by Megan Atwood
Copyright © 2016 by Megan Atwood
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Atwood, Megan.
Stay in the game / by Megan Atwood.
pages cm. — (The contest ; 1)
Summary: Desperate for money to pay for an experimental treatment that could save his ill grandfather’s life, high school senior James enters a mysterious contest that will award the winner ten million dollars.
ISBN 978-1-4677-7506-9 (lb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4677-8101-5
(pb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4677-8831-1 (eb pdf : alk. paper)
[1. Contests—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Orphans—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.A8952Sr 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2015003988
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 12/31/15
eISBN: 978-1-46778-831-1 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-51240-497-5 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-51240-495-1 (mobi)
To my parents, always.
CHAPTER 1
DING. The sound of a new email woke James up. Groaning, he rolled over and looked at his phone. 2:30 a.m. showed blurrily through the cracked screen. Way too early. Probably just junk mail. He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Two seconds later, though, his eyes flew open. He wondered if it was the hospital—more bad news for him and his grandpa. Or maybe someone was finally following up with him about a job application . . .
He jumped out of bed, heart pounding. He could barely see on his phone, so he moved to his ancient computer and jiggled the mouse. The screen lit up. There it was, one new message. Sent from someone named “Benefactor.”
He took a deep breath. Of course it wasn’t the hospital. Or any of the places he’d been applying for jobs. None of those places would send an email. Especially not at 2:30 in the morning.
Like he always did in the middle of the night, he listened for his grandpa’s breathing. The hiss and hum of the oxygen machine told him things were okay. He exhaled and tried to get his heart rate down.
“Thanks a lot, Benefactor.” Still, he read the first line in the email preview. He squinted to make sure he was seeing it right.
This message is for James Trudeleau, senior at Cleveland High School in East St. Paul. We have . . .
The preview cut off. James wavered between his bed and the computer desk. He could reach out an arm in either direction and touch both things. He stared at the ceiling for a minute and then gave in. He was up. He might as well read the rest of the message. It was probably just some stupid company trying to sell him something. Like he could afford to buy anything. Ever.
He said to no one, “Barking up the wrong tree, guys.” But he sat back down anyway and clicked open the message. He squinted again. He really needed glasses. But that was the least of the health problems in the Trudeleau household, so he would just hold off.
This message is for James Trudeleau, senior at Cleveland High School in East St. Paul. We have a proposition for you. You have been selected to participate in a contest. We will give you ten tasks to complete. Each task is worth $1 million. If you complete all ten, you will be awarded the full $10 million. If you do not complete all ten, you will be awarded nothing. If you do not complete the ten tasks before someone else finishes the contest, you will be awarded nothing.
If you wish to participate, you can sign the contract at the website below.
James’s eyes skimmed over the URL. He kept reading.
More information will be given once you sign. You have two days to decide.
We want to express our sympathy for your grandfather’s illness. We understand that a new experimental treatment could save his life, but his health insurance will not cover it. Think about our offer.
The Benefactor
James sat back in the chair, sweat beads multiplying down his back. How did they know all this about him? What was this?
The computer screen glowed in his dark room. The only other light came from the lamppost outside the apartment building. A shadow crossed the light, and James stood up fast, almost knocking the chair over. He crawled on his bed to the window and peeked out, down two stories to the street lamp.
A figure stood by the lamppost, leaning against it. James couldn’t see much except that the person wore dark pants and a dark shirt. He shivered. This person couldn’t be watching him, right? This had to be just a coincidence. He was being paranoid. The email was just a scam or a prank . . .
He went to the computer again and turned it off. The ancient thing whirred and clicked like an old-time movie projector. He crawled into his bed again but couldn’t resist looking out the window. Whoever had been standing there was gone, and James heaved a sigh of relief. Just get some sleep. With school tomorrow, he needed as much rest as he could get.
He was about to lie back down when a fluttering on the lamppost caught his eye. Some kind of banner was attached to the post. A slight breeze picked it up and showed the banner at a new angle. Now he could actually read what it said.
James. We’re waiting.
James slammed his body back against the wall, heart racing yet again. Seconds ticked by. Maybe minutes. When he was calm enough, he peeked around the window again.
The banner was gone.
CHAPTER 2
After four hours of tossing and turning, James heard his grandfather’s call.
“Doodle, come help me up.” The hissing of the oxygen machine stuttered a little, and James knew his grandpa had sat up.
He threw on some shorts and a T-shirt and headed across the hall to his grandpa’s bedroom. “Gramps, I keep telling you not to call me that.”
