The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher Page B

“impressive.” I notice a lot of the conventioneers are dressed almost normally, in T-shirts and jeans. I turn to ask Zak if he ever dresses up, but he has his back to me, waving at someone.
    â€œHey, asshole! Asshole!”
    Across the lobby, a man in a jumpsuit and huge white helmet waves at Zak.
    â€œGo ask your friend if he’s seen Clayton,” I order.
    Zak looks at me strangely. “I don’t know that guy.”
    â€œBut you just . . .”
    He laughs. “Oh, I see. No, he’s dressed like Major Asshole. You know, from Spaceballs ?” He looks at me expectantly, as if he’s not speaking total gibberish.
    â€œZak, let’s go page Clayton, okay?”
    â€œThey won’t page anyone here, unless it’s a desperate emergency.”
    â€œBut Clayton’s just a kid.”
    He shakes his head. “It really pisses them off when people use the con as a babysitting service. If we tell them the truth, they’re going to want to call your mom and dad.”
    I picture my parents being summoned to pick us up in this madhouse.
    â€œI see. Okay, so what do we do?”
    â€œYou got a picture of him on that phone? I know a lot of people. We’ll ask around.”
    I start to press forward, but he gently restrains me.
    â€œWhoa. One does not simply walk into Washingcon.”
    I think my angry glance startles him, because he quickly continues. “Seriously. They won’t let you into most of the venues without a badge.” He cocks a thumbat the registration table. “Tell ’em I sent you.”
    I ignore his smug grin. “Zak, thanks for . . .”
    He’s already distracted. “Hey, Zoltan! I haven’t seen you since Con-dumb!”
    As Zak talks to a guy(?) in Joker makeup, I begin to have a panic attack. What if he accidentally-on-purpose wanders off? This thing was a big deal to him, after all. I don’t like the idea of stumbling through this sea of semi-humanity, hopelessly trying to find Clayton.
    I wait for him to say good-bye to his friend, all the while rehearsing my little speech about how important it is for him to stay focused. I touch his arm.
    â€œZak?”
    â€œYeah?”
    And then, suddenly, I think of the perfect thing to say. I just pray I get the line right. “Help me, Obi-Wan. You’re my only hope.”
    Zak’s face breaks into a grin. Not his usual cocky one, but a big, goofy, puppy-dog smile. It’s somewhat of an improvement.
    â€œGo register, Ana. Let me see what I can find out.”
    I shake my head and join the line. I’m surprised to see that the girl in front of me has a longbow strapped to her back. It’s only when I see the picture of the flaming bird on her shirt that I make the connection. That one book, which has made archery suddenly seem cool. Unlike thisgirl, however, I actually know how to shoot one of those. I notice that this bow has been strung incorrectly. The string is about to slide off the wood.
    The line moves quickly. Just before it’s her turn, I tap her arm. “Excuse me? I noticed you have a little problem there. If you like . . .” I reach out to adjust her bow.
    She shoves my hand away. “Here’s an idea,” she snaps. “How about you keep your hands to yourself?” She stares at me as I try to think of something to say, snorts, and then turns back to the registration table.
    The logical, dominant side of me wants to dismiss her as a jerk, someone below my contempt. But I was only trying to help. I don’t know what her problem is, but it just drove home the fact that I don’t belong here.
    But I can say that about a lot of places, can’t I?
    It’s my turn. I shuffle forward.
    â€œHey, don’t let her get to you,” says a pleasant, female voice. The registrar is a girl about my age, very slender and pretty, dressed in a ragged T-shirt, with black lipstick and dangling earrings. And bald. Her head has