At Nationals, everyone is assigned a number. I was #1616. When you advance a round, they post your number—that way nobody knows who they’re going to be competing against in the next rounds, if they advance. You can only worry about yourself.
The first rounds are held in meeting rooms of the convention center, which get progressively bigger and more impressive until, for the final round, you compete on the stage of a massive auditorium with several thousand people in the audience, with a live video feed going out to thousands of other people on the web. The trophies, huge, skyscraper-sized monstrosities, are arrayed behind you like a wall of sentinels as you perform. We had watched videos of the finals performances over the course of the year to inspire us, but honestly, it was completely nerve-racking.
At the beginning it was like any other meet. Lakshmi gave me a pep talk outside the bland, featureless meeting room before the first round.
“You’re gonna do awesome. Don’t worry about the plan right now. You just try to advance.”
“Right.” I nodded.
She looked me in the eyes and gripped my shoulders. “And hey… I get it. I know that the college thing is super important. And I know that I don’t have that same… reality.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking down.
“And I just want to say that you’re awesome and I’m cheering for you. You’re gonna kick ass today.”
“It’s like eight o’clock in the morning and you’re trying to ruin my makeup already. You are a terrible, terrible person,” I joked, sniffling through it. “I’m glad you’re my friend. You made this school bearable. Ever since the first day I didn’t know what the hell was going on about the gold standard and I was pretty sure people thought I was the worst person alive.”
She hugged me. “I wasn’t paying any attention about the gold standard, either.”
“I love you so much and I love that you don’t give a shit about monetary policy from the nineteenth century.”
We headed into the room. Lakshmi sat in the back and gave me a thumbs-up as I surveyed the competition. Kids from all over the country, dressed in suits. Some of them had their eyes closed and were silently mouthing their routines to themselves; others were staring forward with nervous intensity, shaking out arms or legs.
We’re all just kids, I thought.
Sucks that only one of us will live. I cracked myself up.
When it was my turn, I performed the routine Sparks and I had practiced. It felt a little gross, to be honest, but it was effective. I did a part where I walk in on my dad injecting himself with heroin and used the same movements I’d perfected as Nikki Sixx. It was gut-wrenching, still a little bit funny, and a complete lie. The audience was a little intimidated by me; they gave me a wide berth.
Afterward, Lakshmi raised one of her dark eyebrows. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said. With each passing round you could see the numbers that were garnering the highest marks. Number 1616 was advancing steadily. Other numbers were accumulating ones (the highest rating in the round) at a persistent clip as well. I started mentally clocking who my greatest challengers were going to be: #108, #525, #741. I couldn’t help feeling like Katniss, scoping out the tributes who were posting the most kills.
Thomas was checking in with the other Eaganville squad members since he was least likely to be recognized. He kept texting things like Hanson is the Antichrist and everyone loves him for it, which I guess meant that he was advancing. Or Dear God this Hobbit nonsense, which could really mean anything.
On the second day, I kept cruising—but by octofinals I was getting twos and threes in rounds (each round started having more and more judges). I was falling behind and would soon be dropped. After a certain point, scores accumulated, which meant that you started each round with either an advantage or a deficit. When I made it to the semifinals, I started the round in second place. I’d need to win this round in order to have a chance to win finals.
The crowds were huge now, bursting with the hundreds of kids who had already been knocked out in previous rounds. I recognized a few of the numbers I was competing against—#108 (Being a Teenage Mom) and #525 (I Was a Refugee). The other leading competitor (#741) was on the other side of the bracket and I wouldn’t know what their piece was until finals, if I even made it to finals.
I needed to get on that livestream. I needed to have a chance to speak. Our new plan depended on it.
Adrenaline and exhaustion rolled through me in waves. I’d performed the piece thirteen times in two days; my voice was sore, my body ached like I’d been through the tumble sequence of a dryer. Still, I had to admit, it was easier to lie up there than to tell the truth. I didn’t have to suffer through the emotional trauma of repeating my life in front of strangers. Here I was acting. It was just like The Heroin Diaries. I didn’t have to be myself.
Semis were in one of the ballrooms, and the audience poured in once they swung open the huge double doors. Competitors sat on the stage now, staring out at the sea of faces in the audience. The folding chairs spread out in thirty or forty rows, stretching all the way to the far back of the massive room. It was the largest audience I’d ever faced.
In the back, Mom stepped into the room, holding hands with Luke.
They had gotten here a little late; they took a seat about twenty-five rows back, squished among groups of brightly chattering teenagers. My heart pounded in my chest when I saw them. Suddenly the gigantic room was only the size of my mother’s eyes.
The contest manager, a resolute Latinx woman with a highly sensible tan business suit, walked to the center of the stage.
“Number one-oh-eight, from James Bowie High School in Austin, Texas, Jasmine Wu.”
The cheer that went up for her was thunderous. I shivered all over and tucked my hands under my thighs, trying desperately to keep it together. Jasmine, a tall girl in amazing shoes, strode up to the front of the stage with unflappable confidence.
