On a LARP, page 1
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2017 Stefani Deoul
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Print ISBN: 978-1-61294-095-3
Bywater Books First Edition: April 2017
Cover designer: TreeHouse Studio, Winston-Salem, NC
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Bywater Books.
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-096-0
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.
Bywater Books
PO Box 3671
Ann Arbor MI 48106-3671
http://www.bywaterbooks.com
Contents
Titlepage
Copyright
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For 14
Love 16
Possible worlds are a fantastic matrix.
—Victor Hugo*
* As read on the internet. . .
. . . which we know makes it true.
PROLOGUE
Pop quiz! Only one question.
Do any of you know the truly scary part about being seventeen?
Okay. Time’s up.
Let’s check your answers.
If you guessed a) first romantic love, you would be annoying, slightly behind the curve, and . . . wrong. For those of you who went with b) driving without parent . . . wrong again.
Now, if you actually gambled on c) “love is meant for beauty queens,” etc., you would be not only so, so wrong, but you also just publicly pleaded guilty to the charge of listening to your parents’ music. You are now sentenced to the wearing of your very own, personal Scarlet “L.” Hawthorne fans everywhere shall rise and rejoice. But clearly I digress. Which is something I should admit up front I have a rather amazing, if somewhat dubious, talent for.
And while I am sure there will be more on this as we mosey along, for now let us return to the question at hand. Which was, “what is the truly scary part of being seventeen?” And no, the answer is not d) everything and it is also not the cheap trick of answers e) all of the above.
The correct answer is—drumroll please—you still have an impossibly, unbelievably, underdeveloped brain. And yes, I am not making this up.
According to a study I read on the internet, by the National Institute of Mental Health, the brain is not fully developed until a person is—get this!—in his or her twenties. The parts of the brain that control emotional and impulsive behavior have not yet matured in teens, and “such a changing balance might provide clues to a youthful appetite for novelty, and a tendency to act on impulse-without regard for the risk.”
Helloooo? Stay with me people.
Fine. I will cut to the chase and give you . . . the critical part:
As the frontal lobe is one of the last parts of the brain to develop, and IN THE TEENAGE BRAIN, IT’S NOT REALLY FIRING AT ALL, it is therefore physiologically harder for a teen to completely understand the future consequences of his (or her—as this case may be) emotional or impulsive actions. Some psychologist named Laurence Steinberg once compared this lack of teenage brain phenomena (in a manner I am now applauding as both succinct and accurate) to “a car with a good accelerator but a weak brake.”
I personally like to think of myself as a mint-condition 1966 Mustang. Convertible. Cherry Red. Digression.
So back to my point, in simple English, all this means is your teenage brain doesn’t know, understand or care what it can’t do; and while this sounds great in theory, in practice it honestly is not always such a good thing.
In my particular case, my underdeveloped brain apparently didn’t know I couldn’t fly.
So I jumped . . .
And I plummeted . . .
And I promise you, if I somehow manage to survive this act of immature-brain-encased-in-unbelievable-stupidity, I will gladly tell you exactly how I got here . . .
. . . Ah yes, well, here.
I guess one might be wondering where exactly here would be.
Well, I am, as my Aunt Megan would say, “in Rat City wearing cheese pants.” I don’t know why she says that or where that particular expression comes from but I love it. And it is a brilliant summation of my current dilemma.
However, for those of you seeking an answer with perhaps a bit more specificity, “here” is above the marble floor of Astor Hall, inside the Main Entrance to the New York Public Library, soaring through the air, flailing wildly downward.
And for those of you who might not be familiar with this particular library, before you climb the steps to gain entry to this imposing tomb of tomes (witty, no?), you stride right between the two fierce lions standing watch over this castle.
Their names are actually Leo Astor and Leo Lenox. They were named for the library’s founders, were designed by Edward Clark Potter and carved by the same guys who carved Abraham Lincoln sitting in his memorial in Washington, DC. But sometime in the 1930s Mayor LaGuardia nicknamed them Patience and Fortitude. Which kind of stuck.
And it is this insightful educational moment, which brings me to my current rather loose, free-floating brain cell query. If I’d been thinking about Patience and Fortitude and sticking around, rather than rushing off to play hero, would I have ignored what could have been a lifesaving portent, and thus averted finding myself trapped, or perhaps more accurately, suspended, in this predicament? I’d like to imagine I would, but in all honesty it most likely would not have deterred yours truly.
And you want to know something else, something truly freaky? It is absolutely amazing how much stuff can flit through your brain while you are plunging to your death.
It is an absolute paradox. I mean, think about it. Intellectually we can agree the laws of physics demand that I be dropping like a rock and yet this free fall is one gigantic run-on sentence. It is a lesson in massive stream of consciousness, tumbling run-on thoughts of useless minutia—all while simultaneously experiencing a white-noise, shrieking train of thought: How can I possibly have enough time to be thinking all of this?
