Chapter Three Hell Is a Best Friend Who Wants the Tea
Chapter Three
Hell Is a Best Friend Who Wants the Tea
My best friend, Cindy Kuo, may be just shy of five feet tall, but she’s got a tall personality. And the full force of that personality is being directed at my front door as she rings the doorbell over and over again. It’s been a scant twenty minutes since I texted her asking if she could apartment-sit for me, and she’s already here on my doorstep.
“Alice Chen, you bitch!” she says, spilling into my foyer when I open the door. She kicks off her shoes and tosses her scarf and coat on the nearest chair.
“Come on in,” I say to the empty hallway, closing the door. She throws herself on the couch and sets a cardboard tray of three boba drinks on the table. I grab the taro one. She has the decency to wait for me to take a sip before she starts in on me.
“You can’t just ask me to water your succulents while Chase waters your succulents on reality TV ! I demand compensation!”
“I’ll Venmo you,” I say. I take another sip, and oh, man, this hits the spot.
Cindy takes up her own drink—jasmine, half sweet, full ice, with extra honey boba, of course—and levels the stabby end of the straw at me. “I don’t want money. I want gossip! Details! Tell me everything !”
“It’s not that interesting,” I protest.
“I thought I taught you better, Alice,” she says, a perfect parody of my mom. “Let’s start with the obvious question. Are you going to be naked on live TV?”
“No.”
“Is Chase going to be naked on live TV?”
“God, I hope not!” I laugh.
“What are you packing? What are you wearing? When exactly do you leave?”
“I haven’t packed yet, but I’m making a list,” I say. “I’m tackling things one at a time. Like my plant babies. Can you take care of them for me?”
“I don’t know, can I?” Cindy asks and stabs her straw into her drink viciously.
“Okay, fine. I’m going on a show called Dawn Tay’s Inferno. It’s a reality TV competition that tests the strength of a couple’s relationship. Chase and I will be a team, and we will be competing against other couples.”
“I get the picture. I think Tara wants to watch it?” Cindy whips out her phone, and I just know that she’s texting her girlfriend about the show. Still typing, she says, “And what brain transplant did you have to make you sign up for this?”
“The prize is one million dollars.”
She nods and looks skeptically back up at me. “Yup, okay, everything makes sense now.”
“I have a fifteen-step plan for preparing and winning,” I say, holding up a yellow legal pad. “Cindy, I need the money. And I’m good at winning. I can do this.” My gaze goes to my trophy wall, which, okay, maybe it’s a little childish to still have all of my trophies and medals from high school and college on display, but I worked hard for those.
“Wow.” Cindy shakes her head. “Way to flex on me.” She eyes a small medal for second place. “I’m surprised you didn’t toss that one. You hate losing. Who was that guy you were always competing with in high school? The one you loved complaining about?”
I know exactly who she means. I glare at her. “We don’t speak of him in this household.”
“Still sore about that, huh?” Cindy snickers.
That’s an understatement. Even though it’s been years, I haven’t forgotten my old high school nemesis and greatest academic rival. I still remember the first time we met, the memories vivid and almost too sharp. It was one month into my freshman year of high school, the day I made my debut as a member of Eastridge’s Quiz Bowl team at our first competition.
As the only freshman who’d made the cut, I was the most junior member of the team, and I had everything to prove. I’d started the morning in a bad mood, but that was nothing new. Back then, a feeling of wrongness hovered over me like my own personal rain cloud.
“You come home so late! Why even come back at all?”
“You’re right. If I didn’t come home, I wouldn’t have to listen to you complaining all the time!”
I was haunted by the jagged shards of overheard arguments and the suffocatingly quiet dinners that followed. When I closed my eyes, I could see my dad’s car pulling out of the driveway for the last time, the rear lights casting an eerie glow on the garage door in the night.
But none of that mattered in Quiz Bowl.
No one was expecting much from me or from our team that day. Eastridge didn’t have a reputation for winning. Our school usually had trouble even fielding a full team.
