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More cheering. Go, capitalism. Yadda yadda. There’s pretty much no indication that Yvette heard her, or cares. It was neverabout the headset, anyway. I hope she’s not replaying the shock of being denied over and over. Maybe she just gets really in her head before big things. Kayla, who is the most vibrant person I know, will literally yell at people who try to talk to her before any kind of major test in school, or before her band’s shows, so it’s possible I’m just waiting for Yvette to explode out of her shell once she feels more confident, with the mental image of her in James’s arms in New York City.

“Gamers,” Chrissy Lo says with a cheeky grin, “you’ve heard the rules. So let’s play!”

Loud music that I can’t get the rights for starts pumping through the store, most likely to impede people from shouting helpful remarks to players. As they head into the designated area to play, their initials pop up on a few screens hanging around. The screens tally their kills and keep them in order of who has the most even though it doesn’t matter. Yvette is the last one to enter the area, only taking one step past the threshold. I watch the scene unfold in slow motion. She takes one step back, out of the arena. Her gun drops from her hand and bounces by the cable attached to her vest. She shakes her head.

And then it’s over.

She steps fully out and takes off the vest, shoving it into the hands of the first person she can find, and she flees through the crowd.

“Yvette.” I follow her, my heart hiccuping in my chest. “Yvette, wait!”

“I can’t do this.” I barely hear her over the noise.

Had we had a chance before the contest began, I would haveput a microphone on her, but I’ll just have to add in subtitles for this scene. Please let this be a scene and not the climax.

She exits the store even though I’m no longer the only one calling her name. Some Vice and Virtual grunt—an intern, if his age means anything—is trying to wave her down, but he must catch the panic on her face when she turns to me because he lets us go.

“What’s going on?” I can hear my heart beating, the blood rushing to my head. “I don’t know if they’ll let you back in to play.”

“I don’t care about playing,” she says through clenched teeth. Tears are brimming in her eyes. She glances at my camera and then back to me. “Please don’t film this.”

“I—I mean, you agreed—what’s going on?” I lower the camera but keep it recording.

“I can’t do this. He didn’t even want me through a phone screen; why did I think I could get his attention playing a stupid game? No one doing this contest is over twenty-two. I’m not old, but I’m notthatyoung either. I don’t stand a chance. And even if I did, what difference would it make?”

“How can you say that?” I try to beg with my eyes, make her see reason. “You want to do something so romantic and so strong—”

“We weren’t friends.”

My whole body droops. “What?”

“It’s not romantic. It’s pathetic. We were just classmates, not friends. He didn’t know I existed then and he doesn’t now. He doesn’t care.”

“But—” So, it was unrequited love. Was Victor right? I’m helping Yvette get up close and personal with this guy who didn’t even know her?

“Saine, you’re a sweet girl. I’m sorry. Please tell your mom I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’d embarrass myself, and if it’s recorded and shown to people, then I can’t pretend it never happened.”

Without another word, she crosses the fire lane and slides inside her black Toyota.

I don’t know what else to do in this moment, so I film her as she backs up and then pulls onto the main road.

“What thehell?” I whisper into the parking lot. I’m screwed. I knew it when the night began. This was the topic I prepared for—the one Temple preapproved.This is the topic I have to submit. I took off work for the events. I researched the games and already screen captured videos of people playing them online. I have the first ten minutes of the documentary rough cut including Yvette talking about James for, like, five fucking minutes with big heart eyes. She lied—or did I just hear what I wanted to? She never described things he did for her, only things she did for him—things that didn’t involve them interacting.

“Who are you talking to?” a small voice asks behind me.

I spin around, agony making my face ache, to lock eyes with a girl, maybe thirteen years old, sitting on the curb with a phone in her hand. A golden braid lies over a black pleather jacket that can’t be doing much to keep her warm because her little stick legs are bare under her dress, save for some knee socks she has tucked into her boots.

“Myself. Where’s your person?” I step closer, resisting theurge to bend down so we’re eye level because it’s so condescending. “Your adult?”

“Playing the game. He probably doesn’t even notice that I’m gone.” She scuffs her boot against the gravel. “I don’t like big crowds.”

“And yet he brought you along? Your dad’s kind of an asshole.” I glance around the parking lot. It’s pretty dark despite the streetlights. Anyone could just snatch her up. “You know, you shouldn’t talk to strangers, kid.”

“You’re doing it,kid.”

“Touché.”

“I’m Mara.”