Cure for the Common Universe (17 page)

I watched the first race from the sidelines as the karts buzzed around the curves like bees and growled down the straights like . . . jaguars, I guess. I mentally sized myself up against the racers. I wasn't as heavy as Tin Man, who hulked out of his kart and roared down the straight sections, but I definitely wasn't as lightweight as Aurora, who delicately buzzed around the heavier racers during the wiggling turns.

I was a middleweight: Just enough speed. Just enough dexterity. The Mario of
Mario Kart
 . . . I hoped.

“You look nervous,” Soup said, patting my shoulder. “Want
me to bump into other people with my kart to slow them down for you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do want you to do that.”

He hesitated. “If I do . . . can we hang out when we get back home?”

“Uh.”

His eyes were so needy and desperate. Then again, so was I.

“Deal,” I said. “If you help me win, we can hang out.”

Soup almost exploded with glee and squealed. “
Really?
I live at 2165 West Chesterton in Salt Lake City!”

I tried to hide my shock. That was literally six blocks away from my house.

“Oof, that's really far,” I said, not wanting him to have any idea where I lived. “I'll, uh, come to you.”

In the second race Aurora, Soup, and Fezzik cheered for Meeki as she cruised around the track. My eyes stayed fixed on Scarecrow, who remained in the lead, until Meeki caught up in the third lap, and at the last moment blindsided him so that they both spun out and came to a dead stop before the finish line. When they walked off the track, Meeki took off her helmet and asked him, “What happened? You crash into the Great Wall of China?”

Scarecrow spit onto the track. “Guess it's true what they say about Asian drivers.”

“Go, Meeki!” Fezzik bellowed. “Whirlwind attack!”

The Silver Lady snorted and elbowed him in the side.

Fezzik blushed. “I mean, play nice!” he shouted.

I watched him set his giant hand on the Silver Lady's shoulder. She didn't move it.

Go, Emperor.

The coach whistled and then did some quick math on his clipboard. “After two races the current leaders are Parappa in third with a finish time of six minutes and two seconds and Tin Man in second with five minutes forty-six seconds. And finally, in first place is . . .
Devastator
with five minutes and forty-two seconds.”

“I'm sorry!” Devastator said to Tin Man, who looked ready to crumple the kid with his bare hands.

“Bracket three!” the coach called. “You're up.”

I clenched my teeth and headed toward the finish line. Five minutes and forty-two seconds. I could beat that. Probably. I walked past Lion, who was tying back his mane; past Soup, who gave me a pat on the butt; past Dryad, who pulled a helmet over her willowy hair; and I sank into the hot plastic bucket seat of my kart.

The Gravitator felt less like a car and more like the skeleton of a car. Scratch that. The carapace of a beetle. I rocked the steering wheel, loosely swiveling the front tires. The hood was pointed east, toward home. If I didn't make that first right turn, if I left the track and cruised across the desert, I might actually make it back to Salt Lake. That is, if I didn't run out of gas or get overtaken by Command's Oldsmobile.

I started the engine, and the kart vibrated to life, making
my man boobs jiggle worse than the boobs in
Dead or Alive: Xtreme Beach Volleyball
. I breathed in the intoxicating smell of gasoline and channeled my jiggling kinetic energy into the engine of my heart.

I put my lips up to the Gravitator's steering wheel. “This track is your bitch,” I said. “Use it and then leave it behind.”

“You're disgusting.”

I turned and saw Dryad in the next kart over. I hadn't realized anyone could hear me.

“Really?” I said. “This from the girl who's dating the greasiest douche bag ever?”

She narrowed her eyes and pulled on her helmet.

The coach stepped to the starting line and raised the starter's pistol into the air.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

He fired.

I stomped on the gas pedal.

The Gravitator's engine
roared
.

I puttered forward.

Dryad shot ahead. Lion's mane followed close behind. Even Sir Arturius sped past me like I was a rolling stone in a rushing river. Only Soup stayed behind the pack, reaching his hand back so he could drag me forward.

I ignored him and punched my kart's steering wheel.
“C'mon!”

