He pauses before he answers, his eyes clinging to mine. “That wasn’t meant as an insult, Robin.”
“So I’m supposed to be flattered?”
He keeps his tone spongy and calm, like an NPR announcer. “It was just an observation. You asked me what I thought and I told you.”
Five moves his head back and forth, between Nick and me, following our exchange. I sigh, knowing I can’t do this here. I probably shouldn’t do this at all. If only there was some over-the-counter pill I could take that would counteract my hurt feelings. I’d call it Thera-Blue.
Eleven must have finished his cigarette, because the security guard motions for us to start walking. I turn around to go and Five walks ahead. Nick and I are now out of earshot of everyone else. I pivot step in front of him and throw away any subtly I might possess.
“Do you regret kissing me?”
He pauses, sighs, and shakes his head no.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Then why are you acting so weird?”
“Because I’m weird.” He nervously rubs his thumb’s fingernail with his index finger on the same hand. “My life is weird. I don’t know how to handle something like this.”
I knit my eyebrows together. “Something like what?”
He looks past my shoulder, and sees that everyone has gone inside. The security guard is holding the door open for us and we need to move.
Fingers straight, he drops his hand to his side. “Look, I like you. But can we wait until after jury duty to have this conversation?”
Standing there face to face, my eyes are directly across from his forehead. Absurdly, it occurs to me that were I ever to take him to a wedding I couldn’t wear heels. But I never wear heels anyway. “Sure, why not?” I punch him jokingly in the shoulder to show there are no hard feelings and I move out of his way so we can walk together inside.
But before I do, he reaches out, grabs my hand and squeezes for the briefest of moments while simultaneously staring into my eyes. My heart flutters as our fingers touch. Then we let go and the moment is over.
“I’ll also give you a detailed rundown of my thoughts about the show last night,” Nick says.
“Thanks, but no.”
He gives me his crooked smile and his voice turns gravelly. “What? You were great.”
We’re inside now and the security guard has closed the door behind us. We catch up to everyone at the service elevator.
Nick addresses the group. “Who all watched The Holdout last night? Wasn’t Robin great?”
“Oh my God,” says Two. “I was saying that before. It was the best episode of The Holdout ever. Dude, I thought she’d freak out at the end! That’s good television.”
“Thank you?” I offer.
Six pats my shoulder in her maternal way. “You were very impressive. I really don’t know how you didn’t crack from all the stress.”
“I thought I did crack.”
“Only sort of,” says Two. “I mean, you didn’t go all…” she shakes her head violently and bugs her eyes out. “…crazy, crazy. You know?”
“Sure.”
“I thought she went a little crazy,” says Five to Two. Then he talks to me. “But you weren’t terrible. I mean, it was sort of justified.”
Nick is laughing, and I kick him in the heel as a thank you for bringing up the show. The elevator arrives and we get on.
Two, Five, and Six continue to debate my sanity but I only sort of listen. I know what my mental state was. I remember all too well.
§
After Joe read the final vote they turned off the cameras. “We need to set up the fire challenge!” Joe yelled. “We have a tie.” He sighed, exasperated that his workday had been extended, and addressed the cast. “Just a moment, you guys. We need to set up the challenge.” He condemned us with his voice, since clearly we were to blame for this inconvenience.
The crew came out with piles of sticks and rocks. They formed two large circles with the rocks and put the stick bundles in the middle of each. A foot or so above each fire pit they stretched and tied a thin rope between two stakes. We sat and watched.
I was next to Grant, close enough for him to hear my whisper. “You have no ethics at all, do you?”
He whipped his head towards me. “You can’t be serious. I said I was going to vote you out. I didn’t lie. You’re the one with no ethics, pretending to still be into me so I’d change my vote.”
My voice shook though I was hissing. “But it wasn’t a lie in the beginning! Unlike you, I didn’t make up my feelings just to get ahead in the game.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “What show do you think you’re on? This isn’t The Bachelor. If all you’re doing is looking for a boyfriend than you’re playing the wrong game.”
