Authors: Allison Rushby
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“Yeeeees,” I look over at him slowly, very, very sure I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear.
“Your individual meeting this afternoon? I’d like it if Seth can join us.”
“Great! Suits me!” Seth says cheerily.
And I’m thinking maybe I don’t reply fast enough, because beside me, Katrina kind of nudges my foot slightly.
“Yeah, um, okay,” I answer. Because what else am I
going to say?
Brad glances around the room. “We’ll be assembling as per usual in the foyer in half an hour for the morning activity. You need to be wearing jeans and closed- toed shoes. I think you’re going to enjoy what we have planned.” There’s a collective groan, which Brad quickly mimics.
“Oh, you guys. Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asks, before shutting the door behind him.
★ ★ ★
As I quickly make my way back to room 20, still avoiding Jake, I agonize about what to do. After what went down in group this morning, I really want to get out of this place. I seriously consider running for it and sending Melissa her shots as soon as I hit some free Wi- Fi. Or maybe I should e-mail the shots later, or delete the shots, or try for more money, or . . .
I have no idea. In the end, I decide to wait for my chat 165
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with Mannie and let him make up my mind for me because I’ve lost all capability to function rationally.
For once in my life, I’m torn. I’m never torn. I don’t balk at even taking a shot, let alone sending one. Mostly because the stars, however much they pretend they don’t want pictures of them appearing anywhere and everywhere, would be even more unhappy if there were suddenly no pictures of them on the newsstands tomorrow.
Choices are usually pretty easy in my world. Diet or regular, fries or no fries, chase the star or don’t chase the star, stay put or move to a better location. But this choice impacts someone’s well-being. If something happened to Ned—
something along the lines of what happened to my mom— I don’t think I could ever forgive myself. And while Matthew Hartnett is playing around with the media by having Jake here as a decoy, and while it might result in Ned’s overcom-ing his issues, there’s no way I want to get any more involved with this plan than I already am. If something went wrong, I wouldn’t want to be a part of what ever went down. After all, there’s stooping and taking sneaky shots, and then there’s diving deep into the primordial swamp.
Still, I have to do something, and there must be a way to get out of all this with my paycheck and dreams of photography school intact. So, even though I don’t feel like doing it, I decide to take my fauxPod with me this morning, see if I can get a few decent shots, and take it from there. Think of it as insurance.
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“Jo?” I look up from my seat on the bed to see Katrina standing above me. “It’s time to go.”
“Oh, right,” I say, standing up.
“Come on, or we’ll be late.”
We make our way out to the foyer, where the rest of the group is waiting.
“Ah, there they are.” Brad ticks two fi nal names off on his clipboard. “I hope you’re all ready to get dirty!” Beside me, I can feel Katrina stiffen. I guess ballerinas aren’t really into getting dirt under their fi ngernails.
Brad ends up leading us outside and down toward the woods. As we get closer, it’s obvious that there’s something going on in there. Through the trees, we catch glimpses of large orange objects. In a clearing, there’s a man and two women waiting for us, along with what looks like two racks of black vests and other equipment lying on the ground on huge sheets.
“Hi,” the guy greets our group when we reach him. “I’m Michael. I’m thinking a couple of you will have already guessed what we’re up to today.”
“Paintball?” someone answers from the back of the group.
“Close,” Michael replies. “Because of the area we’re playing in and the fact that we can’t make too much mess in there for environmental reasons, we’re going to be playing a kind of modifi ed version of paintball called V-ball.” Michael goes on to explain the equipment and how the game works.
I try not to laugh as I remember this game I had on the back 167
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of my bedroom door as a kid: a large Velcro dartboard. I kept the balls in a container on my bedside table and would occasionally hurl them at the dartboard when I could be bothered. It’s sounding like V-Ball is pretty much like that, except you turn it into a moving Velcro dartboard and instead of throwing the little balls, everyone’s given a gun with a hundred of the things loaded in it and sent off to run around and shoot each other like idiots.
Not exactly my weapon of choice, but then neither is a fauxPod.
We all get loaded up in vests, armbands, leg bands and full face masks and are then each handed a gun complete with tiny colored Velcro balls.
“I never thought I’d call ammunition cute, but you’ve got to admit . . .” I nudge Katrina with my free arm.
She laughs. “They actually are pretty cute. Maybe we should just sit around and string them or something. Make V-ball necklaces.”
Speaking of cute, I am extremely aware of someone’s presence behind me. I’m sure Jake’s watching— staring at my back, if that hot spot between my shoulder blades is anything to go by. I move slightly to one side as Michael explains how to fi re our guns and gets each of us to step forward and fi re at a large Velcro target.
When it’s my turn, I step forward and fi re.
“Bull’s-eye! Wow, that’s great,” Michael nods. “You’ve got a good eye.”
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And I’m getting paid for it, I feel like saying. Though the way I’m going, refusing to send Melissa my shots, I may not have been paid anything at all. I really should check on that.
“Okay,” Michael continues, when
we’ve all fi red at the
target. “The fi rst game we’re going to play today is a free-for- all called Elimination. This means you’ll be playing for yourself, rather than as a team.” He gestures toward the woods before continuing. “As you can see, we’ve roped off a specifi c playing fi eld and the large blow-up orange struc-
tures give you some coverage. What you’re looking to do is eliminate everyone else by shooting them, until you’re the last person standing. You’ll get a few minutes to look around now, then a warning bell, then there’s thirty seconds until we begin play, when another bell will sound again to let you know it’s all on. Good luck troops!”
Everyone else starts forward into the woods, but Katrina stands still. “That’s it? That’s all the training we get?”
