lunacy.â
âIâm sorry,â she says. âBut thatâs true. All of this is true.â
âIf it were true,â he says slowly, âif that were possible, which it one hundred percent isnât, it would mean youâve been lying to me, about everything.â
âNot everything.â
He laughs harshly. âRight, not everything. Just everything that matters. My father. You. Us. Is that what youâre saying? Is that what youâre asking me to believe?â
She lowers her head, wishing down to her core that she could say no. âYes.â
âI have to go,â Jamal says.
âPlease donât. Stay. Letâs talk about this. I can answer your questions. I can make you understandââ
âNo,â he says. âEnough for tonight. Enough lies. Enough truth. Enough. â
She calls to him as he strides past her, out of the yard, into the street. âJamal, please, what happens nowâare you coming back?â
He wonât look at her, wonât even pause. âI donât know.â
Heâs right after all: thatâs more than enough truth for one night.
Three days pass.
Three days, three nights, no Jamal. He doesnât come to school. He doesnât answer his phone. He doesnât come to her home, and when she goes to his, he wonât see her.
Shari didnât know it was possible to be so afraid.
Sheâs faced bandits and jaguars, scaled cliffs, and endured pitiless desert sun, but nothing has terrified her the way this does.
Before Jamal, she could accept being aloneâshe knew no other way. But after Jamal?
No.
There is no after Jamal.
He has filled an emptiness in her; they did that for each other. He is her soul mate, her other half, the completion of the sentence that is Shari Jha. Without him, there are only jagged edges and silence.
On the fourth day, the phone rings, and his voice sounds strange, closed off. For the first time since theyâve met, he is walling himself off from her, wearing a mask.
âPlease, will you meet me at the tea shop at four this afternoon?â he asks her, so agonizingly polite, as if he is speaking to her grandmother, that a fault line in her heart splits open, because this must be it, the end.
âOf course,â she says, then adds, âIâm sorry,â but he has already hung up.
âYou seem distracted today, child,â Pravheet says as he aims a sharp kick at Shariâs kneecap. She darts out of the way just in time, a beat too slow. Pravheet is right: sheâs been slow all morning. Pravheet, the most respected living former Player, is not her official trainer, but sometimes they spar together. She likes to test herself against someone at his level, and she likes to talk to someone who understands the peculiarities of her life; Pravheet likes to give her advice. But he canât advise her about what to do when she sees Jamalthis afternoon, because he doesnât even know about Jamalânone of them do.
She whirls on her heel and kicks her heel into Pravheetâs face, but he is already somewhere elseâbehind her, pinning her arms behind her back.
Shari goes limp in defeat, and Pravheet lets go. âIâm sorry,â she says. âI suppose my mind is elsewhere.â
âYouâre supposed to be beyond such problems,â Pravheet points out.
âI know,â she says, ashamed.
âShari, why do you look away from me?â
She is staring at the floor, trying not to cry. She is soon to be the Player, after allâshe is far beyond the weakness of tears.
âShari,â he says again, quietly insistent.
Shari looks up to meet his fierce gaze, steadying her breath and calming her nerves. She draws strength from the look in his eyes, which suggests he knows more than heâs saying, and understands.
âYou donât have to worry,â Shari tells him. âIâm distracted, yes, but Iâm
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley