Nerve

by Jeanne Ryan

  One of the adults, who’s been eyeing us from the corner of the room, joins the fray. His hair is slicked back and his jacket’s worth more than half of my wardrobe. Is he their leader or something?

  The man puts an arm around Ian and says in a jovial voice, “What’s going on here, kids?”

  Ian jumps out of his grasp as if he’s been scalded. “We’re, uh, conducting an interview. And I’m happy to say that so far, your group is passing with flying colors.”

  The man scrunches his forehead. “Interview?”

  Ian pushes through the crowd to another table with three girls. His olive cheeks have acquired a crimson edge. I follow as best I can with the camera, not sure if it’s picking up his latest request, but the shriek from the tall redhead he just spoke to should be proof enough for the NERVE folks. He quickly causes similar yelps from the girl’s two friends. Eight down.

  The blond guy says something to the man with the expensive jacket, who just nods and smiles. What are they plotting?

  Ian glances at me, shiny-faced and breathing rapidly. He runs toward a table near the door. The crowd follows, shouting very non-pure sentiments. I flash the camera their way and the blond guy makes a grab for it. His fingers just miss it as I tuck it down my bra. I stick out my chest, daring him to reach past the vampire fang decal on my T-shirt, praying he doesn’t call my bluff.

  He reaches forward and stops a few inches from my chest. His neck is covered in red splotches that weren’t there before. “Outta here, you whore!”

  Well, I’ve never been called that before, but I’m not about to debate my love life with this guy. I hustle to catch up with Ian. He’s asked another girl, but I didn’t get it on video. Will it be enough for me to vouch for him? I yank out the phone and catch his next request.

  “Ask one more girl,” I yell.

  “But that’s ten,” he says.

  “One wasn’t on camera.”

  He groans.

  A female chaperone joins the crowd, waving her finger in Ian’s face. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “I am, but could you spare me a prophylactic?” he says with a sweet smile.

  The blond guy yells in Ian’s face, “Show some respect, asshole!” He looks like he’s about to blow.

  I tuck the phone back into my shirt and wave my fist. “Hey, remember, thou shalt not murder!”

  In answer, the blond spits in my direction. I scream as it lands on the tip of my shoe. The man laughs and pats the younger guy’s back.

  “You pigs!” I spit back.

  The blond guy grabs my arms, squeezing them at the elbows. His breath is like gasoline, definitely an advantage to his purity maintenance.

  Ian pulls at the guy’s shoulder. “Dude, we’re going now. Leave her alone.”

  The guy pushes forward. “You had the chance to leave your way. Now you’ll do it our way.” He drags me toward the door as the man with the slicked-back hair and a few other boys grab Ian. The crowd around us yells.

  Jack tugs at the blond guy and shouts, “Just let them go. I think it’s for a game.”

  Finally, someone’s figured it out, but the blond guy shoulders Jack aside and keeps his grip on me. My arms feel like they’re in a vise.

  I take a deep breath and although the thought of what I’m about to do makes me want to curl up into a ball, I start singing the getting laid song. Jack stares at me in horror. Maybe Tommy or Eulie can convince him I’m really not so bad. If I survive.

  Ian chimes in and we sing it at full blast as they push us out the door. A crowd has gathered outside too. Will we be able to reach the car without getting beat up? Someone shoves me hard from the back. I fall with a scream onto the asphalt, landing sharply on my hip. Ian tumbles next to me. We turn back toward the door and sing in shaky unison as it slams shut.

  The urges to cry and laugh are equally strong. Instead, I keep singing to myself as if the song is a mantra that’ll keep the hostility around us at bay.

  Ian stands. “The dare’s over. We did it.”

  He helps me to my feet with a gentle but firm grip on my forearms. Once I’m stable, I brush at my skirt. No rips, but a huge bruise will bloom on my hip tomorrow. Ian rubs his elbow, staring at me, probably because I haven’t stopped singing.

  He places his hands on my shoulders. “I said the dare’s done. Take a deep breath.”

  I try to, but it comes out as a hiccup. “Sorry I didn’t get us doing the song on video.” I pull the phone from my bra and wipe it on my shirt before handing it to him.

