Nerve (26 page)

“Which door?” Ian asks me.

Sydney, for once, awaits my decision too.

The far door might lead to an immediate exit, but it could also send us straight into a bunch of NERVE psychos, and who knows how long it’ll take for the police to show up? I open the door to the music, which leads onto a balcony overlooking a large dance floor. Ian and I glance at each other and quickly tuck our guns into our clothes.

As we descend a winding staircase, the crowd seems to ignore us. We probably look like underdressed, underage kids who snuck in, never mind my scratched-up jacket and bleeding hand. On the main floor, I grab a napkin from a table to press onto my wound. The scratches on my thighs will have to wait. We bump and jostle through people laughing and
drinking as though this is just a typical Saturday night. All I focus on is the exit sign.

When we’re halfway across the room, a woman points our way and screams, “Hey, those are the NERVE players!”

The music instantly softens, and everyone turns our way to stare. One guy fumbles with his phone and asks, “What are you doing here? Is the game done? They’ve been playing flashbacks since you crashed a hole in the wall. That was awesome!”

I rear back. “You were watching?”

“We all were.” He points up to a large screen that’s playing a clip of Ty and Daniella in the closet, lit by night-vision so they’re green. Not something I’d want to watch in full color anyway.

I get in the guy’s face. “You saw us trapped in there with guns? Why the hell didn’t you help us?”

“They have producers and stuff looking out for you, right?” He points his phone at me and hollers to his friends, “Yo, I told you they were in the room upstairs. I totally recognized the table!”

Everyone around us presses in to get a better look, shouting our names and laughing. Two girls ask for my autograph, and their dates start to hoist me into the air until Ian stops them.

My body stiffens. How can they act like they know us? It’s hard to get my head around the fact that while I feared for
my life a few floors above them, they saw us as just one more form of entertainment, hardly worth a second thought.

Ian and Syd try to pull me to the exit, but I shrug them away, pushing through the waves and the “Hey, Vees!” until I’m next to the DJ. The screens above us have shifted to a clip of Ian in a small room, eyes fixed on a grainy video. All I can make out is a tall man slapping a little boy and dragging him into a pickup truck before the camera angle shifts to the image of Ian, alone in his dare room, watching the footage with a stricken expression. There’s no way someone made a family video of that, is there? No wonder his prizes were all about escape. I turn to stare into the eyes of the real Ian at my side, who swallows and blinks.

“That little boy wasn’t you, was it?”

He shakes his head. “But he may as well have been.”

The DJ welcomes us with a big smile. “We have VIP guests here tonight, folks!” he says into his microphone.

VIP, yeah, right. I grab the microphone and ask him to turn off the music. Because I’m a temporary celebrity, he actually does what I say. The crowd turns toward us, some still dancing to the tunes in their heads.

After helping out with so many school performances, I should know how to use a mike, but it still feels awkward. I blow on it to make sure it’s on and say, “Hi. I’m Vee.”

“Hey, girl!” a dozen or more club-goers shout back.

I point to the screen. “You just saw me playing NERVE
and probably thought it looked like a fun way to earn some cool prizes. Here’s the truth. We almost died up there. The game is real. Whatever you do, don’t apply and don’t watch it next month. Or ever.”

A few people have gone to the bar to order another drink and chat. The rest of the crowd stares at me, some smirking, some whispering with their buddies, some looking puzzled. I recognize the woman from the bowling alley, with the red curls of a soprano. She was on our side before, maybe she’ll get her friends to listen. Instead, she pulls out a camera and points it at me. Everyone around her does the same. The room becomes a swarm of arms in the air holding cell phones for a better shot.

I could have been killed, and their response is to film me? It’s all I can do not to throw the mike at them or bust out crying. In that moment, the myth that every time your picture is taken, a part of your soul is stolen strikes me as a certain truth, because I feel my spirit being sucked out of me, into hundreds of all-seeing lenses that simply want to capture my fear, my anger, my performance.

I stand there, numb, dumb, and empty.

The DJ turns the music back on, and when Ian and Syd push me forward, I don’t argue. We claw our way through a swarm of people yelling at us to describe the dares, to give them our phone numbers, our Web pages, our smiles for yet another picture or video. People yank on my jacket, grab my
arms, even pat my head like I’m a poodle. Without warning, my body rises off of the floor, carried along by a churning sea of Watchers. I thrash and scream for them to put me down, until I end up on the floor with a heavy thump. One guy rubs his chin where I slapped him and calls me a stuck-up bitch. How many times have I heard that word tonight? It no longer matters.

Ian finds me in the chaos and pulls me along. When we’re almost to the exit, the door swings open and two policemen enter, asking to speak with the manager. As much as I wanted them to come earlier, I can’t stomach the idea of anything that’ll keep me in this zoo a moment longer. It’s not like there’s anyone still upstairs, right? And if they are, they’re just drinking the rest of the beer. Still, I should at least give them the NERVE investor’s license and the gun. I reach into my pocket and am stunned to discover that both are gone. Did they fall out or did NERVE get someone to pickpocket me? A tremor rips through me with the thought that those assholes are calling the shots even now. Are these policemen on their payroll too?

Maybe Ian and Syd are having similar thoughts, because we scramble into the icy air outside, rushing with our heads pointed downward until we reach the VIP parking spot. I’m surprised that no one’s slashed the tires on Ian’s Volvo. But I’m not surprised that there’s no trace of Tommy’s car.

Since Syd got a ride here with him, she gets into the Volvo.
Even if she’d driven herself, she’s not ready to be alone just yet.

But I feel more alone than ever. Thousands of people must have watched us tonight, and most of them never gave a thought to the fact that the players were real, live people.

A Watcher runs to the car and pounds on the window, begging for one more picture. I shake my head and look away. Through the glass, he screams, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I have no idea.

