Wild Cards. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

      Years had passed since Robin had last seen the golden lasso that snared Rusty’s shoulders, but he recognized it at once, as he recognized the voice raised in a triumphant “Yee-haw!” and recognized the jangle of spurs. Because Jerry Jeff Longwood—or, God love him, Kozmic Kowboy—did nothing by half measures. Not even the hearty backslap that almost knocked Robin double.

      “Howdy Robin! Buddy! Sorry ’bout the lasso, there, partner, but you looked like you were in a sore spot.”

      Jerry Jeff knelt to help Wally free of the lasso, which had snagged on his shoulder gears. The Kozmic Kowboy wore his full regalia: chaps and vest and hat and boots and crossed belts, his big iron on his hip. (Robin hoped it wasn’t loaded.) His mustaches drooped beautifully, and if there were streaks of gray in that dark hair these days, the cowboy hat covered them. Riches and fame and family life seemed to have added nothing to Jerry Jeff but a few smile lines around the corners of the eyes.

      “Thanks,” Rusty said, which Robin should have said first. But, in Robin’s defense, he hadn’t yet remembered how words worked.

      “How” was a good start. “Jerry Jeff, what are you doing here?”

      “You didn’t think you could come to Texas without your old friend Jerry Jeff dropping in, did you? This here competition’s been all over the news, and folk knew your school was coming, and I thought, maybe he’ll be in town. And good thing for you I did! Come on, put ’er there.” Before Robin could pull away, he found his hand enveloped in a calloused handshake that, in a pinch, could double as a hydraulic press. Jerry Jeff wasn’t a big man, but they made men tough in whatever comic book cowboy land he came from.

      “Robin,” Rusty said, “you know this fella?”

      “Yes.” Robin did his best to smile. “We were on American Hero together.” American Hero, the reality TV series spotlighting “tomorrow’s heroes today!,” was the opportunity of a lifetime for its contestants. Some applied for money, some for fame, some because they wanted to make a difference, and some because they didn’t see much difference between the three. When the second season casting call went out, Robin Ruttiger had been two years into his new life as an ace, using his gifts to rescue cats from the treetops of Akron, Ohio, and Jerry Jeff Longwood was already the darlingest, dandiest star-spangled rider, roper, and cowboy crooner on the rodeo circuit.

      And years later, here they were.

      After saving the instruments, Jerry Jeff accepted Ms. Oberhoffer’s half whistled, half signed thanks—he might not have been able to sign fast enough to follow <I’m your biggest fan> and the frantic list of his concerts she’d watched on YouTube, but he must have gotten the general notion, since he tipped his hat to her and bowed and said, “That’s right kind of you.” She blushed, and fanned herself.

      Jerry Jeff tipped his hat to Ms. Pond, too—they seemed to have met somewhere, which he had to admit made sense, given Bubbles’ fame—and asked if he could borrow Robin to catch up for an hour or two. Robin tried to look utterly occupied, can’t leave the kids, first night in a new city, but Sharon was too busy swooning to object, and Bubbles wouldn’t hear of parting old friends reunited. “The kids have their rooms, and I think after this morning we’ve all earned a rest. Take a few hours off. Wally and I can handle the orientation.”

      “Ah,” Robin said. “Great.” He wished he sounded more convinced. “I’ll be back in time for the mixer.”

      <We’ll keep an eye on things while you’re gone,> Sharon whistled.

       Bubbles and the Band Trip

       Part 2

      A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN STOPPED Michelle as she reached the elevator. The woman’s hair was a dull gray and she wore a faded green cotton shirtwaist dress and espadrilles.

      “Miss Pond,” the woman said. She had a twangy Texas accent. Miz Pawnd. “I’m Priscilla Beecher, the band’s liaison for the competition. I’ll be taking care of y’all. My job is to let y’all know where the children are supposed to be and when. After you get y’all’s rooms, we’ll need to head to the Tobin Center for orientation.”

      It was a relief to have someone around who knew the ropes. And Miss Beecher seemed nice and didn’t once look askance at the Mob. “We were just going to drop our things off in the rooms,” Michelle said. “We’ll be right down.”

      “I’ll wait here,” Miss Beecher said.

      The rooms weren’t what Michelle had expected. There was an odd square-shaped protrusion from the west side of the wall in Michelle’s room and she could hear the elevator going up and down. She checked the other rooms and they were somewhat better and much less noisy, but even a “bad” room at the Gunter was pretty nice.

      If it’s haunted, it’s not doing a very good job of feeling haunted, she thought as she reentered her room. The pillows were fluffy, the bed comfortable when she flopped down on it to check how it felt. There weren’t any creepy cobwebs, peeling wallpaper, or unexplained chills. Nope, her room at the Gunter didn’t seemed to be haunted at all. Unless being haunted by nice marble floors in the bathroom was a scary thing.

      The rooms were clumped together as asked. Asti and Peter were sharing one room. Adesina, Marissa, and Antonia were in another. Adesina and Michelle had argued before they left about whether or not she would be staying in Michelle’s room or in the room with the other girls.

      “Mom!” Adesina had said. Her antennae twitched furiously. “I’ll look stupid if I stay with you! I’m grown-up now! You can’t do this to me!”

      Michelle flopped onto her favorite chair, a mid-century modern piece upholstered in a gray-and-yellow atomic print. “You’re still my little girl,” she said. She wasn’t loving the newly adolescent Adesina much just then. “Why do you need to stay in their room anyway?”

      Adesina’s antennae went wild. It was disconcerting. “Because it makes me look like you don’t trust me. Okay, Ghost is staying in Ms. Oberhoffer’s room, but she’s just a kid. I’m an adult. I don’t need to be babysat.”

      It was some impressive teenage logic. As in not so much.

      “Fine,” Michelle said, not wanting to have the whole teenage scene right now. “But you better be on your best behavior. And you’re not an adult yet. You’re not an adult until you can keep your room picked up, do your own laundry, and support me in my old age.”

      One of the things Michelle was learning about having a teenager was to pick your battles. And this one had been too much of a pain in the ass to fight.

      “You guys have ten minutes to get settled, then we’re meeting downstairs,” Michelle said. She thought she was starting to get the yes-I-am-in-control-of-you-kids voice down. “Don’t be late.”

      But her words were met by closing doors. Wally gave her a look of sympathy, then he went into the room he was sharing with Robin. Sharon gave a whistle, signed, <See you in ten,> and shoved her own door open. Ghost floated inside and Sharon let the door swing shut.

      Michelle turned. Her door had closed automatically and locked. And her keycard was inside the room.

      Great, she thought. Just great.

      “I want to thank all the bands participating in the