The Calling. James Frey

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      Sarah sits with Christopher at a small plastic table, an untouched blueberry muffin between them. They hold hands, touch knees, and try to act like this isn’t the strangest day of their young lives. Sarah’s parents are 30 feet away at another table, watching their daughter warily. They’re worried what she might say to Christopher, and what the boy—a boy they’ve always treated like a son—will do. Their actual son, Sarah’s brother, Tate, is in a funeral home, awaiting cremation. Everyone keeps saying there will be time to grieve for Tate later, but that may not be true.

      In 57 minutes Sarah is getting on a plane that will take her from Omaha to Denver, from Denver to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Seoul, from Seoul to Beijing.

      She does not have a return ticket.

      “So you have to leave to play this game?” Christopher asks for what feels to Sarah like the 17th time.

      Sarah is patient. It isn’t easy to understand her secret life. For a long time, she dreamed of telling Christopher about Endgame; she just never thought she would actually have to. But now she feels relieved to finally be honest with him. For this reason it doesn’t matter if he keeps asking the same questions over and over. These are her last moments with him, and she’ll treasure them even if he’s being obstinate.

      “Yes,” Sarah replies. “Endgame. The world is not supposed to know about it, or about people like me.”

      “The Players.”

      “Yes, the Players. The councils. The secret lines of humanity …”

      She trails off.

      “Why can’t the world know?”

      “Because no one would be able to live a normal life if they knew Endgame was hanging over them,” Sarah says, feeling a pang of sadness for her own “normal life” that went up in smoke just days ago.

      “You have a normal life,” Christopher insists.

      “No, I don’t.”

      “Oh, right,” Christopher says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve killed wolves and survived on your own in Alaska and are trained in all kinds of karate and crap. Because you’re a Player. How did you ever manage to squeeze in soccer practice?”

      “It was a pretty packed schedule,” Sarah answers wryly. “Especially for the last three years, you know, because Tate was supposed to be the Player, not me.”

      “But he lost his eye.”

      “Exactly.”

      “How did he lose it, by the way? None of you ever told me that,” Christopher says.

      “It was a pain trial. Withstand the stings of a thousand bees. Unfortunately, one got him right in the pupil, and he had a bad reaction, and he lost the eye. The council declared him ineligible and said that I was in. Yeah, that definitely made my schedule a bit crazy.” Christopher stares at her like she’s lost it. “You know, I’d think this was a sick joke if your parents weren’t here. If that meteor hadn’t hit and Tate hadn’t … Sorry, it’s just a lot to take in.”

      “I know.”

      “You’re basically in a death cult.”

      Sarah purses her lips, her patience slipping. She expected Christopher to be supportive; at least that’s how it went when she imagined this conversation. “It’s not a death cult. It’s not something I chose to do. And I never wanted to lie to you, Christopher.”

      “Whatever,” Christopher says, his eyes lighting up as if he’s just come to a decision. “How do I sign up?”

      “For what?”

      “Endgame. I want to be on your team.”

      Sarah smiles. It’s a sweet thought. Sweet and impossible. “It’s not like that. There aren’t teams. The others—all eleven of them—won’t be bringing teammates to the Calling.”

      “The others. Players, like you?”

      “Yeah,” Sarah says. “Descendants of the world’s first civilizations, none of which exist anymore. Each of us represents a line of the world’s population, and we play for the survival of that line.”

      “What’s your line called?”

      “Cahokian.”

      “So, like, Native American. I think there’s a little Algonquian on my dad’s side. Does that mean I’m part of your line?”

      “It should,” Sarah answers. “Most people in North America have some Cahokian blood, even if they don’t realize it.”

      Christopher thumbs his chin. Sarah knows all of Christopher’s tics, so she knows that this means he’s about to make an argument, he’s just not quite sure how to phrase it. There are 52 minutes left before her flight leaves. She waits patiently, although she’s starting to worry that this is how they’ll spend their last hour together. She was hoping to give her parents the slip, find a secluded gate, and make out one last time. “Okay,” says Christopher, СКАЧАТЬ