Pain explodes through my shoulder, and I shriek and grip my arm as the bright red boxing gloves deal deadly blows to the glassy bubble over me. I’ve never dislocated a shoulder before, but if this is what it feels like, I understand that scene from Lethal Weapon 2 with the straitjacket, where Mel Gibson was screaming his head off. I’m still shrieking. I can’t help it. My whole left arm is pins and needles, and it feels like a knife has been wedged between my shoulder and my neck. The thunder of the boxing gloves continues, and I wonder if Dred thought the Muhammad Ali card would be the end-all card to win him the game—my game.
I just lie still on my carpet. I’m too scared to move. Every breath sends knives deeper into my shoulder, my arm, and all the way down to my fingers. My tears are fogging up my headset, and sweat is escaping from under my twist-out and running down my face. Whatever that Megaboard says, I gave this fight my all. Whatever happens, there was nothing more I could do.
“Please,” I whisper, shutting my eyes and letting my tears absorb into the carpet.
The thing Dred doesn’t know about the word “unbothered” is that although the literal definition is “showing or feeling a lack of concern about or interest in something,” it has another implication that Cicada—Claire—brought up while we were sitting in our respective rooms, chatting across the world well past both of our bedtimes.
Claire: Wouldn’t it also have an adverse effect on the person dealing blows?
Me: The Unbothered card? Seems like it should just be a total immunity card.
Claire: Yeah, but the thing about being unbothered is, when someone is unbothered by another person, they’re literally not absorbing their energy, right?
Me: I guess?
Claire: So then, if that energy’s not going anywhere . . .
Me: Science isn’t my thing, math is. Help me out here.
Claire: That energy has to go somewhere.
I take a deep breath and brace for impact as the diamond shell around me explodes into shards and light fragments, and I see Dred’s red robe and black face go flying. The sound is deafening, but I ease my eyes open. The drums are pounding somewhere that sounds far away. I look up and around at the audience, which looks like dancing ants from this angle, extending way up into the heavens, and then I hear in my headset Cicada’s voice.
“Nine hundred to seven hundred! Emerald wins! Emerald wins!” There are tears in her voice as she screams, and the world joins with her—my world, our world.
“Em-rald! Em-rald Em-rald! Em-rald!”
I shut my eyes for a moment and bask in the sound, but another one quickly yanks me back into reality—the sound of the doorbell. At first I think it’s my parents returning home from dinner with Steph, and then I wonder why any of them would ring their own doorbell, and then I hear the voice, muffled all the way from the other side of the front door. But I can just barely make out what it says.
“Kix? You home? I know we’re unannounced, but this math homework is kicking my ass, and if we don’t do it together, I’m kinda doomed.”
I roll my eyes and sigh, waiting for Harper to go away after hearing silence in reply. I feel awful leaving her hanging the night before the homework is due, but I’m right in the middle of literally saving the world, and I might have a dislocated shoulder. And then, just when I think she might have gone, I hear another voice, the last voice on the planet that I expect to hear at my front door right now.
“And you have to let me in because I owe you an apology.”
Wyatt?
Panic floods my body like a river through my veins, and I try to think clearly. Why would Wyatt be at my front door? How could he be at my front door if he’s got his VR headset on? What the hell? What the hell?! If Wyatt is at my house, then who is Dred?
I turn my head, sending bolts of pain exploding through my neck, and I stifle a shriek of pain so they can’t hear me at the door. Dred is kneeling across the ring, still facing me, and as if he can hear my thoughts, I see a private message pop up in the corner of my headset.
Dred: You win, chocolate puddin’.
Rage takes the place of panic, and I roll to my good side and push myself up with my right arm slowly, painfully. I clutch my left arm to keep it from hanging, because it sends shooting pain across my chest. What have I done to myself ?
I walk gingerly to my keyboard and pull my headset off, because the sweat is beginning to fog up my screen. The cool air in my room is refreshing on my eyes, like a tall glass of water after running a marathon, and I stare at the message and begin typing with one hand now that I can rest my arm across my leg.
Me: Who are you?
