Alternates: Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

When Yasmin appears in the Jewel’s lobby that morning, she’s carrying a massive, bulging tote bag. We cluster around her in concentric circles with a plausibly deniable amount of distance between us - definitely not six feet, so we can all see what she has, but enough that Yasmin must decide not to comment, because she launches into a different spiel as soon as we’re all assembled.

“Unfortunately,” she tells us, “one of your fellow competitors has tested positive for coronavirus. Rapid tests aren’t a hundred percent accurate, but for the utmost safety, she’s in isolation until a PCR test either confirms or contradicts the results of the rapid test. In the meantime, our legal and medical teams have asked us to step up our safety measures.”

From her tote bag, Yasmin pulls out a small, opaque zip-top bag in the same purple as the floor of the studio with The Q’s logo emblazoned on it.

“In this bag,” she continues, “you’ll find a bottle of hand sanitizer, a pack of disinfecting wipes, a door opener, and a heavy-duty medical-grade mask.” She pulls these items out one by one, showing them off like prizes - a game show producer through and through. You could win this tiny plastic bottle! This plastic envelope of wipes! This strangely-shaped copper device for grabbing door handles! This black polypropylene monstrosity that could be a gas mask’s baby brother!

“You’ll be expected to wear these masks whenever you’re on the Decameron lot,” she says, “so no more fabric or disposable masks. Sanitize your hands whenever you come in contact with a high-touch surface, and use the wipes to wipe down your buzzers, podiums, seats, and anything else you’re going to be having a lot of contact with. And use the door opener, obviously.”

Mark raises his hand and, without being called on, asks, “What if we don’t?”

Yasmin is clearly fighting a deep sigh. This has been a production riddled with issues, and if I were her, or even if I were me, my patience would be wearing thin, too. “You’ll be reminded frequently to do so.”

She hands out the bags, one for each of us, and finishes by saying, “Keep these with you at all times. Please don’t leave them on the other stage with your backpacks, and please don’t put anything in them except their current contents. They’re very important, so you can’t lose them.”

I see Mark move to raise his hand again, but Annalise elbows him when Yasmin isn’t looking and he puts it back down.

Having Annalise back is strange. She’s so tiny and doesn’t often yell out the answers with the rest of us, so sometimes it’s easy to forget she’s there at all. Part of me is still paranoid, too, that in the middle of a game she’ll stand up on her seat and point a shaking finger at me and yell and hold up the peanut oil-covered puff and I’ll have to answer for it in front of everyone. Despite that, though, it’s also a certain kind of relief knowing that she’s okay and that she’s sitting here watching the last game of the quarterfinals with everyone else.

Having her here doesn’t make up for Laurel and Keeley being gone, though. Laurel’s been active in the group chat, describing for all of us in lurid detail how shitty she feels and how wrecked her digestive tract now is thanks to her accidental half-sandwich worth of gluten, and although she’s been jokingly blaming Rafa for distracting her enough that she didn’t notice until it was too late, it seems as though the actual fault in the situation, as far as Laurel is concerned, falls squarely on the Decameron Pictures cafeteria. A few people have been encouraging her to sue, although her official position on that is that it’s not worth spending her shiny new twenty-five grand on legal fees. But her presence in the chat can’t make up for the absence of her boisterous laughter, her braying voice calling out answers with equal confidence whether she’s right or wrong, and even the physical space she takes up. Jake is laughing louder and talking more this morning as if to make up for Laurel’s absence, although there are hollows when he talks that she would ordinarily fill with an argument. Rafa tries, in her absence, but it’s not the same and I’m sure everyone else can feel it as strongly as I do. No Catherine the Great questions come up, but one about Mandy Patinkin does, and I feel the guilt along with the answer bubbling up in my throat as Cab reads the question.

But as bad as it feels missing Laurel, missing Keeley is so much worse. Every empty chair is somewhere she should be sitting, her bleached-blonde hair flying around her face as she turns around to talk to me or leans forward over her seat to share a perfectly-timed joke with the conversation going on in front of her. Her bright laugh and bright eyes and bright sense of humor and especially her bright mind are back at the hotel. In isolation. She hasn’t been messaging in the group chat, but I texted her on the walk over to the lot - she’s not allowed to leave the hotel. She can order delivery, watch TV, read any books she happens to have brought, or surf the Internet, but that’s it. She’s got no way of knowing what’s happening in today’s games until somebody tells her tonight, once we’re all allowed to use our phones again, and she’s made me promise to give her every detail. I’ll do my best to focus on the intricacies of each game, but she probably would have been better off asking somebody else. I can barely see straight right now. I keep having to squeeze my eyes shut when I feel the tears coming.

“It’s a shame,” someone who lost in the quarterfinals says when the producers inform us of Keeley’s fate. “She’s one of the best players in this whole tournament.”

