by Diana Urban
Diego met my gaze again, and my insides pooled into a puddle around my feet. Just then, Robbie reached for my hand under the table, and I jolted. He laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” His hand was cool despite the warmth of the room, and he kissed my cheek as Diego watched. Oh, God. How was I going to get through this night?
“I’m starving,” said Priya, fishing through her purse. “Ugh, I forgot to bring a granola bar.”
Diego grabbed his backpack from the floor. “I have a candy bar somewhere in here. Want it?”
She waved him off. “No, no, it’s fine. Thanks, though.” As she eyed the ornate silver platters dotting the table, Scott Coleman—stoner extraordinaire—loped into the room. He wore his standard outfit—a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt and torn jeans, topped off with a black beanie.
Sasha gaped. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as the rest of you, methinks,” said Scott. He grinned at Priya, who offered a shy smile in return.
“No way, man.” Robbie scrunched his nose. Scott reeked of cigarette smoke. “You won a scholarship?”
Scott tugged at the collar of his leather jacket. “Seems so.”
“Bullshit,” said Robbie, and Sasha clucked her tongue.
Wow. Nobody was going to get along tonight, were they? “Guys. Be nice,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe he’s a closet genius.”
Scott winked at me. “Hey, Red. What’s shakin’?”
“Bacon.” This had been our customary greeting ever since we used to play together as kids, before we realized how little we had in common.
He nodded approvingly as he extracted a folded letter from his pocket. “I got this letter. It said to come here. So here I am.”
“But how’d you qualify?” said Sasha, smiling sweetly. “Do you have some secret talent you’ve been hiding from us?”
“Nope.” Scott shrugged and moseyed along the table. “But who the hell cares?” He plopped in the empty seat next to Priya and unwrapped a stick of gum. “Twenty kay is twenty kay. Besides, I had no plans tonight, and I like free food, so no rind off my orange.”
Sasha cringed. “That’s not an expression—”
The massive oak door behind me slammed shut with such force it reverberated through my chest, and the glasses in the china cabinets rattled. Everyone jumped, and a few people gasped.
“Wind tunnel?” I scooted my chair back and stood to open the door as thunder clapped outside.
“Oh, right.” Robbie’s shoulders relaxed. “The storm.”
As I squeezed past Sasha, she tossed her hair back and focused on Scott again. “Anyway, they don’t just arbitrarily hand out twenty thousand dollars.” Leaning on her armrest, she perched her chin on her fist, like the mere concept of Scott winning anything was utterly fascinating. “Like, Robbie has baseball, Amber’s a music prodigy, and I’m the director of the drama club. There has to be some reason you won.”
“Yeah?” Scott’s lips slapped with each chew. “Well, I’m director of the give-zero-fucks club. Maybe that counts for something.”
“Uh . . . guys?” I jiggled the doorknob. It turned in my grip, but the door wouldn’t budge. “I think the door’s stuck.”
“Seriously?” Priya glared at me, like being trapped in a room together was her version of hell.
“You’re just a little weakling.” Robbie strutted over and gave me a playful shove.
“I am not,” I muttered, returning to my seat. I fished my cell phone from my purse. No signal.
As Robbie fought with the door, I scanned the table. Diego was the only one not looking at his phone. He stared at one of the windows as lightning brightened the alley outside. Robbie cursed and gave the doorknob a final shake. “Dammit. It really is stuck.”
I rolled my eyes. “Told you.”
“Shit.” Sasha waved her phone above her head. “I have no signal.”
“Me neither,” I said.
“I haven’t had one since we got here.” Robbie took out his phone and shook it, like that would help.
“Same here,” Priya chimed in.
“Well, the mayor’s going to show up at some point, right?” asked Diego.
“Yep.” I nodded. “He’ll be able to let us out, or get help, or whatever.”
“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Sasha checked her watch.
“He’s probably just running late,” said Diego.
Sasha eyed Robbie, who slammed his fist against the lock and jiggled the doorknob again. “But what if he had to cancel?” Her voice quavered. “What if he tried calling to let us know, but couldn’t get through? What if no one’s coming—”
“Sasha, chill out,” I said. Diego trained his eyes along the table with a frown.
