by Jeanne Ryan
I’m someone with presence. Thousands of viewers’ worth. And more if I do the next dares. Tonight’s shown me how to think bigger. Or at least differently. I pretended to be a hooker, for goodness’ sake. If I can do that, what else is possible? Trying out for the next play? Asking for a raise at work? Making Tommy not hate me? I could apologize to Sydney for including her in the dare tonight, yet refuse to put up with her demands in the future. And maybe I’ll finally get Mom and Dad to believe that I didn’t try to asphyxiate myself in the garage. Anything is possible. Anything.
Even another dare.
“I’m in,” I whisper.
“Yes!” He pulls the car to the side of the road and leans over to kiss me lightly on the lips and then harder. His hands are on my hair, my arms, my waist. When he pulls away, my mouth is raw.
He says, “You won’t regret this—I’ve got your back. You know that, right?”
“Mm-hmm.” With Ian at my side, I’m unstoppable. We’re unstoppable. Holding my breath, I send a message to NERVE.
Ian starts the engine and turns the car around. We clasp hands so tightly I feel his pulse, strong and sure. At every stop, our mouths meet frantically. NERVE got one thing right—we are a team now.
On the way, I try texting and calling Mom and Dad with an excuse, but of course NERVE blocks my calls. Not much I can do about it unless we pass a pay phone. I need to focus on the prize. Fashion school, family, future.
It takes twenty minutes to reach Club Poppy, a five-story building with a flashing dance club on the first floor. Throbbing music leaks into our car as Ian finds a spot marked “VIP” near the side.
I exit the car to meet a damp wind that whips at my legs and a light that flickers above. Although there’s a crowd at the front entrance, the path to the side of the building, marked “VIP Lounge,” is unoccupied. At least it’s covered by an awning to shield us from the drizzle. We hurry along the path and meet a hulking doorman who demands that we give him our names as he compares our faces to images on his phone.
Finally, with a nod and a smirk, he opens the door. “Take the elevator up.”
Inside, we’re safe from the wind, but I still feel a chill, even snuggled against Ian. Our footsteps ring hollow on the marble floor of an entry area that smells vaguely of cloves. There’s a faint pounding of bass and drums coming from the club. I’m surprised it isn’t louder, but I guess VIP guests get soundproof walls that let them pick and choose what they hear.
In front of us is a small elevator with a sign above it that reads “Welcome, VIPs,” in case we forgot that we used the VIP parking spot and VIP entrance. We enter the elevator, meeting our reflections in a full-length mirror. I don’t look like the sunny retro girl I did earlier. Bluish smudges mar the skin under my eyes. Ian’s face is drawn too, his jaw tighter. How much will this night age us?
“Don’t be scared,” he whispers. His breath is warm and tickles my neck.
We go up several floors before the elevator opens to a plush entry area done in shades of red and glowing warmly with mood lighting. To our left is a larger elevator door that’s marked “Housekeeping.” The only other door, directly in front of us, is of ornately carved wood and surprisingly does not include a sign to remind us of our VIP status. It looks like something out of a castle, the kind with dungeons. Suddenly, I’m tempted to turn around and run home.
My body must show my inclination, because Ian presses his cheek to mine. “We can do this, Vee. Only three hours. I’ll protect you.” He kisses my temple and squeezes my arm.
A warm, liquid feeling floods my chest. Three hours for three years of fashion school. More importantly, the chance to put things right. With a major first step along my career path taken care of, Mom and Dad will have to believe that I’m looking to the future. And they should. Plus, Sydney’ll flip over getting to meet an agent, possibly jump-starting her own dreams. We’ll figure out our friendship—we’ve got too many years of confidences and too many good times to throw it away. Yes, these prizes could make a huge difference. I can win them for my family. For my best friend. For myself.
Three hours. Less than two hundred minutes. I’ve watched movies longer than that. With a nod, I straighten my shoulders.
