MIKE
Mike turned the corner and caught Devon pacing, mad as a wet cat, in the corridor outside his room.
He slowed his steps, concealing his satisfaction. So Catherine was sheltering her, too. He’d suspected as much.
“You low-life creep.” Devon’s eyes narrowed as soon as she saw him. She’d changed out of her fancy black dress into a tee and jeans, but still wore heavy eyeliner and dangling earrings. “How dare you profess Gabriel’s ‘love’ for me on HoloTV?”
Mike smiled pleasantly, though he could feel his temper rising like mercury on a hot day. “You impersonated Angel, sedated me with Knockout, and sold me out to a hate-crime group, but I’m the low-life creep? Nope, not buying it. You’re definitely at least three rungs below me on the slime scale.”
She flushed, but didn’t back down. “Those are things I did to you. You want to ruin my reputation, go ahead and try, but leave Gabriel out of it. This will haunt our career for years. Instead of focusing on our team as serious contenders, we’ll get questions like, ‘Are you dating?’ ‘Did Devon break your heart?’ Our competition will laugh at us.” She glared at him.
Mike folded his arms, unimpressed. Angel did it better. “Anything else?”
Her black eyes smoldered. “Aren’t you worried about how Angel is going to take your little declaration of love?”
“Angel trusts me,” Mike snapped, but thinking about her viewing the clip made his heart dive down to his shoes.
Devon arched an eyebrow. “That much? And when I tell her how you kissed me—not once, but twice—how’s she going to feel?”
Angel had seen the security tape so Devon’s shot missed the target. “Nice try, but I already told Angel that I kissed you, thinking you were her.”
“And she forgave you? Or did she just pretend that she did? The way I see it trust is like a brick wall. It looks solid, but if you hit it with a hammer it’ll take one, maybe two, blows before it starts to crumble. The kiss was the first blow; the proposal is the second. How many more do you think your wall can withstand? If I tell her you kissed me again, she’ll want to believe that I’m lying, but by then your wall will be looking like Swiss cheese.”
Doubt poured into Mike like cold water. His relationship with Angel was already strained. More weight added to the fragile structure might send it crashing down on the rocks. He could lose her.
He loomed over Devon, projecting menace. “If you lie to her, I’ll wring your neck.” As soon as he uttered the threat, he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d exposed a weakness.
Devon smiled tauntingly. “Remember that the next time you feel like taking a shot at Gabriel.” She touched his cheek, and he flinched back as if she carried the plague.
Still smiling, she strolled away.
*ANGEL*
Day Two.
A sense of mischief seized me when I realized I was the last person to enter the workplace floor. I handed the rule handbook to Em. “Can you put this on my desk?” I hung back while she complied, then did a series of four cartwheels and a round-off ending neatly at my cubicle.
Gerry and Ron wolf-whistled.
There. That ought to wake up any sleeping cameramen. I wanted them focused on me so they didn’t miss the next bit.
I received my first—but by no means last—visit from Mr. Pinchot two minutes later.
"Good morning,” I said cheerily, while my fingers flew over the keyboard. "No need to check up on me; I remember everything from your instruction session yesterday."
That stymied him, but only briefly. "Angel, what was the meaning of those, those—"
"Cartwheels?" I supplied.
"Acrobatics. This is a workplace," he said sternly.
"Gymnastics." I tried to jolt him off his stride.
"What?"
"Cartwheels are gymnastics, not acrobatics. Acrobats swing through the air—or maybe that’s trapeze artists," I mused.
Mr. Pinchot refused to be sidetracked. "Neither one should be done here. I'm going to fine you—"
"Can you do that?" I asked doubtfully. "I thought you were only allowed to fine detainees if they break the rules and cartwheels aren't against the rules. There aren't any rules about travelling to and from one's desk at all, I checked." I stopped typing long enough to tap the handbook on my desk. "Can you show me which rule I broke?"
Mr. Pinchot paused, then regrouped. "Some rules are unwritten, known by everyone—"
I interrupted. "I don't like unwritten rules. Everybody has a different idea of what they mean. No offense, Mr. Pinchot, but I'll feel better if I just stick to the written ones."
Mr. Pinchot glared down his nose at me, lips thinned. "It's obvious that cartwheels are both dangerous and cause a disturbance. I can't allow them."
"I’d never do anything to hurt someone," I said sincerely. The aisle was four feet across; in gymnastics I'd done cartwheels on a four-inch balance beam. "The only disturbance I caused was making people smile."
Mr. Pinchot drew himself up to his full five foot six height. "As your supervisor, I have authority over you. You will not do cartwheels again, is that understood?"
“Not really, but I wasn't planning on doing more today anyhow,” I offered him as a sop.
Fuming, he stalked off the floor, no doubt intending to fire off an email to Ms. Rodriguez demanding a rule change.
"I've got one," Em whispered from across the aisle. "Longest Name: Josephina Constanzia."
"Nineteen letters," I said, not whispering. "Not bad." I wrote it down on the chart I'd prepared, then raised my voice. "Anybody else have an entry?"
"I have a rhymer,” Gerry called. “Mack Black. Sounds like a nursery rhyme. 'Mack Black had a sack.'"
As I wrote it down, I made up another line. "'Which he stuffed with snacks.'"
"'Until he had no lack,'" Em put in quietly.
I repeated the whole rhyme for everyone else's benefit while my fingers continued to type records. My numbers would be needed to keep our efficiency rate from going down the toilet.
"'And his wife stopped giving him flack,'" Gerry added.
"I have a short entry," Jazzy called five minutes later. "J—just the letter, not the bird—Cox."
"Good one," I said.
Mr. Pinchot stormed back onto the floor. He headed straight for Gerry. That wouldn't do. I’d promised I’d take all the heat. I raised my voice. "We've got a shortest, a longest and a rhymer, but we still need a funniest entry. Anybody?"
A pause, then Ron said, "I had a Gandalf Adams last week, does that count?"
"Sorry, only today's records. Remember," I said piously for Mr. Pinchot's benefit, "the more records you enter the greater your chances of winning. Hi, Mr. Pinchot! I forgot to tell you about this great idea I had to improve efficiency." I explained to him about the contest.
"It sounds more likely to decrease efficiency than increase productivity," Mr. Pinchot said sourly.
"Oh, I'm sure you're wrong," I said optimistically. "But if our numbers go down we can stop the contest tomorrow—although everyone would be terribly disappointed." Everyone definitely looked more alert today, not falling asleep from boredom. Hopefully, the viewing audience would feel the same.
“The thing is,” I confided, “even though the data entry is important, it gets a little tedious day after day.”
"This is only your second day," he gritted out.
I shrugged. "I have a low boredom threshold. Yesterday everything was new, but today my productivity would’ve dropped without the contest to hold my attention." Both true.
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.”