Chapter Twenty #2
“Hello, Ivan,” I begin. “I have a question for you: How did you think this was going to end?” I feel myself pacing across the stage; it takes a tiny moment for the spotlight operator and the camera to follow me across.
“You must have thought about it. All the time we were together …” I trail off, trying not to think about those moments where I let myself fall for his poisonous charm.
How could I have been so stupid? I’m never ignoring my gut again.
“I’m sure you had a plan to finish the game.
I’m equally sure that whatever your plan was, I ruined it. Not sorry.
“You played me,” I say, with shame coming up to choke the words halfway up my throat, “and I was naive enough to like it. I liked the way your hair was always in your face. I liked the way you pressed your lips together when you were barely holding back from saying something you knew would piss me off. I liked your crazy white teeth and your wolfy little smile. I miss—” No.
“I liked when the sun hit your face and I could see the swirls in your eyes. And the way you laughed at me, whether or not I knew I was being funny.” I feel an ache in my hand and realize I’m gripping the end of my jacket’s sleeve so tightly the metal buttons are almost cutting into my palm.
“All of it. I liked all of it. The whole time.
“I was sick with you, but now I’m sick of you. Trust me, I have almost no interest in seeing your face again, but somewhere in that almost is the part of me that wants to bring you back and make you feel the way I felt when you left. The game isn’t over.
“Come back, Ivan. Please come back. I deserve an ending.” I raise my eyes to the camera and imagine Ivan watching this, imagine my vulnerability reaching out through the camera to stroke his ego and lure him back.
“More importantly”—I lift an eyebrow and dead-eye the lens—“I deserve a chance to whoop your ass. Don’t make me wait too long.
” I stretch my hand out and let the microphone drop from my palm.
Somewhere off to the side, I hear a half-whispered “nooooo” from someone over by the sound booth. It’s the only noise in the room.
Then, a clap. And another. It’s Brian, who’s looking at me like he just discovered El Dorado in human form and applauding his own discovery.
Slowly, almost nervously, the rest of the crew join in.
Then, the entire academy. I can’t see much past the darkness, but I can tell some of them—maybe all of them—are on their feet.
Suddenly, I have a change of heart and wish I could see their faces.
Search for Trieu in the audience to keep me grounded as the applause rings in my ears and makes me vibrate all the way down to my toes.
They start up a chant of my name, loud enough to make the stage start to shake beneath my already unsteady feet.
I don’t get to revel in it for long, though.
The curtain whips closed, and the spotlight flicks off, green-gray dots clouding my vision again.
I welcome it this time, though. For a few seconds, I’m able to disconnect.
Focus on getting my eyes adjusted instead of reality.
That I just poured myself out onstage to who knows how many thousands of viewers. To the people I spent all summer with.
Finally, I was everything they—Kavi and Trieu, Ivan, Brian—wanted me to be. Charismatic and passionate and watchable. The best-packaged product on the shelf.
It was always easier to play my part when there was an inkling of truth in it. Especially when it came to falling for Ivan. As much as I’d like to think that was all performance out there, I know in my gut that it was just as real as what Ivan and I were. Or, what I thought we were.
A warm tickle on my cheek is all the warning I get before a tear slides down my face and drops to the floor, unnoticed in the din by everyone but me. Is it sad that I’m grateful it only came out once the curtain closed? Ivan doesn’t get to see me cry and neither does anyone else.
“And that,” Brian announces to the crew with his megawatt smile, “is how you reel in the fans.”
There’s another polite round of applause from the crew before they get to work on resetting the stage. Brian’s half compliment is the only contact he gives me before heading off toward the offices, flanked by his business-casual cronies.
“Brian!” I call out, jogging to catch up to him before he can disappear. He stops just before the door that leads off the stage and into the maze of hallways toward his office, and dismisses his minions with a flick of his hand.
“I just wanted to know if you’ve been able to get me a copy of the contract so I can look over it,” I say, half out of breath.
The more time to persuade my uncle to sign it, the better.
Especially considering my current status as an academy student transitioning to the league is kind of in a legal gray area since Clive didn’t actually sign my permission form.
But Brian doesn’t know that yet. I think.
“You’ll get the contract when it’s ready,” Brian assures me. “In fact, I was thinking of making a show of it. Have you sign it onstage after the battle.”
“Right, but if Ivan doesn’t show up—”
“When he shows up,” Brian corrects me.
“And if I end up losing the battle—”
“If you think you’re going to lose,” he says, “then you’ve just wasted a lot of everyone’s time here.”
“I just meant, you know, on the off chance. Won’t it be kind of anticlimactic to sign me after I hypothetically get my butt kicked?”
Brian’s visible confusion compounds. “What do you mean? If you get your hypothetical butt kicked, there won’t be anything to sign.”
“Wait, what? That’s not what I agreed to. I thought all I had to do was get through this battle and I was in the league.”
Brian shrugs. “You said it yourself. That’s anticlimactic.”
“So what will you do if I do lose?” All this thinking about losing is chipping away at the confidence I managed to fake onstage.
And with each chip I feel more … tired and alone, I think.
Now I can’t even say that’s the cost of success, since I apparently have one more hurdle to clear before I can call any of this a victory.
There have been so many double crosses and verbal agreements involved in all of this that I’m starting to feel trapped instead of triumphant.
No, not starting. I am trapped. In a cage I built myself, with Brian’s tools and materials.
But, hey, I get to play GLR onstage, right?
I have a gimmick all my own. Mission god damn accomplished.
Now on to the next level, complete with new enemies, rules, and win conditions.
Is that just what life is like? Or is the video game metaphor only apt because of my specific situation?
I don’t know. I’m seventeen. I won a game at a fan convention, and now I have a makeup team and an evil ex-boyfriend (or I’m the evil ex-girlfriend, determination TBD).
“Same thing I do with any other investment that doesn’t work out,” Brian says, as if he were talking about penny stocks and not my literal life and future. “I cut it loose before it starts to become a drain on profit.”
This is what I’ve allied myself with. This is who Ivan’s driven me toward. It’s almost a good thing that my only way out is through Ivan. He put me here, and I need to make him pay for that.