Ian pulls another of his getaway car maneuvers to ditch a couple of diehard Watchers, and then we drive in silence. Even Sydney seems to be grappling with some inner turmoil, huddled in the backseat with her arms tightly crossed. Is she kicking herself for letting Tommy bring her into the final dares? Fooling the girl who’s supposed to be such a great judge of character? Speaking of character, I have to know about Ian for sure. It’s not like I really believe he’s a plant for NERVE or some kind of Web exhibitionist. But can I trust my own beliefs?

I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “Can I ask how you afford private school?”

He seems taken aback, but then nods as if he gets the reason for my question. His shoulders slump. “Financial aid. And I deliver a lot of pizzas. Cool, huh?”

I brush his arm. “I’m sorry you didn’t win your freedom.”

“Hell, any game that gives its players guns is probably not the kind that’ll ever really let you go free.”

Sydney clears her throat. When I glance back at her, her fingers quickly sign,
He’s a keeper
.

Something tells me she’s right. Everything Ian’s done tonight proves he’s a great guy, right? But what if it was all for show? What if his real dare was to break my heart, like Tommy said?

My head hurts. I should call my parents, but more than anything I want to close in on myself, to reclaim a sliver of the privacy I’ve lost. The rest of the ride sinks into silence until we reach Sydney’s house.

When she gets out, I do too.

I hang my head. “I’m so, so sorry about everything.”

She sighs. “I think I get why you signed up. The important thing is you saved us. We’re all good.”

I look up. Even though I doubt Ian can hear our soft voices from inside the car, she signs,
sister
.

I sign the same thing back to her and wait outside until she enters her front door.

Ian wants to drive me to my house, but I tell him to take me to my car at the bowling alley. Some stubborn part of me wants to end this night the way I started it, under my own control.

Back at the bowling alley, the neon lights have been turned off. No more Purity Promisers, no more Watchers. Just an
almost empty lot that holds my car and a beat-up van.

Ian’s eyes look way older than they did when we met here all those hours ago. “How about I follow you home, just to make sure you get there okay?”

“That’s really sweet, but you’re just as tired as me. Go home and call me tomorrow. Or today, I guess. Once we’ve had some sleep.”

He grins. “I don’t have your phone number.”

There’s a whole world of folks who’ve seen me terrorized and knows my bra size, but my partner doesn’t even know my number. Crazy. We exchange digits.

He leans over and kisses me softly. “The one good thing about tonight is you.”

I nod and get out of the car, wanting to believe him, but fighting the nagging doubt that he’s being so sweet because there’s some kind of post-game prize involved. Maybe someone’s filming us from that van. Ugh. If this is life in the paranoid lane, it’s exhausting, but I’m too tired take the exit ramp right now. Guess I’ll find out Ian’s true feelings in time.

When all bets are off.

One month later

I am not a morning person, but I’m learning to be. The calmness of dawn offers a daily promise that all things will shift back to normal. But, like Schrödinger’s Cat, the only way to find out will be to poke my head out of the box. I wait until after I’ve eaten and dressed to turn on my phone, tempted to prolong the peacefulness for a moment longer, but eager to see if anything’s changed.

One message in particular catches my eye, but it’s almost lost among the hundreds of texts and dozens of connection requests. A typical day’s accumulation. Which means life’s still crazy. For now, I’ve got the attention of a whole bunch of people.

So I’ll use it.

I broadcast my weekly message to every new phone number and ThisIsMe page I’ve collected in the past seven days. Most people will probably ignore it, but some, hopefully enough, won’t.

After I send the message, I put away my phone, and won’t check messages until tomorrow morning if I can manage it. My Apparel Design teacher calls me a Luddite. I call it keeping my sanity.

I pull my hair into a ponytail and head for the garage. Although I’m grounded nights and weekends from now until I’m old enough to vote, I’m allowed to go out for morning
exercise three times a week. So I get into my car and drive to a local trail, where a sensible gray Volvo waits for me.

Ian’s next to it doing quad stretches, dressed in athletic shorts and a T-shirt that show off tan, toned arms and legs. I’m getting a little buff myself from our regular workouts, and have decided that biceps make a lovely fashion accessory. When I reach Ian, we kiss for a long moment and then take our spots on a curb to tiptoe into calf stretches.

“We may have a hit,” I say, referring to the message on my phone earlier.

“On him or her?”

“Gayle, who’s real name is Jordan, if the facial recognition software is right.”

He smiles. “Yay, Tommy.”

After apologizing profusely, Tommy’s earned his way back into a wary friendship with me, and has been a big help in spearheading my fight against NERVE. I truly believe he had no idea things would go to the extremes they did. And it’s not like he was the only one who acted against character and better judgment that night.

Ian and I move to a tree next to the trail and lean against it for some more leg stretches before we take off running, settling into an easy pace. On the first week after the game, our morning jogs had been bombarded with Watchers, videoing us for their after-games and weird system of credits. Tommy even located a GPS tracker stuck to my car’s bumper.

The police haven’t helped much. Insufficient evidence, they say. The other players insist that the guns were plastic and the drinks were juice. I’m sure they’ve received some type of payoff for their cooperation. And the creepy investor, who had crashed the Purity Promisers’ event, isn’t saying anything either.

But we’re fighting back. And I’ve heard from a ton of folks who want to help, including a Watcher who captured video footage that included a brief snippet of our hosts in the grand prize round. It’s a video of a video, so the image is grainy, but Tommy did what he could to clean it up enough for facial recognition software to compare it against millions of other images on the Internet. Of course, Guy and Gayle were probably paid to entertain like the rest of us. But if there’s any way they can provide a lead to who the big money-makers are behind the game, it’s a lead worth pursuing.