by Jeanne Ryan
“Good luck, Ian!” I say as I hurry outside with Tommy.
The cold air rushes past me. But unlike last night, it’s refreshing rather than an assault. I did it! I did it! As we jog to our cars laughing, I almost lose a slipper, which is perfectly in character, since I feel just like Cinderella running from the ball.
four
Tommy shakes his head like he can’t believe I went through with it. “Congratulations.”
I skip along the sidewalk. When’s the last time I skipped? First grade? “Thanks for being my wingman, Tommy. I couldn’t have done it without you. If you were a girl, I’d lend you my prize shoes.”
His smile fades a little. “Uh, thanks?”
“You know what I mean. You’re awesome!” I get into my car. “Wish we could celebrate or something, but you know my parents.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” He hovers for a moment, as if he’s waiting for me to say something more, and then, with an embarrassed shrug, he helps me close my door.
On the way home, I turn the radio up loud and sing along with a country singer about how she takes revenge on the man who’s done her wrong. Why are songs like that so fun? When I pull into the garage, I even have a minute to spare. Perfect. I waltz through the back hallway, tempted to shout the words to “Everything’s Coming up Roses” from Gypsy, but that would invite too many questions from Mom, who’s sitting in the living room pretending to read a book.
I give her a hug, hoping I don’t smell like coffee. “The show went great.”
“Wonderful, honey! Dad and I are looking forward to seeing it tomorrow.”
“Third night’s a charm. You’ll be glad you waited.”
I dance my way up the stairs, humming as I get ready for bed. With a West Side Story tune in my head, I fall asleep smiling. In my happy buzz, I forget to turn off my phone, so it wakes me at eight a.m. I ignore it, rolling over to continue dreaming of Matthew, but also of hot guys in coffee shops.
The phone buzzes again, and again. Who would want to talk so early? Then my eyes widen. Is this about the dare? I do a quick inventory of last night’s events. There should be nothing embarrassing in the latest video. Nothing.
Still, I hop up to check my phone.
The first message is from Sydney.
HOW COULD YOU?
Oh. I forgot I’d promised her no more dares. But wait until she sees the shoes. Too bad she’s two sizes larger than me; sharing them would quickly calm Syd down.
The next messages are from her too. They aren’t pretty. But there’s nothing about me being exposed or doing anything embarrassing, unless you count my ho-hum singing voice, so why does she care? Then I realize. She wanted to apply for NERVE. To really apply. My dares probably remind her of what she can’t do, at least not this month. She has nothing to be jealous of, though. It’s not like I plan to play in the live rounds. My dares were just for fun. Well, not fun, exactly—shoes.
I wait until after breakfast to text her back, including the image NERVE sent of me in the shoes. She responds with an actual call. Uh-oh.
When I answer, she shouts, “I don’t care about your prize. You said you wouldn’t play again. What if something went wrong? Something that I couldn’t clean up as easily as your first dare?”
I pull a hand through my hair. “No one’s asking you to clean anything up for me. It was just one more dare. You saw, no wet clothes or exposed body parts, and the guy turned out to be okay. Even if he hadn’t been, Tommy was with me.”
“You don’t get it. What if they’d sent other players to harass you or do something really horrible? Remember what they did to that girl who had OCD?”
I shiver. “But that was in the live rounds. Look, no one got harmed. I earned some amazing shoes. Game over.” I imagine her shaking her head on the other end.
“Sometimes, Vee, I don’t understand you. It’s like you’re self-destructive or something.”
Every muscle in my body goes taut. “Are you implying that I’ve ever tried to harm myself? You, of all people, should know how tired I was that night, helping you learn lines for the Christmas show, remember? For you to suggest that I purposely left the engine running is low, really low.”
“I wasn’t even talking about that.”
“Sure.”
There’s silence for a long moment.
“Look, I’ve got stuff to do,” I say.
She and I hang up without another word. Lovely, on the night of the closing show, when we should be planning for my first night of freedom, my best friend’s ticked at me. How did she know about the dare so fast, anyway? Was she checking the NERVE site first thing in the morning or did they contact her the way they did some of my friends after the first dare?