“Oh, don’t be such a prima donna!” I give her a wink, which I then realize she can’t see under my mask, so I grab her arm and start dragging her into the woods with me. “I’m sure the ballet world was way more cutthroat than this will be.”
“Huh. True.” Katrina’s mask nods at me.
“Well then, let’s go shoot some people. And dibs on me shooting Seth fi rst. If I get lucky, he might not be able to make it to our session this afternoon.”
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14
Okay, so I am loving V-ball. A little too much, actually, I’m thinking as I run, throw myself behind another one of the orange blow- up structures and boom, boom, boom, boom, boom take out someone or other (it’s kind of hard to tell with these masks on). Whoever it is swears, then trudges off the playing fi eld, his or her front littered with little pink balls.
So undignifi ed.
I laugh and can’t help myself . . . thwack! I let another one fl y and hit them square in the back.
“Hey!” They turn around, giving me a rude gesture, and I can’t help but laugh again.
Like I said, I’m loving this fantastic distraction they call V-ball just a little too much. It’s been great not to think about 170
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Jake for ten minutes, for a start. Though I do wonder what Brad would make of this. I’ve probably got a whole lot of repressed anger going on or something.
A long silence follows, in which I have time to slowly look around at my surroundings and realize there can’t be that
many people left in the game. Then I hear something—
footsteps, the snapping of a twig— not close, but close enough to be worried.
More silence.
And then thwack, thwack, thwack and, “Oh, I hate you, whoever you are!” Which is so Katrina. She’s done amazingly well to make it this far when she wasn’t even into the game to begin with. I must have been right, after all, about ballet being cutthroat.
I’m just waiting for the silence to kick in again, but it doesn’t. Instead, I suddenly hear someone running very close to me and I
can’t tell which side of the structure they’re going to come in on, or where I should shoot. I try to scram-ble out of my crouching position and into more of a starter’s position in case I need to run, but by then it’s too late. . . .
Crash!
Someone comes barreling in from the side of the structure I’m hiding behind and tackles me to the ground. I don’t think they’d realized I was here at all.
I wind up crushed beneath them, gasping for breath as their weight bears down on my lungs.
“Hey, are you okay?” The person rolls off me as I take a 171
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noisy, shuddery breath. They ditch their gun and reach forward to pull my mask off my face. “Jo? Are you okay?
Breathe!”
I take another raspy breath, then force myself to take a slower, longer one. I’ve been winded before— the worst thing you can do is lie there gasping for breath like a fi sh out of water. It just prolongs the agony. After yet another long breath, I start to think I might live. “How much do you weigh?” I fi nally say, with a cough.
My assailant strips off his own mask. It’s Jake. Of course.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to cut back on the bacon bits.” We stare at each other for a moment or two until I realize the situation we’re in— alone, just like we’d been the other night. And then I become suddenly breathless again. “So, is this where you shoot me?” I fi nally ask him.
“I sort of had other ideas,” he says, moving forward, and my heart really starts pounding. He is going to kiss me again.
But he doesn’t. When he’s as near to me as he can be, his green eyes locked onto mine, Jake takes one of the pink Velcro V-balls and balances it on the bridge of my nose. “Huh,” he says, inspecting it. “Cute!” He gives me a look that is very,
“not what you thought I was going to do, was it?” For a second or two, I’m thrown. But that’s the beauty of the element of surprise. It’s a game two can play, and I’ve never been a girl who hangs around and waits for things she can have right now. So I decide to take what I want. I push 172
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myself up on one elbow and before Jake can say anything else, my lips are against his once more, exactly how I’ve wanted them to be ever since they parted last night. And I didn’t think a kiss could be any better than the one we’d already shared, but I was wrong. This one’s better. At that thought, I start to smile.
“What’s so funny?” Jake pulls back an inch, one eyebrow raised. But then I think he realizes I’m not poking fun at him and he grins back at me. “I guess it’s not the most romantic of times and places, is it?” he picks two Velcro balls out of my hair and fl icks them aside.
I laugh. “It’s a step up from the chlorinated pool.” I sit all the way up and note that I’m still holding my gun in my right hand. I glance at it and then shrug, dropping it. I can hardly shoot him now that I’ve kissed him, can I?
“I think we’re the last two left.” Jake moves in beside me.
“Want to keep them guessing?”
“Sure, why not?” I could hang out here all day with Jake.
Not a problem.
Jake is quiet for a moment or two as we sit side by side, then he turns to look at me. “I wanted to tell you— I got to speak to Ned last night. Brad arranged it for me.” When he says this, I get the sudden urge to jump up and kiss him again. Because I really don’t think I want to hear what he has to say about Ned or be reminded of what I’m doing
here yet again. And I’d almost forgotten about my fauxPod tucked inside my vest, but now I feel its weight, 173
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solid against my chest. “Really?” I say slowly. “How’s he doing?”
Jake nods, looking kind of relieved. “He sounded pretty good. Upbeat. He said the treatment was working really well for him, that he felt better just for being there, doing something about it.”
“Wow, that’s great!” I say. And I do mean it. After all, it’s not like I wish terrible things on Ned. I don’t want him to lead some miserable life where he can’t go out and perform in front of his fans. I just also don’t want him to unintentionally make my life miserable, either. Though I’m sure Melissa will need no help in that regard if I don’t produce some shots.
And soon.
Don’t think about it, Jo. Just don’t think about it.
“What’s great is that I was able to talk to you about it.
I was going slightly crazy in here—” He starts to move in closer to me once more when someone shouts, interrupting the moment.