Nerve (2 page)

Click
.

She exhaled. Okay, if that’s what he wanted, fine. Well, not fine, but survivable.

And then, with a lopsided grin, the man reached into his other pocket.

I’m the girl behind the curtain. Literally. But after I open the grand drape for Act Two, I’ll have forty minutes to kill, no more costume changes or makeup to coordinate unless an actor needs a quick repair. I take a deep breath. For opening night, things have gone smoothly, which worries me. Something always goes wrong the first show. It’s tradition.

I debate between heading to the girls’ dressing room, where the talk will be about guys, or staying out in the hallway, where I might actually run into one, well, one in particular. Since the guy in question has a cue in ten minutes, I choose the hallway and pull out my phone, even though Ms. Santana, our drama coach, has us under threat of death to keep them off during all performances.

Nothing new on my ThisIsMe page. Not surprising, since most of my friends are in the play or the audience. I broadcast a message:

There, I’ve done my civic duty.

Along with the message, I post a picture I took before the show of my best friend, Sydney, star of the play, and myself. The photo’s like something out of those contrast books from preschool, she, the golden Hollywood Barbie hovering next to me, the retro Blythe doll, with pale skin, dark brown hair, and eyes a little too big for my face. But at least the metallic shadow I borrowed from the cast’s makeup kit makes them look bluer than usual.

An ad for Custom Clothz pops up on my phone, promising to demonstrate how great I’d look in their latest sundresses. Summer clothes are wishful thinking in Seattle, especially in April, but a lavender one with a full skirt is too cute to resist, so I upload a photo of myself and fill in my height: five four and weight: one-oh-something. As I’m debating what further measurements to enter, a familiar laugh booms out of the guys’ dressing room, followed by its owner, Matthew, who sidles up next to me so our shoulders are touching, well, my shoulder to his football-team-honed biceps.

He leans so his mouth is inches from my ear, “Thirty-four B, right?”

Ack, how did he read my phone so fast? I shift it out of his vision. “None of your business.” More like 32A, anyway, especially tonight with my filmy bra that doesn’t claim to perform miracles.

He laughs. “You were about to share it with total strangers, why not me?”

I flick off the display. “It’s just for this dumb ad, not a real person.”

He flips around so we’re face-to-face, with his forearms pressed to the wall on each side of my head, and then says in his silky voice that always sounds like he’s letting you in on a secret, “C’mon, I really want to see you in that dress.”

I tuck my arm behind my back. “Really?” My own voice is squeaky vinyl compared to his. Lovely.

He reaches around me and slips the phone from my fingers. “Or maybe something, you know, more comfortable.” Sliding back into position beside me, he pecks at the phone and holds up a picture of my face superimposed on a body wearing white lingerie. The bust appears larger than life size, well into the D range.

A burning creeps up my neck. “Funny. How about we do one of you now?”

He starts to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll model in person, if you like.”

The hallway becomes stifling. I clear my throat. “Um, you need to stay in costume, so how about we start with the virtual you?” Boy, could I sound any less appealing?

His eyes twinkle greener than usual. “Sure, after we finish playing dress-up with virtual Vee.”

We huddle next to each other as he selects various slips and bikinis. Every time I try to pull the phone away, he laughs and tugs it back. I try a different tactic, nonchalance. It almost works when I surprise him with a quick swipe. Not fast enough to get the phone away, but at least I hit the right part of the screen, closing the dress-up site. It’s replaced with an ad for that new game called NERVE, which is basically truth or dare, without the truth part. Under a banner that says LOOK WHO’S PLAYING! pop up three thumbnail pictures of kids completing various missions.

Matthew’s eyebrows rise. “Hey, let’s check out this girl doing the pretend-to-shoplift dare.”

He tilts the phone so we can watch a video of a multi-pierced female stuffing bottles of nail polish down her cammo pants. Um, even if she’s just pretending, it seems like a felony to stick any merchandize down those pants. And how does she get through airport security with all those safety pins along her jawline? As if she hears my snarky thoughts, she turns to the camera and gives it the finger. The image zooms in on her wolflike features, causing my shoulders to stiffen. With a smirk, she marches out of the store and into the parking lot, where
she uses the polish to paint a crimson
XXX
on her forehead.