“Okay,” Joe yelled. “We’re set. Let’s go!” Everyone sat up straight again, the cameras turned back on, and Joe resumed. “Tonight, as a tie-breaker, you will perform in a challenge.” Joe waited for the weight of his words to sink in before he continued. “Robin. Grant. You will both be tasked with starting a fire.”
Inside I could already feel flames and they were scorching me. Nothing would feel better than to win and see Grant’s torch snuffed out.
“The first person whose flame burns through the rope above their fire pit gets to stay. The loser will be out of the game. Understand?”
Grant and I nodded. Cameras followed us as we went and knelt in front of our prospective pits. They had provided us with flint, tinder, and kindling. This should be easy enough, I thought.
“You never had a chance in this game without me,” Grant mumbled. “You’re dead weight. And you sure as hell don’t have a chance against me. You’re nothing but a joke and you should bow out now.”
Hearing him voice my worst fears switched me into fuming mode. “Shut up!” I yelled. Everyone – cast, crew, and Joe Pine, all stared at me.
“He was saying mean things to me under his breath,” I explained. “He was trying to undermine me.”
Grant laughed his charming, nice guy laugh and innocently widened his teddy-bear eyes. “All I did was wish her luck. I said, 'may the best castaway win.'”
My anger spiraled out. “That is such a lie! He is such a liar. He told me I was dead weight.”
“No I didn’t! I would never say that. She’s the one who’s trying to shake me.”
“Okay, okay.” said Joe. “Robin, Grant, your only course of action here is to compete and win. Are you ready?”
We nodded. The challenge began.
I picked up the sticks and formed them into a teepee shape with the tinder in the middle and kindle on the outside, using the strategy I learned years ago in Girl Scouts. Once everything was in place I grabbed the flint but it slid through my fingers because my hands were slick with sweat. I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on my leggings, and picked up the flint again. I could literally feel the cords in my neck bulging. I scrunched my shoulders and leaned into where a big piece of thin bark was sticking out. I bit down on my lip as I rubbed my flint together – one, two, five times before a flame ignited. Quickly I brought down the flame to make contact with the bark and it caught fire. My teeth released their grip on my lower lip and in doing so I could taste blood. But it didn’t matter.
I allowed myself to look over at Grant. His sticks had caught fire, but he had kept out a piece of bark to fan the flames. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I hastily took off my t-shirt and used that as a fan.
“Is she allowed to do that?” Grant asked Joe.
“She is,” said Joe.
Grant and I both furiously shook our arms, up and down, up and down, willing our fires to grow higher. At one point a stick of mine fell, so I reached in to replace it. As I did I singed my hand, but I pushed away the sensation of smoldering flesh.
And then there was a gust of wind. Although it seems implausible, I swear this is true: the same gust somehow managed to simultaneously extinguish my fire while it caused Grant’s fire to flourish. While my fl
ame struggled to be anything more than smoke, Grant’s flame leaped and jumped, giving birth to several little baby flames, which then quickly conjoined into one, rope-destructive fire that was a force to be reckoned with.
“No!” I yelled as I saw my flames turn to ashes.
Meanwhile, Grant’s blaze burned right through the rope above it.
“And Grant wins the challenge!”
My bloody lip was throbbing and my hand was screaming for a splash of cold water. But neither was as painful as the smug look on Grant’s face as he laughed in victory.
“That is so unfair!” I heard myself yell, but I don’t remember making a conscious decision to say it. “It was the wind. He got lucky with the wind.”
Joe remained unchanged. “I’m sorry, Robin. But it’s time for you to go.”
I brought my smarting hand to my lips and sucked on it. Tears were streaming down my face, and suddenly I became aware that I was clothed only in my sports bra and leggings. With a thousand washings the shirt would still stink like old cheese, so I tossed it into the dead fire pit and grabbed my torch.
