by Diana Urban
“Yeah, I remember,” I croaked.
“I thought maybe I had the wrong idea. I thought maybe Priya was late handing in a homework assignment or something, and was embarrassed she hadn’t turned it in on time.” I bit my lip and said nothing, watching him fold and unfold the piece of paper until the side of a square bowl took shape. “But then Mrs. Tanner handed back the test the next week, and she mentioned how she was planning to curve the grades because it was such a hard test, but she couldn’t because someone got a hundred percent.”
Oh, shit.
“And I saw the look on Sasha’s face,” he went on with a bitter chuckle, “so pleased with herself, and I knew she’d gotten the perfect score. And fine, she’s crazy smart, so it was plausible. But then I saw the look on your face . . . red as a tomato.”
I stared at the desk’s surface, where students had etched their names, initials, and crude messages over the years. “If you knew what she’d done . . . why didn’t you call her out?”
Diego shook his head as he folded the final piece, completing the bowl. “I rationalized it away . . . I thought, maybe you were upset because you got a bad grade. And I wanted to believe you were better than that.”
Each word coming from his mouth tore my heart into a thousand tiny fragments. I clasped my shaking fingers under the desk. I wanted to be someone he admired. Someone he respected. What he said about me when he apologized to me, when he agreed to help me film the play—I’d never felt so seen before. I couldn’t stand to lose that.
“Diego—” I cleared my throat, unsure what to say. “Please believe me . . . I never wanted any part in that. Priya already stole the test.” I whispered so softly I could barely hear myself. “She regretted it right away, and I was just trying to help her put it back.”
“She stole it for Sasha?” He crumpled a sheet of paper into a ball and taped it into the inside of the bowl, still refusing to look at me.
“Yeah. But Priya’s parents . . . they’re extreme. If she got in trouble for cheating, she’d be homeschooled for sure. I had to help her. And just now . . . well, that was all Sasha. She’s desperate to beat you.”
He crumpled the next piece of paper into a ball, glaring at the back of Sasha’s head. “It wouldn’t be the first time she did something underhanded.”
I gave him a flabbergasted look. “So why haven’t you said anything? Why haven’t you tried to stop her?”
“Why haven’t you?” he shot back. I rubbed my lips together, unable to meet his eyes. “You’re the one who’s friends with her. Anyway, I think you should’ve been more careful picking your friends. Because they clearly don’t give a shit about you.”
18 Minutes Left
“You’re always trying to sabotage me.” Diego hurled the accusation at Sasha like he’d been repressing it for ages. “Remember the egg drop?”
Sasha fixed her gaze on him, the syringe mere inches from her reach. “Oh, it was some stupid extra-credit assignment. So what? You’re going to kill me because I wanted a few bonus points?”
“It wasn’t just the bonus points,” said Diego. “You cheated on that bio midterm last year. Remember? The one where the grades should have been curved.”
Sasha’s eyes widened for the tiniest moment, and she glanced at Priya, whose mouth dropped open.
“You’re not the only one she’s tried to sabotage.” When I piped up, Sasha threw me a baffled look. “Remember last year? The flyers you created for your class president campaign?”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.” But there was a tremor in her voice.
“Wait, what did she do?” said Diego.
“She tried spreading fake news that Jason Goding stole class funds.” I tried ignoring Sasha’s glare, with which she was clearly attempting to burn a hole through my skull. “But I dumped them in the trash.”
“You’re kidding me.” Diego shook his head, while Sasha crossed her arms and poked her cheek with her tongue. “That’s some pattern of behavior. You’re a cheat. A liar—”
“You guys,” said Robbie, who’d started piling the rest of the drawers in front of the fireplace. “A little help over here? We need to finish stacking shit.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“You really think that’s going to work?” Sasha asked Robbie. “You’re willing to bet all of our lives on it?”
I frowned. “We have no choice.”