The clip fades to black and Matthew clicks below it to give the girl a four out of five star rating.

“I’d have only rated her a three, if that. The dare was to pretend to shoplift, not actually do it,” I say. “What kind of idiot would record herself breaking the law?”

He laughs. “C’mon. That took balls. And who’s gonna complain about her taking the dare further than they asked for? She’d be fun to see in the live rounds.”

“Whoa, do not mention that to Sydney. She was dying to try out for this month’s game, until she found out it’s scheduled for closing night.”

“What, starring in the play isn’t enough for her?”

I shift my weight from foot to foot. Although I tease Sydney about being a diva, I won’t say it behind her back. “High school theater doesn’t win you big prizes.”

He shrugs and his attention shifts back to the phone. “Hey, check out this clip of a guy letting his dog slurp soup out of his mouth.”

“Nasty.”

Matthew gives it five stars anyway. As soon as he does, an ad flashes: UPLOAD YOUR OWN VIDEO FOR A CHANCE TO COMPETE IN THE LIVE GAME THIS SATURDAY. IT’S NOT TOO LATE!

He wiggles the phone in front of me. “You should do one, little Vee.”

“Hello? I’m doing your makeup on Saturday, remember?”

“I meant do one of these prelim dares, for the hell of it. If by some chance you got picked for the live rounds, someone could cover makeup for you.”

Obviously, he thinks there’s no way I’ll be selected, and even if I were, anyone could slop a little greasepaint on the cast. Suddenly, I feel smaller.

I tug at my skirt. “Why bother? I’d never play for real, anyway.” Last month, the first time the game was played, my friends gathered at my house and chipped in to watch the live rounds online. Being a Watcher was exciting enough. Those players in the East Coast grand prize round who spent half an hour with their toes curled over the edge of a roof? No thank you.

Matthew pokes a couple of buttons on the NERVE site. “Here’s a list of dares you could try: Eat with your hands at a fancy restaurant, go to an exotic grocery and ask for goat testi—”

“I’m not doing any dare.”

He types something into my phone. “I know you won’t. Just messing with ya ‘cause you’re so cute when you blush.”

Greta, who does props, runs over from backstage and taps his arm. “You’re on in two.”

He hands the phone back to me and is already ten feet away when I notice that he’s updated my ThisIsMe status from
single
to
promising
. My heart does a little jump.
Although I’ve got almost half an hour until the closing curtain, I follow him to the wings. He marches under the spotlight and takes his spot downstage left, next to Sydney, where they’ll banter, argue, kiss, and sing before the show ends.

For now, Sydney commands the stage, dramatically lit in blond glory. I feel a surge of pride at the stunning vision I created with her natural assets. Of course, I spent more time on Matthew, contouring every plane of his face with tender care. Even twenty feet away, the gleam of the spotlight in his eyes makes my knees go rubbery.

I recite the lines along with the actors for the next half hour until we reach the finale, where the star-crossed lovers reunite. Matthew takes Syd’s face in his hands and their lips meet in a kiss that goes on for one, two, three seconds. I bite my own lip, fighting a surge of envy, even though Syd insists that Matthew is way more hype than substance. She always thinks she knows what’s best for me.

The cast joins Sydney and Matthew to belt out the final song, and I draw the curtain closed. Since they’ll do their bows on the apron, my stage duties are complete, and I head to the dressing room to collect costumes. The girls’ area is filled with the scent of hairspray and a huge bouquet of red roses that sits in the middle of the counter. I check the tag. For Syd, of course. A few minutes later, she and the other girls in the cast dance into the room, breathless and giggling.

Instinctively, I hug my best friend. “You were great. And, look what someone sent you.”

She gives a little squeal and opens the card. Her eyes widen. “An anonymous fan.”

I want to groan at the obvious ploy. “Anonymous for about two minutes until he slinks around looking for credit.”

She sniffs at the flowers and smiles, used to this sort of attention. “Did you change your parents’ mind about tonight?”