I sniffed as I walked past everyone, trying to regain my composure. “Now you really can’t give up,” I said to Henry.
“You’re a sore loser, Robin,” said Klemi.
I didn’t dignify that with a response. My heart felt like it was being squeezed through a garlic press, and I turned to the jury so they would understand. “Grant is a bastard,” I gasped. “I hope you all just saw what really happened here. He doesn’t deserve to win.”
“Robin.” Joe’s voice was strict, meant to quiet me down. He gestured for me to approach and holdout my torch. I did as ordered, but I was a bloody, burning, shirtless, crying wreck.
“Robin, the tribe has decreed. You’re out.”
He snuffed out my torch. This was my cue to leave quietly with my head held high. But I couldn’t follow the script. I tried to stay silent, like the stoic, levelheaded lady I had set out to be, but my physical and emotional injuries came shrieking through even as I struggled to repress them.
“No,” I said to Joe. “They didn’t decree anything. I got two votes. Two votes! How am I out?”
“Robin.” Joe said my name like I was a disobedient child and he was the disciplinarian.
I didn’t recognize my own arms as I swung them wildly and pointed to the jury. “I never received a vote from any of them!” My voice was coming from the bottom of my stomach, and it was deep, like a pool of quicksand. “I never got any votes at all, until tonight. And it was a tie, and the wind helped Grant win.” Behind me Grant was snickering and I thought my brain would explode, leaving a mealy, bloody residue all over the pristine bamboo set and Joe Pine’s unwrinkled shirt. All the hunger, thirst, sleep deprivation, loneliness, and stress erupted inside of me and came out in one huge clump of crazy. I threw my torch brutally to the ground and grabbed the front of Joe’s blue safari shirt, pulling him towards me. “Explain to me how anything was decreed, Joe. Explain it to me now. There was no majority. I want a do-over and I’m not leaving until I get one!”
Joe blinked rapidly and gulped heavily. Was he worried that I might hurt him or that I’d muss up his outfit? I heard someone clear his throat, and then Joe was looking off to the side, over my shoulder, making eyes with someone on the crew. “No, that’s okay,” he said to the cameraman. “We’re fine here.” Joe put one hand on each of my shoulders and pushed me back with vigilant restraint. “There are no do-overs, Robin. And I’m decreeing it. You’re out.”
I sighed and looked up. A mass of stars occupied the sky, and here I was, less than a millionth of a blip in the immense universe. Recited lines from college acting classes jogged through my mind: star-crossed, the fault is in our stars; it is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. I already knew about destiny and what a bitch she can be. Although my face was tilted upwards, tears were streaming down, and I understood it was time to go.
“Fine,” I whispered. I turned back one more time and met eyes with Henry. He gave me a sad smile and a wave. “Good luck, Henry.”
Then I walked away.
§
Back in the jury room Four has gotten her projector. She says she uses one just like it in her classroom at school, so she’s operating it now and basically running the show. Our foreman doesn’t seem to mind.
“Okay, so I think the judge’s note answered everyone’s questions, right? Now we need to decide if we agree with the first claim. Were the boats damaged upon receipt?” Four has the judge’s instructions projected up on the screen, and she points to the first claim.
“Yes,” says Nick. He’s sitting at the table with his arms stretched out and his hands clasped.
I push my chair forward and lean over Five to talk to Nick. “How can you say that? They were obviously damaged by the way they were stored.”
“Right,” says One. His chair is back, and he sits at the head of the table, closest to the door, with his legs crossed. “The boats weren’t treated well. I don’t see how we can award the Smythes anything.”
“You can’t be sure about that,” says Nick.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “In civil cases the burden of proof is on the plaintiff. If we're not sure then Potenza still wins.”
Six shakes her head. “But that’s far too simplistic. There was obviously something shady about these boats, and I don’t believe it was only because they were stored incorrectly.”
