Michael Hudson - Thieves of Light

He followed Felicia into the house just as his mother was coming down the stairs in response to her plaint. She was wearing a white slip, and her makeup seemed to be incomplete-obviously she and Dad were going to be going out, which meant dinner would be courtesy of Chef Swanson or Chez Del Monte tonight.

"Hello, Christopher. What's happening down here, Felicia?" she asked.

"Chris forgot the kit," she said with fierce childish indignation. "He promised and I need it this weekend. He's got to go back and get it."

"Oh, Chris," Barbara said with cow eyes of disappointment. "You didn't forget again-"

"I had to stay and talk to Mrs. Martini about biology, and Dave almost left without me. I didn't even have time to go to my locker."

In truth, he had gone to his locker, but on a dead run, pausing only enough to throw in his unneeded texts and notebook. His excuse was true in principle, at least, he consoled himself-it was the distraction of Mrs. Martini and the resultant haste that made him forget.

"What about going back?"

"It's too late."

"Aren't any of the teams practicing tonight? You should still be able to get in-"

"The hallways are blocked off with gates at four. I couldn't get to my locker." He turned to his sister. "I'm sorry, Felicia. I didn't mean to forget."

"Yes, you did," she fumed, then turned on her heel and fled up the stairs.

"This is too much, Chris," Barbara said, shaking her head. "You've really disappointed her. She was counting on working on her space station design this weekend. I thought you were going to write yourself a note?"

"I did," he confessed. "I left it on my dresser this morning."

"Oh, Chris," she said again. "Why were you in such a hurry? It wasn't that game, was it?"

"We were scheduled for a four o'clock match-"

"How much difference would two minutes more have made?"

"David was driving. I didn't have any choice-"

She clucked. "You're going to have to start being more considerate of your sister, not to mention more reliable. Isn't there any way that you can get the kit for her?"

"Sure. But I don't think you want me breaking into school."

Despite herself, his mother smiled. "That might not be the best idea," she agreed, her expression turning thoughtful. "Well, that is your father's kit, after all, and it is twenty years old. I guess I'll take your sister out shopping tonight, and we'll see if we can't find something that'll be all hers."

When he nodded and took a step toward the kitchen, she quickly added, "But Monday that kit comes home with you and goes back in the desk drawer where it belongs, even if I have to have you called out of your last class to remind you."

"I'll remember," he promised as he rounded the corner.

"And don't think this means that you're off the hook," she called after him, then turned and headed upstairs to complete her toilette.

But it did, in fact, mean he was off the hook, and that was nothing new. As a rule, his mother was unable to stop herself from rescuing him from the consequences of his own bollixations. Whether it was some sort of favoritism toward him (his sister's charge) or simply her desire to keep family peace (his father's opinion), he had profited from it more times than he could count.

That awareness had not yet led to any guilt, and this incident wasn't going to be the exception. He hadn't meant to forget, after all. And Felicia would be happier with her new tools-read toys-than if he had remembered the first time he'd been asked.

So it had all really worked out for the best, he told himself as he studied the back of the box his dinner had just emerged from. Christopher Jarvis, catalyst for growth and progress, he thought to himself. Better living through amnesia. Now-five and a half minutes on high, then rotate a half turn -

For once, Christopher Jarvis awoke on a Saturday morning before his sister had a chance to invade his bedroom and wake him. There was none of his customary heavy-lidded groaning and stretching. His body was alive with energy and anticipation, as though it were ready for the tournament to begin that moment.

But the clock on his cluttered dresser advised him that it was just past 6:30, too early even to start helping with the family's traditional Saturday morning breakfast. The window of his bedroom faced east, and he sat on the sill in the T-shirt and briefs he'd slept in to watch the sun rise over the little copse of trees across the street.

As he sat, he thought a little about Mrs. Martini, a little about Denise. But most of the time he spent envisioning the arena he would enter at ten o'clock, cataloging its shadowed hiding places, visualizing his own success there.

In an idle moment in study hall, Jarvis had once paged through a copy of Sports Illustrated containing an article on the new breed of sports psychologists. Though he had skipped over the piece, he was nevertheless following the advice of one of the leading psychemasters profiled in it: Visualize the moment. See yourself in the act of hitting the clutch home run, breaking the tape in record time, sinking the winning free throw. Prepare your mind for the challenge, and your body will respond.

By seven, he was hearing the tell-tale sounds of other family members stirring and started to dress. It was one of the rules of Saturday breakfast that no one came to the table in nightclothes or robe. Mom insisted. It was her show, and had run three years without a missed performance. He remembered when she had instituted the now-entrenched ritual:

"We're all busy, every one of us, from Dad to Felicia, and that's good. But weekends have been just too crazy. Saturday morning is the only time in the whole weekend that I can be sure everyone will be here," she told the family. "So I'm going to see that we have at least one chance to talk to each other and one good meal in the weekend. This is how it's going to be-"

Standing at his dresser combing his thick, medium-short blond hair, Jarvis smelled coffee. By the time he reached the stairs, the irresistible smell of bacon frying had joined it. Downstairs, he found Felicia watching cartoons in the family room, and his mother in the kitchen. He joined her there and wordlessly started splitting English muffins with a fork.

"This is the big day," she said as she puttered at the stove. "Did I tell you that your father and I are going to come watch?"

More importantly, so is Denise. "It's not like the school gym," he warned. "The only place you can see the whole arena from is the rail of the observation deck. If you want a spot at it, you'll have to get there early."

"Well, what time are you planning to get there?"

"I have to leave right after breakfast. The team's meeting at the Center at nine, to go over things."

"Oh, that early? And when do you play?"

"Fight," Jarvis corrected. "In the first round, we're in the third match. Ten-thirty or so. After that, when we go back in depends on who beats who."

"I don't know, Chris," she said dubiously. "I have some things I promised to take over to Marjorie's this morning. I wasn't expecting to have to be there an hour and a half early to see you play."

Jarvis did not bother to correct her a second time. "You could probably see all right coming later." He hesitated, then added, "You guys really don't have to come at all if you're busy. I understand."

"No, no. We'll be there," she said, reaching out and patting his forearm. "I know it's important to you."

"It is. It's going to be a big day."

"And we'll be there to share it," she reassured him. "Tell you what. We'll leave right after breakfast and I'll drop you off on the way over to Marjorie's. Your Dad and Felicia can clean up the dishes, and I'll swing back for them later. We'll be there for your game."