James tried to give him his best stern look, but the twinkle in his grandpa’s eye always made him smile. His grandpa said, “Who’s my little doodle-ums?” And then laughed a big laugh, phlegmy and wheezy. Like all his laughs, it ended in a coughing fit. And he laughed a lot. Especially at the nickname that used to embarrass James so much.
For the past eight years, James’s grandpa had managed to make him smile about just about anything. Whether James was freaking out about school or a girl or some fight he’d had with friends. And when James worried about how they’d afford next week’s groceries. Or just when he was missing his mom and dad, which was practically all the time . . . his grandpa always knew how to make him smile. And to make him feel safe.
Even when he could barely breathe and was strapped into an oxygen tank.
When his grandpa’s body stopped convulsing from the cough, James handed him a tissue. Bright red blood spotted it, but James pretended not to see it. Still, he felt the familiar drop in his stomach. “Gramps, you have to quit cracking yourself
up.”
His grandpa leaned hard on James’s shoulder and stood up. “Oh, who cares about life if there’s no laughter?” He put his hand on James’s face and smiled big. “You’re such a good boy, James. Helping an old man like me. Your mom and dad would be proud. I know you’ll go far. I just wish I could be alive to see it.”
His grandpa was saying things like this more often now. Big, sweeping statements about how he wouldn’t be alive much longer. James didn’t think he could take it. First his mom and dad, and now his grandpa? That was too unfair. Too much.
The email flashed in his mind, but he pushed the thought aside. That was clearly someone messing with him. Now rage took over. Someone awful messing with him. On top of everything else.
“Grandpa, you’re going to make it.”
His grandpa shook his head. “The doctor said there was a 10 percent chance, James.”
“That’s still a chance!” But even as he said it, James didn’t believe himself. His grandpa needed that new treatment. And even that wasn’t a guarantee—it had only been tried eight times in the United States. But it was better than a 10 percent chance.
And it only cost around $200,000. He couldn’t even wrap his head around that number.
All of a sudden, his grandpa sat down hard on the bed again. His face was pale. “Son, you may have to call the doctor.” And then, to James’s horror, his grandpa passed out.
*****
A few hours later, James’s grandpa was settled in a hospital bed. But he still hadn’t woken up. A doctor came to talk to James.
Dr. Cheng shuffled notes in front of her and didn’t look James in the eye. James didn’t like where this was going. He’d become an expert at reading doctor body language. Her body language said, Things are bad. “Is there anyone else who can come help out?”
James swallowed. “My aunt. But she’s in Kenya.” Seeing the doctor’s surprise, he added, “She works for a medical nonprofit there. Doctors Together.”
Dr. Cheng nodded. “I’ve heard of it. Well, you may want to get in touch with her.” James waited. He dreaded what was coming. Already his eyes burned.
“I’ve put in a call to your grandpa’s regular oncologist. She should be on her way. But . . . ” James looked away. He knew what was coming.
“There isn’t much time left.” The doctor put her hand on James’s shoulder, and it took everything in him to not shrug it off. “I’m sorry, James. You’ll want to confirm with his oncologist, but I’m guessing maybe six weeks.”
James nodded but didn’t trust his voice.
After the doctor left, James sat staring at his grandpa. He looked so . . . old. So weak.
The tears started pouring down his face. And then he ran. Out into the hall, down the stairs, then through the lobby and outside. He collapsed on the grass in a hidden corner of the lawn.
After what seemed like hours of sobbing, James managed to catch his breath. He stood up. He was tired of thinking about how horribly unfair life could be. Like his grandpa always said: Fair is for riding horses. It doesn’t do much in real life. Time to pull himself together.
He needed to call his aunt. And the school. He took out his phone and called the school secretary. His grandpa had been a teacher at the school years and years ago, so a lot of the staff knew him. James hated the note of pity he heard in the secretary’s voice, mostly because he was afraid he’d lose control again. After he finished, he dialed his aunt Beth’s number. The longest of long-distance calls. She didn’t answer—no surprise with the time difference. So he left a message telling her to call him back right away. Then he squared his shoulders and walked back into the hospital. He was going to be there for his grandpa, the way his grandpa had been there for James his whole life. Especially the past eight years, since his parents died.
As James walked through the lobby, he saw a computer center to his left. He stopped short. The person walking behind him almost ran into him. James said “sorry” absentmindedly and stared at the computer.
What would it hurt to look at this website? If it was a virus, he was pretty sure the hospital computers would detect it. Unlike his old computer at home. Or his phone, he suspected.
He walked slowly into the center and sat down at an empty computer. First he checked his email. He had another one from the Benefactor, this one sent at 7:00 am.