Four clears her throat. “Maybe we should vote on the first claim? Just to see where we all stand?”
My jaw clenches and I turn deliberately towards One. “What do you think, foreman? Should we all vote?”
He shakes his head as if coming out of a fog. “Oh. Okay.”
We vote. Ten jurors vote yes, and two jurors (One and myself) vote no.
“So we’re right back to where we were.” Eleven taps his fingers against the table, then gets up and looks out the window.
Nick slaps the table and addresses me directly. “Look. If we say no on this, then the Smythes get nothing. We’re done. Do you really think that’s fair?”
“I don’t think the boats were stored right.”
Nick’s normally pinkish cheeks turn a deeper red. He throws his arms up in the air. “I don’t either! And we can give the Smythes next to nothing in damages. But come on, Robin. Look at the evidence.” He grabs the exhibit notebook and flips through its pages. He stops when he finds what he’s looking for, holds it up and points. “One of the boats that sank was sent directly to its final owner, and they stored it and maintained it flawlessly. Still it sank after only six months.”
“Okay, that’s one boat. We should make Potenza pay for all the boats because of one damaged one?”
“The other boats were damaged too,” says Four. “The expert testimony proved it.”
“Potenza had experts too,” I say.
“Yeah, I didn’t like their experts,” says Two. “One of them looked like a drugged-out Nick Nolte.”
“How is that relevant?” I demand.
“They were sleazy,” says Six. “My gut is telling me to trust the Smythes’ expert witnesses more.”
“You can’t go off your gut,” I tell her. Six tilts her blond head to the side and smoothes her sweater over her large bosom. My mom would be her age if she was still alive. I make my voice as benevolent as I can. “This isn’t about emotion, it’s about the facts. That’s the only thing we can base this off of.”
From across the table Two chortles. She’s wearing the same black hoodie that she’s worn every day of jury duty, and her dyed red hair is pulled back in the same ponytail. “You’re totally going off emotion,” she accuses me.
“No, I’m not.”
“Sure you are.” She coughs and her voice sounds throaty. “You’re still pissed that Grant beat you in The Holdout, and Silas Smythe reminds you of Grant. You’re prejudiced.”
I’m so shocked by what she says that a cloud passes over my vision and
I have to rub my eyes to return to reality. When I do, I’m still sitting across from Two and I still want to throttle her.
“You have no right to say that to me. Just because you watch The Holdout doesn’t make you an authority on how my mind works.”
She lowers her eyelids without closing them all the way and smirks. “I have a right to say what I think, and that’s what I think.”
“Yeah, and just what is going on between you and Silas Smythe anyway?” Four asks from her spot at the projector, like she’s the student council president addressing the class slut.
“Nothing! He saved me from tripping, that’s all.”
“You shouldn’t have been talking to him. Period.” Four brings her index finger and thumb together to draw a line in the air.
I look around the table for some sort of support, but I may as well be braless while running a marathon. One is practically asleep, looking off in the distance and then at his watch. So much for my alliance.
“Were you actually talking to Silas Smythe?” Nick asks me this. I squeeze my hands into tight little balls to keep my fingers from shaking.
“No. He talked to me.” I can feel my chest contracting, or perhaps my organs are growing; it doesn’t really matter because the effect is the same. I open my mouth and the words hobble out, bruised before they begin. “We were in an elevator together once, and he cleared this throat a lot and said ‘ladies first’ when it was time to get off. I didn’t say anything back. The other time was in the hallway when he kept me from tripping. He asked me if I was okay and I didn’t respond. It wasn’t a big deal. ”
Nick’s mouth hangs open. “If he was trying to influence you at all, then that is a big deal.”
“But it didn’t work. I wasn’t swayed by him.”
“No,” interjects Two, “you were swayed against him.” She points an accusatory finger at me. “You think Silas was trying to use you in the same way Grant did. You’re completely biased against Silas Smythe because of what he represents.”
The Holdout Page 18