Alternates: Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

I scramble out of Joan’s bed, taking care not to make too much noise as my feet hit the cool wooden floor and a shiver runs through me, traveling from the pads of my feet up my spine and into my scalp. I scan my eyes around the room until - there, on the desk, next to the pad of paper and the pen. Perfect. I tiptoe over there, listening to the water running, and slip my hand into Joan’s backpack. Her The Q bag is still open. I pull out the hand sanitizer bottle, open the desk drawer -

It lets out a loud squeak. I freeze, drawer halfway open. I should have tested it last night. I hear Joan make a noise over the sound of the shower. Fuck, fuck, abort mission.

But the water keeps running, and after a moment, the sound of her squirting out some shampoo.

I allow myself a sigh of relief and shove the hand sanitizer bottle into the drawer and close it softly. Thankfully it doesn’t squeak on re-entry. Now to the phone.

I touch the screen, and it comes to life with a warm glow and a cheerful invitation to please unlock it with my face. My face is not Joan’s face, so this proves to be a challenge, and the phone, now considerably less cheerful, instructs me to input the passcode instead because my face isn’t working. It flashes a ten-digit keypad at me and displays four empty slots for the password, and it only takes me one try to unlock the phone. Because what else would it be?

1032.

I make sure it’s set to silent so no errant notifications will warn her that it’s sitting inside her backpack like a grenade whose pin I’ve just pulled. I find her voice recordings and start a new one and place the phone gently inside the zip-top bag, right beside the package of wipes. I reseal the bag, re-zip the backpack all the way, and climb back into bed as I hear the water in the bathroom shut off. I pull the covers around me like a cocoon, smush my face down into the pillow so Joan won’t be able to get a good look at my expression even if she tries, and let my eyes fall shut and my mouth fall open and breathe, slowly, intentionally, rhythmically, like I’ve fallen back asleep, lulled by the comforting noises of not getting caught.

I hear the hotel blow dryer running for a minute or two, and then the bathroom door opening. I’m tempted to open my eyes, ‘wake up,’ and take another good look at all of Joan’s smooth brown skin, one last time, but I decide against it because I’m not sure how much I can trust my face right now and I’m not sure how much Joan will notice if I try to keep it under control. I keep my eyes closed through the sound of rustling clothes, zippers and buttons, and the snap of two hair elastics, one, I assume, for each braid. I hear Joan pull the desk chair out from the desk and put her backpack over her shoulders.

I hear her feet on the wooden floor as she walks across the room to my side of the bed.

I feel her soft hand with its long, delicate fingers on my shoulder, shaking it gently.

I let my eyes flutter open and murmur, “You leaving?”

“Yes,” she replies. “Have you seen my phone?”

“Mm-mm.” Thank goodness my face is still half-buried in the pillow. But Joan is preoccupied. She picks up my watch from the bedside table and looks at the time.

“I’m not sure where I put it. But I’ll be late if I look for it. Would you let me know if you see it on your way out?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mickey.” She leans down and brushes her lips against my forehead, and I roll onto my back to watch her leave.

Just as she reaches the door and pulls up her mask, she turns back to me and says, “I appreciate you being so reasonable and understanding about all this.”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad Rafa was wrong about you.”

I barely fight a giggle when she says it. Poor, sweet Joan. Not quite. Rafa was entirely right about me.

As the door shuts behind her with a solid, satisfying click, I finally allow myself a smile.

But he was wrong about you.

I realize that I’m starving halfway through my first raspberry danish and only a few sips into my piping hot cup of decaf lemon mint green tea. My eyes almost well up a few times when I consider the fact that this will be my last breakfast at the Jewel. In under twelve hours I’ll be on a flight home to New Jersey with anywhere between fifty and five hundred thousand brand-new dollars to my name. Or zero, I suppose, if Joan finds the phone before Decameron finds it on her and decides to point the finger at me in an attempt to remain on the show, but much like her apology to me, who would, on a tight filming schedule with deadlines to meet, find the time to believe her? How would I know her phone passcode? Why would I have access to her phone in the first place? In a they-said, she-said, you’re going to trust the person who doesn’t have a voice memo of your confidential information in her backpack. And you’re going to put me in the finals in her place.

I devour a second danish, cheese this time, and a chocolate croissant, and I finish my tea and thank the concierge and wait, sprawled out on one of the velvet armchairs like I own the place - and for a moment I really feel like I do - until the other contestants appear downstairs and Yasmin arrives to take us to the Decameron lot one last time. The energy is high, and a lot of people are laughing with the delirium of drunks, insomniacs, or both. I nudge Ruby when I find her in the herd.

“How many cocktails did you end up going out for last night?” I ask her.

She rolls her eyes. “Only one, like I said, but you should’ve seen everyone. Annalise let us use her room for a party because she said it’s the least she could do after destroying everyone in poker. People went wild. Mfoniso convinced us all to play Truth or Dare. I think I got about forty-five minutes of sleep last night.”

“Damn.”

Mfoniso, hearing her name, turns around and says, “Ruby had to like her ex’s last fifteen posts on Instagram on a dare.”

