Anton’s been crying.
“What are you doing here?” I peer up and down the gray street. Everywhere is sheets of cold rain and puddles that reflect the empty sky. There’s no sign of his entourage or the cameras that follow his every move. He’s just a boy. Standing in the rain. Here, with me.
“I can’t do it. The game. I don’t want to do it,” he says.
I gasp. “But you’ve been planning this for months. There are a hundred people taking part.”
He turns away. His hands make fists in his wet hair. Then he spins around again. His dreamy blue eyes are wild. “None of it matters. Only you, Lola. It’s always been you, ever since that night at the party.”
“What?” I whisper, and the world stops spinning beneath us.
He steps toward me and trails his fingers down my bare arms. “I love you. And I don’t want to love you because it scares me so, so much. But I can’t help it. I…I…”
He doesn’t finish because that’s the moment when we melt into each other. His mouth grazes mine, and I don’t care that he’s pulled me outside with him into the pouring rain. I laugh against his lips and kiss him harder. Wow, I’m literally kissing Anton.
And then the DLR train sways from side to side, and I smack myself in the face, shattering the fantasy. I’m back in a subway car that smells of kebab meat and body odor. The woman sitting opposite me gawks in my direction with her mouth hanging open. I realize too late that I’ve been kissing my own hand. I wipe my face on my sleeve and busy myself typing the scene into my phone. She’s still staring, but I try to ignore her.
My story—“Anton Meets His Match”—has been a lukewarm hit with the Anton community on GossApp. It’s my best yet, I think because I’ve put so much of myself into it. My hopes, my dreams, my heart. Writing it hasn’t felt like make-believe; it’s felt like writing the truth. And now all that’s left to post is the final scene.
I read what I wrote. My stomach drops in disappointment and shame. I hold down the delete button until it’s gone. My endings always suck when I try to write a happily ever after. But my readers haven’t been exactly complimentary about my attempts at excitement and danger either.
Anton wouldn’t say that, loser.
What, no boning?
How old are you 12?
I gaze out the window at the city as it rushes past. We’re heading toward West India Quay, and the Canary Wharf skyscrapers stand proudly in the distance. Towering cranes crisscross against an almost colorless sky, bringing to mind immense dueling monsters. Just looking at them gives me vertigo. A plot idea hits me.
I imagine that Anton’s hanging one-handed from a crane, swinging from the huge hook as the wind tears through his amethyst hair. His other hand is holding mine, the one thing between me and a hundred-story fall. Our fingers are slipping apart, and his grip on the hook is failing. He can’t hold on much longer.
“Let me go,” I say, my pounding heart slowing as I realize what I must do. “If you don’t let me go, then we’ll both die.”
“Lola, no. I don’t want to live without you.” He sobs.
I smile bravely. “But you must. Live for both of us, Anton. Love for both of us.”
“I can’t let you go,” he whispers. “I can’t say goodbye, not when I just found you.”
“But, my darling, I’ll always be with you. Always.” I start to slip my fingers free of his and wink at him before I plummet to my death. “Stay sexy,” I say, letting go.
Urgh, no. This is trash. As if he’d drop me. Also, I’ve never been able to wink. I notice the woman opposite is staring again. I suspect I was whispering the words to my story out loud.
“I’m a writer,” I tell her, like that explains everything.
The woman hides behind her newspaper. I sigh again, then scroll up through my story to read it from the beginning. I’ve been posting a new installment every day in the run-up to Anton’s game. There are over a dozen comments already. Most people are desperate to find out what’s going to happen at the end. If only I knew.
I return to staring out the window. My reflection stares back at me. I’m wearing my favorite neon-orange Anton hoodie, with his face on the front. Unfortunately, my hair’s ruining what’s otherwise a perfect outfit. I’m pretty sure my hairdresser hates me. It’s the only explanation for why she cut 80 percent of my hair into massive bangs, making me look like I’m wearing a mousy-blond Lego girl wig.
My vanity is brought to an abrupt halt by a buzzing sensation on my wrist. I check out my bracelet. It’s lit up white, which is weird because I didn’t think the tech was supposed to come on till later—I’m heading to my starting position two hours early, just in case. I guess HQ is testing the system. The glasses aren’t doing anything yet though. I’ve been wearing them ever since they were given to me by some assistant called Caro, who I only vaguely recognized.
The woman opposite is peeking at me from behind her newspaper again. She lowers the paper and folds it carefully in her lap. “Are you taking part in that big game of chase tonight?” she asks, gesturing to my bracelet. “The one organized by that famous boy on the Internet.”
I nod and smile, my mind already returning to my story. Dangling from a crane was too much. An explosion perhaps, or an escaped lion…
“What do your parents think?” The woman persists, shuffling forward in her seat. “My daughter wanted to take part, but I told her it was far too dangerous. You never know what kind of men might be out at night.”
I shrug. Truth is, I haven’t told my mom. Even if I had, she probably wouldn’t have cared. Once upon a time, we were so close. But that was during the Before, when Dad was still around. That makes it sound as if he died, but the reality is far less dramatic. No, he just decided that he didn’t much like family life anymore, so he left.
When I was a little kid, I had this unshakable belief that parents would always love their children. That they always wanted their children. Turns out it’s not true. Dad hasn’t tried to contact me in years, except for a birthday card sent a month late, written in neat handwriting that wasn’t his own.
And my mom? Well, she didn’t check out as literally as Dad did, but ever since we moved in with Roger two years ago, it’s very clear that I’m a guest in her life. I sleep in horrible Matthew’s old room, with his gaming posters on the walls and his childhood Minecraft comforter on the bed. Matthew’s my stepbrother-to-be. I hate him.
“Someone does know where you are, don’t they?” the woman says gently.
