text: Which we do accomplish. Well, more or less. Although I think we can acknowledge Jimmy does the accomplishing more or less. He's really good with that whole "come from behind" huddle-speak. And truthfully, even with that, it's still more less than more. But we do get Vik's streaming invective-tude shut down long enough to get him past his Mom, the aunties, and the suddenly "suspect" watchful and reporting neighbors.
  
  I am particularly not trusting the old lady sitting on the couch in the lobby with the hookah pipe. Imani disagrees, says she would be too obvious. I don't know, she is definitely creeping me out.
  
  What it is about me and old ladies today?
  
  But now is not the time for introspection. We need to get Vikram calm enough to talk, preferably without the spitting of vile epithets, catch the train, race back to school and pile into the auditorium. We do this with some serious aplomb, as though we suddenly used a turbo boost to vault our way right past the Goombas (of the Super Mario variety) and somehow we land squarely in the midst of the cool kids club ...
  
  ...as in two cheerleaders front and center, along with nearly half the booster club.
  
  Wowzerhole. Color me gawk-ed.
  
  Marcus must have managed to sweet-talk them into showing up. Although, head swivel, over there, coming up on the right, is Jimmy's tight end Trey, along with a bunch of his o-line.
  
  Vik veers off to join Marcus setting up. Ari pauses to watch him, while I pause to watch the Jimmy/Trey male fist bumping, chest bumping, and testosterone calling, "hey duding" all the way around. Which leads me to think maybe the cheerleaders actually do belong to Jimmy. Which, by extension, would put them on Vikram's count. Which would actually give Vikram Patel a cool count. Wow, pause to ingest that thought.
  
  Of course, one would have to be counting.
  
  Which of course, duh, I am. I mean, hello? We are talking about moi. I can tally this like nobody's business. It's a gift. Or at least a skill set learned sitting on the sidelines of grade school, lunchtime "throne of The Flynn" worshippers.
  
  My running tally of impressiveness is surprisingly beginning to fully inoculate me against any hidden pessimistic, post-PAPE germs about this venture, which we do know could be silently circulating in my system, waiting to contage and force a relapse, when I espy one additional, and heretofore unaccounted for, hellish hiccup. It approaches with its traditional chin thrust.
  
  "Ari, darling," she over-purrs, her pseudo-socialite trilling— or trolling, either works— out in full force.
  
  Could someone explain to me how Janelle talks leading with her chin? It doesn't seem anatomically possible. "You were so right," pause for the hand-over-heart, shoulder-shrug, "everybody's here."
  
  Improbable but apparently true, it seems Ari went and actually convinced Janelle, the official mouthpiece of our America, to show. Before I can even process running and hiding, the demon child turns to me. "And Sid, I'm ever so happy to see you've finally been set free."
  
  I try to grunt something resembling an appropriate grunt.
  
  I will share with you, my only upside to being grounded was "sadly being forced" to decline an invitation to Janelle's stoplight party. You know, the kind of party where you "wear red if you're taken," "yellow if it's complicated," and "green," yes, you've guessed it, "if you're single and ready to mingle." Ick. Ick. Ick. Blech. I cannot think of anything I would rather do less.
  
  Not even being grounded and playing endless board games with the parents.
  
  Which actually wasn't too terrible, and sometimes even fun, and always way better than a stoplight party. Which is about the stupidest kind of party ever. I mean who is Janelle going to invite who doesn't already know I'm not seeing anyone? And if I was seeing someone secretly, it's not like I would be dumb enough to show up wearing red. Yuck. Even thinking of it now makes my eye twitch.
  
  And everything Janelle is, and does, is all about the gossip. If she says hello in the hallways, you know you are now marked as prey. And if she nets you, you are now a meal she will regurgitate later, at oddly beneficial-to-her moments.
  
  So to say I'm just not thrilling about seeing Janelle would be a massive understatement. But when I look over to Ari, she wrinkles her nose and shrugs. "You know, Sid, it's always better to keep her in tow than to let her roam the school unsupervised."
  
  Before I can best decide how I would like to disagree vehemently with that, thankfully, or maybe mercifully for us all, a mic shriek intervenes, followed by the unmistakable thump thump noise of mic testing, followed by "Hello?"
  
  The disembodied boom is coming from Marcus, who along with Vikram, has taken up position at the front of the auditorium, floor level in front of the stage. They have set up a table with a big-screen monitor, hooked into what must be Marcus's laptop.
  
  "Okay. Now if everyone can just grab a seat down here somewhere ..." And as we are all congregated at the top of the aisle, Marcus waits for us to come down, climb in, and get settled.
  
