The Battle - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Karuna Riazi is a born and raised New Yorker, with a loving, large extended family and the rather trying experience of being the eldest sibling in her particular clan. Besides pursuing a BA in English literature from Hofstra University, she is an online diversity advocate, blogger, and publishing intern. Karuna is fond of tea, baking new delectable treats for friends and family to relish, Korean dramas, and writing about tough girls forging their own paths toward their destinies. She is the author of The Gauntlet and The Battle.

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The Battle

CHAPTER ONE

I SWEAR I DIDN’T DO it. That’s what you want to hear from me, right?”

At twelve years old, Ahmad Mirza probably shouldn’t have been used to roundtable interrogations. Or know from experience what your captors wanted to hear before they would let you out from under the lights aimed at your face. “I mean, sneaking around and stealing isn’t part of my daily routine.”

It was the usual setup. The same old faces were clustered in the conference room, all wearing various expressions of dismay. Mrs. Evans, his homeroom teacher, clung to her coffee mug like it was a lifesaver and she was a woman overboard. Mr. Willis, the art teacher who always wore a jolly expression and cheerily arranged dreadlocks, seemed abnormally grim.

The door creaked open ominously, and Ms. Mallory, the nosy office secretary, peered in. “Do you still need the vice principal, Mr. Willis?” she asked.

Her voice sounded a little too eager, in Ahmad’s opinion. Resentment bubbled up and he tried to push it down. Today wasn’t an ordinary day. Today, he might have already pushed the limits of any patience PS 54 had for Ahmad Mirza and his escapades. But he ended up blurting it out anyway.

“Go ahead, Ms. Mallory. You can bring the torture devices too, but I won’t talk.”

Mr. Willis sighed heavily. “No, we don’t need him, Ms. Mallory. Just . . . close the door.”

Ms. Mallory shot Ahmad a giddy smile as she did just that. She was probably off to make sure she still had Ahmad’s parents on speed dial, and she probably did.

He didn’t want to think about that, though. That started the squirming up again, and the shaking in his legs that would reach his voice and really prove his false bravado to be just that: an act. Even if this was Ahmad’s normal—lunch detention and angry teachers—he didn’t want to look his mother in the eyes and tell her he messed up again.

“This sucks,” Ahmad mumbled to himself.

Especially because today—for once—it wasn’t his fault. There had been no fight over the contents of his lunch box, no classmate leaning in and jeering at the green chili–spiked mashed potatoes that made your nose sting with the scent of fresh mustard-seed oil, or the little dried fish even he hated with eyes and silvery scales still intact.

He’d managed to be mostly respectful during class discussions, and kept his hands and feet to himself during gym. He’d even raised his hand a few times in the name of being helpful and passing out pencils, though he wasn’t called on.

But in spite of all that, here he was. It didn’t feel fair.

Particularly today. Because whether Mr. Willis and Mrs. Evans believed it or not . . .

“It’s really not my fault,” he tried again. “I don’t even know how it got here.”

It was the package currently resting in front of Mrs. Evans on the table. It was an innocent yellow mailer, sealed over with Scotch tape. Nothing about it said anything like DANGER or DEVASTATING REPORT CARD INSIDE. It looked like, if you turned it over, it would be something boring like his baba’s tax papers or maybe a trinket Ma ordered from overseas.

It was nothing special. At least on the outside.

Now Mrs. Evans heaved a heavy sigh. She reached for the package, tilting it downward so that its contents could slide into her palm.

“Be careful!” Ahmad gasped in spite of himself, leaning forward in his seat. Mrs. Evans shot him a dirty look but worked it out more carefully.

Though Ahmad had held it himself just half an hour ago, the sight of it made his heart lurch. It was a shiny game case, the type that held a Nintendo Switch cartridge. The cover, though, wasn’t the usual 3-D characters with smiling faces and multicolored backgrounds. It was pitch black, with embossed neon images—thin lined and finely detailed, like hand sketches—on its front. What looked like flying cars and, amazingly, rickshaws were etched over a skyline that looked almost like New York City.

At least, if New York City had buildings even more futuristic than the skyscrapers Ahmad passed on his way to school.

Even though he couldn’t see the title clearly from where Mrs. Evans held it to the light, he still mouthed it, quietly, to himself.

“The Battle.”

Mrs. Evans let out a hiss, startling both him and Mr. Willis, who leaned forward with a frown.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Evans?” he asked.

She frowned down at the game. “Yes. I think it was just static electricity.”

“It’s not just that,” Ahmad blurted out, even though inside his brain was chanting, Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, Ahmad. “It probably doesn’t like you.”

“Ahmad, really.” His teacher leaned forward and waved the game in his face. “Okay. For the last time, tell me what this is.”

“A video game,” Ahmad responded. It was getting harder to control his snarky tongue and fidgety feet. He was usually better at this. He was. But the fact that they had been here a half hour and he still couldn’t tell his side of the story was rattling him. “Honestly, I’ve told you this like twenty times now. I don’t know where it came from.”

Except, of course, he did. Sort of.

“That’s not what you told us before, Mirza.”

“I did tell you that! I don’t know why I have it. Really, I don’t.”

“You also told me,” Mr. Willis broke in, “that the game belonged to you.”

Ahmad stuck his chin out. “That’s because it does.”

“The question is, Mirza,” Mrs. Evans snapped, “how you knew for sure this was your video game, and—more importantly—how a video game that apparently belongs to you was delivered to the school office this morning to begin with!”

Ahmad had no idea himself, though he’d glanced over the package probably a thousand times since it was first shoved into his hands a few hours ago. His sister’s name and school were neatly printed on the return address—Farah Mirza, care of Princeton University.

His big sister was known for being . . . well, hard to predict. But this was mysterious, even for her. Sending a package straight to his school, without any warning?

“Ahmad, I’m about ready to get the principal in here himself and suspend you,” Mrs. Evans interrupted. “We know what’s in the package, and that it’s from your sister. And you have no idea why she sent it to school?”

“My sister does what she wants,” Ahmad said firmly, and not without a little pride. The next part was harder to ease out, but he managed it, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. “Well, I mean, we did talk a lot about, you know. School. And friends. And how I didn’t really have any. She might’ve wanted to . . . I don’t know.”

And he really didn’t know. Not having friends had never been a problem his sister faced. For him, though, it was his entire life.

“Okay, then,” Mrs. Evans sighed. “Let’s leave your sister alone for now....