To make matters worse, we were up against Charles Exeter Prep, one of the most expensive and exclusive boys’ prep schools in the state—the kind where the guys all wore tailored suits and shiny shoes and carried briefcases instead of backpacks.
No one even glanced our way as we took our places.
The Quiz Bowl moderator was already at the podium in the center. He looked like someone’s poor uncle, dressed in an ill-fitting suit and a crumpled tie. After introducing our teams to the audience—a handful of dedicated parents, two teachers, and Cindy, who had stopped by before SAT tutoring—he jumped into the questions.
“Okay,” the moderator began, “let’s start off with something easy. What is the chemical symbol for ordinary table salt?”
I slammed my hand on my buzzer before anyone else could even twitch.
“NaCl,” I said, adrenaline rushing through me. The Exeter Prep boys looked startled. They probably expected our team to just give up and wave the white flag of surrender, but here I was putting up a fight. Even their captain was eyeing me with a narrowed look. The competition had only just begun, but I was loving every second.
“Slay, queen!” Cindy called from the stands. She’d produced little pom-poms from her backpack and was cheering like this was the homecoming game. I should’ve known that even if she could only show up for a few minutes, she’d show up big.
“Next category is classic literature,” the moderator said. “In The Great Gatsby , what does the color green symbolize?”
My hand smashed the buzzer, but the Exeter Prep captain beat me to it.
“Hope,” he said, looking right at me. He was challenging me.
I scowled back. I had to be faster. Better.
“What is mitosis?”
I buzzed in before the moderator even finished the question.
“The process of cell division,” I said, my words tumbling out in a rush.
“Correct again!”
As a freshman, I wasn’t eligible to be captain, but question after question, it was my hand that hit the buzzer first, and my answers that lit up the scoreboard. The only person who posed a threat to me was the captain of the opposing team, and with every question it felt more and more like a duel between just the two of us.
As I competed, the feeling of wrongness that had been plaguing me dropped away. There wasn’t much I had control over back then—not my family, not the way I could hear my mother crying in the bathroom, not the fact that we were moving out of the house I grew up in and into a one-bedroom apartment—but I could control the outcome of this match, and I was going to win. All those long hours of studying would be worth it.
At the break, the Exeter Prep captain approached me. I was reviewing my flash cards and snacking on haw flakes in an isolated corner of the gym with my back against the wall, my fingers idly tearing the paper tube to shreds.
The captain loomed over me, a scarecrow of a teen boy, with a thin frame and broad shoulders. His hair was black, cut short and even, perfectly neat except for an errant strand that I’d seen him brush away from his dark brown eyes throughout the competition. He had high cheekbones and a pretty face, which was a weird thought to have, and I shoved it away immediately.
“Hey, I’m Daniel,” he said with a friendly smile, sticking out his hand.
I stared at him suspiciously, ignoring his hand. “Daniel Cho. I already know who you are.”
“Oh. Uh. Cool,” he said. “And you’re Alice Chen, right?”
“I’m the competition,” I said. I brushed my hair back from my shoulder, hoping the gesture looked cool and flippant.
“I know,” he said, dropping to a crouch next to me. “I don’t think you’ve gotten a single answer wrong yet.”
“That’s right. In fact, I think that might be the most correct thing you’ve said today,” I said. “Despite being the team captain and the two-time winner of the Regional Science Olympiad.”
I knew I was being rude, and I didn’t care. I’d always been competitive, but during those early days right after my dad left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing I did would ever be good enough. I had this gnawing need to prove myself, and you could see that need written on my face and hear it in my words. In short, I was insufferable.
Daniel didn’t seem offended, though. He simply said, “You know about me, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I’d never go into battle unprepared.”
He laughed. “You get that this is just Quiz Bowl, right?”
“Just Quiz Bowl. Just Quiz Bowl?” I repeated.
“Yeah, just Quiz Bowl,” he said with a laugh. “We’re competing for a title and a plastic trophy. The stakes couldn’t be lower.”
I was on my feet before I even knew what I was doing. I leveled my best, most venomous glare at him.