  "So first, I want to welcome everyone to Cooper School's Team Thorium, and thank you for joining us as we enter this year's robotics competition. For those who don't know me, I am Marcus Johnston." Marcus pauses, casually letting his smile light up the room as the catcalls interrupt his opening. He takes a step back, puts his right hand up to his heart, giving two pats.
  
  God. Is there anyone who can flirt better than Marcus?
  
  Then with a wink to his fan base, he steps back up and leans in to continue. "I am the co-captain of this year's challenge, a position I share with our fellow classmate, Vikram Patel, and I have to say, as we stand here, we are feeling your love and we are loving your energy."
  
  And as the saying goes, the crowd goes wild. We all cheer, and the applause, thankfully, does seem to give Vikram a still way-needed boost, as he smiles back to the crowd.
  
  "You know," Marcus leans in, inviting us to conspire with his next thought, "they call FIRST POWER UP the ultimate Sport for the Mind, but for me and my pal, Vik, we would just like to say welcome to the hardest fun you'll ever have." As he glances about, Marcus catches Jimmy's eye and playfully wags his finger. "Even you, Mr. Five Fingers."
  
  To which Jimmy blows an air kiss.
  
  Before he loses control of the now-playfully hooting, revved-up crowd, Marcus holds up his left hand, motioning for quiet. "And this year that's doubly true. Because this year it's a special time to be a Thorium. It's the twentieth anniversary of our very first journey into competition, a competition in which the Thoriums brought home the Regional Rookie All-Star Award. Which was more than amazing. It was shocking and it was great." Marcus takes a brief pause, allowing a moment of reverence before continuing.
  
  "But, my friends, a rookie all-star award won twenty years ago is not enough." Marcus's voice takes on power as he begins to preach from his pulpit. "Thoriums"— his hands grasp the podium, rocking it just a tiny bit— "Thoriums descend from Thor, the Norse God of Thunder and an Avenger. And with its atomic number of 90, Thorium is an elemental heavyweight. So this year, on our twentieth anniversary of competition, it is both a Thorium legacy— and a Thorium destiny— that together, together we will go all the way."
  
  Marcus-the-rock-star pumps a fist and steps back, clearing the way for Vikram to take the podium.
  
  Now, on a good day, Vikram's style might be described as a little deer-in-headlights. And today, as we all know, isn't a good day.
  
  I can feel the four of us collectively tense as Vikram lurches forward.
  
  As he looks up, I suck in my reaction before it can escape. All Vik's rage from earlier is gone, and it's as if he's joined the undead. And this undead-blob-of-walking-misery thing apparently not only drains all the color from your skin, but it crushes your vocal chords, causing your voice to go completely flat, and leaving you devoid of life. Wow.
  
  Maybe we should have left him seething.
  
  "So, I too, thank you for coming. Before I read our mission statement, let's all give a round of applause to Mr. Smithers, better known to all of us as Smitty."
  
  Vikram never looks up, never makes eye contact, as he reads from his notes. "Because even though it is a class assignment for us, it is also one for him. Smitty is our first mentor on this ride, and his commitment to us is to match our commitment."
  
  The clapping is not a deafening roar.
  
  Ah, Vik, you are so killing it. And not in a good way.
  
  However, before the air is completely sucked out of the room, leaving us to suffocate and die, Marcus spins in, wrapping Vikram up in one of those left-armed buddy hugs. "Come on people, let's give it up for the Smit-man!"
  
  And right on cue, everyone applauds Smitty, who has positioned himself somewhere in the back of the room, which would make this a likely moment to get some first-rate neck-craning time. Except I don't. Because I can't stop staring at Vikram, who stands there, looking miserable, like a wet, ratty dog who so does not like the rain.
  
  As the applause stops, Vikram musters himself back up, all the way to zombie, and continues. "Our goal is to bring together mentors, engineers and students through an engineering and robotics challenge. We will learn by using the latest technology infused with positive attitudes."
  
  Positive attitude. Wow, there's bitter irony for you. Big Sigh. Poor Vik.
  
  "We will succeed by committing acts of gracious professionalism on and off the playing field."
  
  Gracious professionalism. Now that has a nice ring. Or it would ...if it was delivered by a breathing person.
  
  "Mouthful, huh?" Marcus thrusts his energetic presentation-saving self back to front and center. "The single most important element to our success, Gracious Professionalism, is an ideology defined by Dr. Woodie Flowers. And in his defining concept, fierce competition and mutual gain are not separate notions. Gracious professionals learn and compete like crazy, but treat one another with respect and kindness in the process." And then, a small pause, before finishing with what sounds like a small warning, "They avoid treating anyone like losers."
  
