Nerve (4 page)

Dad’s voice is light, but his expression isn’t. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I thought I’d make it back in time. But I hit one red light too many.” Is there any way they can check out the traffic patterns between here and the auditorium to bust this latest lie?

He takes his position next to Mom. I stand a few feet in front of them, wishing I could get out of my damp clothes. She glances at him, he at her.

I cross my arms. “The rest of my friends are at a party right now. I had to spot clean costumes and take care of a broken
sink. Don’t you think that’s punishment enough for being two minutes late?”

Again, they glance at each other, and then Dad sighs. “Okay. We believe you.”

Another stab of guilt pierces my chest, but really, I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, unless you count exposing myself to who knows how many online viewers.

“Thanks. I should get to bed. It’s still a school night.” I hold my breath, hoping I haven’t played the responsible daughter card too obviously.

“Good night, sweetie,” they say in unison, before each gives me a hug. Sometimes I think things would be much easier if I weren’t an only child. Is it too late for them to have another? Ew, don’t go there.

Upstairs, I get ready for bed, the night’s events playing out in my mind. Hopefully, Tommy’s right and my video gets lost in the avalanche of other entries. Still, I toss around the entire night and finally give up sleeping at five a.m. With two bonus hours before I have to get ready for school, I should catch up on homework or something productive. But the first thing I do after I get out of bed is grab my phone. No, wait, I can get through the videos faster with a computer. So I sit at my desk and start up my laptop with shaky hands.

It takes a few minutes to get to the NERVE site and figure out their organization scheme for the entries. As I click, ads
pop up to remind me that during the first NERVE event, one guy won a trip to Italy to train for a week with a Tour de France bike team, and one of the girls got to interview for a job at MTV. They show photos of the smiling winners. Not bad for one night of terror, I guess.

As I skim through the site, my mood brightens. Over five thousand people have applied from around the country. On Saturday night, tomorrow, NERVE will choose contestants from twelve cities and conduct the live rounds. Last time, they took the best players from the live rounds and flew half to a grand prize round in New York and the other half to a grand prize round in Las Vegas, where the contestants played for all or nothing.

I become almost giddy when I note that the coffeehouse dare is the one that the fewest number of applicants chose to complete. Probably because it seemed easy, which should translate to boring. Perfect. I click open the category and scroll through the video clips until my heart stops in recognition.

A still image shows my face twisted in discomfort and glistening with water. Underneath the picture, a little indicator measures over eighty comments associated with my video. Uh-oh. That’s more than double the number for any of the other videos in this category.

I take a deep breath and click on the image to start the clip. There’s me with a pained expression on my face, glancing between the clock on the wall and Tommy’s camera. I
feel like an idiot. And look like one on the video. Why did I think it was a good idea to complete a dare? Because Sydney got flowers and I didn’t? How ridiculous. I should be used to that.

Tommy’s voice narrates, “Here is the sweetest, most sensible girl I know about to do something way, way outside of her comfort zone. Will she go through with it?”

I hadn’t realized Tommy was providing commentary. What’s that about? The video me hesitates, as if her answer to Tommy is hell no, she won’t go through with it. For a second I hope that last night was just a weird dream. But the girl in the video pours the water on her head and sputters.

Tommy’s commentary says, “Oh.”

And then the clip shows a very wet girl with very petite breasts in a very revealing shirt. My worst fear.

I click through the comments under the video, feeling a wave of nausea rise in my belly. One comment reads, Nice raisins! And that’s as kind as it gets. I slam the computer shut and dive back into my bed, pulling the covers over my head.

A hour later, my phone buzzes with a text. I ignore it and the next one that comes in as well. Have my friends seen the video? I burrow myself farther into the covers.

It’s seven thirty when my mom calls at my door, “Honey, you okay? You’ll be late.”

“I’m fine, almost ready,” I lie.

“Can I come in?”

“Um, hold on.” Quickly I throw on a pair of jeans and a top, and then answer the door stifling a yawn.

Mom peeks at my room over my shoulder, probably searching for a crack pipe. “I made asparagus soup last night. Would you like to take some for lunch?”