A tightness forms in my chest. “Nah. At least they’re letting me out of prison for the closing night party.” After five months of following their rules to the letter, I’ve convinced them that I’ve earned my freedom. It’ll be the first time I’ve been allowed out with my friends, unless you count working on the play or studying at the library, since the “incident,” which was really only an incident in my parents’ imagination. Not that they believe my repeated insistence otherwise.”

Then I won’t go either,” Syd says.

I play punch her arm. “Don’t be silly. You’ve earned a good party. Just don’t get so hungover that you end up with heavy bags under your eyes. There’s only so much my makeup skills can cover.”

She undoes the ribbons on her corset. “You sure? About the party, I mean. I have full faith in your makeup skills.”

I help her with the ties in back. “Of course. Tell me all about it, or, better yet, post pics, okay?”

When she and the others have changed out of their
costumes, I collect the clothes, checking for any garment that’ll need a quick iron or spot removed for tomorrow’s show. Sydney gives me another hug before she takes off with Greta and the others.

A few minutes after they leave, Matthew pokes his head in the room. “How’s daring little Vee?”

Even though my belly tingles at the sight of him, I try to maintain my cool as I scan a tweed jacket, checking the cuffs. “I’m good.” Who needs a first night party, when I can hang out with him for a bit before curfew? Yes, my status may really be promising after all.

“You and Syd going to Ashley’s house?”

“She is. I can’t.”

“Still grounded? Dang, girl, start studying more.” He and most of my friends think my parents’ strictness is the result of poor grades. Only Sydney knows the truth.

“At least they’re letting me go to the cast party on closing night. With a midnight curfew.” Maybe if I float news of my impending freedom by him, he’ll help me find ways to take advantage of it on Saturday.

He nods toward the roses. “She figure out who those are from?”

My breathing halts for a moment. “How did you know they were anonymous?”

He winks. “I have my ways. See you tomorrow.” With a slow shake of his head, he gives me one last look-over and
says, “Mm-mmm, you are way too cute to be working backstage.” With that, he takes off.

That’s it? Our chance to be alone and he leaves? My stomach twists. And why did he care about the flowers? I try to avoid jumping to conclusions, but scroll through the possibilities anyway. Maybe a friend of his is crushing on Sydney, and Matthew’s doing recon. But something about the tone of his voice sounded uncertain, vulnerable. Could Matthew have brought her the flowers? She is his costar, but still. My only consolation is that if Matthew did buy Sydney the roses, she hadn’t bothered to take them home.

I grit my teeth as I pull a little key from my purse to unlock a small cabinet that holds the secret weapon of costume managers: a spray bottle filled with a mixture of vodka and water. It’s a cheap way to freshen up costumes. Ms. Santana insisted that she’d never trusted a student to use the spray without supervision before. I’m happy that at least one adult has faith in me these days, but if Mom and Dad knew, they’d have her job.

Footsteps approach and Tommy Toth, who designed the sets and presides over all the tech stuff, peeks into the room. “Tonight went great, huh?”

I spray inside a heavy beaded dress that’s a bit ripe. “Yeah. Super-smooth.”

“Everyone else has left. When you’re done, I’ll walk you to your car.” If there were an award for raising polite kids,
Tommy’s parents would win it big-time. Even in fifth grade, when he and I were on safety patrol, he’d always offer to carry the Stop signs.

I head out of the room so I can take care of the guys’ costumes next door. “That’s okay, I’m right outside.”

He follows me. “You okay?”

I fold a pair of Matthew’s pants that he left hanging over a chair. “Sure. It’s just been a busy week.”

He stretches his arms upward. “Yeah, between the two of us, we’re covering most of the crew duties.”

Yep, the backbone. No applause, though. No roses either. I blink my eyes dry and turn to face him. “You did a great job, Tommy. No one else could’ve designed the sets the way you did.” The stage transforms from a war-torn Afghani village to a Tokyo dance club in one minute flat. It’s a multicultural play.

He shrugs.

“Don’t be so modest. You deserve as much attention as the actors.”

“There are benefits to not being center stage.”

My eyebrows must go to my hairline. “Name one.”

“Privacy.”

I laugh, which comes out between a grunt and snort. “That’s a benefit?”