Plotting to Win

by Tara Chevrestt

  And there it went. The easy camaraderie they’d just had going on disappeared. Did he have to be so callous? Why would he be such a jerk? What did she think she saw in this guy? Felicity blinked back tears and firmed her resolve as she pushed away from the railing. “No. They lived together, loved together, and they died together. Car crash. Drunk driver. Three years ago.”

  She didn’t stay outside to see his reaction, didn’t care what he thought. How would a guy like him understand that in her writing, she gave her parents a happy-ever-after over and over, time and time again?

  A man like that wouldn’t get it.

  Had she had the energy, she’d have slammed the sliding door to the balcony behind her.

  Chapter Five

  “Welcome to your first elimination challenge.” Ophelia’s suit was a soft yellow this time, but her gaze was just as hard as usual as she surveyed the contestants in front of her. “The winner of the query challenge, Tiffani, will be able to manipulate this challenge. Whoever does the worst on this challenge will be closing their manuscript and going home. One of you will continue on to become the next bestseller, 100,000 dollars richer, with a Bright House publishing contract in hand.”

  Do we have to listen to the same spiel every time? Victor shifted from one foot to the other. He guessed they had to explain everything in every episode for new viewers. It didn’t make it any less tiresome to hear though.

  “Your first elimination challenge is to write a 3,000 word short story to a sentence prompt. This will be judged by Allen Brown, Nicole Roberts, and myself, plus the viewers later in the week. The viewers’ votes on any stories penned through this show do not affect elimination, but the people’s top choice does help us determine the winner.” Ophelia paused, allowing this to sink in. “We will keep the viewers’ votes and comments in mind when the last challenge comes around.”

  There was a loud groan, and someone else sighed, but Victor nodded. He liked this idea. This contest should be about writing.

  “Each story must be in a certain genre. You will receive a piece of paper. On one side is the prompt. This sentence must be the sentence used to start your story, the very first. On the other side is the genre this story must be penned in. Tiffany, you will be allowed to assign the prompts slash genres to the authors of your choice.”

  “Oh shit,” he muttered. Tiffani was going to hang them all out to dry. She was going to give them genres they knew nothing about, making sure she rose to the top. But wouldn’t he do the same in her position?

  Tiffani was beaming as she accepted the little pieces of paper from Mr. Brown.

  “When you receive your paper, please read the prompt and the genre to us aloud,” Mr. Brown instructed.

  Victor tried to catch Felicity’s eye, but Carmen and Arnold stood between them. It was hard to believe, but she’d managed to skillfully avoid him since their conversation on the balcony, despite their confined space. He’d tried to talk to her after lights out, but after a few attempts at quietly hissing her name and her lying there with her back to him, he’d given up.

  He was an ass, and he was sorry. But when she talked about love and happy-ever-afters, he just couldn’t buy it. He’d watched his mother suffer, give her heart and body to man after man.

  “Victor,” she would say, a beatific smile stretching across her face, “this one is it. I know it. He’ll take care of us. You’ll see.”

  By the time he was fourteen, Victor knew the drill by heart. A handsome man entered the picture, swept his mama off her feet, spent her money, used her body, smacked him upside the head, and was gone, leaving tears and black eyes in his wake.

  Victor didn’t want to be like those men, but he knew nothing else.

  That was romance in real life.

  A piece of paper was shoved into his hand. Tiffani smirked at him as she moved on to the next person. He glanced down at the sentence in front of him.

  I loved him so much I would do anything for him, even …

  He cursed under his breath and flipped it over. Just as he feared, he had to write a romance. Ironic given his recent train of thoughts.

  Damn you, Tiffani!

  One by one, the contestants read off their sentences and genres. Carmen had historical, Arnold literary — poor kid — Roy had young adult, Felicity was assigned military — he wondered how she was going to throw a happy ending in that — Dez had women’s fiction — Victor had to laugh at that — and Tiffani, of course, had erotica.

  “You have five hours to retreat to your writers’ caves and pen a 3,000 word short story beginning with the sentence on your paper in the genre you’ve been assigned. This will test your writing skills. Your time starts … now,” Ophelia announced.

  I loved him so much I would do anything for him, even …

  Why, oh, why did he have to write from a woman’s point of view? This was the absolute worst and it was only the first elimination challenge. Victor tapped his pen against the hard tabletop as he stared at the blinking cursor on the empty white screen.

  Think like a woman … with dark skin, curly hair, pink lips.

  How is she doing on that military piece?

  He took a sip of coffee and tried to focus. The machine to his right made a gurgling sound. From next door came only silence. He supposed it was a good sign Felicity wasn’t cursing and throwing things yet. Wait … good sign? Surely, he meant bad. Didn’t he want her eliminated so he could win?

  He really needed to talk to her, to apologize and explain. Growing up, he’d never seen love. His father had left when he was three, and his mother had raised him singlehandedly.

  She didn’t need to know the rest of it.

  Romance and happy-ever-afters just weren’t something he believed in.

  I loved him so much I would do anything for him, even …

  The cursor winked at him. The coffee machine gurgled. Pained brown eyes haunted him.