Dred: That wasn’t part of our deal.
He’s right, it wasn’t, but I have to know. If I don’t have a name, a face, an identity, there goes my leverage should he decide not to uphold his half of the deal. Sure, I have the chat logs, but I can’t prove that Dred is connected to any real person. If the human behind Dred does decide to sue me, I need to be able to prove he’s been harassing me all this time. I have to squeeze it out of him. I have to know.
Me: What’s your name?
Dred: I’m more concerned with YOUR name.
My heart is pounding.
Dred: This whole time you actually thought there was a lawsuit. There’s no lawsuit, at least not from me.
I’m confused. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. My eyes are brimming with tears. I don’t trust him.
Me: What the hell do you want?
Dred: I want you to know why Black women should stay focused on being Black women.
Me: The hell are you talking about?
Dred: You know why Black people suffer the way they do? You know why they’re always on the bottom? Always getting kicked to the curb? Know why they keep getting beaten down by the white establishment? Know why slavery’s been abolished since 1865, but we STILL can’t get our shit together?
Did he say “we”? My stomach tightens into a knot, and I can feel my heart racing.
I start typing, but not before he sends another message.
Dred: You ever read Robert Greene?
Robert Greene. Where have I heard that name? I’ve heard it recently. I watch as Dred keeps typing.
Dred: “Never be distracted by people’s glamorous portraits of themselves and their lives; search and dig for what really imprisons them.” My nigga Robert Greene said that. Black kings always wanna be distracted by GLAMOROUS SHIT—cars, clothes, jewels, movies, video games. Distractions, all of them. And instead of helping us build an empire and protect Black PEOPLE, you want to build this! It’s another nail in the coffin for OUR PEOPLE. ANOTHER DISTRACTION TO KEEP US FROM BECOMING GREAT.
I search my mind for the name—Robert Greene—and then it hits me. The book! The 48 Laws of Power. I say the name out loud, hoping it’ll sound less ridiculous if I do.
“Malcolm.”
Dred: I can see you now.
Shit! Did my IP address fail to scramble? I jump out of my chair, sending an explosion of pain through my shoulder, and I clutch my arm as my eyes dart around my room. My computer monitor is casting a bluish-green light all over my walls, but otherwise, the room is empty. I walk to the door and double-check to make sure it’s locked. Then I look under my desk, and around the side of my bunk bed. My blinds are closed. There’s absolutely nobody here in my room, and nobody can see me from outside. Then I read the next message.
Dred: I like you in pink.
I look down at my pink Henley and a chill goes up my spine. How the hell can he actually see me?
And then I notice the tiny red light just above my computer screen. My camera. The one that’s built into my monitor. Reflexively, I reel my right hand back and deliver a slap so hard, the monitor slams against the wall and the screen goes dark.
I stand there staring at it with my mouth hanging open. Malcolm. It was Malcolm. And now Malcolm knows. He knows about everything—SLAY and why I’ve really been ignoring him lately. I glance at my door, hoping Steph and my mom a
nd dad come home soon. I’m cursing myself for not letting Harper and Wyatt in while they were here. What if Malcolm just decides to come over and . . . I don’t know, confront me? I’m sure Claire is freaking out about where I went and if I’m okay. I have to tell her what’s going on.
I pick up my phone with my good hand and sit on my sofa so I can lean back against something and support my bad arm. Texting with one hand is slow, but I get halfway through the message I’m okay, but my boyfriend—before a new message with a picture interrupts me.
Malcolm: I suspected you played, but I never thought you were the one who STARTED this shit until I traced your IP address and saw your face. I only got a passcode so I could go after the developer. I couldn’t watch that li’l king die and do nothing when there could be more victims. I had to end this game. Emerald owes the world answers. You owe the world answers. You thought you was just gon lie to me, to all of us, without consequences?
And then that blue-tinted webcam photo of my face—twist-out a mess, pink Henley, no glasses, no makeup, no jewelry. Like a mug shot.
