Part 40 (1/2)

And I'm seeing a lot of Lisa. She isn't part of the pack because she wants to be around me or to be famous, but because her cousin Anatole had talked her into it. That makes her different from the others. Lisa has friends outside the pack who she spends time with. She has a mind that a.n.a.lyzes and categorizes everything that goes on around her, including me. Sometimes I think she looks on me as just another artifact to be studied.

But sometimes when she looks at me it isn't a.n.a.lytical. I'm not a.n.a.lyzing her, either. I like the way she dances, the way she feels in my arms, her scent. Sometimes I want to lean over and kiss her, just to see what might happen.

I begin to think about that. I don't hurt so much anymore when I think about Kimmie. I think maybe Lisa's a part of that.

But Lisa and I are doomed. The Demographic would hate her-she isn't their style at all. They want me to go with strong, outgoing personalities who also happen to be really beautiful. If I start seeing Lisa, my numbers would start to slide.

And she'd get a ton of hate mail. I don't know whether she could cope with that. So for all sorts of reasons I don't kiss her.

But still I enjoy thinking about it.

The catastrophe happens on a Friday evening, the night before we're due to premiere our new style at the Cryptic. Tonight the pack is at Errol's place up in Berkeley, looking at music videos the Demographic sent us. We listen and watch and give our verdicts, and the Demographic watches us and responds to what we're saying.

We're watching Fidel Nunez lament the state of his corazon when I get a message on my headset from Deva. Check Kimmie's new flash. Don't say anything.

I look at Kimmie's flash through the splice on my optic nerve, and I feel like someone's just slammed me in the head with a crowbar.

Kimmie and her pack-there are only seven of them-are flas.h.i.+ng live from a club I recognize, Toad Hall on Treasure Island, and they're wearing long fur-trimmed Turkmen coats and baggy pants and tall riding boots. They carry horse whips, and they're dancing to Mukam using the same steps that we've planned to use. They have a different playlist than the one we've built, but it has a lot of the same songs.

I sit in Errol's media room and watch my whole next phase crumble into dust. If I show up tomorrow night at the Cryptic, everyone will think I'm imitating Kimmie. I can't even prove the idea originated with me because I'd been so strict about not recording anything.

My head swims and I feel as if I'm going to faint. Then I realize that for some time I'd completely forgot to breathe. I take in some air, but it doesn't make me feel any better.

Fidel Nunez finishes his song. There's silence, and I realize that the rest of the pack have been watching Kimmie's flash, too.

”What do we think?” Errol asks. His tone is anxious.

There's more silence.

”I think it's boring,” I say. I stand up and I reel because I'm still light-headed. ”I think we need to get moving.”

There is a certain amount of halfhearted approval, but mostly I think the pack are as stunned as I am.

I look at the pack and wonder which one of them told Kimmie about the Turkmen style.

One of my friends has betrayed me.

”Spending a Friday night looking at videos?” I ask. ”How pathetic is that?”

”Yeah!” Anatole says. ”Let's get out of here!”

We go outside and the cool night air sings through my veins. There's a heavy dew on the gra.s.s and mist drifting amid the trees. I turn back and see Errol's house, with its red tile roof curving up at the corners like a Chinese temple, and the trellises carrying twining roses and ivy up the sides of the house, and the tall elm trees in the front and back.

”You know,” I say, ”this place would be great for gorillaball.”

Errol looks at the house. ”I'm glad you didn't say that back when-”

”Let's play now!”

Errol turns to me. ”But we're not-we're-”

”I know we're not gorillas,” I say. ”But that's no reason we can't play gorillaball. Let's have the first gorillaball game without gorillas!”

Errol's horrified, but I insist. Errol's parents, who actually own the house, aren't home tonight, so they can't say no. I captain one team, and Errol captains the other. We choose up sides, all except for Amy and Lisa.

”I'm not playing,” Lisa says. ”This is just crazy.”

Amy agrees.

”You can referee, then,” I say.

We set up one ladder in the front and another out back. We put one goal in a tree in the front, another in a tree in the back. I win the toss and elect to receive.

The ball comes soaring over the house and Sanjay catches it. He goes for the ladder and I lunge for a trellis. Errol and his team are scrambling up the other side.

Sanjay reaches the roof, but already two of Errol's teammates are on him. He pa.s.ses the ball to me and I charge. I knock Michiko sprawling onto the roof tiles and then I hit Shawn hard under the breastbone, and he grabs me to keep from falling. So now we both fall, sliding down the tiles that are slippery with dew. As Shawn goes off the roof he makes a grab at the gutter, something he could have done easily as an ape, but he misses. I get the gutter myself and swing into a rosebush just as I hear Shawn's femur snap.

Thorns tear at my skin and my clothes. I drag myself free and run for the elm tree that overhangs the street. I grab the goalkeeper's foot and yank him out of the tree, then climb up myself and slam the ball into the bucket we've put in a crotch of the tree.

”Goal!” I yell.

The others are cl.u.s.tered around Shawn. I'm limping slightly as I join them. Blood thunders in my veins. Which one of you ratted us out to Kimmie? I think.

Errol turns to me.

”Shawn's smashed his leg up bad. Game's over.”

”No,” I say. ”You're down one player, so we'll give up one to keep it fair.” I turn to Sanjay. ”You can take Shawn to the hospital. The rest of us can keep playing.”

Lisa looks at me. ”I'm going, too. This is insane.”

I look at her in surprise. It's practically the first thing she's said in public.

”Go if you want,” I say. ”The rest of us are playing gorillaball.”

And that's what the rest of us do. No more bones are broken, but that's only because we're lucky. By the end of the night I'm bruised and cut and bleeding, with sprained fingers and a swollen knee. The others look equally bad. I've scored seven points.

The trick, I decide, is not to care. If you don't care who you hit and who you walk over, you can score a lot of points in this world. You could be like Kimmie.

We should have fought the Samurai tonight, I think. We'd have crushed them.

The ratings are great. Many more people watch us live than watch Kimmie. And when I edit the raw flash into a coherent, ninety-minute experience the next day, the number of downloads is as good as anything I've done.

Gorillaball leagues start forming again, only without the gorillas. People are inspired by the madness of it.

I'm back on top.

But only for a short ride. I have to cancel the Cryptic appearance, and after the gorillaball blip, my numbers resume their slide. And word gets out about Kimmie's new style, so her numbers start to soar.

She's riding the trend that should have been mine.