I lagged behind on the straight shot, the speedometer making a slow crawl toward twenty-five. I had to admit it was
because I was fat. I was fat, and this proved it. I hadn't asked to be born like this. To have my mom's genes and to be one of the few who understood that Hot Pockets are the perfect food.

We hit the first turn, and I let off the acceleration. The needle bobbed around twenty-five. The other racers were two wiggles ahead. I had to beat Sir Arturius and Dryad by at least five seconds.
Screw this.
The coach was on the opposite side of the track. He was far enough away that he probably wouldn't be able to tell how fast we were going.

I pushed the pedal to the floor. I wiggled around the clamshell, tires shrieking left then right then left again, and gained enough momentum to sail past Soup, who cheered me on, then Sir Arturius, whose antiquated insults were drowned out by my muffler.

As I approached Lion on the final wiggle, he heard my roaring engine and stomped his own gas pedal. Dryad heard his engine and did the same. We hit the final tight turn, and while Dryad's and Lion's karts skidded to the outside of the track on a thin layer of sand, my weight made the Gravitator's tires grip the asphalt, keeping me tight on the inside. I picked up speed, lunged past Lion, and thanked every Hot Pocket I'd ever eaten as I sped toward the front. The track straightened out again, and I watched myself speed past in the dark reflection of Dryad's visor.

YES.

I flew into the lead for the final stretch of the first lap, then put on the brakes. I passed the finish line at exactly twenty-five
miles per hour, the coach's mirrored glasses unnervingly fixed on me. Fifty feet later, I hit the gas again.

The Gravitator hummed. The
Halo
soundtrack boomed through the air. I realized I was singing.
“Bumbumbum BUUUUUM! Bumbumbum BUUUUUUM!”

I was Captain Falcon. I was Sonic the Hedgehog. I was . . . really fucking fast.

On the second round of wiggles, Dryad motored up into my blind spot. But beyond my extra weight and gripping, I had another advantage. I was pulled by Gravity. Dryad grew cautious around the turns. I ate them up. She put the pedal to the metal for the straight-stretch sections. I practically put my foot through the floor. I was more afraid of missing my date and being stuck in V-hab than I was of becoming roadkill.

I stayed in first for most of the second lap. But on the last stretch my engine coughed like it had been dropped down a disposal.

KKKKRRRRUUUKKK-KK-KK-KK-K.

My speedometer dipped to fifteen.

“NO!”
I screamed above the horrific grinding. “GRAVITATOR, YOU WILL NOT DIE NOW! THE SECOND WE CROSS THAT FINISH LINE, YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO DIE! NOT ONE SECOND BEFORE!”

It listened. The Gravitator actually listened. She swallowed whatever was caught in her engine and bucked forward like a frisky mare.

“Ha-ha!” I patted the steering wheel. “Daddy's gonna buy you an oil cocktail. Anything you want, baby.”

I had lost ground. Dryad pulled ahead of me, billowing sand that pinged against my helmet. On the final stretch we both slammed on our brakes. As we passed the finish line, the coach screamed, “Slow down!”

I let off the gas until halfway down the straight shot. Then I floored it again.

Final lap.

Soup had driven so slowly that we actually lapped him. He sped up when I passed and gave me a little wave. I pointed back at Dryad. “Get her!”

Soup drove right at her, forcing her to swerve and nearly lose control of her kart. I laughed maniacally. I didn't want her kart to blow up or anything. Maybe just get a popped tire or something.

I screeched around the first turn and wove with the wiggling curves. On the final wiggle Dryad appeared next to me, as if blossoming out of the desert. I cursed Soup's ineptitude. She swerved and weaved with my kart, perfectly aligning our wheels and inching me toward the inside of the track. Soup tried to accelerate between us to protect me, but Dryad boxed him out. I jerked the steering wheel left, knocking her kart's wheels with mine, but she skidded, recovered, and came right back at me. Our tires separated as we both screeched around the final curve and floored it.

Dryad and I were nose and nose for the last stretch. I
looked ahead to the coach. I needed Dryad to spin out in time for me to slow down to twenty-five miles per hour so as to not be disqualified. But before I could act, Dryad hit me with everything she had. My kart jerked right, but when I tried to recover and hit her back, she swerved left.