“If he couldn’t get through,” said Scott, “his office would send some secretary here to tell us, right?”
“Huh, weird,” said Diego. “The table’s set for six.” Priya pointed at each place setting as she silently counted. Diego was right—there were eight chairs, but the ones on either end had no place settings, plates, or glasses laid out.
“Yeah? So?” said Scott.
Diego and I exchanged a look. “That’s bizarre,” I said. “If the mayor’s having dinner with us, why is the table only set for six?”
“Are you saying nobody’s coming to let us out?” Sasha said, an octave too high.
“Someone’ll be here to serve food and stuff,” said Scott. “A waiter or something?”
“It looks like they already did.” Diego motioned to the covered trays lining the table. “But why would they serve dinner before we got here?”
Scott lifted the lid on the tray closest to him, revealing a whole roasted chicken and steamed veggies. “Is it just me, or is this kinda weird?”
“For once, it’s not just you,” Robbie muttered, uncovering a salad platter.
“Well . . .” Priya licked her lips, eyeing a bowl of roasted yams. “We might as well eat, right?”
“I guess so . . .” I bit my lip.
Robbie dropped the lid on the floor behind him. “Whatever. Let’s get this party started, shall we?” He uncovered another chicken platter. “They got any booze in this joint?”
“Yeah, but it’s all at the bar out there,” said Sasha, uncovering a platter of deviled eggs. “Gross. How long have those been sitting out?”
I stood and lifted the lid from the biggest platter in the center of the table.
Sasha and Priya both shrieked, making me almost drop the lid. My heart fell into my stomach as everyone gaped at the contents of the tray.
A syringe.
An envelope.
And something that looked an awful lot like a bomb.
“What the actual fuck?” said Robbie. A shiver coasted down my spine as I stared at the syringe. It was filled with a pale beige liquid, and the needle was uncapped, glinting from the chandelier lights overhead.
“What the hell is that . . . that thing?” Sasha cried.
A couple of plastic canisters the size of milk cartons were strapped to half a dozen brown logs wired to a small digital clock and stack of batteries. Each canister was half full of some sort of yellow liquid. The clock faced the ceiling, its red numbers counting down from fifty-nine forty-five. Fifty-nine forty-four. Fifty-nine forty-three. Fifty-nine forty-two.
“Looks like a bomb,” said Robbie, clenching his jaw.
“I started the timer . . .” I said to no one in particular, gripping the lid in both hands. “When I lifted the lid, I must have started the timer.”
“That can’t be real,” said Priya. “Can it?”
“And what’s with the syringe?” asked Sasha.
“It’s labeled.” Diego leaned over to read, “‘Botulinum toxin’—holy shit.” He blanched.
“What’s butool—what’s that?” asked Priya. She clutched his arm so hard her knuckles turned white.
Diego kept reading. “It says, ‘Warning: Avoid contact with skin. A single drop can be fatal. F
ull injection causes immediate death.’”
We all exchanged baffled expressions. “What’s in the envelope?” asked Robbie. Nobody moved.
Fifty-nine thirty. Fifty-nine twenty-nine.
I set the lid under the table and plucked the envelope from the tray, opened the flap, and pulled out a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, I cleared my throat and read aloud.
“‘Welcome to dinner, and again, congratulations on being selected. Now you must do the selecting. Within the hour, you must choose someone in this room to die. If you don’t, everyone dies.’”
1 Year, 1 Month Ago
JANUARY OF JUNIOR YEAR
I’d spent the last three years avoiding bitches like Sasha Harris.
But I had a favor to ask of her, and my future depended on it.
As director of the drama club, she chose each semester’s play, and I wanted to compose the score for the next one. It was my only shot to get into USC’s film score program. Dad had recently broken the news that he couldn’t afford to fly me to auditions in the fall, so I had to think of some way to impress the pants off the college admissions officers—something the other two thousand virtual applicants wouldn’t attempt. With only three undergraduate film score programs in the country, the competition was fierce. Scoring our school play set to a live orchestra and sending in the recording was the best plan I could hatch.
