by Jeanne Ryan
The guy with the glasses blinks. “The Watchers are there.” He points toward a camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.
I examine my surroundings. Four cameras perch like hawks in the corners of the room. Between the cameras, black screens cover the top three feet of the walls. The surface beneath the panels is covered in richly textured wallpaper of gray with red geometric patterns. The only wall that appears slightly different is the one next to the door, which has the same pattern but is more shiny than matte, as if it’s covered in paint rather than paper. Either way, it looks expensive, and ugly.
Ian reaches a hand to glasses-guy. “I’m Ian.”
The guy shakes Ian’s hand. “I’m Samuel.”
No one else pipes up with an introduction. Maybe the dare is to feel socially awkward. I wring my hands together.
The white girl with the heavy boots, whose piercings are mostly safety pins and bolts, barks out a laugh. She wiggles her fingers next to her face. “You scared, Thelma?”
I scowl at her. But if the worst I have to endure for the next three hours are Scooby-Doo insults, I can deal.
Ian nods toward the red-haired guy and his braceleted girlfriend. “What’s the best dare you guys got tonight?”
The girl giggles. “Definitely the porno store one. We had to pick up the merchandise and tell everyone what we thought about it.” She cha-chas her eyebrows at the red-haired guy.
Ian laughs along with her. I kind of smile. Yesterday a dare like that would’ve seemed impossible. Now I think they got off easy.
The Asian girl, who wears a pink Mohawk, scrunches her forehead. “Damn, wish we’d gotten that one.”
Her friend rubs her shoulder. “We can go tomorrow, cupcake.”
I try to settle into my seat by keeping my butt very still, but the tiniest movement causes a ripple. If this is the VIP lounge, what kind of digs do the riffraff in the dance club downstairs get?
Ian glances around the table. “Did any of you guys meet each other before the live rounds?”
Bracelet-girl smiles at her guy. “Nope. Tonight’s been a blast. NERVE blows away those hookup sites at making hot connections.”
How much research has she done? I have to admit NERVE did well with Ian and me. All they had to go on was the application data, and whatever info they snagged from my ThisIsMe page. Did they contact Liv and Eulie too? When this is over, I’m going to interrogate my friends to figure out who said what.
Ian turns to Samuel. “How about you? Did they give you a partner?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. But she was allergic to lime Jell-O.”
Before anyone can ask for more details, Samuel’s phone buzzes in a normal ring tone way. No fair. After reading it, he gets up to close the door. When it shuts with a loud click, my gut tenses.
“Why’d you do that?” Bracelets asks.
Samuel smiles. “Cause NERVE offered me a fifty-dollar bonus.”
Bracelets’s red-haired boyfriend slams a hand on the table, causing the glass plank to swing away from him. Ian stops the table’s motion before it hits our knees. Can’t any of this furniture sit still?
Red-hair faces one of the cameras and holds out his arms. “Hey you guys, I woulda closed the door for thirty.”
I halfway expect the cameras to nod. Instead, the lights overhead dim. We glance at each other questioningly. One by one, we pull out our phones, waiting to see who’ll earn the next fifty dollars. My display remains blank.
Beeping sounds fill the room, causing a fresh round of chair bobbles as we sit up. The black panels on the walls flash scrolling lights that blink on and off like a pinball machine.
The lights are replaced with the image of Gayle, the woman who just interviewed me, and a guy in his thirties with a shaved head, indie band T-shirt, and the kind of donut earrings that leave permanent damage.
Together, our masters of ceremony shout, “Welcome to the grand prize dares!”
The screens alternate between their image and the word WELCOME! along with graphics of fireworks and a staccato song that I recognize as the theme from last month’s game. The camera shot eventually settles on the hosts, who stand on a small stage, surrounded by folks with the semi-delirious expressions I’ve come to associate with Watchers. The male emcee introduces Gayle and then himself, Guy.
He wags a finger at the room of players. “To reiterate the rules: You’re playing as a team now, so if one of you quits, no one wins any prizes.”
The girl with the safety pins makes a fist and glares around the table, stopping at me. “If anybody wusses out, I’m coming after you.”
I suddenly feel the need to go to the bathroom.