So the room below is spinning and there I am flying somewhere the heck over what I thought should be the epicenter, which was where I calculated he ought to be, holding his gun, when I note that spot is empty. Yet as we have discussed, my mind keeps churning with irreverent tangents, even as the floor grows closer, neither my eyes nor brain willing to acknowledge that I could have missed him.
After all, I do not miss the dude with the clarinet—random, I know! His dyed red hair spiffed into an impossible pompadour, his bow tie covered with some cool gear pattern, hanging starchly untied (letting me know it’s for looks only), staring up at me with ever-widening eyes and a kind of smirk—all while not missing a beat. This I am managing to register and even be dimly aware he is playing something kind of familiar. But whatever tune it might be is drowned out by a new insistent interloper.
“Recalculating. Recalculating.” Really! Suddenly cutting through the competing voices of my mind, I hear her specific voice—at once shrill, demanding and demeaning—the GPS witch woman. OMG, I am going to die and all I can hear is Helga. I am trapped in a dashboard in my mind.
But then I do hear it. I know I hear it. It’s a bang. A big bang. From somewhere over the ballroom lamp. But I can’t see it. No muzzle flash. No smoke. Where is she? Where is he? It isn’t making any sense. Where is the spiral of smoke? Why is there a red spot appearing below? The red spot is spreading. Almost like a bull’s-eye forming just below me. Weird. Shouldn’t there be a spiral of smoke? I hope my shoes don’t get scuffed. I bought them just for tonight. They’re very black and white, very old-school 1940s Spectators. So freaking perfect. I told myself to take a shoefie. I told myself, but I did not listen to myself. It will so suck if they get ruined.
You know my friends, the floor is rapidly approaching and I have just enough time left to be guessing this is a probably a consummate example of what Dad meant when he said I needed to learn to look before I leap. But now, it is so way too late for that, and worse, I still don’t understand why I can’t see it.
There’s always a spiral of smoke in the movies.
ONE
I guess we should start at the beginning.
My name is Sid. Sid Rubin. Actually if I am going to be honest about it, my name is Sidonie, which no one is allowed to call me except my Mom and my grandmother. And they only get away with it because they’re French. Yes , as in “From France.” As in wine and ma cherie and brie cheese and croissants. Ooh La La.
My dad (Noah) met my mom (Juliette) when he was at an astrophysics conference in Europe. According to Dad, he was there to talk about the stars but after he saw Mom the only stars he could see were the ones in her eyes. Every time he tells this story, I snort. Dad also claims he wanted to name me Nebula so I should thank Mom every day for ignoring him and sticking with Sidonie. And although I will concede he has a valid point, I will also point out he was actually the first one to call me Sid, so honestly, I don’t really think he likes Sidonie all that much, either.
I have a younger brother, Jean, whom I have to begrudgingly admit has it worse than me. At least I can go by Sid, if not voluntarily, at least defensively. Jean, on the other hand, is also meant to be French and if you were reading it, it would be pronounced kind of like ZHAN, but every year without fail, the teacher taking roll yells out Jean as in Gene like DNA or jean like blue jeans—one of which is the girl’s name and one of which is short for Eugene—and neither of which bodes well for him. And so every year, just like it’s all brand new all over again, the kids start calling him YOOOOO GENE or YOOOOO HOOOO(blow a kiss) JEAN—depending entirely on just how moronic they are.
It is absofrickinglutely amazing how stupid just never seems to get old.
You would think by high school everyone would move on, but noooo, there he was, first day, freshman year, too short, too nerdy and slinking his way down the hall pretending he couldn’t be bothered to answer the taunts. And sadly, Jean is not a name that lends itself to a cool nickname. So sometimes even I have to say, it really does suck being him. And I do think even Dad secretly agrees with this. He once said “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” which given his usual bias means Mom got all French on him while saying this is what we should name our son and he just agreed. He never stopped to think about anything other than how Mom said it. In our house, the general rule is when Mom gets “all French,” Mom wins.
By now I would hope I have gotten you to the feeling-sorry-enough-for-us stage but, just in case, one more tidbit to add to the growing pile. We’re both reasonably classified as brainiacs. And therefore any last shred of hope of fitting in would be an abstract concept.
But I do possess one secret weapon. And it’s not just any old secret weapon. My secret weapon is James “Jimmy” Flynn. Yep. Five Fingers Flynn. Six foot four and still growing possessed of an arm that can throw a ball nearly the full length of a football field and put it through the swinging tire at the far end. Yep. My best friend is Jimmy Flynn, star quarterback. And when your best friend is the star quarterback, you get high school immunity. The geeks are my friends because I am one of them, but all the other cliques who would gleefully kick me to the curb are always ever so slightly fake gushy as they seek to ingratiate themselves so they might worship at the Throne of The Flynn.