But it meant I had to talk to her, Sasha freaking Harris, basically royalty at Brewster High—haughty, pretentious, and intimidating as hell, yet inexplicably revered. We hadn’t met until freshman year; our town had two middle schools that merged into Brewster High, and Priya and I had gone to Crompond while Sasha and her friends went to Hampton. But I’d heard whispers of her mean streak, how cutthroat she could be. Had I witnessed her nastiness myself? No. Had I gotten close enough to? Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t about to risk being her next victim.
Until now.
So here I was on the first day back after winter break, watching her cross the cafeteria, plotting my approach. Her besties, Amy and Maria, hovered around her like gnats, wasting away the minutes by chewing over the latest gossip. I wasn’t sure what scared me more: rejection from USC, or Sasha.
“My hands are shaking.” I raised my hand to eye level, showing off trembling fingers. “Dammit, I can’t do this.”
My best friend Priya’s posture relaxed. “Oh, thank God. Let’s get out of here.” She spun to leave, her long, shiny black hair whipping my arm.
“Wait!” I grabbed her wrist. “You’re gonna let me wimp out that easily?”
“You’re not wimping out—you’re coming to your senses,” she rationalized, darting a glance at Sasha and her crew. “You don’t need to score the stupid play. I’m sure your recordings will get you into any music program you want.”
“All the other applicants will have recordings, too.” I wiped sweat from my upper lip as the trio finally settled at an empty table in the middle of the cafeteria. “But they’ll all submit the standard stuff—you know, tracks for commercials, movie trailers, that sort of thing. I have to do something epic. Something to stand out.”
Priya raised her eyebrows. “What, your ten thousand YouTube followers won’t make you stand out?”
“Ten thousand’s nothing. Some other kids have way more. I have to do this.”
“What makes you think Sasha’s even going to consider it? They always pick some Broadway play, and the music’s already done. Asking Sasha to compose new music for the play is like asking if I could join the freaking cheerleading squad. It won’t happen.”
Priya had always wanted to be a cheerleader. Problem was, she never had the guts to try out. “If I get her to agree, you’re so trying out for the cheerleading squad.”
Her eyes widened like saucers. “I am so not. Sasha’s captain now. She’d never let me in.”
I glanced at Sasha again. How had she hooked her talons into everything? It was like the girl was determined to be the center of attention at all times. And nobody said no to Sasha Harris.
Now I had to make sure she didn’t say no to me.
Taking a deep breath, I paused before tugging out the earbud lodged in my right ear, soaking in a last bit of energy from an epic fantasy battle scene track. Some people needed liquid courage, but I only needed a shot of music. The powerful chords and crescendos made me feel like I was bravely facing my foe, ready for combat.
“I’m doing this.”
“I’m officially not letting you.” Priya clutched my elbow as I started toward them. “As your best friend, I can’t let you put yourself in Sasha’s warpath. Right now she barely knows we exist, and we should keep it that way. Remember what happened to your sister? Remember what people like Sasha can do?”
My throat constricted at the mere mention of my sister, and I yanked my elbow from Priya’s grip. “Like I need the reminder?”
My sister Maggie’s death taught me to avoid girls with mean streaks like the plague. I knew what it meant to be the brunt of their jokes, victim to their cruelty. I didn’t know what Maggie endured until things went too far—four years stood between us (she was a senior when I was in eighth grade), so we hadn’t attended the same school since elementary school. Guilt stifled me whenever I thought of Maggie, and how oblivious I’d been to those girls’ abuse.
By the time I learned the truth, it was too late.
After she died, I withdrew from my clique of girlfriends. Part of me was terrified they’d eventually turn on me, too. But mostly, I couldn’t stand their pity. Most people were awkward as hell around someone in mourning. They’d stare at me with these wide, sorrowful eyes, and their uneasiness made me feel like I should’ve been the one comforting them.
At the time, I couldn’t handle it. It was bad enough watching my parents grieve, and needing to be strong for them. Priya was the only one who acted normal around me, letting me pour my heart out without getting that disquieted look in her eyes, refusing to leave my side.