The camera goes to Gayle. “We’ll get things started with a few icebreaker dares. So let’s relax and have some fun.”
I want to ask the others what they’ve been offered for their grand prizes, but figure it would be like asking someone’s weight or bra size, so I say under my breath to Ian, “I wonder how big the audience is now.”
Guy smirks from the overhead screens. “Good question, Vee. You have a ton of new admirers. Care to guess how many? Oh, let’s make a game of it, shall we? Whoever guesses closest wins a hundred dollars.”
We throw out estimates from twenty thousand (my guess) to half a million (red-haired guy’s guess). Guy and Gayle grin at each other before Guy announces that someone named Ty wins, which turns out to be the red-haired guy. But our hosts won’t tell us what the exact number is. Still, since the second-highest guess was a hundred thousand, it means a lot of people are tuned in.
That should make me feel all kinds of famous, but all I can wonder is how much the audience is paying to watch seven teenagers in a VIP lounge with unstable furniture. And what are they expecting to see?
twelve
Gayle claps her hands in fake excitement. “Okay, your next icebreaker comes from the audience.”
Her image is replaced by flashing letters that say LOOK WHO’S WATCHING! along with the rat-a-tat theme music. The screen comes up with a group of kids huddled in a small space that looks like a dorm room. A long-haired girl with glassy eyes reads aloud from her phone, “Time for some quick intros to start things out friendly. For fifty bonus dollars each, go around the room to state your first name and what city you’re from.” She pumps her fist. “Go, Wolver—” The image cuts out.
Fifty bucks to tell the other players my name? Too easy. There’s probably some trick behind this, but I can’t figure it out. Intros could even work in our favor. Didn’t I read somewhere that it’s more difficult to be mean to someone once you see them as a fellow human being? Not that these guys are planning to attack us. Who knows, maybe I could even become friends with some of them. Not chummy enough to do any kind of pervy dare together, of course. More like being able to laugh about this afterward at a NERVE reunion party, the way players from last month did in those epilogue videos.
We go around the table. Asian, pink Mohawk girl is Jen. Her friend who threatened me about wussing out is Micki. They’re from Reno and make some cracks about joining the mile-high club on the charter plane NERVE flew them into Seattle on. Bracelet girl with the bronzer addiction is Daniella; she and her partner, Ty, are from Boise, and were also flown in immediately after their last dare. We already met Samuel, who lives in Portland.
When I introduce myself, Micki rolls her eyes. “What kind of name is V? Your parents couldn’t spring for more than one letter?” She laughs along with Jen, Ty, and Daniella.
I raise an eyebrow. “Your parents named you after a mouse?” So much for budding friendships.
I can tell the rusty hamster wheel in her brain is trying to devise a comeback, but before it can, the panels light up with our emcees’ beaming faces. Gayle tells Ty to open a door on the far wall behind him, and then to open the red cabinet (and only the red cabinet) inside.
Ty remains seated. “How much will you pay me?”
Guy smiles. “You and your friends may have whatever you find inside the red cabine
t, first come, first served.”
Ty jumps up and examines the patterned wall farthest from the furniture. There’s no obvious door. He raises his shoulders to the camera. “Is this a trick?”
Probably more of an IQ test. On the wall, one of the spirals lights up like an elevator button. When Ty pushes it, a pocket door slides open. I swivel my head to check out the wall behind me. How many hidden doors are there? From the number of spirals, it could be quite a few.
Daniella rises to huddle behind Ty. With a wink at the camera, she gives his butt a squeeze. Samuel turns our way and rolls his eyes, causing me to have some hope for him. At least I dare to imagine that if it comes down to a fistfight, he’ll stay out of the way. Wait a minute, why am I even going there?
The space that the door reveals is lined from top to bottom with cabinet drawers, each a different color. Ty pulls the handle on the red one at the top, which pops open like a refrigerator. I sit up tall, trying to scan what’s inside, groaning inwardly when I see the bottles of beer. If they want us to get drunk, that can’t be good. Of course, Ty and Daniella whoop it up as if they’ve discovered buried treasure. Micki and Jen hop over to join in. Ty opens a few bottles and passes them out. The other players clink them with loud “Cheers!”