“That sounds great. Thanks.”

As soon as I close the door, I run to my phone. The messages from Sydney and Liv are about the party last night, mostly saying that they wished I could’ve come. The final message is from Tommy: “Call me!”

So I do. When he answers, I say, “I’ve seen it. It’s horrible. And what was with your commentary?” I don’t really care about the commentary, but it’s easier than asking what he thought of my chest.

“I was just trying to make it entertaining, and give you an excuse, you know, in case.”

“In case I chickened out?”

“In case you changed your mind. There’s no shame in that.”

I rub my temple. “Well, thanks, I guess. Anyway, your comments were way nicer than what people wrote in. Did you see how obnoxious some got?”

He clears his throat. “Just ignore them. Things aren’t as bad as you think. Some of the clips in the mooning category have three hundred comments.”

“Isn’t there something I can do to force them to take it down? I mean, technically, isn’t it illegal for them to
have a video of a minor, showing her, uh, chest?”

“Well, no one seems to mind the butt-shot videos. And all NERVE provides to contact them are application forms and video links, with no way to connect to anyone directly. I can’t even track them down through their hosting site; it’s like they’re based overseas and hop from server to server.”

I run a hand across my forehead. “Thanks for trying, Tommy.”

“If neither of us tells anyone, chances are no one we know will see it. And once NERVE does the live rounds tomorrow night, everyone will shift their attention anyway.”

I want to believe him. His words are logical, his voice soothing. “Okay, what happened at Gotta-Hava-Java stays in Gotta-Hava-Java.”

“You got it.”

I thank him and hang up. All the way to school, my hands and legs feel shaky, but when I get there, everyone seems normal. For the first time ever, I’m glad my principal has a policy of not using phones in the school building except in the case of emergency. I go through my day acting like everything’s fine, and by lunchtime my panic is all but forgotten.

When I pass Tommy at his locker that afternoon, I whisper, “So far, so good.”

After school, I rush through my homework, eat an early dinner, which I don’t have much appetite for anyway, and promise Mom I’ll be home on time. I head out to the theater around
five, and, when I get there, the place is buzzing with pre-show excitement. My first instinct is to head to the lighting booth to check in with Tommy, but Sydney runs up to show me a complimentary write-up of the play, which claims that Chinook High School has a few potential stars in the making. A large photo of Sydney slapping Matthew accompanies the text.

Her eyes are bright. “I love that scene.”

Matthew joins us, rubbing his cheek as if it’s still sore. “I think you love it a little too much.”

I examine their faces, looking for any chemistry. There’s none in Syd’s eye roll before she heads into the girls’ dressing room. Matthew’s gaze lingers on her, but only for a moment before returning to me.

He taps my nose. “Ready to do my makeup, little Vee?”

“Sure.” I grab my cosmetics box and join him in the guys’ dressing room, which is empty except for us.

I pull out the cake foundation and grab a glass of water from the sink. Matthew pulls his hair back under a band as I dampen a sponge and get to work. While I hover over him to apply the foundation, he rests a hand on my hip. I swear I feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.

“Missed you at Ashley’s last night.” His voice is gravelly.

Wow, he’s never said anything about missing me before. Maybe my future is more “promising” than I thought.

“Yeah, it sucks I couldn’t come. But it was on a school night anyway. Tomorrow’s party will be better.”

“You sure you can’t come out tonight? Even for just a coffee or something?” He squeezes my hip.

Coffee? My chest is tight. There’s no way he saw the video, is there?

“I wish I could, but we’ll hang out tomorrow, okay?” My fingers fumble as I pull out the contouring cream for the sides of his nose and jawline.

I want to question him about his sudden interest in coffee, but a couple of guys enter and head behind a curtain to change. The room becomes more crowded as I work on Matthew’s face, no opportunity for private discussion. When I’m done with him, a line of other actors take turns in the makeup chair, and then I move to the girls’ room to fine-tune their faces and hair, since most of them are able to get the basics on for themselves. I have to hurry so I can open the grand drape for the first act. Really, they should get someone else to do that, but the props and special effects team has some tricky preps for the Afghani village scene.

