Page 68 of Flickerstate

At the beep, I clear my throat. “Josephine Sullivan, you are an unbelievable twerp.”

Vik drains a three-pointer.

I return my phone to my pocket. “You’re pretty good.”

He snags the rebound and turns to me, stare hovering around my knees. “I’m not good. Not bad either. Solidly mediocre.”

“Are you another young navigator who never practiced good, clean athletics?”

Vik’s blank face shuts down further. “My nav didn’t manifest till I was thirteen.”

I’ve said something to alienate him. For once in my long history of alienating people, I have no idea what. “What’s the explanation, then? You’ve got the reflexes and the form.”

“Limited opportunities with the ball. I was a shrimpy kid. No one wanted to pass to me.”

“Shrimpy.” I look him up and down. “When did you double in height?”

He bounce-passes the ball to me. “Are we here for a H-O-R-S-E rematch, or…”

I wonder how aggressive to be. I decide on—hey, what the hell—aggressive. “We’re here because this morning we were onpretty good terms, and now you won’t look me in the face.”

He freezes, eerily unmoving. He still doesn’t look at me.

My jaw spasms. I dribble once and shoot—way too hard. The ball ricochets off the rim and flies at me, slamming into my chest. I snap my arms around it and stumble back.

Vik steps in, hand outstretched to steady me. He stops dead before we touch. “Sorry.”

I find my balance. “Why?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you not want me to?” I blurt.

“What?”

“Youknowwhat.”

“I…” He speaks to the asphalt. “I was glad you did.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

“I don’t, uh.” He swallows, lean throat working. “I don’t want to see you regret it.”

My frustration vanishes. Without it, I’m just confused. “Because we’re against each other in the trials now?”

“I know how badly you want into the Archive.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but I’d still…” He smiles, pained. “Can’t see you going for it, though.”

I’m standing there, hugging the basketball, blinking like an idiot, when I remember the nickname our jerk classmates gave him: Afterthought. This morning, when I told him how stupid that was, he said,It’s not a big deal. I know what I’m like. I assumed he meant some freshman-year taunt didn’t matter to him now that he’s a tall, muscular senior with stupidly pretty eyes and a legal right to vote, in the running for valedictorian and an Archive assistantship.

He didn’t mean that. He meant he couldn’t get mad because the jerks were right. That’s who he sees in the mirror: the afterthought in a group of all-stars, the shrimpy kid no one will pass the ball to. He can’t picture a future where I have to choose between him and my ambition, and I choose him.

But Idon’thave to choose. Why should everything have to suck all the time?

I drop the ball and put my hands on my hips. “Look, you’ve helped me a lot. We probably wouldn’t be competing directly if you hadn’t tutored me. I’d still step on your face to walk into the Archive—”