Luke...
Luke, as in the billionaire-in-waiting Luke. The same Luke who invited me to play basketball and then kicked me off the team. Yes, that Luke. The dumbest coolest kid I've known for my entire life. Ok, most of my life. But he's here, at a school for nerds, standing over me, and he can't even multiply numbers unless the number one is involved.
"Merboy...?" Luke's face is all scrunched up as he looks at me in disbelief. "What are you doing—" He follows the trail of zombie guts to his white Jordan kicks. "Ahh, no—what have you done? You klutz."
The rush of onlookers erupts into full-blown laughter.
I stand up and use my forearm to wipe bits of clams and red glop off my face. The mushy bread bowl is stuck to my stomach and rolls down my pants before dropping to the floor in a sickening splat. "Um, sorry. I'll buy you new ones."
"They're collectors, you idiot." Luke's hands ball into fists. "Ugh, go back to Mystic and your stupid mermaids."
Every PC in the school is crowded around us. Some stand on chairs to catch a glimpse of me, the new boy, and my spectacular mess. I can hear them repeating variations of what Luke said as they laugh.
"Merboy Merlin."
"Merlin and his mystic mermaids."
My heart drops to my feet where all my plans for coolness are covered in zombie guts.
Jupiter pushes through the crowd and stares at me. "Why am I not surprised?" She squeezes her temples like I'm giving her a migraine. No, like the two-year-old is giving her a migraine.
The throng parts for a taller, older boy who stops next to Luke. His buzzed, light brown hair has the word DOOM etched into the side of his head. If that isn't intimidating enough, he has a scary black spider tattoo crawling up his muscular arm.
"This your mess to clean up." His heavy accent fills the hall as he points at Jupiter. "Da?"
"Yeah, I know, Fydor."
He folds his way-too-strong arms and gazes at me with mischievous amusement. "And minus 100 XP for glupyy boy."
"He just got here," Jupiter protests.
"Then do better job training glupyy." Fydor points at the sign above the door I crashed into. "I help. This one exit." He motions to the other door. "And this one entrance."
The laughter is deafening.
Until Fydor shushes everyone with a raised hand. "Ok, Luke, we get you cleaned up." He rests his spider arm around Luke's shoulders and guides him out of the dining hall.
"Merlin, shirt...now." Jupiter snaps her fingers and holds out her hand.
"Wa-wa-what?"
"Take off your shirt." Her face squishes up in disgust. "You're not dripping gunk everywhere for us to clean up."
My world's falling out of Jupiter's orbit at warp speed, and the heat from my life burning up is scorching all my senses. My big ears are on fire. My tongue is melting. And my eyes blur. I can barely understand what she's saying. Ok, I'm exaggerating. But only a little. The entire school's here, for real, like ninety PCs, watching me crash and burn. Because I forgot a spoon. Because I went through the wrong door. Because I'm Merlin. And I know with absolute certainty that I'm cursed.
That I will forever be cursed.
So, I take off my shirt. Only my arms get stuck. I can't pull the wet, tacky fabric off my head. More laughing ensues as my hairless armpits assault my stupefied fanbase. I know, not really, but thinking of them as fans hurt less.
"Ok, unless you're part of Gauntlet Squad," Jupiter threatens, "or you're here to clean up...the show's over."
But she's wrong. Oh, she's so wrong.
Because I'm always good for a second act. I wriggle and twist my arms and shoulders and bend my naked torso toward the ground for leverage, pulling and yanking at the slippery shirt. But all I manage is to further lock both arms above my head with the goopy t-shirt plastered across my face. I gag and want to vomit. At least until someone tugs hard and frees one of my arms and then my head.
No one's laughing anymore.
The crowd is smaller but more threatening. Most PCs have returned to their tables and resumed lunch. When I see Jupiter's face I understand why. Her fair skin is bright red from being too close to the smoldering remains of my wreckage.
She swallows hard and then introduces me with a strained voice like she's ready to go all scorched earth on me. "Merlin, this is your squad." She breathes deeply as she pinches her eyes shut. "Gauntlet, this is Merlin."
My arms drape awkwardly in front of my wide and rather bony chest. I'm a skeleton in training. That's what I told my former PE Teacher when he told me to get some muscle. But for once in my life, my tongue fails me. See...melted.
When I spot G, he raises his hand and waves. I don't respond. I can't. I'm so caught up in the misery vortex of my life that I miss the commands coming out of Jupiter's mouth. Before I know what's happening, a boy with dark skin and tufts of black hair poking out the sides of his white cap is pulling me into the kitchen. Through the door that says Entrance...
Of course.
"I'm Zahir," he says. "My family's from Saudi Arabia, but I grew up in Atlanta. Wanaeam. Yes, I speak Arabic fluently." His introduction has no trace of feeling and sounds like a recording on playback at 3x speed.
I instantly like him and his kufi cap.
"Oh, cool." But I don't know what else to say, walking half-naked through a kitchen full of workers. We stop at a large steel, industrial sink.
Zahir takes my stained t-shirt and rinses out the mess into an industrial sink. He's a tad shorter than me, but his body is solid and sturdy, unlike G who might blow away in a breeze.
I finally work up the courage and ask, "What is glupyy?"
Zahir grins. "Fydor likes his Russian words. It means stupid. Now grab a towel and clean yourself up, or your glupyy butt is going to miss lunch."
"Ha-ha, right, of course." I don't know why I laugh. Lunch is the last thing I want.
I wet a towel in the sink next to him, wash my face, and then wipe down my chest and arms. Picking out chunks of clams from the laces of my sneakers is the worst part. I don't know if I'll ever be able to eat clam chowder again. By the time I'm done, there's no trace of red juice on my jeans, but my splotchy shirt isn't so lucky. Even better, now I look like I've peed my pants.
Perfect...
"Don't worry," Zahir says, watching me. "You can go change your clothes."
"Oh, good."
His phone dings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. "Oof, that's rough."
"What?"
"Congrats," he chides. "You might be the first PC in the history of the academy to start with negative XP."
"What?"
"Fydor doesn't mess around." Zahir hands me back my wrung-out shirt. "Trust me, I've been here a couple of years. There's a reason DOOM squad is in first place. The guy's a Killer, through and through." He shows me his phone. "Take a look. You've won your first points."
I'm in 90th place with -100 XP. The worst part isn't my score or being in last place. The dagger is seeing the name next to my score. A name given to me by a killer!
Merboy Z Glupyy.
"I'm so dead." A big sigh escapes my mouth. "But this is good." And I say it how Fydor would, pronouncing the s as a z. "I can only go up from here, right?"
"Or out," Zahir corrects. "Like the glupyy dead kid you replaced."
YOU ARE READING
Merlin's Curse
Science Fiction[8X FEATURED] Merlin is the greatest-eleven-year-old nerd the world doesn't know because his name has cursed him--he's all parts nerd and zero parts magic and all he wants is to be cool. When Merlin hacks a new encryption code designed to protect on...