“Yes we do! We don’t know what’s going to happen when that thing blows.” Sasha mirrored me, pointed at the fireplace. “We don’t know how strong it is, how powerful. Even if we stack everything in the room against it, it could kill us all anyway. Why are you so willing to take that chance?”
“Because everyone in this room deserves a chance!” I screamed back.
“If I had to choose between six people dying and one person dying, I’d choose one person! Every time!”
“Even if that one person has to be you?” I said. She opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. “And what if we kill someone, and the bomb goes off anyway?” I said. “You’re trusting a psychopath to keep their word that the rest of us will get out of here alive.”
Sasha retorted like she’d already thought that through. “But killing someone is the only chance we’ve got to stop the bomb from going off. Are you really willing to let that bomb blow you to pieces? Do you have any idea how much that’ll hurt? Your body will literally be ripped to shreds, and if it isn’t, you’ll be burned to a crisp. You really want that?”
“No . . .” I clutched my throat. “But there has to be another way.”
“I think we should choose someone,” said Diego.
My breath caught in my throat. “What?”
“Choose someone, but not necessarily do it yet,” said Diego. “We are wasting time. Let’s pick who it would be, get that over with, and then keep trying to figure this out until the last minute.”
“But then it might be too late!” said Sasha.
“Or the last five minutes, whatever,” said Diego. “But let’s get this part over with now so we can move on.”
Sasha crossed her arms and nodded. “Okay. Fine.”
“So how’re we gonna pick who dies?” asked Robbie.
1 Month, 2 Weeks Ago
DECEMBER OF SENIOR YEAR
It was do or die time.
I gripped my violin tight, swallowing the nausea that kept trying to creep up my throat, watching everyone in the orchestra tittering around me. Jason was so nervous he kept dropping his horn. We were gathered in the cafeteria, all wearing matching black skirts or pants and white collared shirts, waiting for our cue to file into the auditorium. The drama club was backstage putting the finishing touches on their elaborate costumes and makeup.
All the work I’d done over the past year led to this moment. Our dress rehearsals over the past week had gone well save one or two minor mishaps, but none of that mattered. Only tonight mattered, because the first deadline for my college applications was midnight tomorrow. Tonight was the night I needed to get my recording. So tonight was everything.
I glanced toward the door to the hall, willing it to open, willing Robbie to come in and wish me luck before the most important performance of my life. But no dice.
“Alright, everyone,” said Mr. Torrente. “It should be any moment now. I just want to say how proud I am of everyone here. Putting on a full-length production is no small feat!” He launched us into a round of applause. “Yes, Amber?”
I lowered my trembling hand. “Can I say something to everyone?”
“Of course. This is your show.”
Clearing my throat, I stood, clutching my violin to my side. All eyes were on me. Oh, God. Playing an instrument in front of a crowd was one thing. Speaking words was a whole other story.
“I just . . . I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you, Mr. Torrente, for letting us do this show instead of our annual winter concert.” He gave me a little bow. “And thank you all for spending so much time practicing. I know it
wasn’t easy to learn something completely new. And maybe it wasn’t as exciting as our usual rendition of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.’” A few people chuckled. “So thank you for taking a chance on this, and for putting up with me.”
“Thank you for creating such an amazing score!” I whipped around to see Sasha striding toward us, looking like a modern-day princess of Verona in her sleek, glittery periwinkle dress. Asher, our Romeo, joined as well. They paused next to Mr. Torrente, and Sasha smiled at me encouragingly, her eyes sparkling, like she was blind to the resentment in my own. I’d been avoiding her ever since my falling-out with Priya, but since we were both so busy prepping for the play, she hadn’t noticed. And my brain couldn’t handle both the chaos of wrapping up rehearsals and confronting Sasha for what she’d done to Priya. The pressure of everything made me feel constantly on the verge of collapsing.
