Mr. Pinchot snorted. "We'll see. If your numbers drop, I'm going to pull this contest before an hour is out."
"Of course," I said. "Nobody here wants to break the rules."
Mr. Pinchot kept standing at my shoulder while I typed. Go away.
"Would you mind supervising somewhere else?" I asked after a minute. "You're making Emily nervous. I bet if you examine her records you'll find her errors increase significantly when you stand at her shoulder. You wouldn't want to break the rules yourself! I'd have to report you to Ms. Rodriguez!"
Mr. Pinchot didn't look like he appreciated the irony, but he left. "I'll be watching from above." It was a threat.
I stuck my tongue out at his departing back.
Em clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. "That was amazing, Angel," she said when he was out of earshot. "You got him to back down, but without confronting him directly. I could never be that brave." She shook her head.
“Sure you could,” I told her. “It just takes practice.”
Over the next half hour, the other teens called out entries. "Stephanie Iassenovski" "Christina Kirkpatrick" longest, "Ha Lau" shortest, "Caprice Mottershead" and "Dragomir Ozegovic" funny, and "Shane Blaine" rhyming.
We'd gotten as far as "Shane Blaine could feel no pain/ on the train," when a sudden hush heralded Ms. Rodriguez’s appearance on the floor.
I smiled brightly. "Hi! Did Mr. Pinchot tell you about my idea to increase productivity?"
"The contest? Uh, yes. However, he doesn't share your opinion that productivity will go up."
"I'll make him a believer by tomorrow," I predicted confidently. "Hey, I have an idea! Would you be the judge of our contest? Then I'll be able to enter myself."
From the gleam in Ms. Rodriguez's eye, my cheerleader attitude didn’t fool her, but she also seemed amused. "All right. But remember the contest itself is still on probation and may be cancelled tomorrow."
"Then you'll give us the full day to prove ourselves? Thanks! You won't regret it."
Ms. Rodriguez looked rueful at being outmanoeuvred. "What are the prizes?"
I shrugged. "Just silly things. Hey, I have an idea! Could you donate something? That would be great!"
"I'll think about it," Ms. Rodriguez promised. "I'll let you get back to your work then," she said gently. And left.
I'd been typing all along, but Em resumed with a guilty clatter.
The time until lunch passed swiftly. Everyone—except Tad, who hadn't played at all, I suddenly realized—sat together in one big laughing group.
"So what are the prizes?" Jazzy asked. "You haven't told us yet."
"They’re secret." I changed the subject. "How's everyone's productivity? Are you keeping up? Remember, we get cancelled otherwise."
"I'm doing okay," Jazzy said. Ron and Gerry agreed.
"I'm a little behind," Em admitted. "We talked too much this morning. I'll do better this afternoon."
"If you're still behind an hour before quitting time let me know," I told her. "We'll pull a switcheroo, and I'll type on your machine."
"What if Pinchot notices?"
"He'll probably make us switch back, but it's not—"
"—against the rules," everyone finished, laughing.
#
The awards ceremony took place in the Games Room shortly after supper. I brought my pillowcase with the "prizes" I'd hastily devised the night before and stood beside Ms. Rodriguez.
"The longest name was 22 letters: Antoinette Panagopoulos, submitted by Gerry. Congratulations." Ms. Rodriguez shook his hand as if he were an Olympic medalist.
I handed him a stack of paper, recyclables from the data entry.
Gerry quirked an eyebrow, waiting.
"You are hereby appointed General of the Air Force. Paper airplane wars will commence at nineteen hundred."
“Awesome.” He and Ron exchanged high fives.
"The shortest name category was more difficult," Ms. Rodriguez continued. "There was a tie for several four-letter names, but of those entries only one contained a name that was a single letter long: J Cox, submitted by Jazzy. Congratulations."
From her expression, Jazzy couldn't quite decide if she was pleased that she'd won or exasperated by the lameness of it all. She gave Ms. Rodriguez's hand a quick shake.
Reaching into the sack, I pulled out a garish silver crown made from aluminum foil wrappers. "Jazzy is hereby crowned Queen for the Day and must be obeyed by all—though it is recommended that she not interfere in military operations or there may be a coup. Be warned Queen Jazzy, if you remove your crown, you'll turn into a peasant like the rest of us."