I get online and find the section of the game site for “Advanced Qualification” clips, which are free to watch, probably to drum up interest for the pay-to-view live rounds. It doesn’t take long to find mine. It has over a hundred comments. Really? The dare didn’t strike me as all that exciting. I play the video, which begins with Tommy saying how lucky Ian would be to really get someone like me. Very sweet. The video’s obviously been edited by NERVE, though, because the next part cuts to Ian, along with a voiceover by a female who describes what she’d like to do to him. In graphic detail. Is this commentary by the girl who came in behind him? Were they together, or did NERVE assign her to be his Watcher?
The video moves to the part where I sing. I wince at how scared I appear. But I do have a certain quality on camera. Something that makes me look really, I hate to admit it, innocent. Maybe it’s because I come off as so petite next to Ian. Speaking of camera quality, the guy looks like something out of a movie. Could his bone structure be any more defined?
I read through the comments under the clip. Dozens of girls beg to sign up as in-person Watchers if NERVE chooses Ian for the live rounds, even though it costs triple of paying to watch online. Sure, the in-person Watchers can win prizes if they capture enticing video shots, but the odds of that seem slim.
The rest of the comments break down by gender, with guys writing about how cute and terrified I look, and girls claiming how they would’ve made a much better partner for Ian. That guy has some serious groupies.
Well, best of luck to him on getting selected tonight. As I send my mental good wishes, a NERVE ad pops up with LOOK WHO’S PLAYING! alongside video clips of the first players they’ve chosen for the live rounds, in two venues: Washington, D.C., and Tampa. A few minutes later, another pop-up announces LOOK WHO’S WATCHING! with photos of people who’ve already signed up to be Watchers, either online or in person. Guess even the audience wants its moment of fame.
Now that I’ve participated in a couple of dares, I’m tempted to watch too, and probably would, if it weren’t for the plans I already have for tonight. NERVE will be around next month and the month after. But I want to be with Matthew now.
Time to log off of the computer and get on with my day. In between math homework and sketching ideas for fashion design class, I bake three different desserts to bring tonight. Still, the hours drag.
The second five o’clock hits, I’m in my car. When I arrive at the theater, I’m soon busier than ever with everyone’s makeup. They all want to look fabulous for closing night. It’s weird when I get to Syd. She’s all cheery, joking with the crowd around us, but I’m sure I’m the only one who notices that she barely makes eye contact with me. And when someone mentions how cool it is that I completed another dare, she quickly changes the subject.
Thanks to another fat bouquet, the room is thick with the scent of peonies, but Syd won’t reveal the admirer who sent them, despite nagging from the other girls. The second I apply her false eyelashes, she rushes from the room.
Matthew quickly takes my mind off of her, though, resting his hand on my bare knee as I apply his makeup. He wants to play my NERVE videos while I work, but I scold him to stop wiggling.
He holds up another NERVE ad. “They started a live round in Austin. Bet
you would’ve looked great in a cowboy hat and spurs. Feel daring tonight, little Vee?”
“I don’t plan to dump any more water on my head, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Which I hope he isn’t, because I love this vintage brocade jacket and silk mini. Too bad I had to wear these dumb soft-soled flats for my backstage duties; boots would’ve been way cuter. Still, I’ve completed the outfit with a True Blood T-shirt, and the Jimmy Carter campaign button I found at an estate sale adds a perfect eclectic touch. Not that guys appreciate well-crafted clothing ensembles. Or Jimmy C.
Once Matthew and the rest of the cast are made up and costumed, I wade through the actors and crew, most of whom pat me on the arm or give me high fives for completing two NERVE dares. Their good cheer reminds me to savor the glory of closing night, where every moment hovers between a bittersweet nostalgia and a giddy sense of accomplishment. Maybe Sydney and I can make up before the party. Especially if I apologize.