Ruby’s face turns nearly the color of her hair, and when Yasmin’s not looking, she gives Mfoniso a good-natured jab in the side. “I can’t believe you told them that. That was so embarrassing, he’s gonna think I’m a huge stalker.”

“Well I’m sorry I had to miss it,” I say.

“Yeah, we were sad you weren’t there!” Ruby says, and this small kindness, from someone who only learned my name yesterday, touches me in much the same way as my final cup of tea did. We’ve only been here for a few days, and I have to keep reminding myself of that fact because it feels like I’ve lived several months of someone else’s life in the time since my flight touched down at LAX. If nothing else, I’m glad Joan, Rafa, and I did what we did, because I doubt I would’ve made these friends if I’d been stuck in alternate world all day, every day. And even though these friends have no idea what we’ve been up to, they still feel like real friends. Rafa and I might not be on each other’s Christmas card lists, but I do genuinely want to believe that I’ll send these people cards come December, and maybe I’ll get a few back, too.

The Q’s studio audience section is big enough to hold all twenty-seven of us, all together on the lot for the first time since Annalise had a mysterious allergic reaction to her puff. We settle into our seats and Morty, in a fantastic mood, leads us through a few high school pep rally-style cheers (give me a Q!), which we repeat after him, voices and spirits high, shaking our imaginary pom-poms for Cab, for the finalists, for the very concept of the show. Hank returns the favor by leading us all in a hip-hip-hooray for Morty and Yasmin. Yasmin isn’t on set for that, but Morty takes a gracious bow.

The three finalists emerge onto the set a few minutes later to whoops and applause. Joan, of course, is among them, since there are three, which means either she hasn’t been caught or she noticed the phone and quietly hid it or she told them what happened and I’m about to be in massive trouble. But neither Yasmin nor the security guard approaches me. Instead, the security guard runs her usual check of the contestants’ plastic zip-top bags.

Nothing in Mark’s.

Nothing in Natalie’s.

I realize I’m holding my breath and force myself to exhale. Don’t be suspicious. It might be nothing.

It’s something.

Mark isn’t paying attention, but I see Natalie’s eyes go wide as the security guard hustles Joan backstage again. Yasmin and Morty follow. A few minutes later, the lawyer appears, and a PA waves him through to the backstage area too.

We talk amongst ourselves, and from what people are saying, everyone but me is assuming another usual production delay, or maybe that Joan forgot something important, or maybe there’s a pandemic-related issue. Natalie and Mark sit down on the steps up to the podium area as a minute or two stretches into ten.

All twenty-nine of us, counting the two other finalists, fall dead silent as we hear Morty’s voice from backstage. Raised, not in a cheer, not in a hearty congratulation, not in a laugh.

In anger.

It’s difficult to make out the words, but the tone is one we’ve all heard from parents, relatives, teachers, anyone throughout any of our lives who’d had a bad day and decided to take it out on someone. He’s not just disappointed. He’s mad.

“I didn’t know Morty yelled,” Annalise whispers. Solemn nods of agreement ripple around the room.

It goes like this, although none of us know it at the time. We find out later. In an email, of course - I’m not sure the producers know how to communicate any other way. It appears in our inboxes that evening, after we’ve all said our goodbyes and hugged it out - behind Yasmin’s back, although I suspect she might have noticed our goodbye hugs and chosen to let us have this one - and sworn to stay in touch. Hank offers to start keeping track of our phone numbers and home addresses so we can do group calls and send each other postcards and gifts, and Keeley insists she’ll be throwing a virtual watch party for each episode of the entire tournament, and also a virtual party for all of the seniors who will be graduating right around the time they appear on TV with their schools’ names emblazoned across their chests. Keeley also insists that if she and I are ever in the same place again, we’re getting Vietnamese food. For old times’ sake.

I don’t know where the others are when it happens, but I’m sitting on the floor of Terminal 5 at LAX when I get the email. More accurately I’m sitting on my suitcase, which is sitting on the floor. My phone is plugged into a wall outlet. I’m dividing five hundred thousand by every expense in my life. Five hundred thousand divided by groceries. Five hundred thousand divided by my dad’s mortgage. Five hundred thousand divided by a brand-new car. But I drop everything to read the email.

At ten-thirty-two in the morning, Pacific time, Joan Chaudhary of Smith College, a former finalist on The Q’s Student Showcase tournament, was found to have smuggled a smartphone onto the set in the face of express orders from the network to leave her phone at the hotel. The phone was turned on and had been recording audio for over an hour. When asked about the phone, Joan was uncommunicative. At first she denied knowing how the phone had ended up in her bag, but when pressed further, she informed The Q’s producers and a legal representative of Decameron Pictures that she knew exactly what had happened. She refused to elaborate further. Decameron Pictures warned Ms. Chaudhary that attempting to record the proceedings of the final was cause for legal action against her, but in order to prevent damage both to Ms. Chaudhary’s reputation and to Decameron Pictures’ brand, no legal action will be taken. Instead, Ms. Chaudhary was stripped of her winnings, which were in part used to reimburse Decameron Pictures for the cost of Ms. Chaudhary’s travel, hotel room, and food throughout the filming process, and her right to appear in the finals based on her winning score in the semifinals was waived. Ms. Chaudhary was then escorted immediately off the premises and sent back to school on the next flight to Boston.