Jazzy wrinkled her nose, but put the crown atop her glossy black braids. "Thank you loyal subjects."
"May I continue?" Ms. Rodriguez asked politely.
"Please do." Queen Jazzy waved an imperial hand.
"The funniest category was the hardest to judge as I loved all the entries." Ms. Rodriguez read them out: "Caprice Mottershead, Bliss Hankey, Dragomir Ozegowic, Willow Klammerstein. But my favourite, without a doubt, was Shelley Schmeckpepper, which was submitted by Emily.”
With a flourish, I produced a purloined ladle with several toilet paper streamers wound around the top. "It's a wand of Musicality. If you tap someone, they have to burst into song.”
"Cool." Em eyed me speculatively.
Ms. Rodriguez cleared her throat. "And finally, the rhyming name. Again, there was a strong field: Mack Black, Shane Blaine, Todd Dodd. I almost chose Karen Darrin as it was the only two-syllable entry—"
A loud groan from Ron; that must have been his entry.
"—but in the end I decided upon Ray Braye. 'Ray Braye could eat no hay, nor could he neigh, just why that was, Ray Braye couldn't say, because he was a cow.' Congratulations, Sahan." Ms. Rodriguez smiled and shook his hand.
Good. I'd been hoping Sahan would win something. I pulled a matching shiny crown out of the pillowcase. "You are now crowned King of the Day."
Sahan blinked thickly-lashed brown eyes, looking both thrilled and alarmed at the possibility of playing king to Jazzy's queen.
"Wait a second!" Queen Jazzy complained. "I thought I was in charge."
"The king," I continued, "can’t command the peasants, but may rescind three of the Queen’s orders if he sees fit." Which would hopefully check Jazzy's more vindictive impulses.
"But he won't if he values his life," Jazzy muttered. She glared at me, obviously suspicious of my blatant matchmaking attempt.
I shrugged, unrepentant. Entertainment was the name of the game. Viewers loved a little romance. And if ever there was an underdog it was Sahan.
I'd given him a chance. Mike would have parleyed being king into a kiss, but I wasn’t holding out much hope for Sahan. Maybe he’d surprise me.
Ms. Rodriguez pulled me aside. "I have to go now. Angel, you've done an excellent job with the prizes. I was going to provide an e-reader for next time, but now I'm not sure I should. This is more creative."
"Bring the e-reader anyway. In a couple of days, we'll need a change of pace." I took care to speak as though I were mired here for years like everyone else.
She nodded and left.
Jazzy immediately got her revenge. "Angel, go stand in a corner.”
Ooh. My respect for her rose. Off in the corner, the camera would be unlikely to focus on me.
Sahan started to open his mouth, but closed it when I shook my head slightly.
Ron and Gerry were already folding papers like mad, and Sahan abandoned his queen to argue over the most aerodynamic design. I bided my time while a storm of airplanes filled the air, most nose-diving, but one sailing clear across the room, before signaling Em.
Em joined me, her mouth tight. “Give some people a little power and they turn into tyrants. You shouldn’t have made her queen.”
Any lesser title and Jazzy might’ve refused to play. “It’s okay,” I said. “But at least let me play jukebox.”
Em tapped me with
the wand. I sent her off to play while I sang Elvis’s ‘Heartbreak Hotel’.
Before I could launch into ‘It’s My Party’, Tad drifted over to my corner. I eyed him speculatively, but pulled out a cheerleader smile.
"Hey, Tad!" I said happily. "Want to compete tomorrow? We may be getting an e-reader."
Tad didn't smile. He spoke in a low voice, pitched for my ears alone. "I want to talk to you."
"I'm listening," I said lightly. I could guess what he was going to say. I just hoped whatever he wanted didn't throw a crimp into my plans.
"I've decided on the favour I want. Meet me in the wheelchair washroom in five minutes."
“I’m busy right now,” I said. “How about your room at 9:15?”
“No. By then it will be too late.” Without another word, he stomped out of the Games Room.
Too late, why? My mind had come up with all sorts of interesting scenarios by the time my loud rendition of ‘Take Me Out to the Bathroom’ attracted Jazzy’s attention. She freed me with a flick of her wrist.