For the third night in a row, the play proceeds without a hitch. Guess all those months of practice were worth it, although soon that work will amount to nothing more than memories on video clips.
During Act Three, I stand at the side of the stage, breathing in the scent of old wood and trying not to bump into the dusty velour drape. Peeking around its edge, I spot familiar faces in the audience. Liv and Eulie came for another show. To the far right, I think I catch my mom’s profile. Yep, there’s Dad next to her, eyes darting around the theater like maybe he thinks I’ll tumble from a balcony.
I mouth the familiar lines along with the actors, the last time I’ll recite them, except at parties, when the drama geeks show off. Finally, an hour and thirty-two minutes into the show, Matthew and Syd draw together, a melding of lovers that the audience has anticipated for three acts. He takes her face in his hands as she gracefully arches her back. Their lips tremble and slowly come together. A woman seated in the front row sighs. We all do, vicariously savoring that kiss.
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thousand…What the heck? Endless seconds tick by, but their embrace only tightens with far more intensity than what was called for in the script, lasting eons beyond the length of their previous kisses. A small flame sparks in my chest. Sydney lets Matthew’s hands press so tightly onto her body that I bet they leave marks.
I run a finger up and down the frayed curtain rope, tempted to yank it and bring the show to an early close. The theater’s so rickety it would be seen as an accident. But, of course, a girl like me would never cause a spectacle like that.
Sydney and Matthew finally release each other with a lingering gaze and move into their duet, which will grow into a full-cast finale. Actors push past me, taking their marks on stage. Sydney’s chest swells with the high notes of the song, until all that’s left is the echo of melody, followed by hearty applause. Biting my lip, I close the drape.
While the cast members take their bows, I rush outside onto the iron fire escape. At least it isn’t raining, which is a springtime miracle in Seattle.
This is not how I foresaw spending closing night. After all the costume coordination, hours applying makeup, afternoons rehearsing lines with Sydney until I knew her role as well as she did, and the three desserts I baked for the party? The one who deserves long lip-locks with Matthew tonight is me.
I slump onto a step that feels like ice through my silk skirt, turn on my phone, and change my ThisIsMe status from promising to open for ideas. I also post: Karma does not apply to me.
I should just leave now. Forget about the stupid party and my first night of not being grounded. My so-called best friend couldn’t bear for someone else to take part of her spotlight, could she? It’s not like my dares made Syd shine any less brightly. No one else received two bouquets of flowers. Were they from Matthew? Does she feel the same way about him? I mean, that embrace. There’s acting and then there’s the real thing. My mind spins. Could they be a secret couple? It hardly seems possible that the friend who sprained her wrist defending me in fifth grade from a bully who teased me about my real name would deceive me this way. But that kiss.
The door opens. Is it Sydney coming to apologize?
Tommy blinks rapidly. “What are you doing out here?” He sits on the step above me, smelling like pine trees.
I glance up at him. “Needed some air.”
He smiles. “Yeah, air is good.”
“Don’t you need to be supervising the set crew?”
“Nah, strike-down isn’t until tomorrow.”
“I should send out another reminder for everyone to get their costumes dry-cleaned. No one better return anything smelly.”
“Or what?”
I rest my chin on my hand. “Maybe I’ll hang the grimy clothes from their lockers along with a gas mask or something.” Yes, the play included gas masks.
His eyes crinkle. “Not what I’d expect from a sweet girl like you.”
“Sweet is highly overrated.” So is responsible, loyal, and every other adjective you’d find scrawled in my yearbook.
He gives me a quizzical glance.
Through the partially open door, bits of laugher float outside as the cast makes its way to the dressing rooms. I’ve set out jars of cold cream and tissues so they can clean their faces, but I’d bet a week’s pay from my job at Vintage Love that most of them keep their makeup on through the party because they like the dramatic cast of their eyes and the chiseled cheekbones I gave them.
I shiver in the April cold and feel a headache coming on. Watching my best friend publicly throw herself on my guy-of-interest has blown my emotional circuits, leaving me in a numb state.