I can honestly say I didn’t realize they’d take all her money away. I suppose if I’d thought logically about it for a few minutes, I could have come to that conclusion on my own, but I guess while I was coming up with the plan I was too angry to think very hard about it and I assumed she’d get to keep the money she earned for being in the semifinals, just like Annalise and Laurel and Keeley had. Or I was so angry that I chose not to think about it. Of course, it doesn’t make any sense that they would let a proven cheater keep their ill-gotten gains (although I guess they still did, didn’t they?), but that’s just the hindsight talking. Unlike The Q, I won’t let Joan go home empty-handed, though. I make up my mind before I’ve even finished reading the email. Joan will be getting a check in the mail for one thousand thirty-two dollars. You know.

As an apology.

But all that comes later.

In the moment, after Morty’s anger dies down and we hear another whispered adult discussion behind the scenes, Yasmin appears, her face flushed, her mouth a grave flat line, and clears her throat.

“Mickey,” she says, and I swallow so hard I nearly choke. I manage to keep the oncoming coughing fit down, staring at Yasmin. My eyes feel like they’re bugging out of my head. Joan told them everything. They believed her. Oh, my God, they believed her. 

“Yeah?” I gasp out.

“Come on down,” Yasmin says. “Joan is unable to participate in the finals, and we’re already behind schedule, so we’re going to have to hustle you through hair and makeup. And wardrobe, of course, although they’ve still got your black sweatshirt on hand, so that will have to do.”

I actually do start crying, after the sweatshirt is on and my hair is swept back. The moment I sit down in Eddie’s chair, before he even materializes with brushes and puffs and creams and powders, I realize my cheeks are wet and my eyes are hot and I look in the mirror and see that I’m crying.

Hey, I think, feeling almost high. That’s me.

Relief is a hell of a drug. And it’s leaking out of my eyes. Nobody knows what happened, Joan kept her mouth shut, nobody got permanently injured, Rafa and I are cool, Eddie’s still got his job, and I’m in the finals. I scrub at my face with the heels of my palms when Eddie arrives, his eyeliner screaming neon orange today, but he notices anyway.

“Hey, hey, what’s up?” he asks, pulling a tissue from a small package and dabbing at my eyes. “Can’t have your makeup running for your big break.”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice coming out clear and lucid despite the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat. “I guess my body doesn’t know how to react to a dream come true.”

“That makes sense. Mask off for me, please.”

I take the mask off, and Eddie dries my face. He moisturizes and powders me and thickens my eyebrows and tells me how proud he is and even tells me he’s got a little rainbow flag pin somewhere if I want to wear it, but I tell him that if America can’t figure out that I’m queer just by looking at me, that’s their problem, and we both have a good laugh about that.

He shows me my reflection, and I smile. “That’s me,” I say.

“Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”

I imagine my dad telling me the exact same thing. I don’t think I’ll tell him I’m in the finals until I get home. I want to see his face change - disbelief, joy, and pure, pure pride - when I do.

Yasmin escorts me back to The Q stage. I tell Natalie and Mark good luck, and that I’m so thankful to be competing against them, and that no matter who wins this is going to be the most fun half hour of our lives, and they tell me the same things, and we take our places behind the podiums. They had Joan in the champion’s spot, which means they have me there, too.

Cab’s voiceover announces the three spectacular Student Showcase finalists. When he walks out, I hear twenty-six pairs of hands clapping and twenty-six voices screaming their support from the left of the stage, and I barely resist the urge to look over at my friends, who barely know me, but who feel like friends all the same. Unlike my previous games, I don’t feel my memories beginning to transition into snapshot form. Either Blackout Mickey isn’t putting in an appearance today, or I’m Blackout Mickey, and either way, I’m okay with it. Everything’s okay. It feels strange. It feels good.

“And the categories for our final game are… The Great Gatsby. College Towns. Medicine. This Day In History. And, finally, ‘A’ Words. Mickey, you’re in the champion’s position, so you pick first.”

I scan the categories again. “‘A’ Words for 400, please.”

“This nine-letter ‘A’ word, which can be a verb or a noun, comes from the Latin for ‘other,’ and can refer to a person stepping in to take someone else’s place.”

I mash the button atop my buzzer, and my podium lights up, and Cab calls on me. And I can’t keep the smile off my face as I answer.

The End.

That’s it for Alternates, folks! Might Makes Write will be taking next week off to give us all a little breather, and then we’ll jump into the first chapter of Greek Revival on May 28th. It’ll be a very different kind of story — more magic, more gore, and a much more redeemable main character. I’m really looking forward to sharing that one, but in the meantime, I would love love love to hear what you all thought of this one!

Reading the whole novel back for this newsletter has felt like opening a time capsule from my 2021 self, which has been occasionally very embarrassing (looking back, it is painfully obvious that this whole project was written in just 25 days by someone doing the “could a depressed person make this?” meme) but mostly very sweet, and I’m so glad you’ve all been along for the ride.

See you in two weeks!

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