“Maybe the stakes are low for you ,” I said, jabbing a finger in his face. “But they aren’t for me. Even though this isn’t the finals, or even the semifinals, or even the quarterfinals, it might as well be for my team. Exeter Prep has won the Quiz Bowl championship every year for the past ten years. And you , Daniel Cho, were the top contributor to that success last year, and now you’re the first sophomore to be team captain in Quiz Bowl history. You might be comfortable resting on your laurels and acting like this is just another day in your perfect and completely unremarkable life, but I am here to win.”
My heart was racing by the end of that speech. Daniel was blinking at me, taken aback by my outburst. He’d clearly come over to my little corner planning to distract me with friendly overtures, but I’d seen through his trap. He wasn’t my friend. He was my competition and my enemy, and I’d just told him as much.
I expected Daniel to storm off or report me to a teacher or something. But he just nodded thoughtfully and said, “When your friend yelled ‘slay, queen,’ I don’t think she was telling you to literally slay me. We’re not gladiators in the arena trying to decapitate each other.”
“I know that,” I said, annoyed.
“You sure don’t act like it, Slayer,” he shot back.
“Slayer?”
“It suits you. I mean, just look at the way you dominated the first round,” he said. He raised his eyebrows, and I felt the last of my rage and adrenaline drain out of me.
“You’re right. I did basically destroy you,” I said.
“So you agree. Slayer’s the perfect nickname for you.” He grinned. “I’m calling you that from now on.”
“You don’t even know me!” I protested.
He tilted his head at me as the bell rang, signaling the end of the break. “You know, Slayer, something tells me that’s going to change.”
That had been the start of three years of competing against Daniel Cho and being at each other’s throats in every kind of competition you could imagine, from Mock Trial and academic triathlons to spelling bees and charity bake sales. We were perfectly matched in every way, always vying for the top spot. When he went away to college during my senior year, I’d celebrated. But I came to realize that competing without him just wasn’t as fun.
That doesn’t mean I don’t hold a grudge, though. We were rivals, not best friends.
“Anyway,” Cindy says, interrupting my thoughts, “about this show. It’s reality TV, not an academic quiz bowl.”
“Oh, my sweet summer child,” I say. “Any and every challenge can be broken down, analyzed, and solved for. And you know me. I have a plan.”
“Of course you do. Well, let’s see it,” Cindy says, holding out her hand. “I bet it’s color-coded.”
“All the best plans are,” I say. I show her the legal pad. “I’m starting with the source material. Since the show is themed around Dante’s Inferno , I’ve reread the poem to study up on the circles of hell, and I’ve created the skeleton of a rubric.”
“A rubric,” Cindy repeats. “Of what?”
“Ultimately, it should cover what’s essential for the winners in these types of competitions.”
“God, you’re such a nerd,” Cindy says. “Hate to break it to you, but rereading a poem by a dead white guy and taking lots of notes is not enough to win a reality show.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s where you come in. You’re a reality TV expert. You can tell me which episodes I need to watch to flesh out my rubric.”
Cindy breaks into a huge smile. “Oh, honey. Tara and I can do way better than a watch list. If you’re really going on this show, then we’re putting you through reality TV boot camp.”
“Sign me up,” I say.
“Ohmygod, this is my dream,” Cindy says, already texting Tara. “What are you doing this weekend? Never mind. Clear your calendar. We’re going to be marathoning Operation: Bikini at my place.” Cindy looks up from her phone, a frown crossing her face. “Hang on. You got me all excited about rotting on the couch. I wasn’t done interrogating you.”
“I told you everything. What else is there?”
“Well, what about you and Chase? This show tests your relationship with him, not your ability to solve for x .”
“I’m not worried about that,” I say. “Our relationship is rock-solid. We make sense together. We’ve solved for all the variables. Now we’re just a perfectly balanced equation.”
“Very romantic,” Cindy says dryly.
“Romance plus compatible interests plus aligned life goals equals a perfect relationship,” I say, only half joking. “We make a good team.”