And while you might assume that being Jimmy Flynn is simple and glorifying, nothing about Jimmy Flynn is necessarily simple nor what one would expect. For starters, Jimmy’s Dad is 100 percent Irish American, born and raised in Boston. His Mom, however, is 100 percent Japanese American, born and raised in Charleston. He is also the star quarterback who is busy trying to decide whether or not he should attend Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. His other sport of choice is chess.
The Flynn’s secret dream is to be a Supreme Court Justice. And when you know Jimmy it makes perfect sense—his ability to take in his world, analyze the information, and see how a choice will impact and resonate far beyond the moment we are in. Works in football, works in future judge world, and probably needless to say it is a quality I sorely lack.
Jimmy and I met at what I like to call one of those supermarket sweepstake events for fast-tracking your self-proclaimed, uber-bright toddler into the right school. Our moms started chatting and the next thing you know we have our first play date. We were two. By the time we hit nursery school we were not only old pals, we were best buds.
I remember when SuSu Roberts, who at age four was already a fully committed entitlementist, swiped my crayons. Before my first indignant tear could shed, Jimmy came tearing across the room, walked over to SuSu and declared, “You are not being behaved. You give Sid back her crayons.” Well, SuSu glared and stamped, even tossed her colorfully beaded hair, in an apparent attempt to rally a standoff in the pre-k corral, but Jimmy didn’t move (come to think of it, neither did Mrs. Trebont) and so SuSu sucked in her cheeks and flounced herself around and handed them back. Then Jimmy yelled, “Say you’re sorry.” And she did. And after that, no one could pick on me. Jimmy Flynn had my back. And that was long before any of us knew he would be Five Fingers Flynn.
For me, the scariest part of thinking ahead to graduation is coming to terms with knowing I will have to find my own well of courage forward, without my personal knight to protect me. And why is that so scary? Maybe because even by high school it is obvious, in so many ways we never truly move beyond our pre-k universe.
TWO
So now that you’ve met the players, well at least the ones you needed to know to be up to speed, let’s get down to how it all began.
There we were, thirteen of us, sitting in Mr. Clifton’s AP class—Morality, Legality, and Life—intensely discussing a TED Talk Mr. Clifton had just made us watch. It’s this concept by Derek Silvers and it’s all about how to supposedly start a movement. It has a guy dancing around all crazy in this field—alone. And there are all these other people in the field just staring at him. Suddenly one guy joins him, and then everyone else gets up and they’re all just dancing in this field.
Yeah, I know; I hear you. But it really was kind of interesting. And according to Derek Silvers, the second guy is the first follower and he is the one who transforms the guy from a lone nut to someone who’s leading the way of something.
And judging by class pleaser Vikram Patel’s effusive nodding, he is definitely seconding something or other Jimmy has just raised, and two things occur to me: one, I am so not listening, because two, from my vantage point in the far corner of our classroom couch I realize this whole concept is kind of a study in the engineering of Jimmy Flynn. He’s one of those guys who effortlessly gets a first follower. And funny enough, that isn’t me. I’m just his buddy. The first followers always just come because Jimmy says, “hey, here’s a great idea,” or some such thing. However, it is important for me to disclose in fairness, sometimes, I am a first benefiter—but that arrangement isn’t in this particular TED talk.
So anyway, after Mr. Clifton had us watch this TED talk, we began loosely debating historical context for the talk. You know, take the biggies and theorize. Ready, set, go: Without a first follower, would Hitler have remained an ugly, hate-filled nutjob? And what about one of the supreme biggies, Jesus? Would Jesus have simply lived and loved and perhaps have been known as one of those sons who never leave home? Would all the neighbors have gossiped about what a disappointment he must be to his mother? Would that have been their stories were it not for their first followers?
And because Mr. Clifton epitomizes cool—and not just because he commutes on his personally restored motorcycle, one rare and sexy 1947 Indian Chief, has gauges in his ears and a mysterious tattoo running up his arm, but because his conversations are not those whereby the teacher writes on the blackboard and we raise our hands as a sign we wish to share—we are involved.
We, this chosen baker’s dozen, are sitting, or more accurately practicing the art of couch slouch, in the “den” area Mr. Clifton has designed at the back of his classroom, complete with a series of mismatched sectional sofa pieces positioned to surround the conversational centerpiece, an oversized, funky coffee table, which is a sloganeer’s delight, having been layered over and over again with stickers people have contributed—from peace signs and smiley faces to anti-this and pro-that and just about any cultural reference the Smithsonian could be looking to collect.
