Page 24 of How We Play the Game
“Thank you,” Ivan says with audible relief. “Here, I’ll start wrapping them.”
His calm irks me. I should be furious right now, but instead I’m handing him secret bottles like we’re 1920s bootleggers running a joint operation.
“I just have one question,” I say as Ivan yanks my empty backpack out of the wardrobe. “Were you born entitled, or did you wait until you got internet famous to walk all over everyone’s boundaries?”
He cringes. “So, Emilia did tell you about me.”
“For the last time, no.” Much as I would have liked her to.
“Wait, so why do you think I’m entitled?”
I could start listing the reasons tonight and still be talking when the sun explodes, but I’ll keep it succinct for now. “You are literally in disbelief that two womenweren’tjust talking about you.”
“Touché.” Ivan winds the paper towels around a bottle one, two, three, four times before ripping the sheet away fromthe roll. I go to the bathroom to grab him more bottles. The adrenaline of the situation makes my hands shake, and the bottles clink around when I come back out to hand them over.
“Jeez.” Ivan looks up at me with faux concern. “Is there anything in the universe that chills you out or are you just up here”—he holds his hand a few inches above his head—“like … all the time?”
“I am chill,” I lie for the sake of argument. “I’m so chill it’s nuts.”
“I could maybe believe that,” Ivan says with a scoff. “You were pretty chilly back in January. The phrase ‘ice queen’ comes to mind.”
I think he thinks that’s an insult. I don’t take it that way.
“I’d rather be an ice queen than some kind of … bottle-juggling party clown. Did you perform enough tricks out there? Got enough attention to sustain you until your next feed? Give me that.” Ivan’s wrapping these bottles at the speed of snail, so I grab the roll and start pre-ripping lengths of paper for him.
“Considering ‘ice queen’ is what made you go from total unknown to bonkers unlikeable in one day, I think I’d rather be the clown,” Ivan says. “People like clowns. Name one time a clown was the bad guy.”
“It, both chapters,” I reply, too distracted by the obvious to be anything but 100 percent reactive right now. “American Horror Story. Literally John Wayne Gacy.Killer Klowns from Outer Space. That one really uncomfortable episode ofCSIwhen the dad—”
“Okay, fine!” Ivan chucks a wrapped bottle into my backpack. For a moment I’m afraid it will break; then I see hedeliberately picked a plastic one. “That was a bad example. When’s the last time an ice queen got to be the good guy?”
“Frozen.”
“That wasonetime.”
“…Frozen 2.”
“Oh my god.” Ivan throws his hands up. I’m frustrating him. Good. “Captain Pick-A-Fight. Stand down.”
“I don’t want to fight.” How is this fight my fault when he’s the one who started all of this? From Wizzcon to this afternoon to right now in my dorm room with these contraband bottles. Everything has been his fault.
“All you do is pick fights! We could have been friends at Wizzcon, butno. You had to ruin my chance for no reason.”
Okay, never mind. Imma fight.
“Oh, I’mso sorryabout that.” I coat every syllable with sarcasm. “Was I supposed to throw away my strategy in the most important game of my life because some puffed-up eboy batted his eyelashes at me?”
“I did not bat—” Ivan slips the last bottle into my backpack and gives it an experimental shake. No clinking, no clanking. Now what?
“You batted.” He absolutely batted. “Does that usually work for you, by the way? I’ve been racking my brain for where you might get the audacity ever since we met.”
“So, you’ve been thinking about me.” Ivan slides one of the backpack straps over his shoulder, stands up, and tries to get me to meet his eyes. Not a chance—shit, I did it. Even in the dark, those eyes drink up the multicolored shine of nighttime city lights and reflect it all back green. On someone else they’d be almost pretty.
“Not … not like that, no.”
“It’s okay,” he continues, smug as hell. “I thought about you too.”
“Well, don’t!” Ugh, he got me to raise my voice a bit too loud. I lower my tone to a whisper and look through the peephole of my door. Bad news. The party has outgrown the lounge, and now there are players hanging out in the hall, some leaning against the walls and others sitting in groups on the carpet (gross). Ivan is going to have a lot of eyes on him when he leaves, but if he times his exit he has a straight shot from here to the elevator. There are already some people waiting for said elevator to arrive.
