’d ever been a jungle gym event in the Olympics, this would have been it.
There were simple things like stairs, slides, and monkey bars—most of which were fifty feet high, though. There were less childlike things: rope bridges, balance beams, and zip lines. Then there were the things that looked dangerous: barbed wire mazes, and platforms held by single poles that swayed (even in no wind).
Eliot took a deep breath. He wasn’t afraid of heights . . . but even unafraid, you’d have to be nuts to climb this thing.
He’d had a week to prepare for his first gym class, a week he had spent with his nose stuck in books on myths, gods, and demons. He’d learned tons, but he should have been jogging, or doing push-ups or something to get ready for this.
One good fall and a busted neck . . . and all that reading would be moot.
Next to him, Jeremy Covington droned on to Mitch Stephenson about classic winning strategies on the Ludus Magnus course.
Mitch caught Eliot’s uneasy look and, with a flick of his head, invited him to join them.
Eliot waved back but didn’t approach.
In the last week, Jeremy had barely said five words to him. The Scotsman was a bully. He’d been in three fights—won them all with kicks to the groin and thumb jabs to the eyes. Eliot was also pretty sure he smelled whiskey on his breath yesterday, too.
Mitch, on the other hand, got along with everyone. He always said hi, had something cool to say, paid attention in class—he’d even protected poor clueless Amanda from getting hassled. But Mitch also kept everyone at arm’s length, like he used his friendliness as an invisible shield.
Standing to Eliot’s left were four boys. Eliot had seen them on campus, but didn’t know them.
On these boys’ black shirts was a different symbol: a white sword crossed over a white lance. They were Team White Knight.
Eliot had read that White Knights were supposed to be the good guys. The polite thing to do would have been to introduce himself . . . but from the boys’ cold assessing looks, he didn’t think they were here to rescue any damsels or do good deeds.
They whispered and nodded at the jungle gym—from the snippets Eliot overheard, coming up with a strategy to beat Team Scarab.
Eliot kept his distance. He wanted to be friends with everyone, but something told him that being friends might get in the way of winning.
It seemed Paxington had been engineered to promote a philosophy of “win at any cost” with its duels, academic bell curve, gym class, and social pecking order. But Eliot didn’t want to win if so many others had to lose.
Robert came out of the boys’ locker room and jogged over to Eliot. “Almost didn’t get here today,” he said. “Slept in.”
He had a faded bruise around one eye, like he’d been in a fight recently. His T-shirt was taut and flexed with muscle. He must be working out.
“I’ve been trying to catch you all week,” Eliot said, “but you’re gone as soon as the class bell rings.”
“Just studying,” he said without meeting Eliot’s gaze. “That reading stuff comes easy for you . . . not so much for a guy like me.”
All this was true, but it felt a bit off, like Robert had left out one important fact.
Eliot guessed what it was. “Are you avoiding Fiona on purpose?”
Robert took a big breath and sighed. “Probably,” he said. “Some folks in the League think I got off too light for breaking their rules. I could get Fiona in trouble just being seen with her.”
Eliot had figured as much. He wanted to have a long talk with Robert. Partially because he thought of him as a friend. Partially because Eliot needed someone to talk to . . . someone who wasn’t getting more and more concerned with how they looked,