“Yeah,” someone who won in the quarterfinals says, “but would you have wanted to face her in the semis?”

She doesn’t deserve that, I think, and I’m sure smoke is pouring out of my ears as I think it, conveniently forgetting that I, too, didn’t want to face Keeley in the semifinals because she would have kicked my ass, and everyone else’s too, with a smile on her face. It makes sense, if you’ve already decided to sabotage three contestants, to take out the best player to maximize your chances of winning. Or it would if I thought Rafa and Joan’s goal was to win. But I know for a fact that Rafa’s isn’t, and from the way she was talking about it last night, I don’t think that it’s Joan’s either. She’ll be in the bathroom throwing up right now, I bet, in preparation for her The Q debut. Unless she’s not as nervous about this as she was about childhood quiz bowl tournaments, but given that there’s more on the line here than bragging rights and a school pizza party, I’d be shocked if that were true.

So if you’re not here to win and you’re trying to look as innocent and unsuspicious as possible, why do you sabotage Keeley?

The last three quarterfinalists are finally out on the stage now getting their makeup done, and the sound on the monitors is muted, so Hank gets up to fix it. He fiddles with the monitors until finally the sound kicks in, maximum volume, in the middle of Cab’s contestant introductions and most of us jump at the sudden noise.

“Sorry guys!” Hank says, frantically finding the volume control and turning it down until it’s just barely quiet enough to be shouted over. “I didn’t expect it to be that loud.”

Joan looks nauseous, and her hand is shaking as she holds the buzzer. It’s visible even at a distance. One of the producers must notice this, because someone yells at Cab to take a pause, and Joan looks offscreen as if someone is talking to her, and then she lowers her buzzer hand beneath the podium. I don’t want to feel bad for her, because I want to be entirely consumed with righteous anger on Keeley’s behalf, but she looks so thin and unsteady on the screen and her wide-eyed stare looks neither unsettling nor focused nor even as intimidating as it does in person. She looks like a cornered wild animal.

But she doesn’t play like one.

Despite her obvious jitters, Joan’s voice is calm, even flat, and I’m beginning to understand why she didn’t pass the charismatic screen test portion of the audition. She plays across the lines of the categories, making sure all the hardest, and therefore most valuable, questions are answered before moving on to the next-hardest row. Even when the other players try to break the pattern, when Joan inevitably regains control, she redirects to those straight-across lines. She has an impressive breadth of knowledge, answering just as confidently in the 20th Century World Leaders category as she does in the African Literature category and, to the mild surprise of the rest of us, wiping the floor with the other contestants in the Hip-Hop Lyrics category, reciting the words to ‘No Diggity’ in the same cool monotone she uses to say “who is Winston Churchill?” She’s not as good on the buzzer as Keeley was, and the other contestants regain control of the board from her several times, but she gets it back every time. Once she finds the Q Factor question it’s all over for the others; she only has to double her score to put herself completely beyond their reach, and she does. The others bet extravagantly on the Final Factor question, but it doesn’t matter.

Joan wins, and we watch the contestants put their medical-grade masks back on and sanitize their hands with official bottles of The Q sanitizer before the feed to the monitors cuts out. And that means Joan is in the semifinals. Along with Rafa, who, as Keeley’s official replacement, gets a free pass into the semis. And along with me.

I might have to compete against either of them.

I don’t want to do that.

I cannot express how badly I don’t want to do that.

Yasmin and Morty lead the three contestants back in, and we clap and hoot and holler for all of them and Joan receives her congratulations graciously, looking only a little green in the face, and Morty tells us it’s time to explain how semifinals work.

“You guys are hugely impressive,” he says, “and I want to congratulate all of you one more time on making it here. A huge congratulations is also in order for our nine semifinalists: Hank, Mark, Mickey, Natalie, London, Ruby, Duncan, Joan, and of course Rafa, who’s filling in for Keeley. Way to go, everyone!”

From watching their games, I’m able to recognize all of the winners, but it strikes me that I’m not particularly close with any of them except Joan and Rafa, not that he even counts as a winner when he has yet to play. I like Hank plenty, but we haven’t spent much time together, and I could take or leave Mark. I barely remember Duncan from that first night at dinner, and I don’t think I’ve exchanged a single word with Natalie, London, or Ruby. Keeley and Joan are the only really strong players I’ve made friends with. Jake, as smart as he seems to be, didn’t stand a chance against Blackout Mickey, and Laurel and Annalise never had the chance to play at all. I wonder if I feel isolated from the best players because I just gravitated towards other friends or because the system is set up to keep the alternates away from everyone else. Especially the best players.

“Now it’s time for a reminder about how semifinals are going to work,” Yasmin announces. “We’ll play one game before your lunch break and two games afterwards, and the final will be filmed first thing tomorrow morning so you can all catch afternoon and evening flights home.”

