by Jeanne Ryan
NERVE
NERVE
JEANNE RYAN
DIAL BOOKS an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
DIAL BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. · Published by The Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. · Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) · Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England · Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) · Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) · Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India · Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) · Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa · Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2012 by Jeanne Ryan · All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. · The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. · Book design by Sarah Davis · Type set in Adobe Caslon Pro Regular · Printed in the U.S.A.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ryan, Jeanne.
NERVE/Jeanne Ryan.
p. cm.
Summary: As a player in NERVE, an anonymous game of dares broadcast live online, high-schooler Vee is unhappy to be watched constantly but finds it exhilarating to be paired with handsome Ian taking ever riskier dares—until the stakes become too high.
ISBN: 978-1-101-59141-3
[1. Risk-taking (Psychology)—Fiction. 2. Games—Fiction. 3. Fame—Fiction. 4. Internet—Fiction. 5. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R9518Ner 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011048055
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For James, my grand prize
Table of Contents
prologue
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
Acknowledgments
prologue
It took three days of waiting, but at four a.m. on a Sunday, the street in front of her home finally emptied of all Watchers. Maybe even crazies needed to sleep once in a while. She could use some rest too, but more than that, she craved freedom. It had been almost a week since she’d left her house.
She scribbled a note for her parents, threw a pile of gear into her car, and sped off, peeking into the rearview mirror all the way out of town and throughout the two-hour drive to the Shenandoah. The countless times she’d ridden these roads with her family had been filled with games, singing, videos, and sometimes just daydreaming, but this time, it was with a rising sense of panic.
Ignoring years of training by her parents to check in with a ranger when she reached the park, she left her car near the most deserted trailhead she could find and took off on a path where the foliage was on the verge of being overgrown. By early afternoon, she’d have to settle on a spot to set up camp. For now, she just wanted to disappear into the greenery. If she could evade the Watchers for a little while longer, this greenery would bring her some measure of peace, at least for a few days.
Her backpack weighed heavy on her shoulders as she pounded up the rocky hillside, pushing past ferns and catching the occasional drops of dew that lingered on the leaves. The rushing sound up ahead spurred her on with the promise of a waterfall. It would be a blessed distraction from the constant rumination that had taken over her thoughts for the past twenty-three days. Damn game.
She swatted a low-hanging branch, dumping water and leaves on her head. Whatever, it wasn’t as if anyone were around to witness the bits of foliage plastered to her skin and hair. But the thought of other people led immediately to insistent, unwanted images. And fears. Fears that lived at the edge of her consciousness and seemed to take physical form, this time in the sound of soft footfalls behind her.
She stood stock-still, waiting, praying that the sound had been just her imagination. Her brain betrayed her a lot lately. Stop. Focus. Think.
The footsteps halted for a moment and then picked up again, faster. Yes, there was someone behind her. What now?
Hide behind a bush and let the person pass? It had to be a random hiker, probably looking for solitude the way she was. Still, concealment sounded like the best plan. She raced ahead to gain some distance and tucked herself within the arms of a lush rhododendron.
The footsteps became louder, their heaviness suggesting someone large. Was this the “consequence” those jerks who ran the game threatened if she didn’t make herself available to the fans? But no one could expect her to make nice with the jerks who called at all hours, the creeps who’d follow her into bathrooms, or the sickos who created that horrifying website with crosshaired images of herself and the other players. When she’d found that, she invented an illness that kept her home for the past week. But she couldn’t hide forever. And it wasn’t like she could get restraining orders for the whole planet.
Her breathing became quicker and shallower as whoever was behind approached. The steps were rhythmic, measured. Maybe they weren’t human. Funny, how the possibility of a black bear concerned her less than if the intruder were a fellow hiker. Or maybe the footsteps weren’t even real. This could all be a dream, manipulated in the same way her every waking thought had been during the game, and even after. It was getting harder to figure out what was truly happening. Like the note she’d found in a magazine when she’d snuck out to the mall: Dear Abigail—The game isn’t over until we say it is.
How could anyone have known she’d visit that particular store, and glance at that particular magazine? Yet, by the time she’d ripped through every other magazine on the rack, to see if any others had been tampered with, she’d lost track of the offending note altogether, as if it never existed. Probably stolen by one of the unknown “we” who spied on her every move. That was the worst part, not knowing what her enemy looked like, while her own image was available to all, like a perverse kind of trading card.
