Their Vicious Games(83)

We all freeze, all but for Hawthorne, who stutters in her movements.

“Miss Harding,” Leighton says, her voice strained, “you’re out.” Leighton doesn’t look well. She looks like she’s unraveling and winding herself up again over and over in a painful cycle.

Hawthorne’s nostrils flare, and she presses her lips together hard, making a loud sound, almost like a shriek, that shocks me. But then she swallows it slowly, letting it all melt away. She leans forward, whispering something in Esme’s ear before she backs away, nodding reassuringly at her.

And then there were three.

“Simon Says… don’t blink.”

It sounds ridiculous. Basic in the face of Mr. Alderidge’s ranted list before. But five seconds turns into ten turns into twenty, and my eyes begin to burn. I let out a whistling breath, forcing my eyes wider as they start to dry out and tears begin to swell.

It’s only when he looks bored and troubled by our own mental fortitude that he says, “Simon Says, blink.”

I blink so hard that tears fall free, clinging to my lashes, blurring my vision. I rub furiously at my eyes and look over at Saint. She’s leaning against the bar, everyone giving her a wide berth except for Hawthorne. Saint nods at me—Keep going.

“Simon Says, slap each other,” says Mr. Alderidge.

I’m just turning away from Saint when a blow comes across my jaw, enough to make me stumble, one knee buckling. Someone gasps, and I grab my jaw, looking up. Esme is unrepentant, staring at me with a wide smile. She’s been waiting for that one for a while. I straighten slowly, never taking my eyes off her. One step forward. Another.

But Penthesilea is faster. Penthesilea backhands Esme so hard, it makes her spit blood right onto the gleaming tiled floor. And then Penthesilea turns, presenting her cheek to me.

I pat her deliberately, firm enough to count but not a slap. And then I smile at Esme, defiant. When we’re back in line, Mr. Alderidge’s expression has soured more and he stares even harder at his own daughter.

“Simon says… stab yourself with a fork.”

“A… fork,” Penthesilea says. Her voice sounds hoarse from the screaming. She clears her throat. “You want us to stab ourselves?”

“Simon Says. Isn’t that right?” Mr. Alderidge challenges.

I bite my bottom lip. “Aunt Leighton?” I ask uncertainly. Leighton stares, her expression waning, her face more colorless than usual. “Aunt Leighton.”

“The game is Simon Says,” Third declares. “Alderidge is Simon, not Leighton, so you do what—”

“I know the rules,” I say fiercely. Third’s eyes widen at being interrupted in front of his guests. The entire room is holding their breath. “I don’t care. I’m out.” They move as if they expected me to quit, like I don’t have what it takes, and for the first time that feels good.

I mean to make my way to Saint’s side, to hear her reassurances, but someone else catches my eyes first. The only person who looks like me, attempting to fade into the background. Charles looks as if he wants to be here about as much as me. He takes a step back when he sees me, edging away, but I won’t let him escape me.

“Charles, stop,” I say, following him to the edges of the ballroom, close to the balcony doors. The moment we’re in each other’s company, it’s like the eyes of the New England elite glaze over, slipping past us, focusing again on the game. I am used to making myself a background set piece when I need to, from being in yearbook, being Esme’s friend, from being Black, and that serves me well now. “It’s me—”

“I know it’s you, Adina. I literally see you,” Charles says sharply. He holds himself so brittle that a sharp wind would snap him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I say, because this is nothing. This is humiliating. But this doesn’t hurt. My jaw smarts, but it’ll be gone by the morning.

“That didn’t look okay,” Charles says, shaking his head. “That looked… that was… has that been going on all this time? The… sick games? Girls getting lost?”

“Dying. And yes.” He looks at me for more, but I say nothing. It doesn’t seem like it should require any further explanation for him to believe what he’s just seen, what Third said.

“What the fuck?” Charles says. “I’ve heard about the Finish all my life, but it’s not supposed to be like this. If I knew that this… I wouldn’t have…” He sounds shaken by the revelation, like it ruins the way he looks at the world. I don’t have time for it.

I reach for his sleeve and hold tight so he doesn’t run. “You have to get me out of here.”

Charles’s eyes widen. “Adina—”

“Charles, please, they’re going to kill me. If you don’t… if I don’t…,” I stammer, shaking my head. I steel myself over, looking across the ballroom. Saint is watching me, sincere and serious and, above all, worried. “If you won’t, tell Toni I need her.”

Charles looks sick. “Adina, you want me to get her involv—”

A scream.

It’s not any of the girls—I recognize all their screams now. It’s a woman, in response to what she’s just seen.

Penthesilea has bowed out. I knew she would. Even she knows that self-inflicted violence for spectacle is a step too far.