Or maybe just a stupid one, since the next words out of my mouth are, “So what do all you guys see in Sydney anyway?” Actually, this question qualifies as beyond stupid, not only because it makes me look like an insecure loser, but because the answer is obvious: her ability to make anyone feel important in ten seconds flat, her blond-bombshell hair, and a body she shows off to its fullest with clingy knits and low-rise jeans. Not to mention the corset she wore for the last act of the play, which she’ll keep wearing until someone pries it from her, ribbon by ribbon.
He squints. “Uh, not all guys go for her type. Some of us prefer girls a little less, uh, obvious.” He blushes.
Does he think petite girls with a fondness for retro clothing are non-obvious or invisible? It’s not as though I don’t try to add an edge.
The door behind us bangs open hard enough to shake the stairs. My heart does a handspring.
Matthew’s face is flushed and he’s already rubbed off half of his makeup. Or someone’s rubbed it off for him. “Hey, little Vee. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Really?” My voice comes out squeaky.
He laughs. “Reeeeeallly.”
Tommy’s eyes go into orbit.
I get up and brush at the back of my skirt. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if we could go someplace a little more private.”
My heart threatens to stop. “Uh, sure.” I resist the urge to pump my fist.
Matthew takes my hand and pulls me inside.
“See you later, Tommy,” I say as the door clanks shut behind me.
We wade through clusters of cast members posing with family and friends who’ve come to shower congratulations. The air is thick with the scent of cologne. For a second, I think I see Dad, but quickly lose sight of the gray buzz cut. Must be someone else’s father. Why would Dad come backstage anyway? To say, “Hey sweetheart, great costume coordination”? I mean, this is my night to be free. Surely they’ll cut me some slack.
Matthew leads me over to a small closet at the end of the corridor that doubles as a dressing room in a pinch. It’s empty. Before I realize what he’s doing, he picks me up by the waist and spins me around like a sugarplum fairy.
I laugh, feeling all floaty.
He sets me down and taps my nose. Suddenly, we’re back in our delicious zone, where we’ve been
dancing for the past few weeks. I didn’t imagine it. Maybe I misjudged the stage kiss between him and Sydney. They were in character, after all.
My heart thumps rapidly. “You did a great job tonight.”
“Thanks to you and the rest of the crew.” His arm slides around my shoulders and he leads me to the mirror. “You were like a little angel, flitting around, helping us get into costume. And the food you brought looks amazing.”
I sit on the counter as he sinks into the chair. Will he pull me into his lap? The thought makes me tremble.
He takes my hands. “Could I ask for one more little favor?”
“Sure.” Wish I’d put on fresh lip gloss.
He points to his cheek. “I accidentally messed up my makeup. Could you redo it? Syd says it makes me look rugged, and I think it’ll be cool for the party.”
My shoulders droop. He wants a touch-up? To stay in character because Sydney thinks it ups his macho factor? I sit there staring at him.
He points to my makeup box, which he must have brought in here before he found me. Since when has he ever been so prepared? He taps my knees like bongo drums. “Just the basics, you don’t need to go into a lot of detail.”
I take a breath and stand, trying to calm the rising flush of disappointment. “Sure.”
I whip open the box, grab a pencil and some contouring powder. As soon as I start, he takes his hands away from my legs. I sharpen his jawline and nose, and then get to work with the eyeliner. It isn’t until I’m halfway done with his eyes that I let the hard questions seep into my brain. Has Matthew ever really liked me? The way I like him? Or am I just a way to get closer to Sydney?
I dig my pencil into his eyebrow, which makes him flinch.
“Sorry,” I say. The slash mark gives me an idea. I’m tempted to give his new makeup a subtle shift. There’s a fine line between looking ruggedly intense and psychotic. I can make it so the other girls at the cast party feel a shade of anxiety when they gaze into his face. My hand begins to draw the brows a little closer together. But something holds me back. The same thing that never lets me create a scene or get into a confrontation. Holding back tears, I give Matthew the glowering, sexy eyes he wants.
