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CHAPTER ELEVEN Keep Your Enemies Close
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OBVIOUSLY, WHAT HAD OCCURRED in the Washington Monument had rattled the entire Academic Decathlon team. The juxtaposition between winning the competition and nearly dying mere hours later was wild, and everyone, even the most nonchalant of the bunch, had been severely shaken. Knowing that they'd nearly become pancakes at the bottom of a historical obelisk wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, and, with that at the back of their minds, it would be impossible to proceed with the trip like nothing was wrong.
Because of this, while the injured were patched up and the team was interviewed—Cecelia was sure she'd had a microphone shoved in her face at some point, but she honestly didn't remember a single thing she said—phone calls were made, and a school bus was arranged to take them home at three pm sharp.
Cecelia sat on a bench in the hotel lobby with Alex, balancing her phone precariously on her lap. As soon as the news had broken about the elevator malfunction on the Washington Monument, their parents had been calling non-stop, wanting to know if they were okay. Neither of them had been able to respond for an hour—Alex had to get a neat row of stitches in his arm, while Cecelia had to take another Xanax to calm down—which led to, in the end, a combined total of seven hundred and forty-six missed calls.
Fortunately, they'd finally gotten a chance to call back. On the other end of the phone, the entire family had gathered—including Eva and Jules, whose voices blared out of the speakers. Even so, the hotel lobby was loud enough that it barely dented the atmosphere.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Mom asked for the fortieth time. "No broken bones? No concussions? Did either of you hit your head?"
"We're fine," Alex reassured. "The worst thing that happened was when I elbowed Cecelia in the neck."
Cecelia rubbed at it bitterly. It didn't really hurt anymore, but, despite the circumstances, she still overplayed it. "Zero out of ten, wouldn't recommend."
"And you got glass in your arm!" Mom reminded. "Did those medics know what they were doing? Are you sure they did a decent job? Alex, when you get home, we are going straight into a walk-in clinic to make sure everything's okay."
"That's really not necessary." Alex scrubbed a hand over his face. Since he'd recently started growing facial hair there—though it was no more than fuzz, so far—doing that had become a habit. "They were trained professionals, Mom. Not random people off the street."
"Still, I really think you should—"
Dad interrupted her. "He doesn't need to go to the walk-in, honey. What he needs—what they both need—is ice cream, lots of cable TV, and sleep. And how about a family game night later, huh? We haven't done that in ages, and I think it would be good to spend some time together, all six of us."