“I think the music is stellar,” said Sasha. “We’ve got a full house tonight—the auditorium is packed—and I can’t wait for everyone to hear you guys. Way to go, Amber!” My God. How could she be so nice to me, and so vile to Priya? How?
Someone in the orchestra whooped, and the rest of them broke out into applause again as a fluttering sensation swept through my chest. As Sasha mingled with people in the orchestra, wishing them luck, Asher approached me. “Awesome job on the score.”
“Thanks!” I forced a smile onto my face. “And you make a pretty amazing Romeo. Are you nervous?”
“Nah.” He waved me off, then grimaced. “Well, okay, maybe just a little, about the balcony scene. But seriously, thanks for only making me sing once.”
I tilted my head. “You didn’t want to sing?”
“Oh, geez, not at all. That’s Dan’s and Maria’s deal—I usually go for whatever role has the least singing.” He laughed. “When Sasha said you’d insisted on adding singing parts, I wanted to puke.” My blood went cold in my veins. “Don’t get me wrong, they came out great. But we were all a little nervous you were going to totally mess this up . . .”
His words faded into background noise as I gaped at Sasha, who chatted animatedly with Mr. Torrente. That bitch. She told me the actors wanted the singing numbers. She said they’d switch to Grease if I refused. But it was her call all along. She didn’t even tell them about the singing numbers until after auditions. Until after she already landed the lead role. Until it was too late. And once she knew it was hers, she made sure she’d be able to show off in front of everyone.
She lied to me to get her way.
Worse, she lied to everyone.
As I ran my bow over the violin’s strings, my eyes fluttered past Mr. Torrente to the glowing faces in the audience. I didn’t need to watch my fingers—I could play this piece backward with my eyes closed.
After all, I’d composed it. I’d composed the music for the entire play. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done—not only did I have to write the music for a full-length play, but I had to make it easy enough for a high school orchestra to play without any gaffes, and without any bassoons or harps—not to mention our only horn player, Jason, was a total dimwit. But it was done, and after hours and hours of composing and practice and rehearsals, we’d finally nailed it.
I tried not to think about how Sasha nearly ruined everything. I didn’t want any bitterness to come through the music soaring from my fingertips. Tonight—this music—it was all that mattered. And I had to stay strong.
I could make out a few familiar faces toward the front of the audience. Mom stared at me with laser focus, beaming with pride. And since Sasha’s Juliet was currently mourning Romeo’s death and was about to kill herself, Mom looked like a psychopath grinning in a sea of sadness.
The seat to Mom’s right might as well have been empty—Robbie looked bored out of his skull. He hogged Mom’s armrest, resting his head in his palm, his expression glum. Sometimes his face glowed from the light of his phone screen. If Mom were at any other play, she would have slapped the phone right out of his hands, but she seemed too mesmerized to notice.
On Mom’s other side, Dad wore his usual guilty expression. I wished he didn’t have the constant cloud of not being able to pay for my education hovering over his head.
Another familiar face grinned up at me from the center aisle. When I met Diego’s gaze, he offered two thumbs-up from behind his camera’s tripod. Despite what happened in physics the other week, he’d kept his promise. I stifled a smile and focused on my sheet music again. I had to pay close attention now—my solo was coming up. And this was the part I’d be sending in to colleges. My heart fluttered, and I took a slow, deep breath.
The rest of the orchestra silenced. I watched Mr. Torrente for my cue, and a thrill rushed up my spine as I ran my bow over the strings. The vibrations from the violin under my chin coursed through me, floating into the air to mingle with Sasha’s voice, our mournful melody filling the room with grief and longing. I glanced at the first few rows of the audience again, gauging their reaction. They watched with rapture, leaning forward in their seats, fully engaged as Sasha pretended she was about to plunge a dagger into her chest.
But then Sasha’s voice went all raspy, and she coughed.
She coughed.
I refused to stop playing. This was the only night I could get this recording. There were no do-overs. I glanced back at the stage. Sasha opened and closed her mouth, like she was trying to time the right line to my music. But she was supposed to have stabbed herself in the heart by now, and the orchestra was supposed to jump in for a crescendo as she died.