  He laughs and nods toward the parking lot. “You didn’t need to.”

  In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed that the crowd outside is much friendlier than the crowd inside. As we face their direction, they applaud. Most of them point phones at us. They’re in-person Watchers, all with direct links to NERVE.

  Ian takes my hand and we bow. As the applause increases, so do my spirits. Even the pain in my hip fades. Suddenly, the dare doesn’t seem as awful as it did a minute ago, the rush of having survived potent. I want to dance, to run around and holler.

  A dozen Watchers, ranging from our age on up a few decades, approach to high-five us. I had no idea so many different types of people were into this game.

  “We saw it from the windows. NERVE said we couldn’t go inside for this one,” a petite woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses says. “Looked like those folks wanted to string you guys up.”

  I say in a loud voice, “Must be all that pent-up energy.”

  The crowd laughs, although what I said wasn’t that funny. Still, their good cheer buoys me.

  I make an exaggerated pointing motion toward my phone. “I hope you guys got good video of us getting thrown out.” The more evidence the better.

  Ian’s still breathing hard, but smiling for the cameras, giving them every angle they ask for as if he’s on the red carpet. I want to hug him for having my back in there. My heart beats like an athlete’s, and the more the crowd cheers, the more pumped I get. This must be what fuels celebrities.

  At Ian’s prompting, we do a victory dance for our admirers, singing a few lines from “our” song. The people nearest us start singing too, and then those behind them join in until we’re all howling and dancing. What a rush. I can’t believe I’m having this much fun with a hundred strangers, especially when I consider there are another hundred strangers inside the building who want to beat me up.

  In the midst of the din, I hear what sounds like a little kid yelling, although there aren’t any kids around. Weird. I also notice my phone vibrating. I check it. NERVE has sent their congratulations. Ian and I hold our phones in the air.

  The crowd chants, “Another dare! Another dare!”

  Am I up for that? This one was awfully intense. Players can quit at any time, but no one left the game voluntarily last month, as far as I know.

  The ruckus of the crowd fades in anticipation. Their stares send a thousand tiny prickles to my skin, yet we’re connected somehow, like a creature with a hundred lungs that breathe in unison. I’ve got goose bumps, but laugh along with the crowd.

  What do my friends think? Some must be watching. I pull out my phone again, only to find an empty display. No texts? From anyone? I try texting Tommy and a few other friends, but get an error message. So I try calling. Everything is blocked. Even access to my ThisIsMe page. Despite the crowd around me, I suddenly feel alone.

  The sound of a kid’s voice comes at me again, in a mocking chant. I finally realize that it’s my phone. NERVE must’ve reset the ring tone. And their message comes through without a problem. Lovely, their app provides a “speedy link,” but blocks everyone else out. I should’ve guessed.

  I read the message, which is basically a status report. Our audience is bigger than most of the ones they got on the East Coast and Deep South a few hours ago, so there’ll be a premium with the next dare. All those people watching us? I look down at my chest to see if my shirt has ripped or gotten wet again. Nope, very modest.
r />   Ian checks his phone too. “Looks like we’re all kinds of popular.”

  Popular? Huh. Who’s among our Watchers? Matthew? What does he think about little Vee now?

  “Wonder what kind of prize they’ll offer next,” Ian says.

  It has to be at least as tempting as the shoes and the spa day. Maybe a trip to New York? A girl can dream.

  The crowd renews their chant, sending waves of warmth through me. Overhead, the neon casts a pastel glow on everyone.

  Ian smiles. “You want to sit in my car while we wait for the next dare? It’s right over there.” He points to a gray Volvo two cars down. A sensible car, owned by a guy who helps build homes for the needy.

  I nod. It’ll be nice to get a little quiet time to focus. We wave at the crowd and get into his car. There’s a delicious moment of silence as we close the doors.

  “So, partner, we’ve completed a live round dare!” he says.

  Hard to believe that we’re still almost strangers. I examine his well-defined features. “So what does NERVE know about you that I don’t?” Holy crap, am I flirting?

