Page 28 of A Disaster in Three Acts

His cheeky smile doesn’t fool me.

“Good luck.” I actually mean it, too. I feel like I need to take a walk to calm down myself.

I zoom out with my camera, placing him in the center of theframe. In my free hand, I’ve got the GoPro I rented from PSH, ready to be attached to whichever go-kart he’s assigned.

“That almost sounded nice,” he says genuinely.

“You need to advance for my documentary to continue, so. Yeah.”

“I said almost.”

The likelihood of running into Corrine here, on this day, in these circumstances, was slim. The likelihood of Holden being one of onlyfivewinners of this event is only slightly less slim.

Three more laps stand in the way of him potentially being first, second, third, fourth, fifth, or loser, loser, loser, loser, loser. He’s been holding steady in third place, not really caring that his opponents loft balls at him and squirt water into his eyes or that he rammed into an obstacle full force thirty seconds into the first lap. He keeps a handle on the go-kart with expert skills that some of the other players seem to lack. Like the two who ran off the track and into the crowd when they tried to avoid collision, Holden narrowly escaping between them. I’m not sure this Holden would even know how to speak the same language as the Holden who got pulled over for driving too slow.

I try my best to properly convey the action and the tension of the event with well-timed zooms and shifting the focus, but I’m still only getting one angle. I wish Mara was here to film from the other side. Or Corrine. I wish I had told her from the moment I made the deal with Holden. I wish she approved and supported me.

When Holden starts his last lap, I notice something weird about the player behind him. The guy is practically driving on top of him, his front wheels hitting Holden’s back wheels. Holden tries to shake him off, but the guy sticks close. They drive under a little bridge with swinging obstacles and Holden drives out rubbing his head, turning behind him to yell something. He says it again and I hear it in my own headphones attached to the camera synced to his microphone.

“—fucking hitting me, dude!”

I zoom in closer and see the guy pull up next to Holden, whack him in the head with his squirt gun, and then ram his go-kart off the track. Holden flies over the little track edge and tips over. The crowd around me groans and cheers, as if they really care about the outcome instead of the chance to see some bloodshed.

I rush over to the side of the track Holden’s on, stuck behind the caution tape roping off the viewing area, my heart hammering. He flips his go-kart over as Vice and Virtual people run to help him.

“I’m fine,” he tells them, rubbing his neck. His eyes latch onto each of the remaining players as they speed past him and toward the finish line. He tries to get into the go-kart, but the people stop him. I just barely hear one of them say he needs to be checked by an EMT. He argues with them and in the time it takes for them to let him go, everyone eligible to pass the finish line does.

This can’t keep happening. This is going to be the worst documentary ever. What school, with only fifteen spots for theprogram, would accept me withthis?

Holden gets escorted toward the exit, where they’ve begun announcing the top five winners, the Vice and Virtual cameras in their faces, and I duck under the caution tape to meet them.

“What the fuck?” I say to him.

The woman leading Holden off points behind me. “You can’t be in here.”

“What’s it matter now?” I pan my camera to her. “He lost and the race is over.” It pains me to say it aloud. My eyes sting and my throat clogs.

Holden shakes his head and a few drops of water fall from his hair to the ground. “Sorry, she’s with me. We’re getting off the track.”

The asshole who knocked Holden off the track acceptssecond placeas we join the crowd around a Vice and Virtual–designed winners’ podium. This is such bullshit, for Holdenandme.

“That guy sabotaged you.” He sabotaged me. I can kiss my chance of going to Temple, of pursuing a career bringing stories to life, goodbye because of some shithead in a big-titty-anime shirt. And, sure, someone—like maybe Adhira, my one-time therapist—might point out that I shouldn’t have gotten into the position of having my entire documentary hinge on something I couldn’t guarantee, but it’s too late! I did the thing! And now I’m fucked!

“He fucking clocked me,” he says, massaging the back of his head. “And none of these people so concerned with our safety saw a thing.”

We pass through people clambering to see the winners andreach a bubble of space near a trash can. Holden exhales and then kicks it.

“Hey.” I place my hand on his shoulder but pull it away when I feel how tense he is. “Chill.”

If anyone should be pissed, panicking, or being a total sourpuss, it’s me. But you don’t see me going all Toxic Masculinity on inanimate objects. All he lost was something he could eventually save up to buy in a year’s time. I lost my future.

“No. That was bullshit.” He kicks it again. Some people start to stare at him.

“Holden Henry Michaels, I’ll show this to your mom and she’ll be so disappointed in you.Relax.”

He turns around slowly. “You wouldn’t do that,Saine Lauren Sinclair, or I’ll tellyourmom that you spent prom last year drinking and making out with anyone with lips.”

“I made out withone person,Drama Queen.And if it had been more, by your logic, I would have made out withyou—” I lift my camera, pause the recording, and ignore the mental image I conjured, one that has haunted me since I was twelve. It took almost a year for me to think or hear Holden’s name and not cringe over his revulsion and refusal to kiss me during our immature game of spin the bottle. “I have it. I have him on camera hitting you and ramming into you. That has to be against the rules, right?”

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