Now the footsteps were joined by whistling. Even her active imagination couldn’t conceive of a scenario where an animal knew the tune to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Her eyes welled up as she willed herself to believe that this person was simply a trekker in a good mood.
The footsteps halted. She crouched deeper into the foliage as the bushes nearby rustled.
A deep voice said, “I know you’re here.”
Her gut went to jelly. She pressed herself into the tree behind her, wishing she’d climbed it instead. There was no one around for miles, and a quick peek at her phone showed no reception. Figured. Her phone only delivered misery these days.
The branches of the rhododendron she was hiding within parted to reveal a man with a face like a pit bull and breath that smelled like bacon. Oh God, not knowing what her tormenters looked like had been better. This image
would play a featured role in nightmares for the rest of her life. However long that was.
His meaty hands pulled the branches farther apart. “Why not come on out, sweetie? Make things easier on both of us.”
Every muscle contracted and her knees almost gave way. The total dread rising in her belly was worse than during the last round of the game, when she’d faced a room of snakes. To think that that used to be her biggest fear in the world.
Despite the shudder racking her chest, she somehow found the strength to say, “Leave me alone, asshole.”
He startled. “No need to get nasty. I’ve been your biggest supporter.”
Her eyes darted through the shady undergrowth. Only one option held any hope. She let her pack slip from her shoulders to the ground before springing toward the thinnest section of branches. But there were still enough to scratch her arms as she bashed through them onto the trail. Unfortunately, the man blocked the path leading back toward her car, so the only option was to head farther into the hilly forest.
She ran, followed by thundering footsteps behind her. All sounds soon became absorbed in the crashing waterfall ahead, which sprayed her face with a fine mist as she approached the rickety-fenced overlook. The only way forward was down a steep, rocky cliff, boulders thick with moss.
From behind came discordant whistling in a pitch that cut through the sound of the water. She turned to face the man, whose pockets bulged with jagged shapes that brought to mind the various weapons in a game of CLUE. Not that he’d need a candlestick or knife, with his arms as thick as the nearby tree trunks. What did he want? Was he a rabid fan who’d decided to punish her for missing the “epilogue” broadcast with the other players the night before? She’d watched it, hand held to her mouth, as her fellow players joked and laughed despite the twitches in their cheeks and the dark circles under their eyes. Yet none of them would answer her texts afterward, as if associating with her were more of a threat than whoever was haunting them. It was insane. No one had said anything about follow-up videos or stalkers when she signed up to play.
She climbed over the fence, trying to keep hold of the slippery metal. Could she make her way down to the river without breaking her neck?
“No need for that, Abigail.” The man grunted and reached into his pocket. “Just come back here and work with me. We could capture something that no one else has, earn a thousand credits.”
Credits? He must be one of those crazies who captured video of the players for no other reason than to earn the respect of his fellow Watchers, which was awarded in the form of votes, or credits. If there were a way to measure her terror, this guy was hitting the jackpot. The pervs got off on that. But would this guy take things a step further? Her throat tightened at the thought. Deep breaths. Concentrate on a way out.
He cocked his head at her, as if considering lighting and composition. Was it possible that all he wanted from her was a picture? Her breath caught as he slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. All she could think of was how odd that her life didn’t flash before her eyes. What she remembered instead was an old movie she saw in eighth-grade English class, The Lady or the Tiger? It had ticked her off that the film left the audience in the lurch. Why couldn’t they just pick an ending?
And now, in front of her, a stranger could be pulling out a camera or a gun, depending upon what he wanted to steal, her image or her life. With a sob, she realized that part of her wished for the option she wouldn’t have dreamed of choosing before she played the game, just so the horror, what had become her reality, would end.
His hand popped out of his right pocket, clutching a camera, tiny and black, like a cute little bug. She exhaled and choked back a sob. So, a picture after all. Maybe, if she tried really hard, she could fake a smile and this would be over. She could run down the trail, drive like a demon back home, and hide in her room for the rest of the day. Or longer. The Watchers would have to lose interest in her eventually, especially when another game, with a new cast of players, took place.
“Smile pretty,” the man in front of her said.
She stared at him and tried to raise the corners of her mouth. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, followed quickly by another. A few more seconds and this would all be over.
Click.
She exhaled. Okay, if that’s what he wanted, fine. Well, not fine, but survivable.
And then, with a lopsided grin, the man reached into his other pocket.
one
I’m the girl behind the curtain. Literally. But after I open the grand drape for Act Two, I’ll have forty minutes to kill, no more costume changes or makeup to coordinate unless an actor needs a quick repair. I take a deep breath. For opening night, things have gone smoothly, which worries me. Something always goes wrong the first show. It’s tradition.