  “Hmmm. A whole hell of a lot, I’m sure. Let’s see. I’m a junior at Jackson Academy, eat way too many pretzels, and love long walks on the beach. How about you, Vee?” Saying my name causes his perfect front teeth to press into his perfect lower lip in a way that turns my legs rubbery.

  “Junior at Kennedy, theater-crew geek, and I dream of making the world a better place.” I give him the same pageant wave I gave the crowd earlier.

  “What made you try out for NERVE?”

  “Nothing special. Just wanted to do something out of the ordinary. How about you?”

  He leans in close. “The prizes, of course.”

  Yeah, the prizes. “What did you win?”

  “So far, some cash for the prelim dare, and a bus ticket for the last dare.”

  Is he messing with me? But why lie about a prize? I say, “A bus ticket? That seems kind of, I don’t know…” The word I’m thinking of is random.

  “It’s perfect. I could use it to travel anywhere in the continental U.S. Anytime.”

  “Why not just drive?”

  “Because then I’d have to steal this car from my parents.” His face takes on a hard edge for a brief moment before he turns back to me. He smiles slowly. “We were lucky to escape that gang of vicious virgins.” Two more V words—I want to lick my lips with the pleasure of watching him say them, even if I think his taste in prizes is unusual.

  Before I can devise a way to make him say victory or vivisection, our phones go off in unison, singing nah-nah-nee-boo-boo, nah-nah-nee-boo-boo, in little kid voices that sound like something out of a slasher movie. It’s the NERVE ring tone. And our next dare.

  six

  HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO WIN THIS?

  I click the link that shows the next prize—a premium phone loaded with all of the apps I could want plus a high-def camera, lightning-fast Internet access, and two years of unlimited service. Wow.

  YOUR NEXT DARE: GO TO THE AREA OUTLINED IN THE MAP BELOW. WALK ALONG THE STREETS INDICATED UNTIL YOU CONVINCE SOMEONE TO PAY YOU A HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR SEXUAL SERVICES. NO, YOU DON’T HAVE TO ACTUALLY PERFORM ANY TRICKS, JUST FIND SOMEONE WILLING TO PAY.

  My stomach churns. I’ve got to act like a hooker? In that part of town? Yikes. They should provide me with a weapon and bulletproof vest. When my mom used to work in an office building a block away, she’d complain to Dad about the nasty stuff she’d find in the parking garage. He’d make jokes about how her company should advertise that as a perk and offer its employees extra coffee breaks along with “If the van’s a-rockin”’ bumper stickers. I’ve missed their joking around. Our house used to have a more buoyant energy, which evaporated, thanks to me.

  I try to peek at Ian’s phone, but he’s holding it close to his chest. His face flashes in different colors under the bowling alley’s neon lights, one second in gentle lavender, the next in harsh red.

  The crowd outside also checks their phones for where the good times will be heading.

  One woman, with tumbling red curls that remind me of the soprano in Phantom of the Opera, taps on Ian’s window and shouts, “What’s your dare?” She points at me. “Must be a good one, ‘cause the little lady looks like she’s going to upchuck.”

  Ian lets down his window and gives her an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. You’ll have to wait until NERVE tells you.” He shouldn’t have to tell her the rules. Didn’t she watch last month? Or maybe the in-person Watchers earn prizes if they get the players to break the rules, just like they can if they capture great footage. Geez, there I go with the conspiracy theories again.

  We wave to our supporters—fans?—as Ian puts the window back up. One guy tries to block him, thrusting a phone forward. His flash causes me to see spots for a moment, but Ian manages to get the window closed and gives the folks outside a peace sign.

  I fan myself with my hand. “Whew. They’re like paparazzi.”

  “So what’s your dare?”

  “You first.”

  He leans his head back onto the seat. “I have to be charming in a pretty non-charming part of town. Charming enough to convince one of the working girls to offer me a freebie,” he says. “Okay, now spill.”

  “If, hypothetically, I were to do another dare, I’d have to get someone to offer me a hundred bucks for my services.”

  He looks me up and down with a lazy gaze. “That would be a bargain.”

