“Riggs, sign us up, we’re staying,” I barked out. My eyes were still on Arya. Riggs moved toward the stage. I was sure whatever name he chose for our team was both offensive and at least a little sexually demeaning to women.
Reality TV Douche, who identified himself as Dr. Italian Stud （credentials unconfirmed）， announced there were eight teams, including the S Team D, as Riggs had dubbed us.
Leave it to Riggs to associate me with genital herpes in front of someone I was supposed to see in court next week.
“I’d call you an idiot, but then idiots all over the world would take offense.” I turned to Riggs, resisting the urge to bash his head against the colonial table. I tried not to look at Arya, but it was hard. She was right there. Beautiful, shiny, and destructive. Like a human red button.
By the time the first few rounds were up, only four teams were left. There were Team Quizzitch, a group of tech bros in round reading glasses and trendy haircuts; Girl Squad, a bunch of college girls; the Sherlock Holmesgirls—that was Arya’s team—and Arsène, Riggs, and I.
The warm-up questions for the second round required the IQ of a beer sleeve. From naming the capital of the US to how many points a snowflake traditionally had. Despite the questions barely requiring two functioning brain cells, Girl Squad got kicked out next for not knowing which country The Sound of Music took place in, confusing Austria with Australia.
“Reminds me of that time you told a chick you had a BA in astronomy and she told you she was a Taurus and asked if it’s really true that they’re perfectionists,” Riggs ribbed Arsène, cackling.
Begrudgingly, and only to myself, I had to admit the Sherlock Holmesgirls were good. Arya and Jillian especially. Unfortunately for them, between Arsène and myself, they stood no chance. During holidays, when Arya had been working on her tan in Maui or skiing in Saint Moritz, Arsène would drag Riggs and me to the library at the academy, and we would read entire encyclopedias to burn time.
Forty minutes after the evening had begun, Team Quizzitch fell apart for getting the month Russians celebrated the October Revolution wrong （the answer was November）， leaving us and the Sherlock Holmesgirls to go head-to-head.
“Things are heating up over here.” Dr. Italian Stud rubbed his palms together excitedly, speaking too close to the microphone onstage. He had enough hair wax to sculpt a life-size statue of LeBron James and teeth as big and white as piano keys. It didn’t help that he had the whole ripped-jeans-and-tacky-branded-designer-shirt look going on, his top clinging to a body that had seen more steroids than an ICU unit. I was still surprised he was literate enough to read the questions. “Holmesgirls, who do you think is going to win?” He turned to Arya, who sat all the way across the room.
She tucked flyaways of her chestnut hair behind her ears, and again, I found myself ogling. “We’ll win, no question about it.”
“What about you guys?” Dr. Stud forced himself to rip his gaze from Arya. Arsène shot him a pitying look.
“I’m not even going to grace that with an answer.”
By the look on Dr. Italian Stud’s face, I could tell his heart was firmly with the Holmesgirls, and so were other parts.
“All right, someone here is competitive. We’re entering the final round. Remember—one strike and you’re out. This is the money time. Or to be exact, the Denny’s voucher time! One hundred bucks, y’all!”
“I can hardly contain my excitement.” Arsène took a pull of his beer, his voice paper dry.
“What’s Joe Biden’s middle name? Holmesgirls, this goes to you and will pass to the STDs if you can’t answer the question.”
The women huddled with their heads touching, whispering, before Arya straightened her spine and said, “Robinette. Final answer.”
“You’re correct. Huh. Didn’t know that.” Dr. Italian Stud scratched his stiff hair. I doubted he knew what continent he was on, so that didn’t surprise me. He turned to us. The room was still crowded, brimming with people who wanted to see which group was going to hit the jackpot.
“Next question goes to the STDs—how fast does the earth spin?”
“One thousand miles per hour.” Arsène yawned.
“Holmesgirls—what did the Romans use as mouthwash?”
“Urine!” Jillian called out, practically leaping from her seat, the cocktails on her table sloshing over. “They used urine. Which is super kinky, but who are we to judge?”