When the curtain is open, I hang out in the wings to ensure that everyone looks the way they’re supposed to before I head back to clean up my kit. In the girls’ dressing room, Ashley and Ria whisper, stopping short when I enter. We’re not besties or anything, but they’ve never acted skittish around me before.

I gather the used sponges to be sanitized. “Sounds
like everyone had a great time last night. Sorry my parents wouldn’t let me come.”

Ashley nods. “I understand.” She adds some hairspray, although her hair is already shellacked more than a decoupage project. “Um, is everything okay, Vee?”

My shoulders stiffen and I feel a surge of nausea at her question, the same question so many people peppered me with five months ago after my week in the hospital. I immediately go into auto-response: “Everything’s great. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, you just look kind of tired.”

Lovely, that’s what middle-aged people say to each other as code for
you look old
. “Guess I need to apply some stage makeup to myself.” I force a laugh and hurry on to the guys’ room.

In there, John and Max give me weird smirks. Is it my imagination? I’m being paranoid, right? Those guys are always smirking. Without making further eye contact, I put everything away, then head out to the fire escape, which fortunately is empty, thanks to Seattle’s strict public smoking laws.

I pull out my phone and click to the NERVE site. There are a hundred and fifty comments linked to my video. Do I dare read them? Part of me feels mortified, yet a tiny part feels flattered to get so much attention. Not flattered enough to actually read the comments just yet, so I click over to my favorite shopping site and drag some high-end hair care
products onto my wish list, even though what I really need is a good cut.

Shivering, I wish I didn’t have to go inside for the intermission curtain. What if I just left it for someone else? But of course, I don’t do that. I’m the responsible one, despite what my parents currently believe.

With a deep breath, I enter and scurry to the wings. As soon as the act is over and the drape drawn, I run back toward the fire escape, but Sydney catches up to me. “We need to talk.”

Uh-oh. I keep going, but she follows me outside, tugging at my arm. “Matthew just whispered something about you playing NERVE. What’s he talking about?”

My lungs deflate. I lean against the rough brick wall. “Okay, don’t get mad. It’s just that I was bummed about not being able to go to Ashley’s party last night. So I did a tiny little prelim dare.”

Her body seems to rise off of the ground. “You what?”

“I know. It was stupid. And it kind of went wrong. I had to dump water over my head, but then it made my shirt all see-through and, oh God, it’s such a mess.” I put my head in my hands.

She makes a pursing sound with her lips. “Stop. It’s probably not a total disaster. We’ll take care of this. Where’s your phone?”

I use my elbow to gesture toward my pocket, not wanting to take my face from my hands. She pulls it out and I hear
clicking. Of course she knows exactly where to look online, being a NERVE wannabe. For a second, I feel a moment of satisfaction that I’ve actually done something that Syd had her eyes on before she was able to. But that feeling is soon squashed when I realize that she never would’ve been dumb enough for things to end up the way they had.

“So which dare did you do?” she asks.

“Coffeehouse,” I say through my fingers.

More clicking. Then, “Oh, I see.”

I lower my hands. “Told you.”

Her face is serious. “Well, okay, let’s stop and think.” In addition to being blond and beautiful, Syd maintains an A average.

“No further thinking required. I want to go home.”

“Uh-uh, running away is only going to make things look worse. Besides, it’s not like the video shows that much. You weren’t naked. Maybe we can turn this around. Tons of celebrities got their start with leaked sex tapes.”

“Um, my career goals don’t include reality TV.”

“Okay, but the way those girls got through it was by holding their heads high. So, number one, don’t apologize. Just smile when people mention it and shrug, like
aw gee, it could’ve happened to anyone
.”

I take the phone from her and start scrolling through the comments. Sure enough, there’s one from Matthew that says,
Little Vee, I didn’t know you had it in you
!

Lovely. I close the link to the site and check my messages, finding a few from my friends with
WTF
subject lines and a few from acquaintances with lots of exclamation points and question marks. There’s one from a girl I’ve never heard of with a subject line that says
SLUT
. How did she get my address? I delete it before turning off the phone.