Nerve (3 page)

He shrugs again. As I finish up with the costumes, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to find a text from my mom,
reminding me to be home in forty minutes. Sigh. The leash is a-yanking. When I delete the message, I see that Matthew left the link to the NERVE site up. The game he knew I wouldn’t attempt.

I turn to Tommy. “Do you think I’m daring?”

He steps back. “Um, daring? I don’t know. But you’ve got a lot of charisma. Remember that time freshman year when you made up new words to the school song?”

That’s the best I’m known for? Offensive lyrics that barely rhymed? With a grimace, I hold my phone out to him. “Would you ever sign up for this game?”

He studies it. “Doubtful. It’s awfully risky.”

“Not my thing, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Standing next to Tommy, I click through the game site. It lists a number of dares people can do to apply for the live rounds, along with pop-ups promising instant fame, and a video clip of a few of last month’s grand prize winners attending a movie premiere. Two of the girls flash the serious bling that they won for their dares. Lucky ducks.

I scan through the list. Most of the dares seem awful, but there’s one to go to a coffee shop and dump water on yourself while shouting, “Cold water makes me hot.” Sounds kind of stupid, but less dangerous than stealing nail polish, or even pretending to. I check my watch. Gotta-Hava-Java is between here and home. If I was quick enough, I could do it. That
would take the “little” out of Matthew’s vocabulary, which he includes with my name even when he texts, something he’s been doing since we started play rehearsals. Cute, flirty stuff, especially late at night.

I eye Tommy. “You wanna do something out of the ordinary?”

His cheeks get pink. “You’re not going to apply for the game, are you?”

“No way. It’s pretty late to get picked, anyway. But wouldn’t it be fun to try a dare? Just to see what it feels like?”

“Uh, not really.” He blinks rapidly as if his contacts are getting ready to call it a night. “You realize it would be posted online for the world to see, and since nobody has to pay to watch the prelim dares, that could be a lot of people?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

He cocks his head. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

I march to the cabinet to lock up the spray bottle. “I’m fine. You don’t need to come with me. I just thought it would be fun.”

“Maybe it would be.” He nods, clearly thinking it over. “Okay. I’ll video you.”

Oh yeah. I’d totally forgotten that I’d need someone to capture the dare. I grab my purse and head past him, feeling all Lara Croft. “Great. Let’s go.”

He rushes to keep up with me. “We can take my car.” His parents gave him an action-film-worthy Audi for his birthday.

“No, we’ll take mine,” I say. It’s my dare.

There’s a dampness in the air that wasn’t there earlier in the evening. Even though I’m about to dump water on myself in a coffee shop, I’m not in the mood for rain. Tommy and I hurry to my car, a ten-year-old Subaru with a steering wheel that rattles every time I hit the brakes. But it’s mine and it’s cozy. We get in and I drive.

I try to hum along to a hip-hop song on the radio, but my voice keeps breaking. “Think anybody at Gotta-Hava-Java will realize I’m doing a dare for NERVE?”

He checks out my dashboard like maybe he’ll find something more interesting than the low-end sound system with a little handwritten sticker on the knob that says “PUMP UP THE VOLUME!”

“I don’t think their regular clients are in the NERVE demographic.”

I think it’s funny how easily “demographic” rolls off his tongue, as if he’s in advertising. It’s the kind of thing my dad says. I suddenly feel queasy, remembering my father’s pale face at my hospital bed a few months ago, when he kept shaking his head and saying how my actions had seemed so out of character. Girls like me didn’t end up parked in a garage with the motor running. Exactly, I’d told him.

I shake away the thought. “So I’ll be making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of folks who have no idea it’s for a game. Perfect.” Last month, an announcer kept reminding
the audience in a whispered voiceover that the players weren’t allowed to tell the crowd they were on a dare.

Tommy’s raised eyebrows say “Duh,” but he’s too polite to voice it. Instead, he tells me about a documentary he saw on a samurai-style business school where the students have to sing on busy street corners to get beyond their inhibitions.

“Maybe this’ll end up being good for you,” he says.

I study him. He’s actually better looking than I’ve ever given him credit for, not that we’d ever be anything more than friends. With his clean-cut features, can-do attitude, and stock-option-wealthy parents, he’ll probably end up running for political office before our ten-year reunion.

