Father gives a dramatic pause and then, almost gently, whispers a soft, “Go.”
We explode into motion, the boys leading the pack, the girls flooding in from the opposite side. Dirt kicks up underfoot. Pounding footsteps and breath and heartbeats all blur into one.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint for a cluster of poles on the outer edge. My strategy was formed the moment my father opened his mouth.
Your mind is your sharpest weapon.
The third rule my father taught me.
Thomson runs beside me at first, heading in the same direction, but he’s not as fast and quickly falls behind. Others sprint at my flanks. I glance at them, cataloging who follows, who doesn’t. Who’s my ally and who’s my enemy. I file the information away for later.
My target pole looms ahead. It’s on the edge, just three others adjacent. Less exposure. Fewer enemies. Easier to defend. I plant my feet wide at its base, chest heaving, and make it known that I’ve claimed it. This one’s mine.
No onechallenges me.
I drop to one knee and scoop up a handful of medium-sized rocks. The ground is cool and rough beneath my fingers. My brain zings with adrenaline as I shove the stones into my pockets until they bulge. Thank God I picked shorts with real pockets this morning. That decision might’ve just saved my life.
To my left, there’s movement.
Jackson.
He watches me with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, face gleaming with sweat. He’s taller than everyone now, sprouting seven inches this past year. His voice dropped months ago into a deep, booming drawl. The kind that sounds like it should belong to a grown man, not a twelve-year-old sociopath.
His face, neck, and back are blotched with angry red acne. His favorite new party trick is lifting his arm to show off the hair growing there now, like it’s a badge of honor. Sometimes he grabs smaller boys and shoves their faces into it while roaring with laughter. “Wanna take a sniff?”
I’m lagging behind him, having only hit puberty a couple of months ago. It’s been a brutal year, losing to Jackson in almost every test. Races. Fights. Endurance drills. He’s faster, stronger, meaner.
My father’s beatings have increased accordingly.
The one time I protested and tried to explain how Jackson had an unfair advantage, my father didn’t even blink. “No excuses, son. There will always be someone stronger. Your job is to rise above.” That was the end of it. No discussion. No mercy. Just another lesson etched into my skin with blood as the ink.
Not very helpful.
Jackson’s face lights up as he realizes what I’m doing. He bends, gathers his own rocks, and shoves them into his pockets.
I glare at him and mouthcopycat.
He flips me off and gives me an evil grin.
Other kids have started to climb. A few already crouch at the tops of their poles, arms out, bodies swaying, as they fight for balance.
Crap. I need to hurry.
Thomson reaches me, but all the poles nearby are taken. I stride two steps over and shove Lincolnson aside. He falters, giving me a wounded look, but I point toan empty pole two down from mine. A silent conversation flickers between us. Then he huffs and jogs to the spot I indicated.
Thomson claims the pole beside me.
We climb.
The wood is coarse beneath my palms, the grain sharp, no doubt intentionally. Within seconds, splinters bite into my hands. They drive beneath my skin and lodge there. I grit my teeth.Keep going, gotta keep going.If I survive this, I swear I’ll never run my hand over bare wood again.
I force the pain into a quiet corner of my mind and shift my focus, activating my muscles in sequence. One hand after the other, smooth and mechanical. There are no real footholds, so I press my feet against the pole to brace myself and push upward in bursts.
I’m somewhere in the middle of the pack when I reach the top. I shuffle onto my bottom, straddling the narrow perch, lungs dragging in breath. I give myself five seconds, ten max, to center my balance.
Then I swing my feet beneath me, crouch low, and rise until I’m standing.
The view is dizzying. Below, the High Council stands in a half-circle, gazing up. What little I can see of their faces is dispassionate. Blank. Detached. They watch us like we’re a chore, less engaged than they were during the puppet show at last year’s harvest festival.
