Warrior Zone

by Kristen SaBerre

  Text Copyright © 2019

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover photograph: wavebreakmedia/Shutterstock.com.

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: SaBerre, Kristen, author.

  Title: Warrior Zone / Kristen SaBerre.

  Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, [2019] | Summary: A finalist on her favorite reality television show, nationally ranked teen gymnast Fiona Chu must decide what to do after learning that the producers have already chosen the winner.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018004813 (print) | LCCN 2018011804 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541541863 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781541540231 (lb : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Reality television programs—Fiction. | Television—Production and direction—Fiction. | Competition (Psychology)—Fiction. | Conduct of life—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S18 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.S18 War 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004813

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-45228-36610-6/22/2018

  For EllaRose and Dot, my rebel icons

  Chapter

  1

  Run, Fiona! A voice in my head is yelling at me, but my legs are refusing to obey. Run! Run now! Or would you rather be impaled by an eighteen-inch Viking horn?

  I definitely do not want that, but that’s what will happen if I don’t move. Whoosh. A long, pointy horn shoots out from the wall a foot in front of me. It lingers for a second, then flies back inside the wall. Whoosh. Another one appears so close to my head that I can feel my hair move. Every few seconds, another horn bursts from the tall stone wall at a new location. The longer I stand still, the higher my risk of being struck. I know my best strategy is to run through the twenty feet of hallway as fast as possible and hope for the best. So why can’t I get my legs to move?

  Whoosh. Another horn jabs the air, this time right behind me. As it disappears into the wall, my legs start working again and I instinctively take a step backward to where the horn was a moment before. Something in my gut tells me this horn won’t be back right away. The next horn stabs the air five steps ahead of me. When it retracts into the wall, I run as fast as I can into the space it just left. The space left by each horn is a short-term safe zone. “Behind, ahead . . . now what?” I whisper to myself, trying not to freak out. I remember just in time and duck as a horn shoots out above me. “Behind, ahead, above. Okay, Fiona, you can do this.”

  Sure enough, the next horn shoots out behind me. I back into the space it leaves. The next horn emerges ahead. I sprint into the space it leaves and duck. The horn above comes and goes, and I repeat this process—behind, ahead, above—following the horns, slowly making my way forward.

  Finally, I make it out of the stone hallway. Light washes over me, and I see I’m on the deck of a massive ship. But I’m not free yet. This only ends when I make it to the top of the ship’s mast and capture its flag. Only then will I know my fate.

  Rigging ropes hang over the mast. They’re my way up, I think. Taking a running leap, I jump as high as I can and reach for the lowest-hanging rope. My hands clutch the rope, but it’s slippery. I zoom toward the ground, the rope burning in my hands. I tighten my fists and pray the friction is enough to slow my fall. I jolt to a stop in midair. My legs kick the slick mast, hoping for a foothold, but there isn’t one—it’s just me and the rope.

  I know this climb will take a lot of strength. Luckily, as a nationally ranked gymnast, I have plenty. I swing one arm up higher on the rope. I wind my feet around the rope to create a foothold. I push off from my feet and reach up, hand over hand, and I climb. My hands are blistering. My lungs are screaming. My chest is pounding. But I make it to the top of the mast. I grab the red flag and thrust it into the air.

  Suddenly, I’m drowning in noise. Although I’m perched on the top of a ship, the noise is not from waves. It is the roar of a live studio audience—everyone is cheering. Lights rise, and I can see, once again, that I’m in a television studio. The ship, the stone walls, every Viking-themed hazard I just conquered was part of a gigantic obstacle course. I am a contestant on Warrior Zone, a popular reality show for teen athletes. At the end of the competition, the winner is named the Ultimate Warrior—and gets the grand prize of thirty thousand dollars.

  A rolling ladder appears beside me, and I gratefully climb my way down. At the bottom, television cameras wait for me. Someone yells from behind one, “Fiona, how do you feel? And how do you think you did compared to the other warriors?”

  “I’m really proud of my work this round,” I say, still catching my breath. “I did my best, and I hope it was good enough to get me to the finals.”

  The cameras turn away, satisfied. I fold over onto my knees and suck in air. Once I can move again, I head toward a refreshment table. I’m dying for water, but a set hand stops me. Like the other dozen set hands, she’s wearing a white shirt, has a towel in her back pocket, and holds a walkie talkie in her hand. “Fiona, we need you at the podium for the ceremony.”

  “Let me grab some water first.”

  “Sorry, we need you now. They’re ready with the results.”

  My stomach twists with excitement and dread. My results determine whether I get to advance to the finals or if my chance to become the Ultimate Warrior is over.

  She herds me across the sound stage. We pass the artificial Viking ship, which is nothing more than a bunch of pipes drilled together and decorated to look like a ship. We pass the bleachers of cheering audience members, and we come to a large red circle painted on the floor. Five other teenagers stand inside it. Like me, they’re wearing helmets, different colored tank tops, and athletic shorts. Like me, they also look completely exhausted.