I debate between heading to the girls’ dressing room, where the talk will be about guys, or staying out in the hallway, where I might actually run into one, well, one in particular. Since the guy in question has a cue in ten minutes, I choose the hallway and pull out my phone, even though Ms. Santana, our drama coach, has us under threat of death to keep them off during all performances.
Nothing new on my ThisIsMe page. Not surprising, since most of my friends are in the play or the audience. I broadcast a message:
STILL A FEW TIX LEFT FOR THE NEXT
TWO SHOWS, SO BUY ONE IF YOUR BUTT
ISN’T ALREADY HERE!
There, I’ve done my civic duty.
Along with the message, I post a picture I took before the show of my best friend, Sydney, star of the play, and myself. The photo’s like something out of those contrast books from preschool, she, the golden Hollywood Barbie hovering next to me, the retro Blythe doll, with pale skin, dark brown hair, and eyes a little too big for my face. But at least the metallic shadow I borrowed from the cast’s makeup kit makes them look bluer than usual.
An ad for Custom Clothz pops up on my phone, promising to demonstrate how great I’d look in their latest sundresses. Summer clothes are wishful thinking in Seattle, especially in April, but a lavender one with a full skirt is too cute to resist, so I upload a photo of myself and fill in my height: five four and weight: one-oh-something. As I’m debating what further measurements to enter, a familiar laugh booms out of the guys’ dressing room, followed by its owner, Matthew, who sidles up next to me so our shoulders are touching, well, my shoulder to his football-team-honed biceps.
He leans so his mouth is inches from my ear, “Thirty-four B, right?”
Ack, how did he read my phone so fast? I shift it out of his vision. “None of your business.” More like 32A, anyway, especially tonight with my filmy bra that doesn’t claim to perform miracles.
He laughs. “You were about to share it with total strangers, why not me?”
I flick off the display. “It’s just for this dumb ad, not a real person.”
He flips around so we’re face-to-face, with his forearms pressed to the wall on each side of my head, and then says in his silky voice that always sounds like he’s letting you in on a secret, “C’mon, I really want to see you in that dress.”
I tuck my arm behind my back. “Really?” My own voice is squeaky vinyl compared to his. Lovely.
He reaches around me and slips the phone from my fingers. “Or maybe something, you know, more comfortable.” Sliding back into position beside me, he pecks at the phone and holds up a picture of my face superimposed on a body wearing white lingerie. The bust appears larger than life size, well into the D range.
A burning creeps up my neck. “Funny. How about we do one of you now?”
He starts to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll model in person, if you like.”
The hallway becomes stifling. I clear my throat. “Um, you need to stay in costume, so how about we start with the virtual you?” Boy, could I sound any less appealing?
His eyes twinkle greener than usual. “Sure, after we finish playing dress-up with virtual Vee.”
We huddle ne
xt to each other as he selects various slips and bikinis. Every time I try to pull the phone away, he laughs and tugs it back. I try a different tactic, nonchalance. It almost works when I surprise him with a quick swipe. Not fast enough to get the phone away, but at least I hit the right part of the screen, closing the dress-up site. It’s replaced with an ad for that new game called NERVE, which is basically truth or dare, without the truth part. Under a banner that says LOOK WHO’S PLAYING! pop up three thumbnail pictures of kids completing various missions.
Matthew’s eyebrows rise. “Hey, let’s check out this girl doing the pretend-to-shoplift dare.”
He tilts the phone so we can watch a video of a multi-pierced female stuffing bottles of nail polish down her cammo pants. Um, even if she’s just pretending, it seems like a felony to stick any merchandize down those pants. And how does she get through airport security with all those safety pins along her jawline? As if she hears my snarky thoughts, she turns to the camera and gives it the finger. The image zooms in on her wolflike features, causing my shoulders to stiffen. With a smirk, she marches out of the store and into the parking lot, where she uses the polish to paint a crimson XXX on her forehead.
The clip fades to black and Matthew clicks below it to give the girl a four out of five star rating.
“I’d have only rated her a three, if that. The dare was to pretend to shoplift, not actually do it,” I say. “What kind of idiot would record herself breaking the law?”
He laughs. “C’mon. That took balls. And who’s gonna complain about her taking the dare further than they asked for? She’d be fun to see in the live rounds.”
