Page 16 of How We Play the Game
From the videos I know Brian has this habit of pausing when he’s asked a question, both in English and in French, and I always thought it made him sound thoughtful, but now he is looking at me and the wordless scrutiny of that pause makes an awful don’t-cry pressure build up behind my eyes. I will my cheeks to freeze and my teeth to clamp shut tight to slam a lid on my emotions.
I wanted to be him. I still do, but I’m scared. I’m scared that my reaction to being crowded, overwhelmed, surprised, annoyed, and “brutal” according to Ivan has gotten me in trouble with Brian before I even got to tell him what his work means to me. Let alone convince him that I should be working with him.
Maybe I can get ahead of this.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Juno. And to you, Mr… .” I don’t know the camera guy’s name. He’s standing off to the sidelike a low-HP minion backing up the boss in the first phase of a fight. “I know I reacted kind of poorly back there, but I’m, uh.” How do I put it? I wasn’t going to let anyone know about me being on the autism spectrum because in my experience, all it does is make people treat me like a toddler holding a pair of scissors the wrong way.
I’m not going to do it. I’m not telling Brian why I’m like this. I won’t give him a reason to pity me.
“I, um,” I say again. “I don’t always react to things the way I wish I did.”
“The way you wish you did,” Brian parrots back, his eyes searching over my face like he’s trying to find something hidden under my skin. It’s hard for me to decide where to look. His eyes are too scary, his lips are too thin when he’s pulling this face. I settle on the patch of skin between his eyebrows, which I’ve learned gives the impression that I’m making eye contact to people who value that sort of thing.
It’s only after I look there, faking contact, that Brian speaks again.
“I understand,” he says softly. And, oh, I feel relief. Of course Brian Juno understands. I knew he would. I’m glad he does. I let out a breath I was definitely, 100 percent aware that I’ve been holding.
This appears to be the end of our interaction. Brian turns away from me, swiveling on the heel of his boot to address the rest of the players onstage. Here, his voice carries just fine without a microphone.
“Does anyone know the first rule of streaming aGuardiansgame on WiTch?” This question is not rhetorical, but I don’t know the answer this time. I feel like I’m about to find out.
“Um,” Trieu says quietly, a note of apology in his voice. I don’t check to see if he’s looking at me when he says it. “Rule one is maintaining a PG-13 or below content rating for language, behavior, and character simulation activities.”
“Very good.” Brian nods at Trieu. “And does anyone know what happens to videos that violate Rule One?”
Another student answers this time, from somewhere across the stage. “Auto-removal of content and a three-day ban.”
“Auto-removal of content,” Brian agrees. “And a three-day ban.” He really likes repeating the last thing people say for emphasis. It’s the kind of thing that can make people feel stupid or seen, depending on the context.
“Due to an audible language violation during today’s match,” he continues, “the audio for several videos will be automatically flagged for removal and their accounts will be unable to post. To be fair to everyone, we will apply the same treatment to all fifty academy player accounts.”
That gets a reaction. It’s more than an outcry, but less than a riot. I’m guessing a lot of people had plans to start getting their followers over to their new accounts as soon as possible, and I’ve just ruined the opening salvo of the competition for them.
Brian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Quiet.”
We deliver quiet.
“We are on a tight schedule this summer, so to salvage something out of this”—his eyes flick down to look at me one last time, as if mentally taking my head’s measurements for an imaginary dunce cap labeled “THIS”—“we will calculate our starting rankings solely using the data from your in-game performance today.”
Wait, that’s opposite of a punishment for me. It’s what I’ve wanted all along. To have myGuardians League Royaleskills speak for themselves in this stupid ranking system, and since I won, I should start out in first place!
“With the exception of our …” He pauses. “Loudest player. Who will have her scores disqualified.”
Disqualified. I’m disqualified? Just for the one game, though, right. Right?
Brian fiddles around on his phone, taps something, and the new rankings pop up on-screen behind us all. We roll around in unison to watch our names shuffle up and down the rankings until the words lie still.
“Congratulations to our first number one winner,” Brian says, some of his previous enthusiasm seeping back into his voice. He straightens his tie and rolls his shoulders in the same way I noticed Ivan rolling them earlier. It’s a behavioral reset, a magical gesture to call forth the character within. The ringmaster has returned, and the circus must go on. “Mr. Cassius Sharpe!”
I don’t think anyone knows if we should applaud Cass’s victory or not, but I feel grateful to the people who try. I can’t catch Cass’s eye from here, but I wonder what he thinks of where I’ve ended up. Up on the screen, after everyone else, there’s my name dead last in the rankings. I am the Wizzard Games Summer Academy Royale’s player number fifty, but by the scathing looks every other player is sending in my direction right now, I’m also public enemy number one.
CHAPTER SIX
“WELL, THE GOOD news is they didn’t kick you out,” Cass says, clacking his chopsticks together like a hungry crab with skinny wooden claws. His hand hovers over the few pieces left in the take-out sushi container and selects the tempura roll I mentally marked for him before we started eating. It’s the one with the tail, and while I’m no vegetarian, I still think it’s a little messed up that they give you food with its butt out.
“I know,” I say and slide the clear plastic lid we’ve been using as a shared soy sauce reservoir across the floor. “But they might as well have. I’m last place in a popularity contest, and every other contestant hates my guts. Who knows what those rankings could have looked like if Brian factored in their social performance metrics or whatever. Ugh. I hate this. I hate it here. I wish I never won that stupid battle at Wizzcon.”
“No, you don’t,” Cassius says around a huge mouthful of shrimp. Gross. I think he senses my disapproval, since he swallows before he speaks again. “Or else you wouldn’t have met me.”