  I join them in the circle and one of them hands me a cold bottle of water. We bump fists, then I snag the bottle from him and immediately guzzle half of it. “You look thirsty. Did you just work out or something?” he says sarcastically.

  “Good thing this water’s better than your jokes, Ravi,” I say between gulps.

  Ravi is my closest friend on the show. We met two months ago, when we arrived in Los Angeles as quarterfinalists. All quarterfinalists were the winners of their regional competition. I had the highest score out of everyone competing in the entire northwest region of the United States, where I live. Ravi won in Texas, which is so large it’s considered its own region. Even though I made it to quarterfinals, I was terrified. Not only because I was away from home, but also because I was about to spend the next four Saturdays powering through obstacle courses and hoping to score high enough to make semifinals. And if I made semifinals, I’d have to do it all over again to make it to the finals. I also knew that, unlike regionals, the courses would be filmed in front of a live studio audience and eventually aired for millions of people to watch on television. Ravi and I walked in the studio door at the same time, wearing the same nervous look. He told me I seemed as lost as he did, so he was going to follow me and hope for the best. I told him that was a terrible idea. We’ve been friends ever s
ince.

  Even though Warrior Zone is a competition and only one person will win, Ravi and I help each other along the way. We each cheer the other on as we run the obstacle course. We give each other tips on how to do better next time. We make sure the other one has a bottle of water after their run.

  Of the six of us in semifinals, most of us are friendly toward each other. But one guy, Paul, isn’t friendly to anyone. He rarely talks with other contestants, and if he does, it’s usually to say something mean. If there is anyone I want to lose, it’s Paul.

  A group of set hands comes through and gets each of us ready to be on camera. One takes my helmet and straightens my ponytail. She wipes the sweat off my forehead with a towel, then sprays my face with a watery mist. When this happened after my first quarterfinal course, I asked why she bothered drying me off if she was just going to spray me down. She smiled and explained, “We don’t want you to sweat, we want you to glow. Looks better on camera.” That day I learned that even though this is an athletic competition, it’s first and foremost a television show. And on any TV show, the people on screen have to look good.

  The lights dim over the studio and a spotlight lands on me and the other contestants. An announcer’s voice booms over speakers: “Ladies and Gentleman. The time has come to learn the results of the Warrior Zone semifinals. You know what this means. The three warriors that rank highest will go on to compete in the Warrior Zone finals for a chance to win the coveted title of America’s Ultimate Warrior. The three warriors that rank lowest? Well . . . we all know what happens to them.”

  We contestants certainly know what happens to them. It isn’t pretty.

  All of us link arms and wish each other luck. All of us except Paul. He looks over at the five of us and snorts, “Luck has nothing to do with it, losers.”

  The spotlight on us changes to swirling, colorful strobe lights. “In third place, with seven hundred and forty-four points, from Providence, Rhode Island, Paul Pierce!”

  The crowd goes wild. I groan internally. The swirling lights settle on Paul who flashes a huge smile and waves at the cameras. He looks so friendly when the cameras are on. Only the other contestants know that he’s not really like that in real life.

  Paul steps out of the circle and onto one of the three winners’ blocks. Now there are only two spots left for finalists. Ravi and I share a nervous look.

  “In second place,” booms the announcer, “with eight hundred and twelve points, from Austin, Texas, Ravi Murthy!”

  The crowd erupts in cheers. I turn to Ravi with wide eyes. We grab arms and jump up and down together. I shove him out of the circle, and he joins Paul on the winners’ blocks.

  The crowd goes quiet. The only sound I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. There is only one more winner’s block. Will it be mine?

  Finally, the announcer comes back over the speaker. His next sentence seems to take forever. “In first place, with a record-breaking time of four minutes and seventeen seconds, and a total score of one thousand and thirty points, this year’s only female heading into the finals, from Portland, Oregon, the one, the only, Fiona Chu!”

  Everything shifts into slow motion. I see faces smiling, hands clapping, and people cheering from all directions. My legs move me out of the circle and onto the tallest winner’s block. I did it! I am going to the finals. I’m one step closer to being a champion.

  “Congratulations to our finalists,” the announcer hollers over the excited audience. “Unfortunately our last three warriors didn’t make it to the finals. They don’t get to leave the circle. They are, say it with me, Looo-serrrs.”

  The audience chants with him. “Lo-sers, Lo-sers, Lo-sers!” The chanting builds. I watch the three contestants left in the circle look away from the cameras, bracing for what comes next. Seconds later gallons of dark green, sticky slime rain down over them. The red circle is now hidden under the sticky goop, but no amount of slime can hide the humiliation on the three contestants’ faces. I wish I could say I feel safe on the winner’s block, but if I’m not careful in the finals, I could end up in the circle getting sludged and shamed in front of the entire country. I smile for the cameras, but in the background, I can still hear the audience chanting, “Lo-sers, Lo-sers, Lo-sers.”