Cindy takes a long, noisy slurp of her boba, clearly still skeptical. I know what she’s thinking, but she’s wrong. I’ve dated Chase for three years. I’ve got him all figured out. That’s why I like him—he’s safe and he’s predictable.
Finally, Cindy says, “Okay. Any other juicy details I should know about?”
I shake my head. “Not really. They sent along a packing list and a meeting point. We’ll be staying on some mystery island for a couple weeks during filming.”
“You’d better take so many photos,” Cindy says, perking up. “Let me live vicariously through you. I haven’t gone on vacation in years.”
“I can’t,” I say. “They’re going to take our phones away.”
“Right, I guess that’s standard,” Cindy says. “So let me get this straight. You’re going to be shooting on a remote island, with no phone, surrounded by people you don’t know, doing who-knows-what in front of the whole world on television?”
“Pretty much.”
Cindy mulls this over. “And this was Chase’s idea?”
I give her a look that says of course this was Chase’s idea.
“Who are you and what did you do to my sweet, hyperlogical, riskaverse Alice?”
I bury my face in my hands. “She’s still here, and she needs money, and she also needs someone to water her plants. You know I killed my last three Haworthias. I’m proud of this one!”
“Girl, your plants are safer with me than you,” Cindy says.
She’s right about that. I tend to overwater my plants. I worry that they’re not getting enough water and end up literally drowning them with my anxiety.
Sometimes I think Cindy knows me better than I know myself. After all, we grew up in the same town, living in the same tight-knit community of Chinese families. She adopted me on the first day of fourth grade, when I was too shy to talk to anyone.
When my dad left the summer before my freshman year of high school, she refused to let me wallow in self-pity, instead dragging me out to the library every day to borrow stacks of manga. She stuck with me through the worst of it, when I was prickly and sullen and wanted everyone to leave me alone. And when the other teens in youth group started whispering about my family, she was the one who marched to the front of the room and gave them all a lecture that was so stern they ended up crying.
Right up until college, we did everything together. We went to Chinese school together, snuck out of school to get fro-yo together, and read all the same fantasy books together. And after college, we picked up right where we left off. Neither of us was quite the same, but I liked who we became. On paper, we don’t make sense at all. And I kind of love that.
“Is this a bad idea?” I ask Cindy. “Be honest.”
“I think,” Cindy says slowly, “it’s not bad. It’s ridiculous and it’s ambitious and it’s different. And I think if anyone can win a reality show through sheer bloody-minded competitiveness and determination, it’s you.”
“Thanks, Cindy,” I say. “Have I mentioned I love you?”
“I love you too, you weird little nerd,” she says, and taps her boba cup against mine. “Just be careful out there. And yes, I will water your succulents.”
STORY NOTES FOR EDITORS: SEASON 1 TV SPOT “DAWN TAY’S INFERNO: LOVE IS HELL”
Executive Producer(s): Dawn Taylor, Peter Dixon
DAWN TAYLOR, VOICEOVER: Get ready for the newest reality show to hit the beach! Can love survive a journey through HELL?
[B-roll footage: Contestants in bikinis splash in the water.]
[Dawn Taylor, barefoot and walking across a sandy beach, straight to camera.]
DAWN TAYLOR: Babes, it’s Dawn Taylor calling, and you better pick up. Here on this sexy, sexy tropical island, I’ll be putting ten couples to the ultimate test. If their love can survive my inferno, one couple will win one million dollars !
[Footage: Chase De Lancey and Alice Chen on yacht in talking head interview.]
CHASE DE LANCEY: We’re in love, and we’re ready to prove it to the world!
DAWN TAYLOR, VOICEOVER: But to secure the bag, they’ll have to pass through all my circles of hell: lust, treachery, anger…and some other ones.
[B-roll footage: A couple kisses passionately.]
[B-roll footage: A woman runs from the competition in tears.]
[B-roll footage: Multiple people vomiting.]
DAWN TAYLOR, VOICEOVER: Welcome to… Dawn Tay’s Inferno !