“As much fun as we’ve had hearing you guys shout out the answers whenever we walk past,” Morty continues, “those monitors are shutting off now. Placement in the finals is based on one thing and one thing only: how many points they’ve got. That’s right, to make this year’s Student Showcase more exciting, the highest scorers move on. That means even if you don’t win your game, if you’ve got a higher score than everyone from the other games, you’ll be in the final. The three highest scores will move on to the final - and, if this sweetens the deal for you, the highest-scoring semifinalist gets the champion’s podium automatically in the final. The fourth highest score in the semifinals becomes the alternate for the finals. That’s why you folks won’t be able to watch. If you did, you’d know how much money you needed to make it to finals, or other people would be able to tell you that information, and you’d change how you play or how you bet.”

“That means you’ll have to amuse yourselves for the rest of the day,” Yasmin says. “If you haven’t brought books, I know there are a few around here somewhere that you could borrow, and I have a couple packs of cards. But, as usual, no phones. We’re going to be very strict about secrecy now that the semifinals have begun.”

“If nobody has any questions,” Morty says, trailing off into silence to allow people to speak, but nobody does, so he smiles and continues, “that means we get to announce the matchups!”

“Semifinal game one will be Hank, Mickey, and Ruby,” Yasmin says.

“Game two is London, Mark, and Natalie.”

“Which means game three is Duncan, Joan, and Rafa!”

“If you’re in game one,” Yasmin says, “come with us to wardrobe, hair, and makeup. Everyone else, do your best to amuse yourselves. We’ll come back and take you all to the cafeteria when it’s time for lunch.”

Hank, who wiggles his eyebrows at me in excitement, follows Yasmin, I follow Hank, and Ruby, who’s over a head taller than me with hair dyed the color of her namesake, brings up the rear. Yasmin brings us to wardrobe first, where I’m handed a perfectly steamed, pressed, and lint-rolled Princeton University sweatshirt, and, thank goodness, it’s black this time with orange lettering rather than the other way around. I pull it over my head, the woman who handed it to me tugs at the hem and straightens the sleeves, and then it’s on to hair and makeup. Once my hair is thoroughly sprayed, gelled, and combed into place off my forehead, Eddie steps in. He has white eyeliner today, and it stands out against what must otherwise be a very simple makeup look, for him, although he still sparkles when he turns his head. I take off my mask and reach into my pocket for my puff, but he shakes his head.

“Since what happened with that other contestant we’re using a new puff every time,” he says, reaching into his makeup bag and opening a new plastic sleeve. I notice his hands are quivering, and he clenches and unclenches them until they’re steady. He pulls the puff out of the plastic sleeve and swirls it through a container of powder. I close my eyes as he taps it onto my forehead. “In all my years here I’ve never had that happen, not once.”

I risk opening my eyes and see that Eddie’s gaze is boring a hole in my forehead. Oh fuck, does he know? How could he know? There’s no way he could know, because if he did, he would have said something already. But even if he doesn’t know exactly what, he knows something weird happened, and I’m probably acting suspicious as hell right now. I can feel myself sweating. Is Eddie going to tell the producers I’m hiding something?

“Eyes closed,” he says gently.

“Sorry.” I'm not sure he can tell, but I'm not apologizing for my open eyes. I’m working myself up now, but I do as Eddie asks anyway as the puff sweeps over the ridge of my brows, down my nose, and under my eyes.

“I’m thankful they’re letting me keep my job, to be honest,” Eddie continues. “Although Morty had to convince James - he’s the executive producer - that it wasn’t my fault.”

Oh, God, Eddie, I think again. I’m so sorry.

“Of course it wasn’t,” I murmur, keeping my mouth as still as possible both for the makeup puff and for the lack of emotion my expression indicates.

“Try telling that to network execs with a taste for blood,” Eddie grumbles. “Here, open back up. You wanted your eyebrows thickened up, right?”

“A little, yeah. Thanks.”

Eddie dips a stiff little brush into a brown tube and leans in to begin fluffing my eyebrows with it. He lowers his voice, even though there’s nobody else here, and says, with a conspiratorial air, “Don’t tell any of the other contestants I said this, but I’m glad you made it on. I think you’re the first queer person whose makeup I’ve ever done. At least the first to be open about your pronouns on national television, anyway.”

“Oh. Um, well…”

Eddie laughs. “Big shoes, I know. Don’t worry about it. It’s just cool for me. And for a bunch of people watching at home, too, I’m sure. You’re all set. Take a look.”

For a moment, I don't look up - not at the face in the mirror and not at the man beside me. I don’t think I can look at Eddie while I tell him that it’s my fault he almost lost his job, that he’s so proud of me for being queer on TV and I threw him under the bus to get there, and worst of all, that I didn’t even think about the fact that I was throwing him under the bus until it was too late. Eddie doesn’t deserve this shit, and I just know I can’t look him in the eyes and tell him at the same time. So it’s either keep my eyes down or keep my mouth shut.