A message scrolls across the panels: FOR EACH BEER YOU CONSUME, ANOTHER FIFTY DOLLARS!
I glance at Ian. “What do you think?” I whisper.
“We should be social,” he says. “But we need to maintain control.”
I nod. “One beer each, max.”
We head toward the cabinet, and as we scoot past Samuel, Ian offers to get one for him too. But he decides to join us, probably not wanting to be the odd man out. At the cabinet, Ian opens a beer and passes it to me. I examine the bottle for signs of tampering.
“There was a tiny hiss when I popped the top off,” he says.
I sniff. Smells like beer. And I’m parched. But, technically, I’d be breaking the law. Not that I’d care in real life, but who wants to be broadcast doing so? I whisper my concern to Ian.
He laughs. “How would anyone prove this isn’t apple juice? It’s whatever we tell them it is.”
Of course. I take a small sip. Ice cold and bitter. Definitely not apple juice. The label’s mostly in German, but I make out that the alcohol content is six percent. Figures they’d give us something strong. So much for keeping the game legal. If NERVE doesn’t care about underage drinking, what else will they ask us to do?
Ty and the other girls cluster in a corner, swigging like they’re at a party, launching into stories of alcohol-induced puking. I’m sure the audience is hanging on their every word.
Ian nudges me toward them. Although I think they’re obnoxious, I get Ian’s strategy. We don’t need cliques forming, especially if they don’t include us. Even Samuel seems to get the idea, and stands at the edge of the group, looking at his feet.
I examine my fellow players, noting that NERVE has tried to cover as many bases as possible in terms of ethnicity, sexual orientation, body type, and who knows what other categories. All designed to appeal to a huge range of demographics, as Tommy would say.
Would any of us hang out with each other if we went to the same school? Besides Ian and me, of course. My school’s social groups aren’t as cemented as they are in some places, but most people know where they fit. Besides Sydney, Liv, and Eulie, I’m most chatty with girls who know their Vogue from their W, who seem to respect my vintage-meets-budget-conscious look. I’m comfortable with my friends, yet I’ve always envied how Sydney moves between crowds as though she has a free pass. In the back of my mind, I wonder how friendly people would be if I weren’t her sidekick. Maybe after the fiasco of the last dare, I’ll have to find out.
Micki belches and holds her bottle up to the camera. “German beer rocks.”
Samuel clears his throat. “We probably shouldn’t drink too much. We might need some coordination for the next dares. Just saying.”
Micki laughs. “Thanks nerdboy, but the game is called NERVE, not CANDY ASS.” Her next gulp is a little smaller, though.
Ian raises his bottle. “I propose a toast. To grand prizes and buckets of bonus money!”
Everyone cheers and clinks bottles as though we’re one big happy family. Maybe this won’t be so bad, even with nasty Micki. The beer goes down smoother with each sip, and a pleasant buzz fills my head. I check my phone, flashing it toward Ian. Two hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. I get a crazy urge to sing the hundred bottles of beer song, but don’t want to give these guys ideas.
Ian takes my hand, which adds to the warm feeling building up in my chest. “We can do this,” he whispers.
I squeeze his fingers. No use pretending we’re just buddies.
Ian tries to include Samuel in a conversation about video games. I don’t have much to add, but I try to keep a non-threatening, beer-happy smile on my face. Not that I’d pose much of a threat even if I grew fangs.
Metallic techno music starts playing, and the other couples dance to it, swinging their bottles. Their second beer each—I’ve been counting.
The music morphs into a beeping that means the black panels are going into action. LOOK WHO’S WATCHING! A screenshot comes up of two really cute guys nestled next to each other on a red velvet couch.
One of them waves. “Hey, players, Houston here! NERVE will add a hundred dollars to each of your bonuses if y’all dance.” He and the other guy get up and start jumping and fist-pumping along with a crowd of folks behind them.
I don’t mind dancing. Love it, in fact. But something about being paid to do so makes my shoulders stiffen. NERVE acts like we’re trained monkeys who’ll jump every time a banana is dangled in front of us. Okay, that’s kind of the point of the game, but still.