Dear James,
Login: doodle
Password: treatment
James sat back from the computer like he’d been slapped. They had to be watching him. But how? And who were they? Despite the air conditioning in the hospital, James started sweating again. He looked around. Only one guy was in the room, and he seemed focused on his own computer screen. Though at this point, James felt as if everyone was watching him.
Slowly, he opened a new tab and pasted the URL from the Benefactor’s email.
A screen popped up: black, with only the login and password boxes on it. James entered the login and password, blushing at the login name. How had they known . . . ? He shook his head and decided to just see what would happen.
When he pressed Enter, the page dissolved. Now a chart appeared on the screen. His name was at the top of the first column. The other three column headings said “Anonymous.” Under each name, the numbers 1-10 were listed down the column. Under one of the anonymous columns, the word “Completed” filled the No. 1 slot.
In James's No. 1 slot, a timer was ticking away. It read “23:58:20.” He watched in fascination as the last two digits counted down. And then he understood—whatever his first task was, he had twenty-four hours to do it. Actually, he now had twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes.
Ten million dollars. Enough money to save his grandpa and then some. New place, nice neighborhood, maybe by a lake. College tuition . . .
A pop-up screen appeared. The box read:
You will complete each task before the timer ends for that task. If you do not complete the task in that time, the task is void, and you are out of the contest. To win the $10 million, you must finish all 10 tasks before the others in this contest do. You will be paid in cash. Tell no one about this. We will know if you do. If you do tell someone, all tasks are void and punishment is severe. You may not ask questions. You must do exactly as the task instructs. Do you agree to these terms?
Two boxes appeared under the agreement: yes and no. James needed to put an X in one of them.
James looked around the room again, remembering his grandpa’s pale face. What else could he do?
And what did he have to lose?
With a shaking hand, he moved the cursor to the “yes” box. He clicked.
CHAPTER 3
The page exploded.
Or so it seemed. Colors fireworked on the screen, then swirled around the edges. The screen turned white, empty except for the timer in the right-hand corner. 23:55:41.
Words appeared as if someone were typing them out letter by letter.
TASK 1
At school tomorrow, you will deliver an anonymous note to the principal’s office that says, “Maiv Moua is cheating in computer science.” If you complete this task correctly, you will earn $1 million.
James sat back in the chair and rubbed his hand over his head. He didn’t know what he’d thought the tasks might be, but this . . . This seemed just stupid.
He walked it through his head. This Maiv person, whoever that was, would probably be asked about the note. And then she—he?—probably she—would say she wasn’t cheating. Then the school would check and find out it wasn’t true.
Or—find it was true. In which case James would be doing a good thing.
He clicked open another tab and got on Facebook, searching for a Maiv Moua. He found four girls with the same name, but only one had Cleveland High School on the profile. The profile picture was just a photo of some flowers. He clicked on it to open up the page.
Nothing. Just a profile pic (no cover pic at all), Cleveland High School, and her name. Everything else was private. For a sp
lit second, James thought about sending her a friend request, but something stopped him. Mostly the fact that he was about to accuse her of cheating.
James tried to ignore the uncomfortable little feeling in the back of his head. It would turn out all right. This task wasn’t that bad after all.
He could do it for a million dollars, no problem.
*****
James got to school early the next morning. After locking his bike up, he sat on the stairs in front of the entrance.
One million dollars. His grandpa’s life.
He opened up his backpack and took out the note he’d written the night before. The envelope had the principal’s name printed across it. He’d tried to disguise his handwriting. The note looked like a kindergartner had written it.
More and more people began walking by. The 8:00 bell would ring in ten minutes. He had to find a way into the principal’s office without being noticed.
He got up and shouldered his backpack, holding the note crumpled in one hand. All of a sudden, James wanted nothing more than to be done with this task. He bounded up the last three steps of the entrance and almost mowed people down getting in the door.
The air conditioning of the school hit him. He breathed in. The school’s air system was wildly unpredictable in each room, but the hallways were always freezing. The cool air calmed him down and made his shoulders crawl down from his neck. He loosened his grip on the note and walked to the principal’s office with new purpose.
James wasn’t sure how this would go. He wasn’t even sure where the principal’s mailbox was. But when he walked into the admin office, he walked into chaos. Two kids were fighting in the office. The liaison officer stood between them, glaring, and the rest of the office staff seemed to be hovering nearby or scurrying around.
The main desk was empty.
This was his chance. James put the letter on the desk. He lingered a minute by the door, pretending to be looking at a bulletin board, until the fight was under control.