I take a look at myself in the mirror. I don’t tell Eddie.

I’m still not used to seeing myself in TV makeup, or else I’m just not the person I thought I was. The face staring back at me from that mirror surrounded by those warm round bulbs isn’t really me, I don’t think. They’re handsome, tan, serious, and their eyes reflect all those bulbs in a way that makes them look like a predator. But too many pinpricks of reflected light in anyone’s eyes will give them a menacing glimmer - or at least I hope they will and it’s not just me. I swallow and stare at the reflection, watching their throat bob in time with mine. I feel like I’m about to faint, but the face in the mirror doesn’t show it. Menacing looks pretty good on them. Maybe this is what Blackout Mickey, who’s incredible at The Q and loves winning and doesn’t bother making memories of the havoc they wreak, looks like. Maybe I should be Blackout Mickey more often.

“Thanks, Eddie,” I say, and I mean it.

“Knock ‘em dead, Mickey,” he replies. “Mask on.”

I put my mask back on.

Before we’re allowed to approach the podiums, a woman in a security guard uniform - not the one who spent Joan’s family crisis moment playing mobile games - appears with Yasmin, and Hank, Ruby, and I each have to open our plastic The Q bag to prove that there’s nothing inside it that could be used to transmit information about the semifinals to the outside world. Once we’re cleared of phones, tablets, cameras, tape recorders, and smoke signals, Yasmin and the security guard let us up onto the stage, and we take our places.

Even with my fresh black sweatshirt on and the lights on set turned toward the three of us at our podiums, I’m shivering. I wonder if they’ve actually turned the temperature down further than usual or if it’s something internal. I check my hands a few times to make sure they’re steady as we go down the line, one at a time, guided by Cab, and test to make sure our buzzers are working. I watch my podium light up as I press the button on top of the buzzer.

“Alright, we’re good to go,” I hear Morty say. “Cab, get ready for your walk-on.”

The lights dim, then flare back up, and I hear Cab’s voice introducing our first group of spectacular student semifinalists!

When he says, “From Princeton University, Mickey Lewis!” I wave at the monstrous camera that turns to align with my face. I can’t even see the person operating it, as if the hulking black box has a mind of its own.

The categories appear on the screen as Cab announces them. Islands. Etymology. Acronyms. Starts With W. And, last but not least, U.S. Presidents. Hank, randomly assigned to the champion’s podium, gets to pick first, and after a half-second’s consideration, decides on U.S. Presidents for 400 points.

“There’s no two ways about it - in 1900 he put a stop to bimetallism with the Gold Standard Act.”

I’m mashing the buzzer for a moment even after I register that my podium is lit up. I can’t help but smile. “Who is McKinley?”

That’s right. Pick a clue, Mickey.”

That one’s for you, Mom, I think, although I’m not sure she even watched The Q when she and Dad were together, much less now. She’d better watch it when she hears I’m on it, though. She’d better get her entire neighborhood to watch it and point at the screen with delight when I answer that presidential question correctly and brag to the assembly that I knew that because of her and tell the story of why the gold standard is important enough to name your first-born (and only born) child after it. And when it’s over and they’ve all gone home she’d better call my dad and, without anybody around to impress, tell him he’s done a good job with me since she left.

“Um, I’ll take Starts With W for 500 please,” I say.

“This fifteen-letter ‘W’ word fills in for something - it’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t remember exactly what it’s called.”

There’s a brief silence. It’s an oddly written clue, and Hank, Ruby, and I are puzzling it out. The timer for us to buzz in must be running out, because out of the corner of my eye I see Ruby buzz in with a half-shrug and, once Cab calls on her, she says, “What is… uh… whatsit? No, that’s not fifteen letters.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Cab says. “Anyone else?”

Fifteen letters is so long for a - oh, wait.

I buzz in. “What is a whatchamacallit?”

“That’s correct. Pick again.”

I stare at the game board and think, for a second, about Rafa. Fifty thousand dollars is an absurd amount of money. It could wipe out most of my loans quicker than I can even imagine what that would mean for my life. And losing this game would get Rafa off my back. It would guarantee that I don’t have to compete against Joan - because God knows what it would feel like to do that, when I think I might love her as much as you can love anybody you slept with for one night and I think I might hate her as much as you can hate anybody who hurts Keeley even if you don’t know Keeley all that well, either, in the grand scheme of things. Other than a bigger payday, which of course I’ll lose out on if Rafa decides he hates me enough to drag me down with him, there’s no good reason to win and a lot of very good reasons to lose.

Except that I know what I want to do. And I think I can do it.

“Starts With W for 400, please,” I say.

Might Makes Write and all the writing shared herein are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0.