Together, we push on the heavy door.
eleven
We enter a small room, with the same dim lighting as out by the elevators. The only furnishings are a gleaming concierge desk and three armchairs with tiny end tables that hold something you never see in public—ashtrays. Beyond the counter is a single long corridor, where a light shines from an opening about thirty feet down. To our right, in the foyer, are two doors that have lighted signs above them reading “Ian” and “Vee.”
My phone buzzes.
ENTER THE BOOTH FOR YOUR INTERVIEW.
“Time to start earning our prizes,” Ian says. He kisses me and ducks into his booth. The door swings shut behind him before I can make out more than a simple table and pale green walls.
I enter the “Vee” booth. It smells of cedar and has racks along the side that indicate that in real life this is a coat closet. But tonight it’s decorated like a cozy dressing room, with a gleaming vanity table in cherry wood and a red leather chair in front of a well-lit mirror. I sit. On the table, someone’s left an envelope with my name printed in calligraphy. Inside is a card of heavy paper, scented with lilac and filled with flowery handwriting. How old-school. The note tells me to freshen up and that there are plenty of supplies available in the drawers. I open one to find stacks of tiny cellophane packets, each stamped with the logo of a cosmetics brand that I only treat myself to at Christmastime, and filled with single servings of lip gloss, eye shadow, mascara, you name it. The next drawer down contains a bottle of water and a small insulated pouch filled with cold compresses. I take a long swig of water and press one of the compresses to my puffy eyes. The combo instantly refreshes me.
Tinkly notes float out from a tiny pink speaker on the table, and a woman’s voice says, “You have three minutes before we begin the interview.”
I examine my reflection objectively, the way I do with every actor I work on. Ashy skin, tired eyes, raggedy hair. No wonder NERVE wants me to freshen up. But what role am I playing? Daredevil vixen? Innocent victim? Maybe if I paint on some war wounds I’ll attract more sympathizers. Oh, screw it. I’m going as myself, no more, no less.
As I search through the packets for the right colors, a certain comfort settles in. This is what I know how to do. I go with gray eye shadow, basic black mascara and liner. Some powder to even up my skin tone, and lip gloss to polish things up. I find a fancy brush that’s supposed to smooth out my hair with some kind of ionization process. Its ads on TV have always left me skeptical, but after a few strokes, my hair appears silky.
I stare at my image. It’s odd, seeing my own face instead of someone else’s as the finished creation. The tiny amount of makeup has done a miraculous job of hiding the ordeals I’ve been through tonight. I sit back, satisfied. However, my image suddenly melts away, and the mirror transforms into a blank screen. Whoa. Up pops the face of a woman, which pierces my thoughts with childhood games of Bloody Mary. But instead of a grotesque ghost, this woman is maybe ten years older than me, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a ruffled shirt. She looks puzzlingly familiar until I realize that she could easily be what I look like in the future.
“Hey, Vee,” she says, “I’m Gayle.”
I realize that when I watched the game before, the announcers were just voices and shadowy figures in the background. Will the audience see Gayle? Is she the brains behind NERVE? Wait until I tell Tommy that the game has an identifiable human face, not just some anonymous businessmen with an account in the Caymans.
I smooth my top. “Hi. I didn’t think I’d get to speak with an actual person.”
Gayle brushes her hair back behind her ear in a girlish manner. “We thought it would make the interview a little easier.”
Since when did NERVE care about easy? I glance arou
nd the room. “Where are the cameras? This is being filmed, right?”
She smiles, showing off dimples. “It’s embedded in the screen. I think there’s one near where you see my right eye. And, yes, your Watchers will get to see you.”
I squint. Sure enough, the screen’s pixels appear a little less uniform in the area around her eye. Lovely, the audience witnessed me making faces in the mirror as I applied makeup.
She crosses her legs. “So, what have you thought of the game so far?”
Where do I begin? With how it’s alternated between offering a thrilling ride and ruining my life? “It’s been harder than I thought, but in ways I didn’t expect.”
“Like the dare with Sydney?”
Guess we’re diving right into things. “Uh-huh.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to her?”
