Vanhi stared at the package on her bed. Her hands were shaking.
She’d taken it outside and done everything she could think of to tell if it was safe.
She’d thrown rocks at it from a distance. Nothing. No explosion. No screeching. Not even a shattering noise. Just a dull thud.
She’d found a long stick and prodded the package back and forth. Nothing.
She’d shaken it, sniffed it, everything but opened it.
She looked back at the anonymous texts.
Knock on the door
Go around back.
Pick it up
And then the new one. The kicker:
Deliver It.
Vanhi looked up the address it gave on her phone. It was forty minutes away. The name meant nothing to her. Mitchell P. She googled it but the results were junk.
She was just delivering a package! Why was she so freaked out?
She realized she wanted to call Charlie.
She picked up her phone, held the voice-activation button, and said, “Call Charlie.”
The phone echoed back, “Calling Charlie.”
But it didn’t do it.
She tried again. “Call Charlie.”
Again, no call.
She went to her contacts and clicked his name.
And nothing happened.
Was the Game messing with her? If it could blow up a phone, it could do this. But why? Why couldn’t she call Charlie? They were playing together, weren’t they?
She wished she had never heard of the Game, but it was obviously a little late for that.
She was about to try texting him when a new message arrived. It wasn’t from Charlie, but rather the anonymous game thread.
If you tell, I tell.
Okay, fine. She got it. This was on her. No phone-a-friend. But still, there were limits. She wasn’t going to deliver an IED to someone’s doorstep.
She texted back:
Is it a bomb?
She knew it was insane to put that in writing, but she didn’t care. That was the question haunting her. She didn’t expect an answer, but dammit she had to ask.
The screen showed typing, then:
No.
She wrote back:
Is it something bad?
Not even a pause before:
No.
How could she trust it? What if it was lying?
She went to her desk and grabbed the scissors.
She was about to plunge them through the packing tape wrapping the box when her phone suddenly rang. She jumped, and the scissors skittered out of her hand.
“Shit!”
Her hand shook as she grabbed the phone.
“Hey.” It was Charlie.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Vanhi said, eyeing the box warily.
“Do you think we’re screwed?”
“What, Eddie? The paper? Kenny will fix it.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” Vanhi said.
“If this blows your Harvard app, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Vanhi closed her eyes. Every time he said that, her lie weighed heavier on her. She wanted to say, No, Charlie. I’m already fucked.
Instead, she said, “Are you okay, Charlie?”
“I think I really hurt someone tonight.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know. He attacked me in the garage. At the mall.”
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yeah. But I broke his wrist.”
“It sounds like you didn’t have a choice.”
“Maybe. Maybe I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
“Why shouldn’t you be at the mall?”
“Never mind.”
“Charlie, you’re not making sense.”
“Forget it. It’s fine.”
Vanhi looked at the package on her bed. “Was it the Game?” Careful, she warned herself. If you tell, it tells.
Charlie hesitated. “I want you to stop playing.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t care about me.”
She looked at the box. I know your secret. “What if I can’t stop?” she said, hearing her voice strain.
“Why not?”
If you tell, I tell. “Just what if?”
“You have a choice.”
Earlier, Vanhi had run into her mom, who looked tired after a long day at the bank where she worked. “What’s in the box?” she asked. “Just school stuff,” Vanhi had answered, and her mom had accepted that without a moment’s pause. Vanhi had spent years building that trust, and the truth would blow it up in one horrible instant, if it ever came out.
The Game could tell her parents that she hacked her grade before they saw it, then hacked it back. It could tell the school. There would be traces if people looked. To hell with Harvard, she could be expelled.
“Right, a choice,” she said, feeling deflated. “I have to go.”
“Hey, easy. You called me.”
“No, I didn’t. You called me.”
“My phone rang.”
Vanhi closed her eyes. “Mine, too. It’s testing us. There’s things we’re not supposed to say.”
“Yeah. I guess we passed.”
She put her hand on the box. “I have to go.”
She buried her face in her hands. It was clear to her now. She asked the Game one last question:
Do I have a choice?
Again, no pause:
Yessssssssssssssssss
That was true.
And she’d already made it.
Alex biked through the darkness, with the bat tucked under his arm. He knew the back roads and the shadowy ways that would keep him out of sight.
He’d found the bat buried deep in his small garage, under stacks and piles of old crap. An old basketball, deflated years ago. That’s me! A soccer ball, untouched, still in the box from circa 2010. Untouched—that’s me! Unless you counted punishments, and there was truth to that. Because at least when you were bent over the bedpost, taking your licks, you felt, deep down, It’s about me, they’re paying attention right now, only to me. That was buried beneath the pain and humiliation, but it was real, a tang of sour-sweet juice on the blade of the hurt.