  Victor ran a hand through his hair and swallowed a curse.

  And then it came to him.

  I loved him so much I would do anything for him, even … commit the worst crime known to man for him. For in the name of true love, I killed a man.

  A smile spread across his face as his fingers began flying over the keys.

  I got this.

  The black curtains swished open simultaneously. “Time’s up. Fingers off keyboards now. Select print and head on up to the loft. We’ll call you back when we’ve assessed your stories.”

  Felicity sighed and stretched as far as she could in the daybed. With a yawn, she cast one last longing glance at the short — too short — project in front of her and hit print.

  She wasn’t used to writing pieces so short. Once she’d gotten the idea and put the words to the page, she’d gotten carried away. It was painful to go back and find ways to delete 800 words, but they’d said 3,000, so she was sticking to that. Well, to 3,004 actually. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a penalty for going over by four. It was either that or leave out a few crucial thes or ofs somewhere and that would warrant a poor editing critique.

  “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but if you’re like the rest of us, you’re way too wound up already.” Victor’s voice washed over her like a tidal wave on a hot day, leaving goose bumps on her flesh. She stood and walked toward him. Heat radiated off his body. She wanted to take a step back, but she did need to leave the room. It was past time for a change of scenery.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured and stepped to the right, going around him. A hand on her elbow stopped her. Her first instinct was to demand he not touch her, but he wasn’t gripping her in a threatening manner. Matter of fact, he was barely touching her. His fingertips just felt as though they were searing her flesh.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “I know it’s coming a bit late, but you’ve been pretty evasive. I just want to say I’m sorry about your parents, and I’m sorry for being heartless. I have no excuse. I’m just a jackass sometimes.”

  Wow. Felicity didn’t know what to say
. She was shocked he had the courage to admit he was a jackass, let alone say he was sorry. Against her will, her lips curled up. The man was getting past her defenses, that was for sure. “Apology accepted. Maybe I can change your mind about happy-ever-afters.” Together, they walked toward the stairs, side by side, with skin brushing skin.

  Where did that come from? Did she want to change his mind?

  His chest seemed to deflate — with relief? — as he smiled back. His eyes appeared sincere. Then he grinned at her, flashing those dimples once again. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Was he flirting with her? Felicity’s heart sped up as they climbed the stairs.

  “Well, I knew you wanted to throw her off her game, but looks like you’re taking it to extremes.” Tiffani smirked at them from where she leaned against the doorway at the top. “‘Course, they don’t say anything in the rules about not flirting with each other.”

  Quickly, as though burned, Victor removed his hand from Felicity’s elbow.

  “Hey. You got this all wrong. I was —”

  “Throw me off my game? Is this something you two have talked about?” Felicity didn’t let Victor finish. She stepped away from him and glanced from his guilty face to Tiffani’s almost-falling-out-of-her-top cleavage. It just drew the eye.

  “We partnered up,” Tiffani said, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

  “We did not. Well, not like —”

  “Save it.” Felicity raised her hand, shook her head, and turned away, seeking her seat inside.

  Just when she thought McHottie was becoming McNice, she got a slap in the face. Sometimes she doubted happy-ever-afters really existed at all.

  “So, Dez, does that toilet down there flush?” Arnold broke the awkward silence looming between the group as they lounged in what had become their respective places: Tiffani at one end of the sofa, Felicity at the other, Victor and Arnold at the table, and the rest in armchairs placed about.

  Felicity joined in the chuckles. It was great to lighten the mood of impending doom. She couldn’t help but wonder who was going home and if she could take their seat or their writing cave. The thought sent a wave of guilt over her, but she reminded herself this was a competition. It wasn’t about making friends. But in the few days she’d been around them, some of them were already growing on her — namely lanky and silly Arnold and poor Roy. He had very little to say, but he was so polite when he did.

  There was Victor — he wasn’t growing on her at all. Of course not!

  “How about you, Felicity?”

  “What?” She started from her musings and tried to focus on Dez. “I’m sorry? I missed the question.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him. “How do you feel you did?”

  “Well, I had a hard time keeping it short. I went over and had to go back and do extensive editing, but I did my best, considering the topic.”

  “I think I’m doomed,” Arnold confessed. “I mean, literary? I had to Google that!”

  “Oh, that’s not good, man.” Dez shook his head. “But I doubt I did better. Women’s fiction.” He winced. “Good ‘ole Tiff here just gave herself what she was comfortable with. Not learning much, are we?”

  Tiffani glared at him and twirled a strand of hair around her finger so hard Felicity once again marveled the woman had any fingers left. “You would have done the same thing. You’ll throw me under a bus first chance you get.”

  “Let’s not fight. You all just feed the stupid drama.” Carmen was sprawled in her chair with one leg hanging over the arm. “This is a contest. There’s 100,000 dollars at stake. Don’t be fools. We’ll all throw each other under a bus for that dough. Glaring and snarking won’t change the outcome.”

  “Says the girl who lied on her query.” Dez laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

  “If you have to psych people out in order to win, you’re a shit writer,” Carmen retorted. “I’m not playing your games. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to get everyone all riled up so they’ll start making mistakes, ‘cause you can’t win based on your writing alone.”