My heart quickens. “Is she still watching?” I ask, fully expecting that this person from NERVE would know the answer.
“I can’t say if Sydney’s in our audience. But if she were?”
I stare down at the vanity while I consider what to say, and then I stare straight into Gayle’s right eye. “I’d tell her that I’m sorry for ambushing her and that when this is over we need to have a long talk. By the way, you guys blurred her face on the broadcast, right? ‘Cause she didn’t sign a release form.” Not that it matters. Everyone who counts will know exactly who I was arguing with.
Gayle’s calm demeanor remains in place. “We don’t want to waste our time on boring technical details, do we?”
Actually, there are a few technical details I wouldn’t mind discussing, like when they’ll stop blocking my calls or how they found out I was mad at Sydney in the first place. But I know this woman won’t provide those kinds of answers, so I just sit there with a bland expression.
She uncrosses her legs and leans forward with her forearms on her thighs. “Let’s talk about Ian. What do you think about him?” Her tone has become intimate, as if we’re at a slumber party. I remind myself that there are more than nine thousand viewers. Probably way more.
I feel my cheeks going pink. “He’s a great guy.”
“Our audience thinks he’s drool-worthy, don’t you?”
I shrug. “I’ve got eyes.”
She laughs. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Think you’ll hook up after tonight?”
What does she expect me to say? “We haven’t talked about it.” Unless he was serious about taking me to Gotta-Hava-Java. Was he?
“Have you kissed?”
I sit up. “Um, that’s kind of private, don’t you think?”
She smirks. “Honey, we’re way beyond privacy, don’t you think?”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I wait for her to continue.
“So, Vee, why did you sign up for NERVE? Some folks might say it’s not part of your profile to do something like this.”
Her smug expression makes me stiffen. How can anyone claim to know what I would or wouldn’t normally do? Anyway, after all that drama with Matthew and Sydney, it should be obvious why I’m playing. What else does she want me to admit? That I was sick of feeling invisible?
I lean forward and whisper, “Sometimes it’s fun to do something outside of your profile.”
She claps. “Brava, Vee. We’re all proud of you. Where did you find the guts?”
Guts or idiocy? “Um, I don’t know. I’m just focusing on one dare at a time.”
“So modest. That’s why your audience loves you. Anything you’d like to tell them?”
I smooth my skirt against my thigh. This is my first time to address all of the Watchers directly. What do you say to thousands of people? Sydney would know. “Thanks, everybody. Especially you guys who joined us on the hooker dare. You saved our butts.”
“That they did. I’ll bet you’re excited to get your butt started on the next dare.”
Not at all. Just eager to win the prize. “I think I’m more nervous than anything else.”
She laughs again. “Nerves are the name of the game, right? But so is fun. You’ve had a lot of new experiences tonight. I’m sure this will only add to them. Before you enter the game room, though, I want to go over a couple of key points.”
I nod.
She holds up her index finger. “First, you’re playing as a team with six other players. If one of you doesn’t complete a grand prize dare, you’ll all lose all your prizes. But don’t worry; there will also be a few icebreaker dares that are just for fun and optional.”
“Okay.”
“The other point to remember is that if you do anything that violates the integrity of a dare, NERVE may issue a consequence to make future dares more difficult.”
“Violate the integrity of a dare? What does that mean?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Basically, performing the dare, but cheating somehow. Don’t worry, we’ll know it when we see it.”
Hey, I’m the girl entrusted with a spray-bottle of vodka, so integrity doesn’t sound like a problem. “Fine.”
Her eyes are bright. “Wonderful! Good luck, Vee. Oh, and our product sponsors would love for you to help yourself to as many of the toiletries as you’d like. You may want to freshen up again later.”
The screen blips off and the mirror reappears. My face is flushed and my eyes are shiny. Are they still filming me? Dumb question. The audience must think I look dazed. And why would I need to freshen up again? Will I be dumping more water on my head? Well, water or not, these are some quality items. Too bad my purse is still in Ian’s glove compartment. I fill up a small makeup bag with packets.
“Thank you, product sponsors,” I say to the mirror.