Then I remember that I haven’t even completed the application form. “Do you mind going to the NERVE site and filling out my info?” I ask.

He turns on his phone and starts reading off questions as he types. I give him my address, phone number, e-mail, and birthday (December 24, the almost-est day of the year). For my emergency contact list, which seems like overkill for a two-minute dare, I include Sydney, followed by Liv, Eulie, Tommy, and then Matthew, just for fun.

Five minutes later, after circling the coffee shop twice, I find a spot a block from Gotta-Hava-Java. The air’s lost whatever warmth it had during the day, promising an uncomfortable walk back to my car after the dare. Assuming I go through with it, which a tiny part of me is starting to doubt.

I hand Tommy my jacket. “Will you hold this so I have something dry to put on later?”

“Maybe I should hold your purse too, just in case.”

What other guy would think about keeping the accessories safe? I shiver. “Good thinking.”

Tommy holds my things tenderly, as if he’s afraid to mar them, which really wouldn’t be a catastrophe, since I buy everything for half price at Vintage Love, where I work.

We enter the coffee shop and my heart races when I see that it’s packed. It’s one thing to choose a dare from a list on your phone, another to be performing it. Performing, ugh, that’s the problem. Like for the school play audition I ran out of, or those World Studies reports I sweated through in front of the class. Why on earth is someone like me playing a game like this?

I inhale, picturing Matthew kissing Sydney on stage, while I watch on the sidelines. Obviously, I’m doing this to prove something. Thank you, Intro to Psych.

Tommy finds a seat at a community table near the center of the shop and sets our things down. He fiddles with his phone. “The NERVE site says I have to capture this on a live feed straight to them so we can’t edit the footage. I’ll start as soon as you’re ready.”

“Okay.” I creep to the back of the line, fighting the weird sensation that I’m losing control of my legs. It takes all of my concentration to place one leaden foot in front of the other,
as if I’m wading across a swimming pool of syrup. Breathe, breathe, breathe. If only the coffee fumes weren’t so strong. The ventilation in here sucks. My hair and clothes will reek long after I leave. Will Mom notice?

A couple in front of me argues whether they should get chai tea at night, since it has caffeine, while a group of women in front of them pepper the barista with questions about calorie counts. Their chattering grates at my nerves. I want to yell that folks who are worried about calories shouldn’t hang out in places offering dozens of pastry options.

I wave at one of the baristas in an attempt to get his attention. He just smiles and continues pumping espresso. The clock on the wall says 9:37. Crap, twenty-three minutes until curfew and I just realized I’ll need to take Tommy back to his car before I can go home. I push my way toward the counter, causing a few angry comments. Once they see what I’m up to, maybe they’ll shut up. No one wants to mess with a nut job. At the corner of the counter stands a pitcher of ice water and a stack of plastic cups. I fill one up and move to a spot near Tommy, trying not to spill it despite my trembling arms and legs.

Nine thirty-nine. I take a breath and nod at Tommy, who points his phone and says something I can’t make out. A few people around us furrow their eyebrows, shooting me the stink eye. Tommy gives me a little smile and a thumbs-up, which causes a massive wave of gratitude to rise in my chest.
This would be impossible alone. Maybe it still will be. My body won’t stop shaking, and I fight the urge to burst into tears. Geez, I’m such a wuss. No wonder I choked at play auditions.

I stare at the clock, suddenly feeling a sense of tunnel vision. Everything around me goes dark. All I see is the clock, pulsing like Edgar Allan Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. This is ridiculous. It’s just one cup of water and one line to recite. Syd would pour a whole pitcher while singing her favorite number from
Les Mis
. Of course, I’m not her.

The racing of my heart progresses to pounding, and my head feels light. Every molecule in my body wants to run. Or scream. Or both. I tell myself to breathe. The dare will be over in a minute. Just a few moments more of enduring this terror. I wipe my cheek. As the clock on the wall moves to 9:40, I clear my parched throat.

Can I do this? The question repeats itself even as I raise the cup over my head. Amazingly, my arm still works. In a voice barely above a whisper, I say, “Cold water makes me hot.” I pour a few drops on my head.