I take a deep breath and open my conversation with Claire again, staring at my unfinished text. I’m okay, but my boyfriend . . . My boyfriend what? How do I even begin to explain this to her? There’s certainly no way to tell her the whole story like this, in this tiny text box. Where would I even start? I send off a quick I’m okay and lean my head back against my sofa and try not to cry as I wait for Claire to text me back. I close my eyes just for a moment.
15. GAME OVER
* * *
I realize I’ve fallen asleep, or passed out, or something, when I flutter my eyes open to the pitch blackness of my room, and panic grips me as I remember Malcolm. My first impulse is to jump off the sofa and turn on the light, but the minute I sit up, pain explodes through my shoulder, and I let out an involuntary scream.
Steph and my parents must be home by now. I don’t know what else to do but text her. Something is horribly wrong with my arm—something I can’t fix by sleeping it off. This is a pain like I’ve been shot. I can barely move my fingers. I pick up my phone with my right hand to find thirty-six new messages from Cicada in WhatsApp. I hate to make her wait, since I’m sure she thinks I’m dead, but I need painkillers, and fast. I find two messages from Steph.
Steph: Hey, you alive in there?
Steph: I logged in as soon as I got home, but Cicada announced that she has no idea where you are, and your door is locked. Don’t tell me you got into the wine while we were out and passed out drunk. I swear, I leave you alone for two hours . . .
Me: Steph, come here plz. Don’t tell m or d.
I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s home and I don’t have to worry about Malcolm sneaking up behind me and murdering me, although I do glance over my shoulder just to make sure, and then I navigate back to WhatsApp.
Cicada: OMG THAT WAS FLAWLESS!
Cicada: GAME SET MATCH! SLAY IS OURS! And you SLAYYYYYED him, girl. I’ve already booted him off the server.
Cicada: Hey—u there?
Cicada: Emerald?
Cicada: Kiera?
Cicada: Do u even Wi-Fi?
Cicada: Hello?
Cicada: Holy shit, have u seen twitter recently?
Cicada: GIRL OPEN TWITTER YOUR PIC IS EVERYWHERE
Before I can open Twitter, a soft tap tap tap echoes through my door, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I jumped when it happened, and my arm is throbbing with pain. I wince as I hold my forearm and rock my way up off the couch.
“Steph?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she whispers from the other side.
I swing open the door, and she throws herself into the room, squealing uncontrollably in nothing but a white bathrobe and a hot-pink bonnet. God, how long was I asleep?
“Oh my God, tell me all about it. I want to hear everything—”
“Steph, listen,” I interrupt. “I know you just got your permit, but I need you to drive me somewhere. Please.”
Her smile falls and so do her eyebrows.
“Do you see this bonnet? Do you see this robe? Do you see that my bra is off ? My night is over. For God’s sake, it’s—” She pulls her phone out of her robe pocket to glance at it. “It’s two in the morning! On a Tuesday!”
“I need you to drive me to the hospital.”
Her eyes get huge and then drift from my face down to my shoulder, and her eyes narrow when she notices I’m clutching my arm.
“You better explain every last detail on the way.”
I do.
We manage to sneak out of the house and into the garage, get into the car, and drive off without waking up Mom and Dad, or they did wake up and didn’t care because they figure Steph and I are responsible kids. They’ve done that before when I’ve driven her to Taco Bell in the middle of the night. As long as our grades are up, they don’t ask questions. The hospital is fifteen minutes from our place, and Steph asks questions the entire way. I tell her about every move of the duel, right down to the boxing gloves pounding the outside of the diamond shell and having the energy from them explode and knock Dred’s points down. I don’t mention Malcolm, or that Malcolm is Dred. If Steph was about to throw a hot cup of coffee on him for hassling me in the lunchroom, I don’t want to know how she’ll handle learning that he hacked my webcam. I’ll just let her find out that Malcolm and I have broken up and be obliviously happy. She finally slows down the questions when we step through the emergency room sliding doors. The hospital waiting room is stuffy and smells like rubber and hand sanitizer, and the chairs are stiff and uncomfortable. I watch as Steph talks to the attendant for a while, pulling two ID cards from her wallet in the process. I don’t know how she managed to avoid suspicion and get us checked in without them notifying our parents, but I hurt too much to ask questions. My arm is still throbbing, and Steph mercilessly starts with the questions again.
