Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [60]
—What do you mean?
—You don’t have to tell me, just get someone in mind.
—The head of Caesar’s?
—If that’s what does it for you. When you fight, see his face superimposed over Mark’s face.
—That’s kind of creepy, Lloyd.
Mark is standing there with his arms folded across his chest, his hair hanging down over his eyes, his breastplate still on from an afternoon at the Ludus, waiting, smiling at me in the reflection, no doubt trying to lip read.
—Maybe now that you’re getting to know him, you might be thinking Uber’s not so bad, Lloyd says. —He might be coming around to the house. He could bring you flowers, maybe take you out to dinner or the movies. These things happen. You end up fighting a friend or a colleague. I’ve been through it, it happens to lots of Glads. So you have to know how to function in that kind of fight.
Now I’m looking away. I sure don’t want to talk about Uber. I’ve been feeling pretty bad knowing if I do arrange to fight him, it’s going to turn the guy inside out. But then there’s Tommy of course.
—Can we just spar for a while? I ask. —I can work on the hate thing later.
—Just spar? Like just fighting and just losing a body part?
—You’re right, but . . .
—There won’t be tape on the blades in the arena. So if you don’t plan on beating Uber, I’m the wrong person to train you.
—Well, I . . .
—You know, I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you stood a chance, he says.
Then Lloyd begins to rub my sword arm to limber me up.
—I want you to go at Mark with everything you’ve got. Remember he’s a little weak on balance ever since that diving incident in the Bahamas. The more you have him shifting about, the quicker he’s going to fall. And use your helmet today so you get used to it.
—You’re telling me about your own son’s weaknesses, I laugh.
—That’s what I’m saying. Right now, he’s your competitor. Not your best friend, not my son. Your job is to take him out of the game.
It’s never a straight line if you want to be Glad. You have to be able to make a lot of twists and turns in logic.
—Are we doing this or what? Mark calls impatiently. I’m not sure if he overheard us.
My helmet is one of Mouse’s lightweight prototypes that polishes up well, covers my forehead and cheeks, and leaves my eyes uncovered. There’s some narrowing of peripheral vision but I have no trouble watching Mark as he holds his helmet in his hands and decides to let it drop back into his bag. He’s looking at me now, like he’s not sure. Like maybe this storefront is too full of wrong ideas. I know he’ll fight me because he’s Lloyd’s son, because I’ve asked for his help. But I also know, looking at his expression, that he feels squeezed on all sides.
—You sparring without your helmet? Lloyd calls over to him.
—It’s too hot, he says.
I’ve seen people spar both ways—with and without. Lloyd doesn’t press him.
We walk to the center of the room. Mark smiles at me and I try to see the face of the Caesar’s man. But it doesn’t work. All I can see is Mark’s wistful look. We get our swords ready, our shields up. Lloyd blows the whistle for us to begin.
The first minute is about clashing, and I hear Lloyd’s voice, telling me to move right, left, dodge, weave. Mark hits my shield with his sword, narrowly missing my diaphragm, but I’m able to turn at the last second. His eyes widen and he calls, —Time.
—You okay? he asks me.
—What’s going on? Lloyd says.
—I think she needs more padding, Mark says.
—We’ve only got another twenty minutes, Lloyd says, looking at his watch.
—I’m fine, I tell Mark.
—Then let’s do this thing, Lloyd says, and blows the whistle again.
I’ve noticed that Mark tends to start by moving to the right today so this time I counter and move in quick with my sword. Maybe the tape is more for show than anything else, because I open up a line of blood along his sword arm. I realize I’m staring at his cut, and in a moment of combat, this is when Mark should take advantage. But he’s waiting for me.
—What the hell? Lloyd says.
—Sorry, I say. —The tape isn’t working.
—I was talking to Mark.
—Everything’s cool,