Tommy squints like maybe he didn’t hear me.

I raise my voice, which comes out in a crackle and say, “Cold water makes me hot!” I pour the rest of the cup over my head. The icy shock clears my brain. Oh my God, I did it. And now I’m standing here soaked, wishing harder than I ever have for the ability to disappear.

A nearby woman yelps and jumps away. “What the heck?”

“Sorry,” I say as water drips from my nose. I know I should be doing something, but my body is paralyzed. Except for my eyes, which take in a million details at once, and all of them seem to mock me. With conscious effort, I break my immobility spell and wipe my face with the back of my hand while some guy nearby snaps my picture. I give him a dirty look and he snaps another.

Tommy puts the phone down, staring at me with wide eyes. “Uh, Vee, oh boy, your shirt—” He points at my chest with a look of horror. I start to look down but am interrupted by a barista who runs toward me with a mop. He sneers at the puddle around my feet.

“I’ll do that,” I say, reaching for the mop. Why didn’t I think to grab napkins?

He holds it away from me. “Think I’d trust you with it? Please move. And if you aren’t buying anything, please leave.”

Crap. It’s not as if I spit in his blender. “Sorry.” I hurry toward the door. The air outside hits my wet shirt like a jump into Lake Washington.

Tommy catches up to me and holds my jacket. “Put this on, now!”

I look at my shirt under the outside light and catch my breath. What I hadn’t considered before pouring water on myself was that my blouse was white cotton. And that my bra was a thin silk blend. Me, the costume coordinator, who
works part-time at a clothing store, should have realized the effect of dumping water on these fabrics. I may as well be wearing a wet T-shirt. On camera.

Oh my God, what have I done?

I grab at Tommy’s phone. “Delete the video!”

“I can’t. It was a live feed.”

I hold my jacket over my chest. “Why didn’t you stop when you realized I was exposed?”

He rubs the back of his head. “I was so busy trying to keep you in frame, I didn’t notice until I put the camera down. Don’t panic, okay? Things come out different on video. Maybe the lighting in there and the limited resolution of the camera worked in your favor.” His expression is doubtful, however.

“Is there any way you can check?” Why didn’t I wear the pink bra, the one with all the extra lining?

“No, my phone doesn’t save a copy of video chats. They take up too much memory.”

We get into my car and I struggle into my jacket with
my back to him. Although part of me wants to sit there and figure out a solution, as if there is one, I need to be home in fifteen minutes. I start the engine, turning up the heater full blast, and speed back toward the auditorium.

Tommy works on his phone. “Maybe there’s a way to withdraw your entry.”

“Yes, do it! Tell them I don’t give my approval.”

After a couple of minutes, he clears his throat. “It says that all entries are their property. By registering for the game, you released your rights to the video.”

I slam the dashboard. “Ugh!”

That’s the last of our conversation until we reach the parking lot. Before he gets out he says, “Remember, there are thousands of videos out there, most of them are probably way worse than yours. People will do a lot of crazy things to get picked for the live rounds.”

“I hope you’re right. Look, I’ve got to get home in nine minutes, or, well, I just have to.”

“I promise I won’t say a word.” He crosses his heart and closes the door.

I swallow, feeling numb as I race away. How could I be so stupid? Recklessness is not part of my personality. Shy, hardworking, loyal, all of those boring Capricorn traits, that’s me.

I speed home, also a new behavior. But I’m not fast enough. It’s two minutes after ten when I enter the hallway that connects the garage to the back of the house.

Mom’s waiting there like a toll gate. “Where were you?”

“At the play. There was a little problem with the dressing room sink and I got splashed. I tried to dry off as fast as I could. Sorry I’m a tiny bit late.” Lying like this makes me want to puke, but if I told her the truth, it wouldn’t help anyone.

She hovers with a stern expression. “You promised you’d be home by ten.”

“Mom, please. It was an accident.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize my mistake. Calling anything an “accident” is a tough sell to my parents these days, even now, five months later.

Dad approaches from the kitchen. “Everything okay?” What other junior in high school has both parents waiting for her at ten p.m.?

I tighten my jacket around me and smooth back my hair. “Yeah, just a little sink splash. I’m sorry.”