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Three: Miller High

Something was very wrong with the world.

Marc grimaced as the thought came to his mind. It wasn't the first time he'd had such a feeling, but this was no moment to be distracted. He stared down at one of the shapes drawn on the map of Africa on his desk, but the country's name remained just out of reach. It wasn't Egypt. At least he didn't think so--Egypt was in northeast Africa, not northwest, wasn't it? He looked at the northeast corner of the continent, at the tiny number written in the middle of one of the odd shapes. Eighty-six. It was as likely as any of the other shapes; today country number eighty-six would be Egypt. Hastily, he found the number on his answer sheet and jotted down the country's name, relying on luck to get the spelling right. Mr. Peterson docked points if you misspelled a country. Now, back to the elusive shape in the northwest. Was it one of the countries that had a rainforest, or were the tropics further south? He knew the Sahara Desert wasn't in it; that was back near Egypt. At least, he thought so. The Sahara was supposed to be pretty big, but he didn't think it could stretch all the way across a continent.

Irritably, Marc took his pencil out from between his teeth. Any time he started chewing his pencil, it meant his mind was wandering. Focus. Deserts and rainforests wouldn't show him the name of that country, and its name was all that mattered. He knew this country. He'd studied maps and globes for weeks preparing for this test. If he stared at the shape on the piece of paper before him and thought of nothing else, the answer would come to him. Right now, it was all that mattered. So Marc concentrated on that shape, not even allowing himself to blink.

Something was very wrong with the world. No reason existed for him to believe so, no explanation he could offer to support the feeling, but he couldn't shake it. Granted, there were still places suffering from wars and famines, but for the most part, people led full, happy lives. This side of the Pacific, certainly, the biggest worry on anyone's mind was the steady rise of fuel prices. Children grew up, went to college, became teachers, engineers, or doctors, found families and retired in luxury, or at least comfort. So why did Marc nearly itch with the sense that something was out of place? Was it just his growing certainty that he would never become one of those successful adults, that all his studying and testing would account for nothing in the long run? Maybe that was a part of it, but surely there was more to the feeling than self-pity. And why did the feeling come upon him now, at this moment? What could be wrong about knowing the names of the world's countries? It might not be the most useful knowledge to have, but at least he wouldn't feel stupid when he heard about foreign affairs with Europe, or a natural disaster in Asia.

Except he would feel stupid, because even the countries he managed to memorize for today's geography final would slip from his mind within a month.

Marc glanced at the round clock on the wall above the classroom's blackboard and cursed, louder than he intended to--nearby students' heads turned toward him, a few snickering, but if Mr. Peterson noticed Marc's quiet outburst from behind his large desk in the corner of the room, the teacher was in a forgiving mood today. Four minutes remained before geography class was dismissed, and most of Africa was still blank on his answer sheet.

Trying to appear as calm as possible, Marc began hastily scribbling countries' names in his answer sheet's remaining blank spaces, barely glancing at Africa's map. Zimbabwe, South Africa, New Zealand...wait, he'd already used New Zealand as one of Europe's countries...Old Zealand, Kenya, Zimbabwe again... By the time the class bell rang and Mr. Peterson told everyone to drop their pencils, only three of Marc's spaces were still unfilled, but if his answers were all correct, both Zimbabwe and South Africa had suddenly expanded their territories to claim three other countries apiece in their respective regions. He was sure one of the four South Africas was right, at least.

He shouldered his backpack after storing his pencil in its smallest pouch, stood, and joined the surge of students funneling out into the high school's hallway, surprised at how calm he felt. That had been his fourth final exam of the day, and of the four, he knew he had passed none, not even Geometry. Hands in his jeans pockets and staring bitterly at the backpack of the student in front of him, he let himself get swept along with the sluggish current of adolescents toward the gymnasium, wondering if he should repeat his senior year or just drop out for good. He had a few underclassman friends, but he didn't think spending more time with them would be worth another year of school, especially when he could expect the same results when the spring exams came around again.

As usual, the crowd of students had jammed into a standstill at the intersection of halls outside the gym. Marc leaned on a locker while waiting for the other students to clear out enough for him to squeeze his way through his last class's doors. After the day he'd had, there really wasn't any point in taking his Phys. Ed. Exam, except that the class had been wrestling for the past week, and he thought he could use a little venting. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could manage to fail this final, too, by showing lack of restraint.

Given such thoughts, he was probably lucky that no wrestling mats were unrolled over the gymnasium floor as he'd expected. Instead, a large, lumpy burlap sack sat at the foot of Mr. Monroe's waist high stool. Marc let his mood brighten a little. One last game of dodge ball would be a good way to say farewell to his days in high school.

