“I can’t.” I pulled away. “The teams have to concede first. I’m sure somebody’ll get it.”
“My money’s on you, Merrily.” He moved to stand behind me, gathering my hair back over my shoulders and holding it loosely in one hand.
“What are you doing?” I half turned, but not so much as to dislodge his grip.
“You can’t have a bunch of hair in the way when it’s time to kick ass.” He tapped his temple. “Sisters, remember?”
Of course I remembered. It was one of the disturbingly large number of Facts about Alex Ritter I had somehow collected. “I have to concentrate.”
He nodded. “Eye of the tiger.”
A professor of opera threw his hand in the air. “Tuberculosis!”
“Incorrect,” said Dr. Pressler.
“Cholera,” tried another voice.
Dr. Pressler shook her head.
“Scarlet fever.”
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Pressler replied.
Desperation set in, shots in the dark fired at will:
“Putrid throat.”
“Syphilis.”
“Hemophilia.”
“Typhoid.”
“Diphtheria.”
Alex’s breath fanned my ear. “Interesting friends you have, Merrily.”
“A wasting sickness!” That one was from my dad.
“There is a certain irony in your inability to find the correct answer,” Dr. Pressler observed. I tensed, sure someone would get the hint.
“Electra complex,” suggested one of the psychology faculty. “Fugue episodes!”
“One answer at a time, please,” said Dr. Pressler. “Unless you’re ready to concede, in which case we will open the floor.” My hands clenched, fingernails pressing into damp palms.
When both kleptomania and scurvy had been shot down, Dr. Pressler surveyed the room. “Alternates, you may weigh in.”
Heart thundering, I raised my hand.
“Yes.” Dr. Pressler dipped her chin at me. “Do you have an answer?”
I nodded.
“For which team?”
“Let’s Get Lit.” I ignored Alex’s snort.
“Go ahead,” said the dean.