  Chapter

  2

  That night, I fly home to Portland. I spend the next few days resting up for what is about to be the toughest four days of my life. The quarterfinal and semifinal rounds each consisted of four obstacle courses—there was one every Saturday, so I had a week to rest in between each course. But there will be no rest during the finals. The final round begins on Thursday with the first obstacle course, followed by three days with a different, harder course each day. At the end of the fourth day, our scores will be added up to determine who wins the prize money and title of Ultimate Warrior.

  I spend Sunday and Monday exercising just enough to stay limber. I don’t want to overdo it or my body will be too tired. Tuesday night I am back on a plane to Los Angeles.

  A van shuttles me from the airport to the upscale hotel I’ve been staying in. This has been my home this summer for the past eight weekends, during quarterfinals and semifinals, and it will be my home for the next five days until the competition is over. I arrive in my huge room, brush my teeth, text my parents goodnight, then climb under the luxury sheets and fall asleep.

  ***

  The next morning, I brace myself for a long day of madness. The producers of the show want the audience to get to know the finalists better, so the entire day will be spent doing photo shoots and interviews on the sound stage. The producers call them the Within the Warrior segments.

  I spend an hour in hair and makeup. I’m used to doing my own hair and makeup for gymnastics competitions, but this is way more involved. All I would do for gymnastics was slick my hair up in a bun and slap on bold eye shadow. But today, I have professionals blowing out my hair and applying all kinds of fancy makeup. It takes Ravi and Paul half the time because they basically just get their faces powdered and hair brushed.

  Despite the extra makeup, the photo shoot is a lot of fun. They want each of us to show our individual athletic skills, so they’ve built a small obstacle course on the sound stage for us to pose in. I choose a foam beam and display my walkover and handsprings. The photographer gets an amazing shot of Ravi, a track star, hurdling over the beam. Paul climbs a bouldering wall one-handed, then hangs from his hold upside down, like a monkey. He has no problem showing off.

  But when the cameras cut, Paul’s smile fades. “Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts,” he says to me and Ravi, sneering. Ravi wants to spit something back, but I shoot him a look that says don’t bother.

  Next are our interviews. Ravi and I listen as Paul pretends to be sweet and innocent. “Why do you think you have what it takes to be the Ultimate Warrior, Paul?” the interviewer asks.

  Paul smiles shyly, bowing his head and raising his eyes. He looks like a puppy, I think in disgust. “When I began this journey, I didn’t know if I had what it takes,” Paul responds. “There were so many amazing athletes from all over the country competing. I was overwhelmed. But then I surprised myself by winning regionals and making it past each round.”

  The interviewer smiles at Paul. “Your humility is so refreshing. Most athletes of your caliber have none.”

  “I used to be like that, before the accident.”

  “Of course. You were in a car accident two years ago.”

  “Two broken legs, a damaged spinal cord. The doctors didn’t know if I would live, let alone climb again.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Here I am. And I’m just so grateful to be here, I don’t take anything for granted anymore.”

  “Would you be grateful even if you lost?”

  Paul pauses. Inside the real Paul must be thinking, Of course not. I want to destroy everyone and prove I’m the best. But loveable, on-camera Paul can’t say that. I lean in more. I can’t wait to hear what he
’s going to say.

  “Every step I take is an achievement, and, I hope, an inspiration to those watching. But I do want to win. I think winning would show the world that, no matter how low you start, you can achieve anything.”

  “Thank you, Paul. That was very moving. Best of luck in the zone.”

  “Thank you so much for listening.”

  The camera cuts and the interviewer wipes a tear away from her eye. “Are you serious?” I groan under my breath.

  “The guy is good—real good,” Ravi whispers. “That’ll be a tough act to follow.”

  “Why do you sound so impressed by him?”

  “Because he knows how to play the game.”

  “The game is an obstacle course.”

  “Don’t be naive, Fiona. Look around. Cameras. All this.” He points to my shining, over-styled hair. “It’s not just about the course. It’s also about how we look and sound—what people think about us matters.”

  “Sure, a little, but—”

  “Not a little.” He sighs and turns away. “It’s crucial to be likeable, and Paul is a master.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t mean you have to lie. Paul is hiding who he is. You’re a likeable guy because you’re honest and nice to others. If people don’t like you for who you are, then they’re the losers, not you.”

  Ravi nods. “You’re right. You’re totally right.”

  We bump fists, then a set hand leads Ravi to the interview chair. On the way, they pass Paul, who ignores Ravi like he’s invisible and leaves the set.

  Ravi does great. He’s charming, relaxed, and able to make the interviewer laugh at all his jokes. He speaks about his parents. How they came to America from India as poor students and have worked very hard to provide for him and his younger sister. How, even though they work long hours, they attend every event he participates in—track meets, math competitions, choir concerts—to support him. Ravi tells the interviewer he wants to win Warrior Zone to make his parents proud and to show them that all their work and support has made a difference in his life. The interviewer may have wiped a tear away for Paul, but after Ravi she needs a box of tissues.