"Get dressed fast, the bell rings in sixty seconds," the Phys. Ed. teacher was shouting at no one in particular, looking predictably irritated under his Reds baseball cap. Marc made his way to the locker room without hurrying. If Mr. Monroe wanted to give him a grade reduction for wasting everyone else's time, he was welcome to, though the teacher almost never followed through with that threat.

He passed Brandon Davis scurrying out of the boys' locker room on his way in, his friend wearing a wide grin underneath his disheveled blond mullet. "Hey, Marc. Looks like dodge ball today," he chirped happily. Marc nodded before making his way to his gym locker, letting a small smile pull at the corners of his mouth. He knew how much his friend disliked wrestling. Beyond being even scrawnier than most girls at Miller High, Brandon held back in most gym activities to make certain he wouldn't hurt anyone. That made him particularly timid in as physical a sport as wrestling, no matter how much larger his opponent was, so he almost always lost his matches. He never went down easily, though--Brandon was nimble enough that he was almost impossible to pin--but his unaggressive nature always kept him on the defensive.

After swapping his clean jeans and tee shirt for stale gym shorts and a tank top, Marc joined his friend in the attendance line against one of the gymnasium's walls, stepping between Brandon and Trent McCafferty. "One last hurdle before the outback, huh?" Trent said, and Mr. Monroe looked up from his attendance list to give Brandon a sideways glance when the skinny teenager cheered.

"One last hurdle before a two-week wait before the outback," was Marc's response, but he broke out in a grin before he finished the sentence. Whether or not he passed his exams and graduated, he had something to look forward to this summer.

Brandon's parents weren't exactly wealthy, but his uncle and godfather, Henry Lindburg, was well paid by the United States Air Force to train recruits in various corners of the world. Two years ago Henry accepted a position just outside of Sydney, Australia, taking his wife and adopted daughter with him, as always, and had invited Brandon to spend a month with them as a graduation present. Brandon's only request was that Marc be allowed to come, too, and while his uncle wasn't so well-to-do that he would spring for all of Marc's expenses on top of Brandon's, he'd assured his nephew that Marc was welcome to stay with them as long as he could cover his own air fare.

It hadn't been easy, but Marc had managed to save enough money for the ticket by working as a roofer in his dad's landscaping business for almost two years. He was glad to be paying his own way, though. Instead of tagging along with his friend through Brandon's uncle's charity, he felt like he'd earned the trip, so Trent's mention of the vacation immediately lifted his spirits.

"We're playing dodge ball today, if you haven't guessed that already," Mr. Monroe announced after setting the attendance list and its clipboard under his stool. "Nelson, you're on team one. Count it off."

"One," echoed Jessica Nelson, a sophomore at one end of the attendance line. The student to her left said, "Two," followed by another "one" from the next student in line. Brandon sighed at Marc's side as the alternating count worked its way toward them. It was a method of dividing the class into teams that protected students from being the last one picked, but it also separated friends who clustered together to chat in the attendance line.

"Ones on the other side, twos stay put," Mr. Monroe commanded once the last student declared her team's number.

"Don't hold back," Marc told Brandon.

Trent answered instead with a quick, "Never do," as they left Marc's team for the gymnasium's far wall.

By the time team one was all on the other side of the large room, Mr. Monroe had finished emptying the burlap sack's contents, tossing dozens of small, spongy red balls to either half of the court. With almost thirty students in the class, there was enough ammunition for everyone to have something to throw when the game started, though as some students snatched up two or even three balls, others were left empty handed.

Standing against the back wall with his team mates as their opponents did the same, Marc squeezed his single sphere until it was packed neatly in the palm of his hand. In their natural size, about as large as cantaloupes, the spongy dodge balls were more or less as aerodynamic as half-inflated balloons, and had no real chance of hitting anyone save the oblivious. It kept anyone from getting hurt, true, but a game could stretch on until one side became bored enough to forfeit with such buoyant ammunition. It had only taken a few minutes in the semester's first game, though, for the class's athletes to discover that when the padded balls were crushed down to the size of small apples, they became more or less as solid and easy to throw as small apples, as well. They often re-inflated to pillow consistency mid-flight on long throws, but most points in the game were made at close enough range that that wasn't an issue.

Marc didn't consider himself an athlete, but if rocks were being thrown at him, he wanted rocks of his own to throw back.

Without even looking at his students to make certain they were all touching their assigned back wall, Mr. Monroe blew his whistle to start the game while making his way back to his stool.

Several enthusiastic students from both teams dashed toward the half court line, easily side-stepping the slow, long shots thrown by their opponents' back lines, then beamed the other chargers at point blank as best they could without getting hit themselves. That was all Marc had time to notice before the game's chaos enveloped him, and he was dashing, throwing, and rolling along with everyone else.

He threw several misses, dodged two shots aimed at him, and caught a third before he managed to get any of the other team's members out, hitting Steven Poe in the shoulder while the basketball player was distracted trying to pick off one of Marc's team mates. By Mr. Monroe's rules, catching a ball kept a student from being sent to the sidelines, but it didn't make the thrower out, either, which Marc remembered had been the case in middle school dodge ball. He was pretty sure that rule was in place just so that the Phys. Ed. instructor wouldn't have to find the source of every caught ball, which would be all but impossible with so many volleys being traded between teams at any given moment.

It didn't take long for both halves of the gymnasium to become less crowded, ever more red balls being left unused on the floor as the line of students sitting on a long bench behind Mr. Monroe's stool grew. Marc tried not to get distracted by the rest of his team, though, focusing as much as he could on his targets across the half court line while ducking under and jumping over high and low shots aimed at him. He chucked a ball as hard as he could at Brandon, but his friend spun lithely out of the way and plucked another red sphere from the floor in the same motion as it rebounded off the wall behind him.

Marc shook his head ruefully when he noticed Brandon hand his ammunition to Trent, following his usual strategy of supplying his team's best throwers with balls so that they didn't have to distract and endanger themselves by gathering their own ammunition. Most students had given him bemused thanks when he'd first offered such help, but by now everyone knew he did it to stay away from the hazardous front lines and keep himself in the game as long as possible.

Marc's distraction almost sent him to the spectator bench; he dove to the side just in time to avoid two balls flying at his head and chest, then barely caught a third while rolling to his feet. Darting back to mid-court, he packed the ball tightly in his palm while stepping around several shots aimed his way, keeping an eye on Brandon and waiting. When Brandon finally dared to trot close to the half-court line to hand a ball to another student, Marc ran forward and beamed him in the shoulder.

Unfortunately for Marc, the student Brandon had just supplied was a pitcher on Miller High's baseball team. The ball hit Marc hard enough that it careened off his forehead to be caught by a benched student at the far end of the line of the defeated. Once his vision cleared, Marc followed his friend to the sidelines.

"Ow," he said inanely as he sat beside Brandon to watch the last of the game's survivors pick each other off.

"Serves you right." Brandon folded his arms in front of his chest and pretended to sulk.

Laughing, Marc flicked the side of his friend's head. "If you have a ball, throw it!"

"Yeah, yeah." Smirking, they both waited for the next round to start, only half paying attention to the remains of their teams as the game drew to a standoff between Trent McCafferty and two of Marc's team members.

Trent was backed up against the far wall, doing fairly well evading the never ending volley the other two students kept sending at him, but the few throws he managed between his frantic dodges had no more luck finding their targets than his opponents' did. After half a minute of this stalemate, Mr. Monroe blew his whistle in a sudden shrill that made the students nearest him cringe away from the sound, then shouted, "Full court!" By his rules, players on both teams were now allowed to go anywhere in the gymnasium, a sure method of ending games quickly. It was just a matter of the two students from Marc's team closing in on Trent before he managed two lucky shots.

Before they had a chance to do so, though, Trent scooped up two red spheres, yelled, "Remember the Alamo!" dramatically, and charged the other two players. Veering to the side once he had crossed half the distance to them, he ducked under the one shot that came close enough to be a threat, then threw both of his balls in rapid backhands. Neither of his throws met their targets, but he quickly had two more spheres in hand, luck sending the other players' next shots wide when he plucked up his new ammunition mid-stride. Marc and Brandon burst into bewildered laughter along with everyone else when Trent melodramatically shouted, "Raise the war cry, you nations, and be shattered!" while charging his opponents again. Luckily for him, both of the other players were as confused as the rest of the class, and where their next shots were poorly aimed, his second throw glanced off one of their shins as he sprinted past them. Victory in sight, Trent bent to gather more spheres while still moving, yelled, "God for Harry, England, and--"

--And was cut off by a hard packed ball hitting him between the shoulder blades with an audible smack.

Brandon leaned close while the rest of the students were getting to their feet. "Was that last one Shakespeare?"

Marc nodded. He might not have had the highest GPA at Miller High, but he'd taken a surprising interest in Shakespeare in eighth grade. It was one of the reasons he got along so well with Trent. "Henry the Fifth, I think. What was that other one, though, 'Raise the war cry,' something?"

Overhearing them, Trent just shouted, "Get a Bible!" while heading back to the gym's wall.

Amidst the resulting cheers and laughter, Mr. Monroe shouted, "Everyone stay put!" before the class could swarm off its bench. "O'Connel and McCafferty, you're the captains," he said, addressing Trent and the basketball player who had finally hit him to end the game. "Pick your teams, O'Connel first." So much for no one getting picked last.