“At first I didn’t think it was true,” she said, her voice clear and bright. “Then I thought about whether or not I could get on Teen Mom.” The audience laughed. “Then I watched Teen Mom.” The audience laughed harder.
I kept my head down during her performance, staring at the floor and listening to the sweep and power of her speech. It was the best thing I’d heard in any round, period. She was phenomenal.
And it’s true, I thought, closing my eyes. It was obvious it was true.
And I’m gonna get up there and lie.
Jasmine finished and a thousand people erupted into applause.
“Number one-six-one-six, from Eaganville High School in Eaganville, Minnesota, Sydney Williams!”
The crowd roared for me, too. My mom lifted her hands over her head and clapped. Luke put two fingers in his mouth and whistled like a gym coach, because of course he had the loudest whistle of anyone in the room.
I exhaled, then walked to the front and stared out at the crowd. Mom had a smile on her face. I exhaled again.
You only have the right to tell your story.
Screw Sparks’s stupid advice. I still remembered my original version.
“When people find out your dad is in prison, they treat you differently. You can sense it almost immediately. It’s like they think it’s contagious. ‘Oh, your dad’s in prison for tax fraud, let me make sure to make it clear to you that there is sales tax on that gum you’re purchasing there, young lady. Six point two-five percent. Deal with it.’”
Afterward, it was a madhouse. My mom found me and hugged me—Luke gave me a serious high five.
“That was…” said my mom, losing the words and wiping tears away from her eyes. “I couldn’t… you had…”
“Thanks,” I said.
Luke nodded. “I was so stoked for you. So stoked. I woulda freaked out up there. All those people watching you? And you were like, I got this.” His snaggletooth poked out in appreciation.
“I should’ve come to one of these sooner,” Mom said, finally managing to make a coherent thought come out of her mouth.
“I’m glad you saw this one,” I said.
“Me too.”
We stood there a moment. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“How did you get down here anyway?”
“I had Thursday off, so I asked Luke and—”
Luke took out his phone. “MapQuest said it was going to take seven hours to get here and I managed it in six fifteen. Woo. The Honda Fit has balls.”
I looked at him. “If you’re thinking of attaching truck balls to the back of your Honda Fit, I will hate you forever.”
Luke contemplated this. “It would be pretty great if I put truck balls on the Honda Fit.”
“Mom.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “He’s just joking. I think. He’d better be joking.”
“I swear to God, if I ever see them on there,” I said, “I will neuter your car.”
“Noted. I’ve always thought they should make truck ovaries, personally.” He smiled. “Um… so are we sticking around for tomorrow? ’Cause if we’re gonna make it back to the Twin Cities, we need to haul ass.”
My mom wrapped her arm around me. “Do you want us to stay for the finals? I can call in sick tomorrow and—”
“Um… actually… please don’t. I don’t know that I made it and it’s basically going to be the same thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. I mean it. Don’t call in sick. You got to see me perform. I’m not going to do any better tomorrow.” And, possibly, I will be ending everything in a firestorm.
“Okay, honey.”
“Thank you for coming.”
The conspiracy met in the Best Western right after the team dinner. The results had been announced for original oratory—I had received the three in the round, which meant I was the lowest qualifier for finals. Based on cumulative scoring, I was already mathematically eliminated from the championship. But at least I made it.
“Fuck yes!” growled Lakshmi, bouncing on one of the two queen beds in the room. The room looked just like you would imagine a hotel room inhabited by four teenagers for two days would look: a crime scene. The blinds had been drawn. The beds were unmade, dirty clothes were piling near the boys’ side of the room, and multiple laptops had been set up. The paper tablecloth from the Macaroni Grill was tacked to the wall, complete with pushpins and string like a complex murder investigation.
Thomas was rather proud of the additions to the chart. “Check it out; I printed out photos of each of the team members and posted them up here.”
“This is some cracked-out shit,” I said. “It looks like an FBI sting operation in here.”
Blaize shook her head. “They won’t let housekeeping in. It’s a nightmare.”
“How is housekeeping going to come in here?!” protested Elijah. “‘Make the beds, but leave the conspiracy wall, please.’”
“Maybe just clean up your shit,” said Lakshmi.
“Um, I did; it’s Thomas’s shit that’s the problem.”
Thomas gingerly lifted a crumpled pair of pants from the floor with his toe. “And what is this? This just magically arrived from the pants fairy?”
“Boys,” complained Blaize.
Lakshmi moved over to where they had been charting Eaganville’s progress through the tournament. “All right, then. Every member of the Sinister Six has made the finals. We’ve got our surprises prepared for duo and debate—I’m getting up at five in the morning, and, Blaize, are you ready?”
She lifted a homemade sign that said LET’S GO, HANSON in giant, glittery letters.
“That is evil as fuck and I love it,” said Lakshmi.
It was gonna be a big day.