Free Endgame Novella #2 by James Frey Page A

lunacy.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says. “But that’s true. All of this is true.”
    â€œIf it were true,” he says slowly, “if that were possible, which it one hundred percent isn’t, it would mean you’ve been lying to me, about everything.”
    â€œNot everything.”
    He laughs harshly. “Right, not everything. Just everything that matters. My father. You. Us. Is that what you’re saying? Is that what you’re asking me to believe?”
    She lowers her head, wishing down to her core that she could say no. “Yes.”
    â€œI have to go,” Jamal says.
    â€œPlease don’t. Stay. Let’s talk about this. I can answer your questions. I can make you understand—”
    â€œNo,” he says. “Enough for tonight. Enough lies. Enough truth. Enough. ”
    She calls to him as he strides past her, out of the yard, into the street. “Jamal, please, what happens now—are you coming back?”
    He won’t look at her, won’t even pause. “I don’t know.”
    He’s right after all: that’s more than enough truth for one night.
    Three days pass.
    Three days, three nights, no Jamal. He doesn’t come to school. He doesn’t answer his phone. He doesn’t come to her home, and when she goes to his, he won’t see her.
    Shari didn’t know it was possible to be so afraid.
    She’s 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 alone—she 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 they’ve met, he is walling himself off from her, wearing a mask.
    â€œPlease, will you meet me at the tea shop at four this afternoon?” 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.
    â€œOf course,” she says, then adds, “I’m sorry,” but he has already hung up.
    â€œYou seem distracted today, child,” Pravheet says as he aims a sharp kick at Shari’s kneecap. She darts out of the way just in time, a beat too slow. Pravheet is right: she’s 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 can’t advise her about what to do when she sees Jamalthis afternoon, because he doesn’t even know about Jamal—none of them do.
    She whirls on her heel and kicks her heel into Pravheet’s face, but he is already somewhere else—behind her, pinning her arms behind her back.
    Shari goes limp in defeat, and Pravheet lets go. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I suppose my mind is elsewhere.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be beyond such problems,” Pravheet points out.
    â€œI know,” she says, ashamed.
    â€œShari, why do you look away from me?”
    She is staring at the floor, trying not to cry. She is soon to be the Player, after all—she is far beyond the weakness of tears.
    â€œShari,” 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 he’s saying, and understands.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry,” Shari tells him. “I’m distracted, yes, but I’m