Matthew O'Connel's first choice was the pitcher who had pegged Marc, unsurprisingly. Trent's choice of Suzie Barnes wasn't quite as expected, though; Suzie was arguably the least athletic student in the class, and the pudgy freshman eyed Trent suspiciously as she made her way to his side of the court, apparently believing he was somehow trying to make fun of her. That was only because she didn't know Trent as well as most of the upper classmen did. One of the only black students in a town that was notorious as being Ohio's last bastion of racism, he somehow had the ability to make everybody he met instantly forget whatever outdated prejudices they might have had. Marc considered him a good friend, but then, so did the rest of the student body.

Another basketball player went to Matt's team next, and Suzie's face brightened a little when Trent called Marc's name. She'd probably assumed Trent was trying to be nice by picking all of the less popular and athletic students, in which case being picked first would still have singled her out as the least popular and fit player. Marc might not have been the best option left, but he was a better than decent dodge ball player. He wondered if Trent had picked him second just to put a smile on the normally dour Suzie's face, or if the smile was just the happy side effect of Trent's random choices.

Two football players were Matt's next team mates, while Trent picked Thomas Vanderhaus, an overweight sophomore who was almost as unenthusiastic about the game as Suzie, then Brandon. Thomas thanked Trent while Matt called Jessica Winters's name, a softball and volleyball player. "For what?" was Trent's response. Then he picked Crystal Doverson, Thomas's equally heavy best friend.

By the time the teams were formed, the next game was looking rather grim for Trent's half of the class. Every student involved in organized sports followed Matthew to one wall, while Brandon, Marc, and Trent were nearly the only players on their team who didn't seem like they would prefer to be taking another calculus exam over bruising each other with hard-packed Styrofoam spheres. If Mr. Monroe noticed any irregularity in the teams' distribution, though, he made no comment about it, merely making certain everyone had a hand on their respective walls before blowing his whistle to start the game.

The first fifteen seconds were a massacre. All of the athletes rushed the half court line as soon as the whistle was blown, while Trent's team followed their habitual strategy of hanging back while the more aggressive players drew the opponents' attention. That tactic usually served them well enough, but when Trent and Marc were the only students to run forward and meet the athletes' charge, the rest of their team formed a shooting gallery behind them.

Marc was fortunate that Trent left the back wall an instant before he did; the team captain was bludgeoned by at least half a dozen fast balls, but he managed to form a shield that kept Marc in the game beyond the first volley. After throwing his ball at one of the players who had just gotten Trent out, Marc ducked out of the way of two shots that almost collided with each other in the spot his head had been, then hastily backpedaled to rejoin what was left of his team. It seemed that most of their opponents' throws had found their targets. Already more students sat on the sidelines than were left on Marc's side of the gymnasium.

He worked his way toward Brandon, catching two balls and throwing them back where they came from while crossing the court. His friend had a ball in hand, but with no one offering to relieve him of it, he just kept ahold of it while dancing around the perpetual rain of the other team's assault. As soon as he saw Marc approaching in his peripheral vision, he automatically held the ammunition out to his side for Marc to take.

"Brandon," Marc said, ignoring the extended hand and plucking up two spheres of his own as they rolled past him, "throw the stupid ball."

"Can't," Brandon replied breathlessly, stepping away from Marc to let a shot speed between them. "Too busy."

This time Marc could sympathize with him; he was having as little luck finding an opportunity to return their opponents' fire, as much as he was being forced on the defensive. The challenge of constantly dodging such a barrage was actually pretty fun, but knowing they had no hope of winning kind of soured the experience. Marc's team had already dwindled to six or seven players without getting a single member of Matthew O'Connel's team out. Gritting his teeth as he contorted his body to avoid a pair of shots aimed at his leg and his opposite shoulder, he decided that he couldn't let the athletes get away with a completely flawless win.

He ventured as far as the foul line on his side of the court--and it was a small miracle he made it that far through the other team's onslaught--before lobbing one of his balls in a high, aimless arc. He didn't intend the lob shot to hit any of the other team, but it did buy him the instant he needed to pick a target from among the half court line's crowd and throw his second ball as hard as he could while some of the other team was distracted by the high toss. It was an old trick, though, and so few of his opponents were fooled by it that Marc didn't even have enough time to see if his second throw connected with anyone before a red tsunami swept over him.

Marc threw himself backwards, kicking both legs high in the air in an attempt to evade the shots aimed at his feet. Too late he realized that he'd jumped back in a manner that made a graceful landing impossible. He barely even noticed the small impacts of the athletes' shots against his shoes and left elbow as he twisted in midair, trying to get his feet under him. He managed to turn himself just enough to catch a glimpse of the hard wood floor before it crashed into his shoulder.

Except that impact never came.