  Before things could get more heated, Nicole Roberts appeared in the doorway. “Come hear what the judges have to say.”

  Ophelia stared at them, hard, from behind the giant desk. “Your assignment was to write a 3,000 word short story in a specific genre with the first sentence being the sentence on your paper.”

  There was the sound of shuffling. Someone sniffled. Sweat pooled under Felicity’s armpits.

  “Many of you excelled. Some of you did not. As the result of this challenge, one of you will be closing up your manuscript and going home.”

  Was Victor as nervous as she was? She dared not look at him from the corner of her eye. She shuddered to think of the cameras having caught her looking at him before. It was so easy to forget they were being filmed.

  “Carmen.”

  Carmen stepped forward and gave a nod.

  Nicole picked up a sheet of paper and aimed her gaze at the women’s fiction writer. “Your assignment was historical. You wrote a short story about a suffragette being thrown in jail for picketing the white house. I must say I am amazed at your piece. There are some grammatical mistakes, but that’s to be expected with a rough draft. You did go over a bit in wordage, but only by forty words. I like how you made it authentic by making the clothes and setting so accurate. Well done. My only quibble is you didn’t really use lingo from those times. Their dialect has a very modern feel. A little research into the speech patterns of that time would have helped there. But great piece.”

  “Thank you.” Carmen beamed.

  “Victor,” Allen Brown called.

  “Yo.”

  “Like Carmen, you tied in your genre of choice to this. Your assignment was romance, and I’m surprised you pulled this off. You stuck to the word count well, just falling short about nine words. You penned a short story of a woman committing a murder to cover up the misdeeds of her lover. While not what I would normally choose for this topic, I’m amazed that I actually feel the passion coming off the page. The woman seems almost insane in her love for him. Excellent job. Do you mind telling us where this idea came from?”

  “Real life, sir. It’s based on a story I covered with the paper.”

  “Very good. You really captured the scene and woman’s madness.”

  Felicity fought the urge to scream. Killing a man out of love was not real romance!

  “Arnold,” Nicole announced.

  “Yep.”

  “What happened here? What is this?”

  “Um, literary?”

  “You go on and on for almost two thousand words about a tree.”

  Whoa. The woman looked outright disgusted. Felicity actually wanted to take a step back. She could only imagine how Arnold felt.

  “Well, literary is really boring,” Arnold mumbled, his head down.

  “Yes, it’s boring when not done properly. I have no words. Literary is serious work, interesting, complex. Granted, your first sentence was about leaves, but the entire story … describing a tree? You have no beginning or end, no plot.”

  “I wasn’t able to finish. I would have, could have put something more.”

  “No excuses. This piece could very well get you sent home.”

  Arnold looked about to cry as he retreated back to the line.

  “Dez.”

  Dez stepped forward.

  Mr. Brown peered down at him. “You had women’s fiction. The writing is stellar, but you went over the wordage by 500 words. That’s too much. You came up with a good piece involving a woman having a mishap in the mall while searching for the perfect pink shoes. It’s funny and it works. You do have a problem with overuse of passive voice though.”

  “Thank you?” Dez made it sound like a question.

  “Whoa. Wait a minute.” Carmen stepped forward, her stance angry. “He puts a woman in the mall and that’s just automatically considered stellar women’s fict
ion? Can you say sexist?”

  “She bought some pink shoes too.” Dez laughed.

  “You—”

  “Miss Montez, this is a time for judging and you are interrupting the procedures. Save your spats for upstairs. If I have to have you removed, it’s an automatic disqualification,” Ophelia stated smoothly, the glint in her eyes daring Carmen to argue.

  “Felicity,” Ms. Roberts called, tapping a pen against the desktop.

  Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, Felicity stepped forward.

  “Your assigned genre was military. You managed to tie your preferred genre into this much like Carmen and Victor did.”

  The woman’s facial expression bore no indication of what was to come. Was that a good thing? A bad thing? Had she not stepped enough out of her comfort zone to impress them?

  “Very good job. Spot on for the word count, and you took the time to edit it. The only issue I see is some head-hopping, but that’s up to a publishing house. I love how you did this. It’s short but sweet. He’s on the battlefield and sees a shooting star at the same time she does, thousands of miles away. Their thoughts and fears and the love they feel for each other really comes off the page. Again, great job.”

  Felicity wanted to ask what a head-hop was, but bit her tongue. Yes, she was here to hone her craft, but the time for questions would come later. “Thank you, Ms. Roberts,” she choked out before stepping back into the line, wiping her sweaty palms on her slacks again. Though she felt her piece was definitely better than poor Arnold’s, nervousness over being eliminated — maybe over the head-hopping issue — still had her feeling antsy.

  “Roy.” Mr. Brown took this one.

  “Yes, sir!” Roy saluted and stood straight.

  “Your assignment was young adult. You wrote about a boy’s first day at basic training and left us in suspense as to whether or not he would stay enlisted. I like the story, but you have a serious problem with run-on sentences and what’s with the big words? Who are you trying to impress? A sixteen-year-old boy won’t know what half of these words mean.”