“In third, we have our very own Penthesilea Bonavich.”
Our very own.
“In fourth, Miss Adina Walker.”
I swallow hard as I unmask, and suddenly, the world looks sharper and more terrible. I’m so overwhelmed by it, I don’t hear Saint’s introduction.
“—night’s game is one we are all familiar with from our youths. A game of the schoolyard. Simon Says,” Leighton says with a delicate laugh.
The rest of the room titters with her, and I have to bite my tongue to keep my jaw from dropping.
“She must be joking,” whispers Saint from the corner of her mouth.
But no one is joking.
They clear the dance floor for us, all of them pushing to the outskirts of the room, except for the Remingtons. Pierce and Third sit in gleaming wooden chairs, like judges. It’s like we’re an exhibit to them. No, we are circus animals.
“The outcome of this game will determine the advantages and disadvantages going into the Royale. This is how it has been. This is how it will be,” Leighton says as she walks along the line of us, looking each of us up and down before she turns to the attendees with her mysterious smile. “Who will be our first ‘Simon’ then?”
No one seems to want to volunteer. Then the senator does. He claps Third on the shoulder before he spins to look at the room, grinning broadly, backing toward us.
“I’ll try my hand, won’t I?” he asks, like he’s at a fucking reelection rally.
And they laugh, like he is being funny. Like this is all so funny.
“So… basic rules of Simon Says?” the senator asks.
“The basic rules,” Leighton affirms, backing away, her hands clasped behind her back.
The senator grins, his shiny skin so red that it looks like I could peel the first layer off, help him shed his snake skin. “This will be a fun game, girls, yes? Low pressure,” he says. He means to be reassuring. “Okay, let’s… Simon says… jump up and down.”
For a minute all of us look at one another, exchanging hesitant looks. Are you fucking kidding me?
And then Esme starts jumping up and down in her Louboutin heels. Penthesilea follows suit almost immediately, and then Hawthorne, and then there I am, jumping up and down in ugly block heels like an asshole.
If I get out of here, I’m going to make it my life’s work to see the junior senator of Massachusetts exposed for some heinous shit. Not because of his association with the Remingtons, but because he’s here, making me look stupid.
“Good girls!” he says. Infantilizing. “Ah… Simon says, clap your hands.”
And so it goes. Inane command after command. Give a thumbs-up. Stomp your feet. Nod your head. Flap your arms.
Then a new “Simon” takes over. Younger. She is crueler, faster. “Simon says, sit down.” “Simon says, stand up.” “Smile.” “Simon says, scream until I say stop.”
It’s the last one that makes Saint bow out first. She shakes her head, lips pressed in a thin line, even while I scream, loud. Louder than all the others, so loud that it starts to sound like white noise in my ears. I want to scream, What are you doing? to her, but I can’t.
Saint steps back again and again, and then she’s shoving past the crowd by the bar, reaching over past the bartender for a plastic bag that she heaves into. My stomach revolts in sympathy, but I turn back to the Simon. Saint is out. Saint will remain ranked last, with who knows what disadvantages. That’s not good.
It’s down to four.
When it’s time for a new “Simon” again, Pierce speaks. “Charles. You should be ‘Simon.’？”
Charles. I don’t know how I missed him before. He’s the only Black person here besides me, tall and careful to display the gaudy watch on his wrist so no one thinks that he’s the help. He looks on edge now and vaguely green, fiddling with his cuff links nervously. I see Toni in the shape of his eyes.
Toni, I think. And there’s a spark of hope born.
“What? No, man. No,” Charles stammers.
Pierce frowns. “Why not?” he asks.
“This is not my idea of fun, Pierce. No,” Charles repeats, voice just a bit harder, and Pierce sighs long-sufferingly.
Instead, another “Simon” is chosen. A man I recognize. I see Esme in the narrowness of his forehead, the widow’s peak that dips down, the tilt of his chin. Her father lets every look of disdain or intrigue slide off him like oil as he steps forward, his wife on his arm. She doesn’t wear a diamond collar, but she has donned pearls, fat and thick like they’re straight from the oyster shells. Another layer of mind games, for once not directed at me. I look over at Esme and I see her throat move as she sets her jaw.
“Simon says, jump,” he says. His voice is careful. Not nearly as unhinged as Esme’s. So the similarities end with appearance and maybe the intense look in their eyes. “Simon says, stop. Simon says, hop on your left foot. Simon says, right foot. Simon says, about-face. Simon says, spin in a circle. Simon says, stop—”
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?”