I flash her my best A-student smile. “Of course,” I lie. “Actually, my dad’s driving down to keep an eye on me. He’s really overprotective.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She sits back in her seat. “It’s for the best with that much money involved.”
The prize certainly is a lot of money, but I’m planning to refuse it. I don’t want Anton thinking my intentions are anything less than honorable. The idea of profiting from him feels cheap. I wrote this little scene in one of my fanfics in which my character, Lola, turns Anton’s prize down, and Anton’s so touched that he cries. Thinking about it, he cries in a lot of my stories. I hope he isn’t offended by that.
My eyes widen. I’ve never stopped to think that Anton might actually read my writing. Heat floods to my cheeks as I remember that one story in which Anton is transformed into a guinea pig and Lola spends hours brushing his fur. That one was…weird. But then I remember how I’ve always used a pen name. There’s no way anyone will find out that AntonsGirlXOXO is me. Which is a very good thing, since it’s not only fiction that I’ve posted.
My bracelet buzzes again, and the lights flash. I hope it’s not broken.
The train pulls into the next station, and we sit there forever. There’s some commotion on the platform, but I can’t see anything. Finally, the doors beep and begin to close with a hiss. Someone throws themselves through the gap at the last minute. He swears and brushes himself down, his light brown skin beaded with sweat.
I jump out of my seat, and my glasses nearly slip off my head. “Matthew!”
He points at me while trying to catch his breath. There’s a big damp patch down the front of his gray T-shirt. I don’t even want to think about what might be happening inside the tight leather pants he’s wearing. Urgh, now I’m thinking about it.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” I say.
“Caro texted me—she said you looked familiar when she dropped off the tech package. I followed the signal from the GPS tracking bracelet, and here you are. Entering under a fake name? Fuck, Charlotte.”
“Please don’t swear at me. And Sanderson isn’t a fake name; it’s my mom’s maiden name, although I don’t see how it’s any of your beeswax.” I sit down and straighten my glasses.
Horrible Matthew? Roger’s eighteen-year-old son? My future stepbrother? Yeah, he’s one of Anton’s two surviving Accomplices. Once upon a time, he lived with us. He gave up his room for me and slept on the sofa. He invited me to parties with his famous friends. Then, just as I got used to having a brother, he left.
Now Matthew lives in Anton’s house and dates Anton’s sister. Every month or two, he comes home to torment me with his arrogance and his overpowering aftershave and the fact he’s living the life that I want to be living.
Look at him, the slimy little dude-bro. Predictable good looks? Check. Well-rehearsed wink? Of course. Expensive clothes that he wears once? Obviously. Oh no, my T-shirt’s accidentally a child’s size and now everyone can see the outline of my six-pack. Barf.
He slides into the seat next to me, knocking knees with the woman opposite. “Charlotte, this isn’t a game!” he hisses.
“Err, that’s exactly what it is. A livestreamed game of tag. Which I intend to win.”
“Win? You?”
“Yes, me! I’m going to win that date with Anton, and then we—”
“Wait, what? Anton’s not about to date you, Charlotte. Fuck’s sake. You really think he’d be interested in you?”
The woman opposite gasps softly. Someone else whispers to their friend. The entire car is now listening in on our conversation, turning in their seats. I can taste their pity. Look at that poor deluded girl, with her pudgy pink cheeks and child’s haircut.
“You think that because I’m not perfect, amazing Beatrix, I’m not worthy of love? Shame on you, Matthew,” I say, keeping my voice as quiet as I can.
“Love?” He slowly shakes his head. “Anton’s not going to fall in love with you.”
“He would have already if you weren’t always getting between us. Anton and I had a connection, and you’ve kept us apart. You could’ve passed on my messages, but no! You deliberately ruined my life.”
“I was protecting you. You think you know Anton because you used to watch his show. But none of that shit was real. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You’re wrong. Anton and I are perfect for each other, and I’m not letting you spoil my one chance. Now leave me alone.” I turn my head and refuse to look at him.
“Charlotte. Charlotte! You’re being ridiculous. I’m not the bad guy here.”
“Says the boy who interferes with other people’s relationships and cheats on his own girlfriend.”
He throws both arms up in disbelief, smacking the nosy woman’s newspaper out of her hands, into her face. “I’ve never cheated on Beatrix. Jesus, Charlotte, what’s wrong with you?”
I scoff at him. “So your sordid reputation is make-believe? All those influencer types filming videos about how you dated them?”
“That was before I got together with Beatrix, and you know it.”
“Really? And what about those photos outside that hotel? Why were you running around in your underwear, Matthew?”
He goes very still. “That wasn’t… You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cheat,” I shout at him. “Cheaty, cheaty, cheat-cheat.”
Abruptly, he storms off with his jaw clenched so tight I worry his teeth will shatter. As the train pulls into the next station, he hammers on the Open Doors button even though they always open by themselves and steps out onto the platform. I wave to him through the glass. He mouths something unrepeatable.
“I always thought he was such a nice boy,” the woman opposite muses.
“Yeah, everyone thinks that. But he’s not.” I’ve known exactly who the real Matthew is since he left me behind without a backward glance. He’s a user and a pretender. I wish I could make everyone else see him for what he is too. I scroll to the top of the Anton message board on GossApp. Typing quickly, I write a new post without really thinking about what I’m saying.
What’s this I hear? Matthew is sneaking around behind the lovely Beatrix’s back again, getting up to no good? Perhaps it’s time for Anton to wake up to what kind of person is living in his home and dating his sister—AntonsGirlXOXO
As soon as I hit Send, I wonder if it’s too much. Too bitter and jealous. I push the thoughts aside and remind myself why I’m here and how much is at stake. Nobody—especially not my horrible stepbrother—is going to stand in my way.