Page 38 of How We Play the Game
Six-year-old me concluded that grandma needed a nap before she could be happy, but now I think I know the real reason for that smile. She was relieved. The waiting was over, her work was done; all the years she spent sacrificing to giveClive the best possible shot at his dream had paid off. She could finally sit down.
This kind of feels like that, except the opposite, and not at all, and worse.
“Zora …” Trieu warns me without looking up from his phone. He’s still trying to troubleshoot the connection between his phone and the TV, specifically so we can watch Brian Juno reveal the results of the Wizz-Algorithm’s week one calculations as if they’re an NFL draft, a parody video idea that I neither supported nor shot down because if these people find out I know anything about football, they might put together that I’m related to Clive. I don’t know why I care about that so much, but I do. I think I just want this summer to be something I do by myself, completely separate from his legacy.
Trieu follows up his warning with a command: “Stop. Picking. Your lips.”
My hand freezes a few inches away from my face. Busted. I can’t help it, though. I feel all nervous and zoomy inside and when that happens, I pick my lips. I’ve never been good at waiting, and with the Fourth of July tomorrow, this wait is unpredictably punctuated with the sharpcrack-popof fireworks echoing off the tar-sticky roofs of Lincoln Center. At least I hope they’re fireworks. Great, let’s add the bloated American specter of gun violence to the list of reasons I’m crashing out.
It was Ivan’s idea to wait for the news in the lounge instead of at the Wizzard Theater with everyone else. He said it was to give our content a more “intimate vibe,” which matches our brand as the tight-knit coalition where love can apparently blossom. I suspect there’s another reason, though. I think hedid it to spare me the crowd and knew I wouldn’t ask for myself. Which is so nice, like, genuinely thoughtful, and that’s really the heart of the problem.
Ivan Hunt is an amazing boyfriend. Or he would be, if any of this were real. I don’t know if he went to Juilliard in a past life or what, but the boy can act. Objectively I know there’s a difference between acting and lying, but it’s hard to remember that when Ivan is waiting outside my dorm room door with a bouquet of bodega flowers (with Kavi rolling digital tape to cut the staged gesture into a WiTch clip). Or when he’s holding his jacket over my hair when a freak summer storm catches Team Vision on our way up Broadway with fifteen blocks to go and my twist-out barely a day old (not recorded, but only because by the time we got inside all three of them looked exactly like those oily ducks on the dish soap bottles. My hair was fine, though.).
This morning, he said “good morning” to me, as if he cares if my mornings are good. Or yesterday, when Kavi showed everyone the outfits she pulled for me to wear for the ranking reveal today, he actually said “that one would look nice on you.” What gives? Don’t even get me started about him offering to pick up my lunch after our seminar with theGLRcharacter designers on Thursday, like some kind of love-bombing charlatan.
And yet, for all his fawning attention, he’s late to meet us here.
“There we go,” Trieu’s phone finally connects to the TV. A few taps later and we’re watching the countdown to Brian Juno’s first Saturday live stream from the academy.
“Can we see how many people are watching?” Kavi asks him.
“Fifteen thousand in the waiting room on WiTch. Getting bigger. Looks like they turned off the comments on the stream.”
“That’s fine,” Kavi waves her hand dismissively. “Would have been nice to get a temperature check, though.”
“Yeah, but our impressions are good. I know the comment section on WiTch is super moderated but the tone has been trending up. There’s excitement Ivan’s back,lotsof curiosity about Zora, and thatKal Ho Na HoxGLRparody video you did on the Brooklyn Bridge is still circulating.”
“Never underestimate the social sharing power of aunties,” Kavi adds, looking pleased.
I just let them talk when they get like this. They might be speaking English, but I’ll never know for sure. I have only known Kavi and Trieu for six days, and it amazes me how they are my age and run their whole lives like a business. Being a professional teenager iswork, and now after a week of trauma bonding and after-hours scheming at the diner, two of the best ones are my … mentors? Fellow adventurers?
Friends. The word I’ll settle on is friends.
“There’s only like a minute left on the countdown,” Cass says quietly from his spot on the couch. “Somebody should probably find Ivan. Not me, though.”
“They should not. I come pre-found.” Ivan announces himself with a flourish. “Sorry I’m late, I had to, uh …” He looks at me, arms crossed and notnotpouting in the armchair. “I, um.”
“Spit it out, dude.” Cass, from the couch, completely monotone.
“I left something at the Wizzard. And Zora, you look nice.”
I actually feel a shudder of pride at the compliment before I remember he’s just performing. For whom, I’m not sure. It’sjust Team Vision in the room. Ivan takes his seat in the armchair opposite me and raises his eyebrows in some unreadable gesture.
It’s just a game, I tell myself.It’s a story. You are a character in a story that ends with you as Brian Juno’s favorite person ever.And that’s still not enough to stop me from feeling self-conscious around Ivan in a way that I’ve never experienced before. Which is worrying, because before this summer I would have sworn that my awkward self has experienced every kind of consciousness one can have about feeling weird in public. But, as it turns out, there will always be new lows for me to hit in that department.
The countdown ends with the grand, orchestral sting of theGuardians Leagueseries and tries to segue into the regular stream, but the video quality is so blocky it looks like a ten-year-old tried to recreate the Wizzard Theater inMinecraft. The sound isn’t any better. It’s choppy and disorienting, to the point where I have to jam a knuckle in one ear to mitigate the noise.
“Hey! Turn it off,” Ivan says quickly. “Trieu, come on.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Trieu winces and stops screensharing to the TV.
“Is the stream any better on your phone?” Kavi leans over Trieu’s shoulder.
“Nope.” He holds his screen up to show us that the entire WiTch page for the summer academy is down.
Kavi throws her hands up. “Ugh! Brian, get yourshittogether,” she hisses with a vehemence I haven’t seen her express until now.
Bing. Din! Bada-boop. Bzzt. Zoop.Five phones, five email notifications coming through at the exact same time.Team Vision exchange panicked looks. Without the stream, there has to be a way to communicate the results to the academy players … and I’m pretty sure that’s happening right now.
