Page 19 of How We Play the Game
“And don’t forget I’m coming for you, Number One.”
“I know. And that”—Cass grabs the belt bag he tossed on my bed when we walked in and slings it over his arm—“is exactly how I like you.”
“Yeah, you like me now.”
“I’m always going to like you.”
Something in the way he says that, quieter than before and finally looking me in the eye, makes me think he’s talking about more than my ruthlessness.
“Cass, I—”
“Never change, Zora.” Cass slips out the door, letting in a three-second audio sample of almost-college party clamor before leaving me alone to process that. “And text your uncle.”
Was that weird? I’m not sure why it would be weird. Not the uncle thing; that’s my own business. But what he said before that. Of course Cass likes me; I’m his best friend. His best friend who would never make herself worse to make him look good, which he respects in a “comrades on the field of battle”–type way. That’s all. He’s my friend and—Oh, wow, I just caught a glimpse in the mirror, and this skirt makes mybutt look like a whole nectarine. Move over, shrimp tempura. It’s a new vibe for me, but so is becoming an overnight supervillain, so I guess I’ll switch it up.
Deep breaths, in and out. My hair has doubled in size since the morning’s humidity, but I’ve already made it clear to this group that neither my looks nor my personality got me here, and it definitely wasn’t my propensity for accidental ’70s Diana Ross hair moments.
When Cass and I first rolled up to the dorms Wizzard rented for the academy players, I literally thought the building was a part of Lincoln Center—all wavy glass and modern white concrete out front. The rooms themselves are small but new, with a shared common room and kitchen at the far end of the hall. All of the rooms on my side of the building have a floor-to-ceiling window facing south into downtown. Now that it’s a little darker, I can see a hazy white glow hanging in the air twenty blocks south around Times Square, making it an even brighter spot in a city that doesn’t really do dark in the first place. Which reminds me. Open messages, tap Uncle Clive’s smiling portrait in my most-texted list …
Made it to code camp! Huge day, I’m super tired. Call soon.Send text. There. I shove my phone down the front of my shirt since the pockets on this jean skirt couldn’t hold a grape.
When I open my bedroom door there’s already around two dozen people milling around in the common area at the end of the floor, with more just arriving as a few of the players I recognize from this morning come through a propped-open stairwell door. One of them kicks at whatever was used as a doorstop, which on closer inspection is a scaled-downCompanion Cube toy fromPortal. I wonder how everyone would react if I tossed it in the oven. How’s that for a supervillain move?
When gamers party, we take our fun in a different direction. Someone’s already rigged up the common room’s old TV with a vintage Nintendo 64 and has aSuper Smash Bros.tournament getting rowdy on a ragged-looking couch. A few others have Wizzard trading cards out on the kitchen table and are sitting there expectantly like a pack of grizzled travelers fromThe Witcher IIIjonesing for a game of Gwent.
I’m trying to look for Kavi or even Trieu to get my party bearings, but what I get instead is Ivan, who steps in front of me the moment I emerge from my room. How is one person so consistently inconvenient?
“Oop, sorry!” he says. “I was coming over to knock. Can we prop your door open so people can use the bathroom in here? Your room is closest to the stairwell.”
“Hell no,” I reply. I just moved in and this place is spotless. I don’t want a legion of gamers pounding Monster and peeing neon all over the seat. “Prop your own door open. No boys allowed in here anyway.”
“Is that why I saw your friend sneak out earlier?”
“No,” I say sweetly. “Cass was just helping me out with a little postgame nunya.”
“I’m not falling for that,” Ivan deadpans.
“’Nunya business,” I finish dejectedly, disappointed but not surprised he didn’t let me have that one.
“Whatever.” Ivan takes a dramatic step out of my way and half bows as if to usher me into a royal ball. “Enjoy the party, Maleficent.”
I’m sure if I concentrated I’d be able to come up with some variation of “I’ll put you to sleep forever,” but Ivan isn’t worth any more of my time tonight. I have bigger problems.
Like the fact that the aura in the hallway noticeably cooled when I opened my dorm door, and the common area isn’t much better. Maybe I can think of this like a video game. LikeThe Sims, but without all the aliens and vampires and drowning in the pool because someone (me) took out the ladder. If this wereThe Sims, I could raise my popularity just by greeting other people and starting a group discussion about the nearest lamp.
“Cool shirt!” I wave to a pale, short boy with broccoli-cut hair and a Megadeth tee. His lip curls like a dog spotting the mailman through the living room window. A failed interaction. Let me try again.
Here’s a girl, and a Black girl at that. She might have some compassion for me.
“Hey, girl!” I smile at her.
“Nah,” she replies and turns her back to talk to someone else. Honestly, fair.
I’m almost at the end of the hall, where an open archway leads to the common area. One group of players standing just outside looks me up and down as I pause near them. They all look like they belong in a spinoff ofEuphoria. Not the drugs part, the “being really hot and the blond one is stacked” part.
“S-slay?” I attempt. The blond silently takes out her phone and takes a picture of me before going back to ignoring my presence entirely. What does that mean? And why does it hurt so much?
This is why I don’t playThe Simswithout cheat codes. I cross the archway and pray to find Kavi there, or Trieu, or both preferably. These leper vibes are starting to get to me.