The Gravitator's tires slid like butter across the sandy track, rotating me so I was parallel with the fast-approaching finish line.

That was when Soup's kart T-boned me.

They say your life flashes before your eyes. They say you're supposed to be concerned about what you did or didn't do. Loved ones. Hated ones. Joyful moments. Regrets.

But my only thought was,
My face! Gravity!

Then,
Maybe she thinks road rash is badass.

My stomach lifted, the horizon flipped, and suddenly my head was vibrating and bucking. Sparks exploded in my vision. Metal screeched in my ears.

Then blackness.

•  •  •

I woke and heard feet running.

And then the horizon righted itself, while my head flopped back and forth. My helmet slid off.

“Miles? Are you okay? Miles!
Miles!
”

A thumb peeled open my eyelids one by one.

“He's conscious,” the coach said. “Can you focus on me?”

I tried. Everything was a blur.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I did a quick check. Head—fine. Neck—little sore. Shoulder—stinging, covered in blood.

The race came back to me.

I'd crashed. I'd lost.

I stumbled out of the kart and wobbled on my feet a bit. The people around me looked like they were underwater.

“Whoa, son,” the coach said. “You need to sit back down.”

I felt a hand on my arm. I blinked. Dryad.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” she said. “That is not what I meant to—”

I pushed her away and walked toward the finish line, where the rest of the players stood watching. The sand felt watery beneath my feet. My shoulder was really starting to burn, but my fury numbed me to it. Things grew clearer as I walked.

I found the skinniest player and shoved him.

“What the hell is your problem?” I asked Scarecrow.

He pressed his chest into mine and stared me down. I clenched my fists and fumed. The players formed a circle of shadows around us.

“Why are you mad at
him
?” Meeki asked me. “He wasn't even racing. Dryad's the one who hit you.”

Scarecrow and I ignored her. We only focused on each other.

“I know you planned this,” I said. “You had your
woman
come after me.”

Scarecrow said nothing.

“You've hated me from the first day for no reason,” I said.

He smiled, his nose close to mine.

A hand touched my non-bloodied shoulder. “Son,” the coach said, “we need to get you to sick bay.”

“Now isn't the time for this,” Fezzik said, placing his hand between my and Scarecrow's chests. “We can have a meeting—”

“No,”
I said, pulling away from the coach's hand and pressing against Fezzik's, so that my chest was touching Scarecrow's. “I want to know why you hate me so bad. I want to know why you sabotaged the race and made me—made me lose
everything
. Go ahead.” I opened my arms to the crowd. “Tell everyone.”

The players stood around us, listening.

Scarecrow's crooked grin flattened. He looked down and wiped his mouth. “You and I played
DotA
against each other one time.”

Defense of the Ancients.
A game the Wight Knights and I had been obsessed with for months.

“So?” I said.

“You—” Scarecrow said. “You told me to go fuck my sister.”

Everyone gasped. I felt dizzy on my feet.

“That . . . I would never say that.”

I would. In the heat of battle, I totally would.

Everyone stared at me with shocked expressions. I avoided Aurora's eyes.

“After it happened,” Scarecrow said, “I looked up your gamer tag and found your face online.”

I swallowed hard. “It was a moment of passion.”

Scarecrow looked me full in the eye. “My sister has Down syndrome.”

My face fell. All the Sefiroths and Cheefs and Meeki booed me.

“C'mon, Miles,” Fezzik said, touching my good shoulder. “Let's get you to the Fairy Fountain.”

He led me toward the facility. I glanced back just in time to see that crooked grin return to Scarecrow's face. That
asshole
.

“Fezzik, look!” I pointed. “He's smiling!”

Fezzik didn't look.

“I'll bet he doesn't even have a sister,” I said, still looking back. “I'll bet I just crushed him in
DotA
one time and now he's just trying to get revenge.”

“Did you say what he said you did?” Fezzik said.

“I . . .” I didn't answer.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to take away any points. If it happened before Video Horizons, then it's out of my jurisdiction. But I think it's important that you consider how your words affect others, even when you believe you're anonymous.”