  As Marcus talks, my eyes roam the room until they land on the Twincesses, only to find Twincess A, Mae Ann, staring back at me. Her fingers lift up from her lap just enough to make a small mini-wave.
  
  No. No, she didn't. No. That did not just happen.
  
  I quickly look away, ignoring the very sudden flush of guilty sweat pouring from my body, pretending I am searching for something, anything, anyone who is not her.
  
  Which causes me to land on my brother, Jean, and his idiot best friend, Aaron, seated in the deep back corner. They must have waited until everything began before slinking in. Oh joy.
  
  At this point I decide I will definitely be better off focusing on the action below, as Marcus makes his point. "There is to be no chest-thumping tough talk, no name calling, and no cheap digs," Marcus' delivery slows, making eye contact with everyone, "but no sticky-sweet platitudes either. Knowledge, competition, and empathy are our goals."
  
  Vikram steps back up. "A huge part of competing here is respect, integrity and ..." Vikram's voice breaks off and he struggles to regain his thought. He takes a deep breath and exhales the rest of the sentence, "honor."
  
  And as Vik continues talking, I'm no longer really listening because I'm searching my vocabulary for a word to describe him. It's a word I know I know, but can't grasp. Sad isn't quite right. But it's not morose, either.
  
  I mine my mind, scrunching through the layers in my brain. And ...got it. It is exsanguine. The word I want is exsanguine, without blood.
  
  I was right. The game thief murdered him, leaving Vik-the-Cadaver in his place.
  
  I side-eye Ari and see her leaning in, as though trying to physically will him through. On my other side, Imani's left fist is balled up, while her right hand is clutching Jimmy's sleeve. Is she clinging to him for support or to keep him in his seat? I can't tell.
  
  As for me, my nails are digging so hard into my palms, there will be marks left. Come on, Vik; you can do this.
  
  "Tonight after the challenge drops," Vikram drones on, "those of us on the engineering team will break into two groups. I will lead one group; Marcus will lead the other. We will open the challenge bag, do an inventory and, using the materials provided, begin to sketch our best design to accomplish the task."
  
  Mercifully Marcus claps Vikram on his shoulder, relieving him of his portion of this presentation.
  
  "So," Marcus claps his hands, working to boost the energy, lighten the vibe. "Once we have our mission, those of you not in either engineering or software, such as marketing and spirit peeps, will not be needed tonight. We will, however, need you tomorrow for about half an hour at lunch to begin work on our organizational info."
  
  With that, we settle in to await the launch video via uplink. Cell phones are out, and everyone's calling someone, texting someone, or Snapchatting something. But not me.
  
  I see Ari and Marcus trying to bolster Vikram and I feel an enormous, surging rush of anger. And in that rush is a tingling thought, swimming upstream from somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind.
  
  And the more I stare down at Vik, the closer the tingle gets. Better. Vikram deserves so much better.
  
  Faut pas toucher mes amis.
  
  You do not mess with my friends.
  
  I grab my phone and start to scroll. Respect. He deserves respect. Now I am seething. Like really furiously mad. This should have been Vikram's night. How dare someone hack into a game and rip off my friend, steal from him. It's so wrong.
  
  I find it. Contagion. I hit download.
  
  Here we go. "Noisypeacock3254?" Really? That's my default? Not happening. I scan the list of several active players' names, thinking, who would I never, as in not ever, pretend to be?
  
  And when my eyes hit "viXXXen362436," I have my answer. Wow. A triple X to the Vixen. And to think somebody chose that. That is honestly scary. But it is also absolutely, definitively, not me. Not that "noisypeacock" is me either, but if I'm picking who I will never be, it should be my choice. Not for the inner-game-circuitry wizards to randomly select for me. Nope. Not happening.
  
  It's like parents who give their kid a super geeky name and then shock (!), kid turns out to be a geek. Why are they surprised? It's predestination. Or maybe that's predetermination. I'm not sure.
  
  I am sure I am going to be vixen2729. With one x. Small letters. Don't want to be overly ambitious. This should be quite incognito enough for me.
  
  From there, the tingle hits the wall, explodes, swirling my emotions until they become a metaphorical avenging mask and cape.
  
  Faut pas toucher mes amis.
  
  Which I will now use to cloak myself in the skin of vixen2729 and infiltrate this game, whereupon I will find and recover Vikram Patel's purloined loot.
  
  I will be the epidemic this thief didn't see coming. I will be the, something ...
  
  ...but I will have to be it later.
  
  While I was downloading, the room shifted into high buzz. The monitor goes live. A countdown begins. As each second ticks by, any apprehensions we have about getting roped into this disappear. We all lean forward, three, two and ...
  
  ...kickoff begins.