Nerve (15 page)

A text comes up:

“I can’t call anyone.” I run a hand through my limp hair. “Not even my parents to make up an excuse if I want to stay out longer.”

He glances between me and the road ahead. “Guess you’ll have to beg for forgiveness after the fact. That is, if you decide to go for it. It’s all up to you, Vee.”

All up to me.

I stare at his profile as I think aloud. “Three hours in a cushy suite at a dance club, with thousands of people watching our every move. To pay for fashion school. And you’d get a new car.”

“Freedom for both of us.”

“Yeah, freedom, and maybe something else. I’ve been a huge disappointment to a lot of people.”

“I doubt that. You’re too compassionate. Look how you
were worried about offending the purity kids. And how you wanted to rescue the hookers, even after they threatened to jump you. You’ve got heart, Vee. And presence. I don’t know why you hide it when you’re around your friends. But I’ve had a chance to witness it, and it’s sexy as hell.”

His words are like balm. Whatever his motivation is. I’m not sure how much I can trust him yet. Certainly not with my life, but probably with certain parts of my body.

He grabs my hand as he drives and kisses my fingers. “So now you need to decide about this dare. I’ll understand if you choose to quit. Really.”

I take a deep breath. Without doing anything further, I could go home with $1400 plus some amazing prizes. And Ian would still have his golden bus ticket if he has to quit the game because of my decision.

But if I break curfew by a few hours and put up with whatever crap is waiting for us in the grand prize dares, I could seriously change my life. Instead of returning to school as an idiot who fought with her best friend on camera, I’ll be someone who risked it all to win big. Everyone will know that the mild-mannered brunette who looks like she sings in the Pentecostal choir is not who they assumed she was.

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.

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.

“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 around 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.”