He pedaled furiously to the address the Game had given him. The bat felt strange in his arms. He remembered the night his dad had made him stay outside for hours, until he’d hit the ball off the tee one hundred times. Why? Because he refused to play catch. Didn’t his dad realize, I want to fit the mold. I want to be this thing you imagine I could be. All the threats, all the punishments. Pointless. If I could, I would. I wish, wish, wish I could.
Nobody likes you.
That was true. He’d always known that. Still, just seeing it in writing was like a sucker punch, every time he looked back at the text. Everybody hated him, and now maybe the Game had turned on him, too. He had to do this right.
He pedaled harder, his plaid shirttails flapping in the wind.
When he got there, he held the bat steady, remembering the grip his dad had taught him a decade ago. Just like the US GIs had taught him. His dad could learn it a zillion miles away, but Alex was raised here, and he couldn’t hit a ball to save his life. His dad the hero. Dragging US soldiers out of the fire. Going back in to save more.
Bam.
Alex brought the bat down on the windshield of the car.
The noise echoed through the quiet neighborhood.
Bam.
His dad the war hero.
Bam.
Charlie the saint.
Bam.
Peter the unobtainable.
Bam.
Vanhi the skeptic.
Bam.
Kurt the sadist.
Bam.
Tim the puppet master.
Bam.
The school.
Bam.
The people.
Bam.
Everyone.
Bam.
All must …
Bam.
His mom …
But wait. The bat hesitated. She was kind. She would come in after a particularly bad punishment, whisper soft kindnesses in his ear, stroke his hair, and press her forehead against his.
But she couldn’t stop it.
She could only cradle him when it was over.
Weakness.
Goodness but weakness.
Pointless.
Useless.
Over.
Done.
Bam.
Lights were flicking on in the neighborhood now. Dogs were barking. Alex became aware of his surroundings, as if he’d woken up in a different place from where he’d started. He was dripping with sweat. His palms were aching.
He heard sirens in the distance.
For him?
He ran to his bike, on its side in the bushes.
He looked back at the car. It was smashed beyond belief. The windows were gone. The headlights and taillights were pulverized, white and red shards in blood-spray patterns. The body was pocked and cratered.
The bat!
Alex realized he had dropped the bat.
He wasn’t worried. Every kid on every block had a bat like that.
But he felt a bizarre, sentimental pang.
Could he really just leave the bat? His dad had bought it for him. A long time ago. Yes, so much pain was between then and now. So much anger. Even coming from that bat itself (You will stay out here until you can a hit a ball like every other kid on this block).
But his dad bought it for him.
A long time ago.
Leaving it felt like snipping a last, thin cord between them.
Alex dashed back, grabbed the bat, and bolted back toward his bike, tripping along the way. He scrambled up, swung a leg over the frame, and sped off, bat tucked under his arm, pedaling as fast as he could into the safety of the shadows.
Charlie drove through the woods to the Grove, the bracelet in his pocket. After the attack at the mall, he was keeping it close, checking for it every couple minutes. He could feel it, hard and reassuring in the little pouch.
Social control—you’ve earned it.
He’d looked at the chessboard in the Game. He still couldn’t move the pieces, but they’d advanced nonetheless. Black and white were intermingling now, fighting with one another. Kurt Ellers had a chip in his tooth now, and a comical black eye. That’s right, Charlie thought, we knocked him down a peg. Mary and Charlie were facing each other, just a square between them. Tim watched, a square away.
Charlie pulled into the darkness of the Grove and killed his engine. He walked along the shrouded path, feeling his way toward the edge of the lake where Mary had asked him to come. When he came into the small clearing and spotted her, she was so beautiful in the moonlight, her skin glowing faintly, that it almost felt like a dream.
She was too good for him. He wasn’t a frog, one kiss away from prince. He was a flea. What could he give her? A stolen bracelet? It was all he had.
If he was her savior, why would she want to be saved?
But he couldn’t help moving toward her, her skin glowing in the blue haze.
They came together so quickly, so hungrily, that all doubt washed away.
It started as a kiss but it progressed quickly, her hand sliding under his shirt, her nails on his chest, spread-palmed as she moved over his abdomen and around his back.
There were tears down both sides of her face.
She reached for his belt, then stopped, pushing back from him. “Not like this.”
She put her hand on his face, but Tim’s bracelet was there and he pulled her hand off gently. Why would she wear it? Why wouldn’t she just take it off, just for their rendezvous in the woods?
“I have something for you.”
“I don’t want a present.”
“Please. Take it.”
She looked at the bracelet he pressed into her hand, identical to the one she wore.
She looked up, perplexed. “Why would you do this?”
“It’s for us.”
She shook her head. “What do you think I am?”
“I know who you are. When I told you my mom was sick, do you remember that? I came back a little later, and you were crying. That was right before your brother died.”
“You saw me?”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you do something, then?” she snapped. “Don’t you see, I would have … right then, I could have…”
“I don’t understand.”