So instead of partying or flailing at school dances, we camped out in my room for movie marathons or “jam sessions”—I’d work on a song at my keyboard with huge red headphones glomming my skull, while she’d sprawl on the carpet with Mittens, reading a fantasy novel or learning David Thurston’s magic tricks from his Netflix show Manic Magic. As a textbook introvert, Priya was living her best life, but sometimes I missed being part of a big group.
“I’m sorry.” Priya’s voice was strained. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” She eyed Sasha and her friends huddled over their table, whispering animatedly. They seemed prepped for the runway compared to their neighboring table, where Becky Wallace and our old clique donned a mix of too-big glasses, sweatshirts, and poorly executed French braids.
Suddenly, Sasha slapped the table, threw her head back, and laughed heartily. I couldn’t imagine having such boisterous self-confidence. People turned to gape, like they wanted in on the joke. If Sasha Harris thought something was funny, it must be worth hearing.
As long as it wasn’t about you.
My stomach clenched. I could let fear rule my future and keep being afraid of girls like Sasha. Or I could rise above this petty high school crap and do whatever I could to get into music school and someday produce epic movie and TV scores.
I had to do this. I had to.
Besides, what was the worst that could happen? She could say no. She could make fun of me. Torture me. Turn me into an object of ridicule and make me want to—
“Oof.” Someone behind me collided hard with my arm, tearing me from my thoughts.
“My bad!” Zane Carter called over his shoulder as he headed for Sasha’s table.
As I rubbed my arm, Priya ogled him. “Oh my God. He touched you.”
“That’s kind of an understatement.”
Priya had worshiped Zane for years. He was the spitting image of her favorite magician, David Thurston. And with those blazing green eyes, shaggy chestnut hair, defined cheekbones, and perma-smirk, who could blame her?
Well, I didn’t get the appeal of the perma-smirk.
Either way, she turned wide-eyed and mute whenever he appeared, which made it kind of difficult to have any sort of meaningful interaction. I thought she’d finally forgotten about him over winter break (I certainly had) until a couple of days ago, when she went to the grocery store with her mom and spotted him examining a protein shake nutrition label in aisle seven. I knew it was aisle seven because Priya told me about it seventeen times.
“You know . . . if we go over there,” I said, “you might get to talk to Zane.” I had to get this over with, and it’d be much easier if I didn’t have to approach Sasha alone.
“What?” Priya gasped. “He’d never talk to me. No way.”
“Why not? I heard he broke up with his girlfriend last month.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Maybe he’ll be into you.”
“Yeah, right!”
“C’mon, let’s go see.” I grabbed Priya’s wrist and, ignoring her frantic protestations, dragged her to Sasha and Zane’s table. Zane typed on his phone, elbows on his knees, as the girls giggled over something. “Hey, guys—”
Oh. Oh, no. Zane’s baseball teammate Robbie Nelson sat next to him, scribbling last-minute answers on a homework assignment. I hadn’t noticed him with his baseball cap shading his face. He glanced up at me, and my stomach gave a small lurch.
Robbie had one of those faces you couldn’t help staring at—well defined, with a high-bridged nose, angular jaw, and these wolfish gray eyes that made you go all deer-in-headlights when they landed on you. While I was invisible to Sasha, which was exactly how I wanted it, Robbie’s eyes would flick to mine in the halls, his head tilting like a question mark as he offered a shy grin. I’d always look away first, flustered to be caught gawking. Since we didn’t have any classes together, he probably didn’t even know my name.
But I couldn’t let him psych me out. I had to talk to Sasha.
“So, um, hey,” I started again. I tossed my hair back and flashed a wide smile, ignoring my wobbly legs. “How was your winter break?”
The five of them only offered vacant stares. I kept smiling, forcing down the heat threatening to creep up my neck. My mind went blank, and words seemed like an altogether foreign concept. All the scenarios I’d concocted in the shower this morning for what to say jumbled in my brain. What did popular people even talk about? Oh, hell. These people were the rulers of the roost, and we were like worms wriggling into their coop. What was I thinking?