Out in the foyer, Ian waits with freshly combed hair and points to the room down the corridor. “We should head over there.”
Something about that interview left me feeling queasy, despite the goody bag of cosmetics I scored. The interviewer’s fake friendliness did nothing to calm me; just the opposite. Probably what it was designed to do.
I shrug. “I guess.”
Ian takes me into his arms. “You having second thoughts?”
Not about him holding me, I’m not. I sigh. “It’s kind of late to back out now.”
“The exit’s right here.”
“You’d lose the car. I’d lose fashion school plus all those other great prizes.”
“Well, we’d still have won something major,” he says with a soft glance at my face.
That should sound cheesy, but coming from him it doesn’t. Or maybe I’m just too far gone in crushville.
He kisses the top of my head as I nestle it into the spot between his neck and shoulder. Even after the running and fighting, he smells like sandalwood soap. I inhale deeply. The dare’s only for three hours. And look who I’ve got for a partner.
“Let’s play,” I say.
We walk arm in arm past the concierge desk. As soon as we’re in the corridor, laughter spurts from the lit room, which is down the hall to our right. I imagine a game of quarters or spin the bottle going on. Nah, too easy. NERVE probably invited those hookers Tiffany and Ambrosia to beat me up. In a muddy pit. With knives.
A few voices come from the doorway ahead, but nothing loud enough to make out. The left side of the corridor leading to the room is lined with armchairs, as if misbehaving club-goers are sent here for time-outs. The right side of the hallway is covered in an ornate wall-hanging that looks like it’s made of silk. I stop for a moment to admire the embroidered butterflies and flowers in gemstone colors. It’s fabric fit for an empress’s gown, and a hundred times more detailed than the meadow scene Tommy designed for our play’s scrim.
Ian nudges me forward to the open door, which stands at the midpoint of the corridor. The only other door I spot is at the far end of the hall, and it’s closed. When we’re just about to reach the open room, where all the action seems to be, Ian pauses and whispers, “Maybe it’s better we don’t let whoever’s inside know we’re, uh, so together. Makes us more o
f a target.”
Target? We’re all supposed to be on the same team, right? But with NERVE, you never know, so I agree with Ian’s advice, and miss his warmth when he steps away from me. The chattering from inside halts the moment we pass through the doorway into a room that’s about twenty feet by twenty feet. So this is a game room? The left half is bare save for candy-apple-red carpeting. The right side is filled with several love seats, two on either side of a long coffee table made of glass. Instead of resting on a base, it’s suspended by silver cables. Sitting around the table are three girls and two guys, all in their teens.
“Hey,” Ian says as he heads to the empty love seat on the far side of the table.
I give them a small smile and take the spot next to him, tucking my makeup bag at my side. The seat bounces as if it contains mattress springs. I try to still it down, but it’s like being on a boat. With each bounce, the cushion sighs and pushes me back up. The other kids sit there bobbing too. Why would people pay extra to hang out in a weird room like this? Or did NERVE decorate it especially for tonight?
“So you decided to join us,” says a red-haired guy across from me. He has the overdeveloped biceps and jowly cheeks of someone on steroids. One of those bulky arms winds around a deeply tanned girl with exaggerated curves and a hundred jangling bracelets. She rubs a bare foot along his shin. Beneath a glass coffee table, there are no secrets.
In the love seat next to theirs sit two more girls, one white, one Asian, each with at least five piercings. I recognize the white girl as the one who stole all that nail polish in the preliminary dare video. She’s huddled close enough to the Asian girl to suggest they’re “together” too. However, there’s no playing footsie with those safety boots. On our side of the table, a dark-skinned guy with super-short hair and tiny framed glasses sits with his arms crossed. Somehow he’s balanced himself in the middle of his love seat so it stays still. He’s cute in a Tommy sort of way, clean-cut with a trace of geek, but there’s no girl, or boy, with him.
Ian leans forward, holding on to the seat cushion for balance. “So, think they’ll send any Watchers to hang out with us?”
