Page 61 of How We Play the Game
It was always easier to play my part when there was an inkling of truth in it. Especially when it came to falling for Ivan. As much as I’d like to think that was all performance out there, I know in my gut that it was just as real as what Ivan and I were. Or, what Ithoughtwe were.
A warm tickle on my cheek is all the warning I get before a tear slides down my face and drops to the floor, unnoticed in the din by everyone but me. Is it sad that I’m grateful it only came out once the curtain closed? Ivan doesn’t get to see me cry and neither does anyone else.
“And that,” Brian announces to the crew with his megawatt smile, “is how you reel in the fans.”
There’s another polite round of applause from the crew before they get to work on resetting the stage. Brian’s half compliment is the only contact he gives me before heading off toward the offices, flanked by his business-casual cronies.
“Brian!” I call out, jogging to catch up to him before he can disappear. He stops just before the door that leads off the stage and into the maze of hallways toward his office, and dismisses his minions with a flick of his hand.
“I just wanted to know if you’ve been able to get me a copy of the contract so I can look over it,” I say, half out of breath.The more time to persuade my uncle to sign it, the better. Especially considering my current status as an academy student transitioning to the league is kind of in a legal gray area since Clive didn’t actually sign my permission form. But Brian doesn’t know that yet. I think.
“You’ll get the contract when it’s ready,” Brian assures me. “In fact, I was thinking of making a show of it. Have you sign it onstage after the battle.”
“Right, but if Ivan doesn’t show up—”
“When he shows up,” Brian corrects me.
“And if I end up losing the battle—”
“If you think you’re going to lose,” he says, “then you’ve just wasted a lot of everyone’s time here.”
“I just meant, you know, on the off chance. Won’t it be kind of anticlimactic to sign me after I hypothetically get my butt kicked?”
Brian’s visible confusion compounds. “What do you mean? If you get your hypothetical butt kicked, there won’tbeanything to sign.”
“Wait, what? That’s not what I agreed to. I thought all I had to do was get through this battle and I was in the league.”
Brian shrugs. “You said it yourself. That’s anticlimactic.”
“So what will you do if I do lose?” All this thinking about losing is chipping away at the confidence I managed to fake onstage. And with each chip I feel more … tired and alone, I think. Now I can’t even say that’s the cost of success, since I apparently have one more hurdle to clear before I can call any of this a victory. There have been so many double crosses and verbal agreements involved in all of this that I’m starting to feel trapped instead of triumphant. No, not starting.I am trapped. In a cage I built myself, with Brian’s tools and materials.
But, hey, I get to playGLRonstage, right? I have a gimmick all my own. Mission god damn accomplished. Now on to the next level, complete with new enemies, rules, and win conditions. Is that just what life is like? Or is the video game metaphor only apt because of my specific situation? I don’t know. I’m seventeen. I won a game at a fan convention, and now I have a makeup team and an evil ex-boyfriend (or I’m the evil ex-girlfriend, determination TBD).
“Same thing I do with any other investment that doesn’t work out,” Brian says, as if he were talking about penny stocks and not my literal life and future. “I cut it loose before it starts to become a drain on profit.”
This is what I’ve allied myself with. This is who Ivan’s driven me toward. It’s almost a good thing that my only way out is through Ivan. He put me here, and I need to make him pay for that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OF COURSE IT has taken until today, the last day of the summer academy, for anyone to admit that the dressing rooms we’ve been using on the down-low are fine for us to use for privacy, if needed. As in “if I need a space in which I can have a modicum of privacy while still being a part of this bastard cornucopia of ethically questionable communications and entertainment enterprises.” They didn’t tell any of us that this was an option, which makes sense because if Brian had told any of us that we could opt out of being on display for five minutes, we’d obviously have taken that option.
In consideration of how I wound up at the end of it all, it’s debatable whether or not I would have taken that chance. Would I trade everything I’ve achieved so far for a few moments alone, to think clearly and not be “on” for a handful of minutes? I’m not sure, though the evidence points otherwise. Maybe right now isn’t the best time to think about it. I don’t know how much longer Brian can delay the start of the1v1debut when one of those ones hasn’t shown up yet. So ifI’m going to torture myself about something, it’s going to be what happens when I sit down in my ergonomic gaming chair with electronic height control and adjustable footrest, boot up my all-newGLRedition of Claricom’s latest PC rig with custom decals and rainbow coolant system, and play the soon-to-be-released one-on-one duel edition ofGuardians League Royale, revealed for the first time on this very live stream and available to upgrade on the Wizzard Online Game Launcher starting midnight tomorrow. Did I get that right? I’ll have to check my notes.
If all of that sounds expensive, it is. It’s also my problem to promote it, and that problem only goes away ifheshows up. That is the one factor I cannot control right now, and the only reason I’m okay with that is because I’ve already done everything I could to control it. I’ve recorded my promos, posted my thirst traps, vague-posted my guts out, and anything else it might take to lure that boy back to the Wizzard Theater today. My real feelings, used for a real fight in a fake, expensive world. My world.
Hence the irony in how I traded my interiority to get everything I’ve ever wanted, but now they offer privacy. Well, somewhat private. Thankfully I haven’t alienatedeverysingle person in my life. If it wasn’t for Trieu, I’d be making my grand battle of the exes debut in a messy ponytail, T-shirt, and jeans, which, while it would be an excellent fuck you to Brian and the toxic, aesthetic-based popularity contest that is social media, I’m more grateful to not be totally alone right now.
“Pout your lips,” Trieu instructs as he carefully flits around me like a Disney-approved fairy godparent. The gloss dabbed on my lips is less grossly sticky than the one he used duringmy first makeover session, after he noticed I kept wiping it off every chance I got. I appreciate him for a variety of reasons—especially today—but his commitment to finding sensory-friendly makeup products is currently at the top of the list.
“Grip that any harder and you might not be able to use that hand,” he says as he points a makeup brush at my fist clenched around the rundown that Brian’s assistant brought to me when I first got to the dressing room. My knuckles have gone pale brown, my entire body vibrating from the tension of trying to keep the dangerous cocktail of nerves, anger, and concentration flowing through me from boiling over and igniting anyone it touches.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sighing and finally taking in my face now that he’s finished touching me up.
The mirror is so old that my reflection is speckled with dark bronze marks where the silvery bits have scraped off. At first the spots were all I could see, but now that I’ve been here for a minute or two, my brain is learning to correct and ignore the imperfections and only serve me a reflection of what I know my face to look like. It’s not the most recognizable version of myself—I’m honestly a little surprised Trieu went for a darker eyeshadow. I’m told it’s better for the stage, as opposed to looks that serve my features on camera or in person. It’s uncanny, almost. From a speckled distance I feel completely unfamiliar, but the longer I sit with myself the more the white liner on my bottom lash line looks less obvious and my eyes just look bigger. The contour on my cheeks looks less like dirt and more like the natural shadow lurking under my cheekbones, my nose less cartoonishly outlined and more naturally thin, the V-shaped space between myboobs less dusty with powder and more bronzed to force my minimal cleavage into false perspective. My final polished-for-the-camera form.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Trieu replies with a shrug as he tosses the tube of lip gloss into his makeup bag.
I bite my lip, only to immediately release it. Leave it to me to mess up my gloss within ten seconds of it being applied. “Thank you again for being here,” I say as he stacks all of his makeup and hair equipment on the vanity table. I know he has to leave soon, but I can’t help wanting him to stay for just a few minutes longer. “I know I’ve … ,” I trail off. I’ve done a whole lot of shit I’m not proud of, but we’d need a whole lot more time to unpack all of that. “Messed up,” I finally settle on.