Tad opened the washroom door a crack and beckoned furtively. "Quick."
I hesitated, wondering how wise it was to go into a little room alone with him. He outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, but I was tougher than I looked. Tad would regret it if he tried to force the wrong kind of favour from me. Besides, I wasn't getting that kind of vibe from him.
"So?" I said as he shut the door behind me. "What's the favour?"
He flushed the toilet, probably to swamp any audio bugs. “I want you to get me out of this hellhole.” His brown eyes burned.
I cocked my head to one side and stalled. “I’ve only been here two days, and I already hate it. If I’m still here in a month, we can break out together.”
Tad scowled. "I'm not talking about some lame escape attempt where they'll just drag me back in a week and add another year to my debt."
"Then what are you talking about?" I asked impatiently. Emily and the others were going to miss me soon.
Tad flushed the toilet a second time. “I know who you are,” he said, riveting my attention. Did he mean he knew I was violet-eyed?
“I’m a hacker,” Tad said unexpectedly. “I’ve seen footage of the Golden Ticket Event—and you’re in it. The audience likes you and your silly stunts.” He sounded disgusted by this. “You’ll hit 100 points soon, if you haven’t already. If you win, I want you to pay off my debt. Even tenth place will easily cover it and leave you plenty.”
Yes. I resisted the urge to cheer. My strategy was working! “Hmmm,” I said aloud. "Loan of a book versus cancelling all of your school debt. Seems a little lop-sided to me."
Tad smirked. "I told you: I’m a hacker. I can help you win."
I shook my head. “I don’t cheat.”
“So you won’t do it.” His face closed.
I smiled dazzlingly and turned on the faucet. "I never said that. As it so happens, I’m not in this for the money. I have other goals.” Keep Maryanne safe and kick Devon’s butt. “Goals where a hacker may come in useful.”
"Like what?" Tad's perpetual suspicion asserted itself; his brows drew down in a caveman frown.
“That’s my business. So, I get you out of here in return for your hacker help for the next week. Deal?” I stuck out my hand.
After another hesitation, Tad's sweaty hand engulfed mine. Pumped once. “Deal.”
Chapter Twelve
ANGEL
The airplane war was in full spate—General Gerry and Queen Jazzy versus Ron and me, with King Sahan and Emily working R&D—when Ms. Rodriguez made a surprise reappearance.
She flinched when one of my planes zoomed toward her face, then nose-dived into her shoes.
“Sorry,” I called.
Ms. Rodriguez smiled, but underneath her plum lipstick her mouth seemed tight. “Angel, could I speak to you for a moment?”
Uh-oh. Was I in trouble for going into the washroom with Tad?
Hiding my apprehension, I bowed to Jazzy and Sahan. “O King and Queen, this lowly subject requests permission to withdraw.”
Jazzy rolled her eyes, but Sahan cleared his throat. “Permission granted.”
I skipped over to Ms. Rodriguez. She stepped back out into the hall, and I kept pace as she started walking down it. “Your lawyer is waiting to see you in my office.”
My lawyer? From the twist to Ms. Rodriguez’s lips, the so-called lawyer was part of my cover story. Anticipation hummed through me. Tad had predicted I’d earn enough points to win my way out of prison scenario soon.
Ms. Rodriguez gestured me inside her office, but remained in the hall herself.
A petite, stylish brunette with unusual eyes stood up. Not satisfied with just colour-matching her eyes to her blue blouse, a snowstorm whirled in her irises. The effect was extremely distracting. I almost missed her handshake. "Congratulations, Ms. Eastland, you’ve made the cull and won a place in the NextStep Immersion.”
I’d done it! Elation zinged through me. I could exit this oppressive building and get out from under the eyes of the cameras, for at least a few hours. The relief was like having a heavy weight lifted off my back. I felt light as a feather as I followed Blizzard Brunette to the door.
“An aircar is waiting outside,” she said. “It will take you away from here to an undisclosed hotel.”
Away.
If I left here now, I’d be leaving alone. I’d be free, but not the others, not my friends. I remembered last night’s little epiphany and sat down. “Forget it. I’m not going.”
