Page 16 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“The food,” I mutter breathlessly, taking another quick bite. “The food wasinsane. I know I’m about to leave, but I thought I should let you know.”

Armstrong looks pleased, faint creases appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Assuming insanity is a state to be celebrated, I’ll endeavor to have the leftovers saved for you.” It’s my favorite words he’s spoken. He pauses and adds, “The gray door second on your left will lead you downstairs.”

I give him a thumbs-up as I whirl out the room. Armstrong returns the gesture with a curt nod.

* * *

It turns out thatthe fighting pitis the melodramatic name for a cold gray room. Where I’d been picturing a shady bare-knuckle boxing group populated by a den of rogues, instead there’s a long narrow white strip that resembles a catwalk, with blinding white lighting embedded in the ceiling and a clinical, austere feel to the space.

The room is so vast and airy that it seems a million miles from the old-fashioned manor above.

Two benches line opposite sides of the walls, cool steel contraptions currently holding Finlay on one side and Rory on the other. And the both of them…

I stare. They’re dressed oddly, in a snow-white uniform with a top that looks halfway related to a straitjacket.

I hang back, feeling weird. They don’t know I’m here and perhaps I’ve made a mistake being here at all. It feels like I’m invading, in some respect, some ritual, seeing something I shouldn’t. Neither appears to be in any immediate physical danger. They aren’t fighting anymore. They aren’t even talking.

Rory snaps shut the buttons of his strange white straitjacket, his dark blond hair spilling across his grim, determined face. Finlay is the same, though it takes a more concerted effort for him to fasten the contraption to his body. He examines the cuffs of his jacket, tying something out of sight.

From behind, Rory pulls out a large round metal object. And then he places it over his head.

It’s a mask, I realize in surprise.A fencing mask.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised — this is a rich boys’ fight. This is how they do it. Probably. It’s completely alien to me, and the more equipment they pull out, the more that feeling grows.

Dark gray grates obscure Rory’s face like the tiny bars of a cage. He picks up a sword from the bench, turning it between his gloved palm. It’s a long, skinny thing, like a supersized needle or the stinger of a wasp.

It’s strange to watch, knowing that it’s Rory underneath the fencing kit. With a sword in his hand and a figure-hugging whiteness surrounding his body, there’s an unexpected grace to him. He looks like an angel — some kind of crazy Biblical one, wielding scepters and splitting open the sky.

Finlay approaches the white stage with a devil-may-care swagger, the point of his sword jerking all over the place.

Rory lifts his mask irritably. “Do you honestly think you’re capable of stepping onto the piste without getting injured? Because Iwillinjure you.”

“Whit d’you care?” Finlay bites out, his mask dangling from his hand like he doesn’t need or want it.

“You know I care.” There’s a peculiar softness to Rory’s tone that makes my heart sing, but Finlay barely notices. He jams his mask over his tousled black hair with a low growl and directs his sword toward Rory, as if in warning, from the other end of the piste.

“Usual rules,” Rory says wearily. “One point, one question. The truth and nothing but the truth, Lochkelvin honor. First to five. Three points behind and the bout is forfeited.”

“That isnae a usual rule,” Finlay snaps. “No’ the last wan.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ye already have.”

Rory tugs his mask across his face with a quiet sigh and raises his sword. They lean forward, the points of their swords touching each other’s jackets and setting off twin buzzers. They nod at each other and perform a kind of mini-salute, the tips of their swords bowing.

There’s a short sequence of electronic beeps counting down to the fight, and then, all of a sudden, a flurry of activity. Rory and Finlay attack each other with tremendous might, soft-soled shoes scuffing and squealing across the smooth stage, the clang of clashing swords screeching brightly in the air. It happens way too fast for me to make any sense of it. I hear Finlay’s roar followed by a buzz, and the number one flashes up victoriously at his edge of the piste in bright LEDs.

“Ye’re goin’ easy on me,” Finlay notes smugly. “Oh, the many questions I could ask.”

“Get on with it.” Rory, ever the eternal victor in his own mind, sounds irritated. He doesn’t like losing.

Finlay slants a glance at my end of the room before deciding. “Aw right. Fine. Let’s keep it simple. Instead o’rivetin’domestic politics, let’s talk borin’ sexual politics instead.” He pauses, as though trying to build anticipation, and asks, “Why that room?”

Rory shrugs like this isn’t worth bothering to answer. “It was available.”

“That’s it? That’s ma room. That’soor—”

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