“And this.” She gestured angrily at the bracelet. “What is this supposed to mean? That you can buy me? You can be my next Tim?”
“No … that’s not it.”
She started to leave.
Charlie tried to hold her back. “No, listen. It’s so we can … I know you can’t leave him, yet. But this way you can know, it’s from me, not him, and he’ll never know. And then when you’re ready…”
She stared at him, flabbergasted. “You think that’s what I want? To live a lie?”
“If it’s not, what are we doing in the woods?”
Mary’s eyes welled up. “You don’t know anything.”
“Is he hurting you?”
“I will handle this.”
“I’m not going to stand by and watch you get hurt.”
“It’s not your job to save me, Charlie.”
He wanted to punch a tree. He felt angry, baffled, whipsawed. He ached and his heart was twisting.
“I will get out in my own way in my own time.”
“Okay.”
“And this?” She looked at the bracelet in her hand. “This isn’t you.” She handed it back to him. “I don’t want it. And I don’t want this.” She took off Tim’s bracelet, and in a panicked, impulsive move, she threw it into the lake. “Oh, shit,” she said suddenly. “Oh, no.” She looked at him, eyes wide. But the moment passed and she became calm, strong. “Good, Good.”
Charlie started to push the new bracelet at her. “You can have…”
“No.”
“Just to cover up…”
“No.” But her tone was softer now. “No. It’s okay. Take this back, Charlie. I don’t know where you got the money, and I don’t want to know. Please take it back.”
She hugged him quickly and said she had to leave.
“I’m trying,” Charlie told her.
“I know you are. I am, too.”
Vanhi stood outside the house, holding the box.
It felt remarkably light in her hands.
Nothing truly bad could be this light, she thought again.
She’d waited till dark, then gone to the assigned location.
The house looked peaceful. Unassuming. A soft glow came from inside, but the outer rooms were dark.
She had passed her mom on the way out. She lied and said she was going to work on a project at Charlie’s house. “You seem nervous,” her mom said not unkindly. A thought occurred to her, and she smiled broadly. “You’ve done everything possible. You know I know that, right? If Harvard doesn’t want you, they’re crazy. I am so proud of you.”
Vanhi wanted to cry.
She left, moving quickly, her car whipping through town, windows open so the cold air could sting her and distract her from thinking.
She reached the house and knew she couldn’t hesitate now. She’d done everything possible to prove the box was benign. She’d all but risked blowing herself up, kicking it, shaking it, poking it, smelling it.
I am so proud of you.
I know your secret.
That’s what she wanted to tell Charlie—not enough love wasn’t the only thing that could kill you. Too much love. That could crush you, too.
Vanhi did as she was told.
She went to the back of the stranger’s house, and the window was unlocked, just as the Game said it would be.
She climbed gracefully into the dark bedroom—Vanhi was lithe and fast—and placed the box gently on someone’s bed.
She slipped back out, closing the window behind her and wiping off the edges where her fingers had been.
When she got home, a box was waiting on her bed.
It seemed impossible.
Another brown cardboard box, indistinguishable from the one she’d just delivered.
Was it the same box? Could someone have beaten her back, gone in through her window—while her parents were in the other room—and put the box back on her bed? She felt violated suddenly. Same box or not, had someone been in her room while her family watched TV down the hall?
She checked her window. It was locked from the inside.
She went to the living room.
“Ma, was someone here?”
“Back so soon?” Her mom looked surprised. “The project’s done?”
“We’ll finish later. Did someone come by?”
“Someone left a package for you. On the doorstep.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. They rang the bell and left it.”
She wanted to scream, And you put it on my bed?
But why wouldn’t her mom? Hadn’t Vanhi just told her a similar box was school supplies?
“It’s for your project, no?”
Vanhi mumbled yes and went back to her room. She had to get it out of the house. She opened her window and took it down to the creek behind their lot. She shone the flashlight on her phone on it. It could be the same box, she wasn’t sure. She went through the same rigmarole—poking it, testing it. Then she said fuck it. People in glass houses. If she could give it to a stranger to open, why wouldn’t she?
Vanhi tore at the box.
Inside, it was stuffed with crumpled paper. She threw it aside and dug deeper until her fingers closed around something hard and square. She took it out.
The small metal box had knobs and a display screen for red LED numbers. It was painted with an image of space, stars, and the horizon of a planet.
She knew exactly what it was, instantly.
Panda Audio’s Future Impact I, the sound-effects pedal real bass players used in mega-stadiums. Chris Wolstenholme of Muse had one, for Christ’s sake. It cost over $500. She could never afford one. If her parents thought a nice Hindu girl playing bass was crazy, this was downright psychotic.
On any other occasion—birthday, graduation, anything—she would have been thrilled beyond belief. But now she just stared.