Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Conrad

I was losing. And I knew why—the other guy had an expensive tinkering deck, the sort of complicated strategy that Alden was probably taking notes on. And just thinking about Alden made me grip my cards that much tighter. He was watching me lose. He had such faith in me, but I was going to let him down.

Not even my Transforming Scroll Scribe was enough to dig me out of my early hole. I got a single turn with extra scrolls before my opponent removed it with a targeted spell. Damn. Not enough. Not—

Enough. Enough. My mom’s text lurked in the corner of my brain, anger still simmering there. Screw best wishes from people who had hurt me in the past. I got to decide whether I was enough, exactly as I was, not anyone else. I’d told Alden that he was enough, that he didn’t need to be anything for me or anyone else. We were each enough. And I got to determine whether I was a success, not my mom, not my dad, not even Alden. Me.

I sat up straighter, loosening my death grip on my cards. I was the one who would decide whether I played a good game, not the commentators, not the viewers, and definitely not the guy sitting across the table from me.

Have fun, Alden had said. And right then, I was most definitely not having fun, nor was I playing my normal game. I’d put out the scroll scribe because I figured I needed to get my most expensive cards out first, try to keep pace with the other dude. But if this last year had taught me anything, it was that I couldn’t live to others’ expectations. I wasn’t going to let someone else’s arbitrary rules define me. I wasn’t a loser just because I’d had to drop out, thanks to my dad’s awfulness, any more than I was a loser because my deck was cheaper. I’d chosen these cards, each one for a reason, could tell the story of how each was acquired, valued them all, and it was time to put them to work for me.

Play your game. I slapped down two frog soldiers, and the other guy sneered, a subtle shake of his head, like he was bored with me, bored with this game. And as I’d hoped, he didn’t bother countering them, deeming them beneath his notice. All good. I spent the next few turns amassing an army of tiny creatures and equipping them with deadly weapons. The other guy kept coming, but all I needed was one more turn.

He attacked. I defended, killing the more formidable of his creatures. One more turn.

I attacked, finally registering damage to his life total. Now he was noticing me plenty, eyes narrowing as he came after my army, but I was ready, countering the combo play he tried to unleash. No complicated stuff on my watch, dude. One more turn.

Again I attacked, small bits of damage that added up, turn after turn. I wasn’t sure how long we’d played, only that I needed one more turn. My life total was down to one, but I paid it no mind. Just one more turn. I was devious in my defenses, using every crafty trick I’d learned over years spent playing, taking little bits of inspiration from the kids I’d watched earlier, the people I’d played before, the wisdom of Professor Tuttle and others like the store owner I’d grown up with. But along with all that advice bopping around in my brain, I used my instincts. The instincts that knew when I was screwed and when to retreat and when to go in for the kill.

And above all else, I had fun. Each turn was fun. Evading certain doom was fun. And creeping past his defenses with nothing other than a turtle was the most fun at all. His look of irritation at having to deal with so minor a threat was priceless, as was the way his mouth gaped when I turned that turtle into a cannon and blew him and the rest of his life total away.

The guy sat there breathing hard, studying his cards, shaking his head. He peeked to see what he would have drawn next. Shook his head some more. Finally, he stuck out his hand. “Good game.”

I’d done it. All of the adrenaline I’d been riding for the match swamped me, a giant wave of feelings and surging heart rate that had me shuddering like a leaf as I took his hand.

Everything happened fast after that, camera crew coming in closer, still photos being taken, flashes hurting my eyes.

“How do you feel?” One of the commentators came over holding a large microphone. Her platinum hair didn’t move as she walked to our table, high heels making her tower above where I was sitting. She motioned for me to stand, and knees still rubbery, I tried to comply.