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16

BLAKE

In English class, Blake felt rough. Bleary-eyed, he tried to look like he was paying attention as Ms. Watson droned on about The Catcher in the Rye , which wasn’t the worst thing they’d read. But he couldn’t focus, was vaguely nauseated from the doughnuts he’d had for breakfast, another thing his mom would never have allowed. Violet just gave him a look as they’d climbed into the car and he was shoving a third doughnut into his mouth.

“Sugar isn’t sleep, you know,” she’d quipped.

“Neither is caffeine,” he’d snapped back, casting a look at the big travel mug of coffee she’d poured for herself, even though he’d never seen her drink coffee before. She was just trying to be like mom.

“Shut it, Blake. I’m not even talking to you.”

Violet looked equally exhausted, her skin even more ghostly pale than usual, purple circles under her eyes. She was mad at him, which he didn’t love, not that he would ever admit it. But he couldn’t tell her where he’d been. Couldn’t tell anyone. What had been thrilling had become a secret burden. Some thing he was hiding from his mom and Violet. It had grown heavy, frightening.

Meanwhile, they were both edgy and worried about Mom. Malinka’s live, the attack on Mav, had rattled them. The consensus online was that it was just another Extreme stunt to ramp up views. But it had seemed real. People seemed truly scared; Mav was like obviously not okay.

When the live ended and they’d texted with Mom a little, they had to get ready for school.

“This is your fault,” Violet had hissed before heading upstairs. “You made her go.”

“She wanted to go,” he’d said weakly.

“Because of you .”

She was right. It was his fault. If anything happened to Mom, it was because he’d told her about the challenge, encouraged her to apply. He didn’t even answer his sister, just flipped her off.

“Nice. Real nice, Blake.”

But underneath his fatigue and the weight of his guilt, there was a little joy. Last night on Red World , he’d vanquished Marco—okay, with help—and bigger than that, he’d found the peach. It had glowed rose-gold at the back of a long, dark tunnel.

“There it is,” said Charger in his headset.

Blake was about to grab it, then hesitated. “You take it,” he said. “I wouldn’t have found it if not for you.”

“No, kiddo,” he said with a laugh. “It’s all yours.”

Blake had shoved it in his sack just five seconds before the red cloud closed around them and shunted them from the game. In his message box, there’d been a congratulations note from the game makers. You have found one of three peaches in Red World ! Good job. His Red Coin balance was sick. He had a whole new wardrobe of skins, a bunch of new weapons and tricks. The real world sucked most of the time. But in Red World , right now, he was a king.

He raised his hand, asked for the bathroom pass. His stom ach was churning. Ms. Watson handed it to him with a look. “Feeling okay? You look a little gray.”

He nodded. Someone snickered. Then he was in the hallway, cool and silent, walking past the other classrooms. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. It was the right call: he felt better, some of the nausea subsiding. But when he looked up from the sink, he wasn’t alone.

Marco was standing behind him. From his classroom he must have seen Blake walking to the bathroom.

Blake turned to face his old friend. Now his enemy. It was weird, because he had kind of a baby face, fleshy with pouty lips and big, soulful eyes. He looked like a nice guy. But he was a monster inside. So mean.

“I heard you got the peach,” said Marco.

Blake stayed silent. Something in him was roiling. Not just his stomach. Something that came up occasionally and he tamped down hard. If Marco hadn’t broken his glasses, maybe he wouldn’t have felt bad enough to suggest the challenge to Mom because he knew she was always worried about money.

“Answer me. Do you have it?”

It washed up from his belly. Heat up his throat, coloring his cheeks. Anger. “What if I do?”

“I want it,” he said. “Gift it to me on the app.”

Blake laughed a little. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. I wouldn’t do that even if I liked you.”

A flash of surprise lit Marco’s features. He put out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

On his phone was the Red World app. If Marco got in, he could gift the peach and anything else he wanted to himself since they were still connected on the game. You could give your friends weapons and skins, anything you had in your locker.

“No,” said Blake, squaring off. His mom had been teaching him how to punch on the bag in the garage. People are not allowed to hurt you, Blakey. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself.

“Give it,” said Marco, stepping closer. “Or I’m going to take it.”

Blake squared off, put up his fists like his mom had taught him. Marco’s eyes got wide, and Blake realized for the first time how much bigger he was than his old friend. Like a lot.

“Come and get it,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice.

When Marco stepped to him, things went a little fuzzy. A kind of roar drowned out other sounds, his thoughts. All that anger he held back exploded. And the next thing Blake knew, Marco was lying on the floor groaning, blood gushing from his nose. He was crying.

“You punched me,” he whimpered, looking up. “I’m bleeding.”

Standing over Marco, Blake quashed the urge to hit him again. He didn’t really want to hurt anyone, he just wanted to stop hurting .

“Don’t fuck with me again, Marco,” he said instead. Again, a voice he didn’t know. “Next time, you won’t get up.”

Then he ran, getting back to class just as the bell sounded. He dropped the pass on Ms. Watson’s desk.

“Everything okay?”

He hid his bleeding knuckles.

“All good,” said Blake.

From his seat he grabbed his pack. Then, as he was heading toward the door, he got a message on his phone from the Red World app. It was from Charger. All it said was It’s time .

He paused a minute, and everything around him seemed strange and new as the hallway filled with kids rushing between classes.

Finally he joined the throng, but instead of heading to his history class, he exited the building through the back doors of the school, stepping out into the bright, crisp afternoon. Blake was cutting school for the first time in his life.