I swallowed down my panic and kept playing, nodding at Mr. Torrente to conduct the orchestra to join in as planned. But all the viola players were gaping up at Sasha, and Jason Goding was too busy scoffing to play his horn.
The orchestra became a din of confusion as half of them joined in, while the other half ogled at Sasha. Finally, Sasha simply pretended to stab herself and fell backward, fake dead.
My God. Sasha ruined everything. Everything.
And I just wanted to die.
17 Minutes Left
I inhaled sharply. We were really going to choose someone. This was really happening.
“How the hell are we going to figure this out?” Priya pulled herself to her feet, but after a woozy wobble, plopped down on the nearest chair. “I don’t want to die. And I . . . I’m my parents’ only child. This would crush them.”
“It’d crush any of our parents,” said Diego. “My dad . . . after everything he’s done for me . . .” He shook his head and brushed back the hair falling across his forehead, clearly holding back tears.
“And my dad . . .” Robbie knelt like a catcher behind the mound, gripping his head. “God, he was so proud of me when I got that scholarship. So many of Georgia Tech’s players end up in the majors. I can’t die now. This is so fucking unfair.”
“It really is.” Sasha jumped in the fray. “I have so much ahead of me, too . . . I got into Brown!”
Diego gave her an exasperated look. “So? I got into Harvard. We all have things going for us.” Sasha locked her steely gaze on him, and opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.
“At the rate we’re going, none of us are going anywhere!” I said. “We’ll all be dead in less than twenty minutes. We’ve all got parents who don’t want us dead. We’ve all got plans. None of them matter any more than the others. Not Harvard, or Brown, or your sponge, or your baseball scholarship.” Robbie’s jaw hardened, but I ignored him. A lone tear trailed down my cheek.
“Maybe some matter more,” said Sasha.
“No! The last thing we should do is compare each other. There’s no point system, where Harvard is worth ten points and a baseball scholarship is worth eight points and—” I stopped short when Robbie furrowed his brow as I rated baseball less than Harvard.
“See?” I pointed at him. “Exactly! It’s not fair to anyone. Nobody’s future is worth more than anyone else’s. Nobody’s life is worth more.”
Robbie chort
led.
“What?” I said.
“Well, I mean, really? Nobody’s?” said Robbie, motioning toward Scott.
My hands shook with anger, and I balled them into fists. “You can’t be serious.”
“I just . . . I think there’s a difference between some people.”
“Oh yeah?” Scott glared at him. “What difference?”
Robbie rubbed his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. But he couldn’t backpedal out of this one. “A difference between someone who’s going to leave their mark on the world, and someone who’s going to be a fucking drug dealer.”
“I agree,” said Sasha.
“Screw you,” said Scott. “You don’t know anything about my life.”
“Wow.” I shook my head at Robbie and Sasha. “I can’t believe you two. All you care about is yourselves. You push people around to make yourselves feel better, and make everyone around you feel this small.” I held two fingers an inch apart. Robbie folded his arms and stared at the ground. Could he possibly feel remorseful?
“You traitor,” said Sasha. “How dare you turn against us?”
Scott slapped his good leg. “Oh, like it’s treason to say anything against Queen Sasha! My life might be worth shit, but you are the definition of shit. The epitome of shit. The bacteria that fester on shit—”
I rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Nobody’s life is worth shit. Not yours. Not hers.” We all made mistakes. Just because Scott made some mistakes, like getting high in school, or selling Sasha his Ritalin—his life wasn’t worthless. God knew I’d made plenty of mistakes myself. But I refused to be defined by my mistakes, or let Scott be defined by his. Even Sasha deserved a shot at proving she could do better. It wasn’t our mistakes that defined us, but how we learned to overcome them. Everyone should have a chance to overcome theirs.