  “Thanks. I think.” Then I frown. “But is it a bargain in that part of town? I mean, I can’t believe someone would sell herself for any amount of money, yet if I’m asking for more than the going rate, this could be a really hard dare.”

  He laughs as he pulls out his phone. “The harder the better, as far as potential clients go.”

  I groan.

  After a minute of looking up info on his phone, he says, “Typical rate for a call girl is between one and three hundred. But for a street walker, we’re talking twenty to fifty. So you’ll be asking for something over the going price, but you don’t look like a meth addict, so that’ll help.”

  “Gee, thanks, partner.” My stomach does a heavy flop. Then I remember the prize. A great phone without Mom and Dad complaining about the bill would be heaven. But am I up to putting myself on the streets to win it?

  Ian tells me he’d win a set of deluxe camping gear. This guy definitely has a travel theme going with his prizes. His eyes sparkle brighter than the neon outside, and brighter still when NERVE sends us the bonus offer: For every thousand additional online Watchers who sign up, we’ll each earn two hundred bucks. Whoa. How many folks will pay to watch us survive hookersville?

  I say, “Our dares would be difficult to document without scaring the prostitutes and johns away.”

  “We’ll just have to be discreet. So will our Watchers.”

  A few dozen of them, mostly in their late teens and early twenties, surround the car, hovering like zombies.

  My phone teases me again. It would be worth quitting just to get my old ring tone back. When I see who’s calling, I can’t believe that NERVE let this call through. I answer before they change their minds.

  Tommy says, “Are you okay? Looks like you got pushed pretty hard on the last one.”

  Wow, NERVE posted our video really fast, almost real time. They must not have edited our footage much. But why allow me to speak with Tommy? Is our call being broadcast? Maybe they want to see where I stand; that must be it.

  “My hip stings a little, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I can come get you now. I’m not far.” Of course he isn’t.

  I take a deep breath. “Wait, Tommy, don’t. We just got our next dares. I’m still deciding.” From the corner of my eye, I catch Ian grinning.

  Tommy’s breathing comes out in gulps. “You’re not seriously considering another dare?”

  “It’s for a great phone plus maybe some money. That may not mean much to someone with a trust fund an
d new car, but for me it’s a big deal.”

  “You’ve already been injured. It’s not worth getting killed for.”

  “Don’t be overdramatic. They don’t give you dares that’ll risk your life. Just make it seriously uncomfortable.”

  “So what’s the dare?”

  “You signed up to be a Watcher, so I can’t say.” Is there any way to keep him nearby as my security blanket? If only we had a secret code so I could tell him our destination ahead of time without NERVE finding out.

  Secret messaging reminds me of when Syd and I were in seventh grade and prepping for her audition for The Miracle Worker. We memorized both the Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller roles, even going so far as learning to sign the alphabet, which turned out to be a handy skill for communicating during classes. I wish I could call Syd and let her know what I’m up to even more than I wish I could tell Tommy. Why did she have to go after Matthew?

  Tommy’s voice interrupts my train of thought. “Don’t go, Vee. I heard rumors that one of the girls who won last time—” The call ends in a sheet of static. When I try calling back, it won’t go through. Crappy phone.

  Ian taps his steering wheel. “If you hypothetically keep playing, do you want to ride with me?” He snaps on his seat belt, which comforts me. Do psychotic killers buckle up? Besides, riding to that part of town alone in my own car strikes me as way riskier than riding with him. And with all these Watchers around, what’s he going to do anyway?

  “Sure,” I say, answering not only the question of transportation, but also of my participation in the next dare. I can hardly believe that I’ve completed a live one, and here I am about to attempt another. Me, Vee, the behind-the-scenes girl.

  Ian starts the car and we both give the Watchers a thumbs-up to let them know we’re still playing. They cheer and head to their cars while I inform NERVE of my decision. What’ll the game come up with next? Behind us, a bunch of horns honk, and someone’s car stereo is cranked so high I can feel the bass.

  Ian wrinkles his forehead. “Even though it would be cool to get someone besides us to document the next dare, these guys might cause more harm than good.”