Her eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. “You’re withdrawing from the competition?”
“No,” I told her. “I’m not withdrawing. But I’m not leaving until I get my teammates out.”
“Your teammates? Do you mean Sahan Singh and Jasmine Gale?”
Careful. Don’t give it away. “Yes, but not just them. I want to get everyone out. Gerry and Ron and Emily, too. Heck, even Tad,” I tacked on, mindful of my promise to him.
More frowning. Blizzard Brunette tapped away at her palmtop. “I don’t recognize those names.”
“That’s because they’re not Golden Ticket contestants.” I started to wing it, speaking more for the camera’s benefit than hers. “They’re detainees, trapped in this horrid, gray purgatory for the crime of failing at university. By the time they earn their way out of here, the life will have been sucked right out of them.” An exaggeration—but only a little. Staying in the facility really would drive me insane. And I truly thought Gerry and the others had received a raw deal. “I want to give them an opportunity to earn off their debt early. I’m sure Mr. Jones could convince their government to loan them out.”
Blizzard Brunette’s forehead creased. “I don’t understand. They don’t have a golden ticket. They’re prisoners. They can’t leave.”
She truly didn’t understand. To her a rule was a rule. I sighed and tried another approach. “How many slots are left?”
“Seventeen, not counting yours.”
I controlled a wince. That gave me less margin for error than I’d hoped. “How many points do I have? And Sahan and Jazzy for that matter.”
“You have 130. Sahan and Jasmine are at 70 and 75 respectively.” She rattled the information off without having to check.
“So we need 425 more points to break everyone out. And one more day to do it in.” I nodded, projecting confidence. “Consider it done.” I stood up. “Please excuse me. I have an air battle to win.”
“But—but—” she sputtered.
She looked so confused in her perpetual snow globe that I took pity on her. “Just pass my request up the chain of command. Someone else will make the decision.”
Ms. Rodriguez’s face slackened in surprise when I exited the office and marched back upstairs. “There’s another wrinkle my lawyer needs to iron out,” I told her off-handedly. “Looks like I’ll be sticking around for a little while longer.”
I could endure another day.
I used the
same double-speak to explain my absence when I returned to the Games Room. “My lawyer thinks he may have found a loophole, a way to get me released. In fact, he thinks the same loophole may apply to the rest of you. I asked him to contact your lawyers.”
Ron and Gerry high-fived each other. Jazzy and Sahan caught some of the subtext, but exchanged puzzled glances.
When curfew rolled around, I returned to my room and found a note that Tad had slipped under my door. You’re insane. And then a number: 217.
I permitted myself a smug smile. It looked like the viewers approved of my decision.
*MIKE*
“What’s she doing?” Devon demanded, watching the HoloTV clip of Angel refusing to advance without her teammates. “She won’t even get into the NextStep Immersion at this rate.”
Though Mike had had a similar disloyal thought, he snorted. “She’s being Angel—something you’re not very good at.”
“What’s that?” Catherine asked, backing into the room because her hands were full of snacks. She’d invited them to watch the Golden Ticket Event coverage from the mondo-big screen in her boardroom.
“Nothing,” Mike said.
Catherine shot him a shrewd look, but let it drop. She set out a platter of raw veggies and a bowl of vegetable chips. Bowl and platter matched both each other and the plates. She even had a little spoon to serve the dip.
Catherine was trying too hard again. Angel’s Mom would have put out bags of pretzels and potato chips and bottles of soda pop and told them to dig in.
Of course, Betty Vallant wouldn’t have bestirred herself to offer so much as tap water.
Stop comparing them.
“Yeah, yeah, Saint Angel trying to save everyone,” Devon grumbled, swiveling in her chair.
"I never said Angel was a saint," Mike said.
"Really?" Devon stopped watching the HoloTV coverage and cut her gaze to him. "Do tell. I love dirt."
"There is no dirt," Mike said sharply.
Catherine interrupted. “What can I get you two to drink?” She indicated the sparkling glass pitchers of orange juice, lemonade and water.
“Iced tea,” Mike asked, not to be difficult, but because he wanted her out of the room. As soon as she left, he and Devon resumed bickering.
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