The music in our room is the same stuff that’s playing in Houston, and apparently at a bunch of other Watcher gatherings, because each wall panel displays a different shot of people dancing, as if we’re all at one huge club. Next to me, Ian sways his shoulders and hips, moving as smoothly as a straight guy can. Even Samuel’s arms swish back and forth. Everyone stares at me. Micki’s eyebrows squeeze in toward each other as she says something to Jen. Ian smiles and takes my free hand, pulling me into a spin. I hesitate for a moment. Do I want to be the one who’s seen turning down easy money for myself? What’s a dance anyway? Especially if it keeps the social vibe flowing. I start moving in synch with Ian, surprised when an energy awakens in my spine.
I let the music envelop me, and I laugh when it seems that some of the Watchers are waving directly at me from their screens. The tunes get louder and louder and I dance more and more freely, not really caring about the cameras. Was the beer drugged? I set my empty bottle down next to the wall and continue moving. Everyone thrashes, laughing when we bump into each other. Even Micki’s scowl disappears. After three or so songs, the music slows and I melt into Ian’s chest. The lights dim to a candle glow and the screen images fade until they’re just a blur, giving the room a sexy feeling. Nice. If the dares go on like this, I can handle them. In the meantime, I nuzzle into Ian.
Of course, NERVE can’t let things remain so cozy. The music clicks off and the familiar beeps alert us. It isn’t until I stop dancing that I realize how warm I’ve become. I lift the hair from the back of my neck and Ian blows on my damp skin, raising goose bumps.
Guy and Gayle reappear overhead. With a grin, she says, “Well, some of our audience members claim that Samuel’s moves weren’t exactly what they’d call dancing. But since this wasn’t one of the mandatory dares, we’re not going to give him any consequences.”
She laughs and continues, “Time for the last icebreaker! On the wall behind the table are four doors, each leading to a private lounge. Enter them in any combination of players you choose for a game of ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven.’ I’m sure we don’t need to explain the rules.” She winks. “The team or player who provides the most entertaining show for the audience earns five hundred dollars.
Runner-up wins a hundred. Everyone else just gets some time in heaven. Enjoy!”
Ian nudges me. “Should we?”
He’s kidding, right? As fun as it would be to fool around with him, the closest I’m getting to being a prostitute tonight is the pretend stuff we did earlier. The Watchers got to see us dance, didn’t they?
I flap my hair up and down. “Let’s save it for later.”
He takes my hand and kisses it. “Cool.”
The music resumes with a techno track. Very romantic. Ty and Daniella get started before they even enter a room. I seriously don’t want to see where he’s putting his hands.
But I am curious what the private lounges look like, so I go to the other side of the room and tap on one of the spirals. A door swings open to show a space large enough for a small bed and tiny nightstand, nothing more. Well, except for whatever products live in the nightstand’s single drawer. A dim light shines from overhead, next to a mirror on the ceiling. I move aside so Ian can take a peek. He laughs and says at least we could take a nap. Hah. As if I could lie next to him and get any sleep.
Micki and Jen gnaw at each other and moan as they stumble toward the next cubicle. Before they enter it, Jen calls out to Samuel, “Wanna join us?”
It seems like he’s seriously considering it, despite Micki’s threatening glare over Jen’s shoulder. Finally, caution seems to win out over lust, because he shakes his head. The girls shrug and shut the door.
Ian, Samuel, and I settle back into our bouncy love seats. Samuel pulls out his phone, poking at it like he’s playing a game. The conversation with Ian must’ve given him the idea that this is a socially acceptable thing to do at a “party.” Well, at least it’s more palatable than what’s going on a few feet away from us. I lean my head against Ian’s shoulder and close my eyes to try for a catnap while my fellow players create real-time porn.
The panels startle us with beeping and up springs a row of what look like mug shots for each player, with captions underneath that read WATCHER APPROVAL RATING. Aw, geez, mine’s the lowest at twenty-two percent. Samuel has a twenty-four rating, and Ian’s groupies must be voting, because he’s at sixty-seven. Micki and Ty lead the board with scores in the nineties, and Jen and Daniella fall somewhere in the middle. It shouldn’t bother me what the pervs watching us think, but my cheeks burn with the feeling of rejection.
