Page 22 of How We Play the Game
“It’s relevant,” Jake replies. He’s looking at Emilia lovingly, probably reading her mind again. What is it about a guy in love with a woman who could kick his ass that makes me trust him implicitly?
“I … uh.” I look around the room again. Everyone within earshot is pretending not to listen, but they are. “I want tomake games. Write games, Wizzard games. And I have ideas forGuardians League Royale. Like, good ideas, or at least I think so. I’m here to make sure everyone at Wizzard knows who I am so I can work there in a few years. I want the Juno mentorship. I don’t know, it’s stupid.”
“Don’t say it’s stupid,” Jake says.
“It’s actually perfect,” Emilia adds. “You want to tell stories?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then, with more of the confidence I’m borrowing from her presence, “Yes, I do.”
“Then tell a different one,” Emilia says. “Like, yeah, the end result of today was kind of bad for you, but it’s not the ending. Do something totally different tomorrow, be unpredictable, don’t be defined by one event.”
“Become ungovernable, fight the mailman, run with scissors,” Jake adds.
That’s a thought. “Okay, but what about everyone else here? I’m in last place in half of a popularity contest, and no one will even talk to me.”
“But they’re talkingaboutyou,” Emilia points out. “Again, the hard part is done. Keep their attention, just for something else. Take it from me.” Emilia gives me a knowing stare. “People around here have very short memories.”
I know where she’s about to look before she does it. Emilia narrows her eyes at the corner of the common room where Ivan is sitting. For a second, I have an overwhelming desire to ask for her side of the story on the Ivan thing—I’m sure she has all kinds of tea on him and how much he sucks.
That, however, is one of those topics that only appears as a conversational option when Sims are Good Friends. I’m notthere yet with anyone at this party, let alone Emilia and Jake of “Emilia and Jake” fame.
A blue-eyed boy with a jawline I’d describe as “intense” half steps between Emilia and me, holding his phone up like he’s trying to sell it.
“Hey, I’m Chaz. Can I get a picture?” he asks Emilia, ignoring the surprised “um” noise I make when he almost steps on me. I decide in that moment that if I have a choice between being disliked or being invisible, I might actually choose disliked.
“No.” Emilia holds her hand up. “I’m talking to my friend here.”
Friend? I peek quizzically at Jake, who winks at me behind his thick-framed glasses.
“You know Zora, right?” Emilia asks. She makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, that this random boy should know me. Chaz steps back, as if Emilia’s acknowledgment of my existence made me magically appear in his peripheral vision.
“Hi.” I give Chaz a little wave. “We haven’t met.”
“We were just talking about how messed up it was that Brian just, like, shoved cameras in everyone’s faces without any warning,” Jake lies. He makes it sound like that read on the situation is the obvious, universal reaction everyone had to the events of this afternoon.
“Oh, for sure, for sure, super messed up, yeah,” says Chaz, nodding furiously. I knew being popular was probably fun, but I didn’t know it conveyed the power of rewriting reality! It’s givingAlan Wake, and I love it. How exciting. I wonder what they’ll say next.
Nothing. Emilia and Jake say nothing next. Oh! Am I supposed to talk here? It’s my turn, okay. Write a new story. Say something unexpected.
“Yeah, like …” I peer wildly around the room until my eyes fall on Kavi. She told me earlier I did everyone a favor by getting the footage flagged. I gave them a dress rehearsal. That’s not a bad angle. “I’m just kind of big on boundaries, you know? And I don’t know about you, but I was not camera ready when they surprised us like that.”
“For sure, for sure,” Chaz says again. I get the distinct impression that pulling on the cord in this guy’s back results in his speaking one of two totally boring phrases. “Do I know you, from streaming or something? What’s your channel name?”
The only WiTch account I have is the one Wizzard made for me this morning and somehow hooked up to my desk setup—how did they do that, by the way? Is it possible that Wizzard has a back door into our accounts and can remotely port everyone’s characters? How did I miss that before? Something to consider for later.
“I, um. I don’t … have one,” I admit sheepishly.
“Oh,” Chaz says, his interest waning more with every word I say. “Cool. I gotta go do …” He trails off. Now that he knows I’m not actually popular, it seems he’s over getting to know me, which is rude. What kind of nickname is Chaz anyway? Your mother named you Charles, stop fronting.
“Well,” Jake sighs. “It’s a start.”
“Yeah.” It’s time for me to cut these cool kids loose before I almost put a dent in their shine. “Thanks for the advice. I got it from here, though.”
I pretend not to hear Emilia stifle a laugh, because I know it was involuntary and she means it in the nicest way possible. Also she’s right. It is laughable that I can convince anyone, let alone Brian Juno, forty-six teenagers, and an entire niche internet micro-celeb fandom ecosystem that I belong here.
“Sorry, that laugh wasn’t at you,” Emilia clarifies. Oh. Never mind, I’m fine. “I just looked over your shoulder and saw Ivan, like, sprint down the hallway and run into someone’s room.”
All the questions I had about Ivan before come rushing to the front of my mind, but they’re just as rude now as they were before. I want to ask Emilia how exactly Ivan’s team screwed her over at the championships. I want to know if she knew what happened to him when he disappeared. I’d ask her if she thinks he’s run into someone’s room to avoid her specifically, how she makes him do that, and if it’s a skill anyone can learn.
