Nerve (27 page)

Ian and I jog past a cluster of honeysuckle that scents the trail with the promise of summer. I breathe deeply but jump back when a skinny guy springs out from the next tree, pointing a camera.

Ian slams to a stop in front of him. “Dude! You don’t have to ambush us. If you’d have asked to take our picture, we would’ve let you.”

And it’s true, since we’ve learned an interesting rule about fame. Those who seem desperate for it are the people that others least want to see. So Ian and I make a point of posing
for pictures when asked. The more we put ourselves out there, the less popular we hope to become.

But this guy didn’t ask. So he’ll get a consequence. Ian and I pull out our phones and start filming our Watcher.

He puts his hands in front of his face. “What’chya doing that for?”

Ian smiles. “It’s for a new site called LOOK WHO’S STALKING. Smile.”

The guy runs away, cussing. That worked better than usual. My own footage is probably shaky and blurry, since I’m still stuck with a piece of crap camera. But there are worse things than dealing with lousy video equipment.

A mile into the trail, we stop at a long wooden bench. Ian takes me onto his lap and pulls me into a kiss that’s warm and yummy, but I can’t help scanning the trees around us, wondering if we’re truly alone.

We’ve tried finding more privacy on our morning get-togethers, but both Ian’s house and mine are out of the question. And even when we’ve parked in the most remote of locations, we’ve been interrupted by nut-jobs clinking their cameras against the windows. I can understand why that other player, Abigail, escaped to the backcountry of Virginia for a week. As much as I want to shut down NERVE, a tiny part of me hopes they’ll play the next round as scheduled this Saturday, if only to shift the focus to another set of players. It’s a terrible wish, I know.

When a pair of joggers passes us, we rise up to resume our run. The day promises to be clear and sunny. Maybe Syd and I can go out at lunchtime with some kids from the photography club to work on her headshots. And I’m using my free nights to work on my portfolio. To hell with NERVE; we’re making our own dreams come true.

All too soon, the workout’s over. Ian and I part with a long, slow kiss before I get into my car. As I drive off, I notice that the car smells like a diner, like someone’s been eating bacon in it. Did something come in through the vents? I quickly peek to make sure that no one’s hiding on the backseat. It’s empty, but I still feel a tiny quiver in my shoulders. Will this shaky feeling ever go away?

When I get home, Mom and Dad greet me with relieved smiles, the way they do every time I go running. I know it’s taken all of their willpower to trust me even this tiny bit, so I’m going to do what I can to earn it. One unexpected result of coming clean to them about what happened with NERVE is that they got a chance to see just how badly I want to live. I think they finally believe that what happened in the garage was an accident. Maybe if I’m really lucky, they’ll make an exception to my prison sentence so I can attend a Habitat for Humanity event with Ian next month.

Mom points to the hallway. “Did you order something? That was sitting outside when I went out to water the plants.”

As if I have the money for anything but saving for college. I check the table near the front door, where a package rests. It’s way too early in the morning for a delivery, isn’t it? Maybe it was out there since yesterday. The return address is printed with the gold-embossed name of a high-end department store in New York. The postmark is also from New York, so chances are good it isn’t a bomb. There goes my overactive paranoia again.

I open the box to find an inner box amidst a sea of biodegradable packing material. Inside, there’s a velvet bag with a designer logo that I recognize from hours of staring at it online. With shaky hands, I pull a pair of flamingo-colored shoes from the bag. The shoes that NERVE dangled in front of me for my dare in the coffee shop. That’s strange. They’d made it clear that I lost all of my winnings when I escaped from the grand prize dares. Is this some kind of mistake?

I find a little silver envelope tucked into one of the shoes. Inside is a note that causes me to kneel slowly onto the cold floor.

I’ll never get tired of watching you, and can’t wait to see you play again
.

I stare at the shoes, which become uglier by the second. Well, some woman in a shelter is going to be walking around in style really soon. I get up to drop the shoes into Mom’s “donation” box. As I pass through the living room,
I’m startled by a familiar sound. It’s my phone, summoning me. But not with my generic, chiming ring tone.

Instead it calls with the chanting of a spoiled child.

CURTAIN

I’ve had loads of help and encouragement to make this book happen. My heartfelt thanks to my family and friends, both near and far, who’ve cheered me on these many years as I’ve pursued this dream of novel-writing. Your support and excitement fueled me through many challenging days.

To my editor at Dial, Heather Alexander, whose guidance helped push this story farther and sharper than I thought possible. Also to Andrew Harwell, whose vision for
Nerve
influenced this book long after he left the project.

Many thanks to my agent extraordinaire, Ammi-Joan Paquette, whose keen eye and savvy input helped me whip this manuscript into shape, and whose cheerleading never wavers. Every writer should be so lucky.

A heap of thanks to my many critique partners, who’ve seen this story morph from its rough beginnings into something publishable. To my local writers group, who are ready to hash out ideas at a moment’s notice, and have been with me for five manuscripts (and counting!): Annika de Groot, Lee Harris, Christine Putnam and Lesley Reece. To my online critiquers who challenged me to find a better beginning for this story, which is how I ended up placing Vee in a theater: Kelly Dyksterhouse, Kristi Helvig (who also beta-read),
Joanne Linden, Mary Louise Sanchez, and Niki Schoenfeldt.

To my sisters and niece who jumped in to read and provide input when I got angsty: Mary Ryan, Rachel Ryan and Madeline Anderson (whose surgically attached phone gave me the idea for a story where phones play such an integral role). To my brother-from-another-mother, Tim Beauchamp, whom I can call 24/7 to get input on whatever technical details are stumping me. In this book, it was gun usage. Any errors about firearms that may’ve ended up in the manuscript are my doing, not his.

One of my biggest champions from my very first manuscript was my dear friend Lisa Berglund, who KNEW I’d be published someday. The only cloud in the blue skies of that finally happening is that she isn’t here to celebrate with me. If there’s a book club in heaven, I’m sure she’s leading it.

Finally, thanks to my husband and kids, who’ve supported me through countless evenings where “Mom’s gotta go to the coffee shop and write.” They encourage me so much and are active participants in my writing, from drawing pictures of how they think a scene should look to debating story ideas. I love them beyond words. And by my calculations, owe about 1,509 home-cooked meals.