“I can’t believe you broke your arm playing a video game. This is too good! You’re like those people who throw the game remote at the TV, forgetting it’s not real.”
I ignore her and text Cicada back.
Me: I’m ok.
Cicada: OMFG!!!!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN IVE BEEN DYING OF WORRY WHAT HAPPENED
Me: Sry. I hurt my arm. At hospital. Im happy we still have SLAY.
Cicada: ME GODDAMN TOO BUT IM JUST HAPPY YOURE ALIVE.
Cicada: HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR PIC ALL OVER TWITTER?
Me: I heard. U can turn off caps now.
Cicada: [photo attachment]
It’s that same blue photo of me with no glasses, no makeup, and a dusty-as-hell nine-day twist-out. I reach up with my good arm to make sure the back of my head doesn’t look like a pancake from sitting against the sofa, but even that motion aggravates my bad arm.
“Will you stop trying to move?” asks Steph, reaching up and fluffing out my hair for me, and I smile my thanks. She looks so grown-up. Sometimes I think she’s more mature than I am.
“Thanks.”
I can’t believe I ever doubted her. Now that she’s kept my biggest secret safe, for as long as it stayed a secret anyway, kept Mom and Dad out of the house while I fought to protect the thing most precious to me in the world, and driven me to the hospital before getting an explanation, I can’t believe I ever thought she’d let me down if I told her about the game.
“And I’m sorry for yelling you out of my room last night.”
She shrugs and smiles.
“Eh, I was kind of being pushy. You can handle trolls like Dred however you want. It’s your game.”
You are a queen, and this is your game.
“Thanks, Steph. Really. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I need to know why your picture is all over Twitter and why you’re not telling me about it. You had to know I’d see it eventually.”
Sometimes she’s like my grown-up little sister, and sometimes she’s more like a second mom. Just as I open my mouth to tell her, the doctor comes in and calls my name.
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“Kiera Johnson?”
Steph raises her arm and jumps to her feet.
“I’m Stephanie Johnson. This is my sister, Kiera. She broke her arm.”
“We don’t know it’s broken yet. I fell off my bunk bed and it’s been hurting ever since,” I lie. I still can’t form my mouth to say the words I was playing a video game out loud yet.
As we’re walking down the hall to the X-ray room, where Steph knows she won’t be allowed to go with me, she peppers me with questions to make up for the eventual lost time.
“So who hacked your webcam?” she asks. “I know it’s a webcam picture. Have you been filming yourself on weird amateur cam girl sites for spare cash? Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling like that?”
I would nudge her so hard if my entire arm wasn’t pounding with pain.
“We’ll talk after the X-rays.”
Steph rolls her eyes.
“That’s when you’ll tell me we’ll talk after you get your cast, and finally, we’ll talk when we get home, and then you’ll never tell me.”
“Not true,” I whisper, hoping Steph will follow suit and lower her voice too. “And I won’t be getting a cast, because it’s not broken. It can’t be broken. I just dove across the floor. I didn’t actually fall off the top bunk.”
“Whatever. If you can’t move your fingers, it’s broken.”
The X-ray tech confirms that Steph is right. My arm is broken. To be technical, my clavicle is broken, so we were both wrong, but whatever. I don’t get a cast. They strap me into this harness thing that’s a cross between a corset and a straitjacket for just one arm. I thank my lucky stars I’m right-handed. After they’ve strapped me in, and we’re back in the waiting room, waiting for them to bring us our papers and prescriptions, I check my phone and realize I have twelve notifications from friends and family, including texts and DMs from Auntie Tina, Harper, and Wyatt. I’m sure they’ve seen my picture. It’s everywhere.
Auntie Tina: Hey, baby, I heard your photo is going viral over a video game? Everything okay?
Harper: OH. MY. GOD. You DO SLAY! We need to talk ASAP. Call me. R u ok?
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