And Berman, the network guy, off to one side.
It's as if the world is ganging up on Jamal.
A hundred yards to go. The camera truck is behind him. The chopper above.
For a moment, he wishes he could get to the building itself. What a perfect spot to replay the knife fight from Joker Without a Cause!
Jamal is hit from behind. It is the most surprising blindside tackle he has ever felt. He hits the pavement hard—chin scraped, hands raw. Jetboy flies out of his hands. Rustbelt rolls past, upset by his own momentum, his bolts sparking on the pavement. Jamal scrambles after the idol.
He and Rustbelt grab it at the same time.
For an instant they are eye to eye. "It's mine."
"Mine, now," Rustbelt says.
Both of them know that Jamal can't win a tug-of-war. His wild card—never especially helpful except on a movie stage—is completely useless here. But what had Tiffani taught him? He has other weapons. Especially when he hears Rustbelt say, "That's what you get for being a—"
The word is lost in the roar of rotor noise from the hovering chopper.
Jamal lets go of the idol. He points at Rustbelt and screams as loudly as he can, right in front of all the cameras, "Did you hear what he called me? What kind of racist shit is that?"
"It took you long enough."
It is early the next morning. Clubs Lair is quiet. Jamal sees Michael Berman emerging from the breakfast nook. Astonishingly, he is still dressed in his black suit and tie. The only signs that he has been up all night are a faint beard stubble that shows a surprising amount of gray, and the loosened knot of his tie.
"Didn't know we were meeting."
"You're not that stupid."
Jamal removes the carafe from the coffeemaker—still dirty. He smashes it into Berman's face, hearing the crunch of it, but it doesn't break. . . .
No, no need for that. Hear the man out.
He empties the old coffee into the disposal as Berman, strangely, opens the exact cabinet where the coffee is kept. "You didn't expect to drop that little bomb on us without experiencing a little fallout, did you?"
Jamal feels a tight smile forming. Fallout. Bounceback, oh yes. The look on everyone's face when he shouted that Rustbelt had called him "nigger". The rusted Jetboy idol never made it to the finish line. The whole scene fell apart, aces herded into their vehicles like witnesses to a crime. Sullen, confused silence at the Lair that night.
Silence, that is, except for Brave Hawk, who offered a pat on the shoulder. "Told you."
Now Berman removes the carafe from Jamal's hands and wipes it dry with a paper towel. He goes to the Sparkletts dispenser in the corner and fills it. "What proportions do you use?"
"Excuse me?" Jamal is still in bounceback, never his best mode, and suddenly feels unsure. What is this man doing here? What is he talking about?
"What proportion of coffee to water?" Berman's expression suggests this is the most natural question in the world.
"Two to one. I mean, one to two. One coffee to two water."
"Me, too." With two quick moves, Berman gets the coffeemaker started.
"So," Jamal says, "where's the camera crew?"
"This conversation doesn't exist."
"Fine."
"Neither, I suspect, did that word. It can't be heard on the tapes."
Jamal lets that statement hang in the air. "Which doesn't mean it wasn't said. Just like this conversation—no record, but real, right?"
"That would be an interesting public debate, wouldn't it? Your word against Rustbelt's." Berman shakes his head. "Poor Wally. Of all the people to pick on—he's as black as you."
"He's iron, Mr. Berman. He's not black." Jamal hears these words come out of his mouth. Where did he learn to be militant? Certainly not from Big Bill. "Is that what you want? A public argument between me and Rustbelt?"
"We've had enough of that already." True, before the Clubs had even returned to the lair after the scavenger hunt, the blogosphere had inflated with the news of Jamal's accusation.
"So, where does that leave us?" Jamal says. "Where does that leave me?"
Berman picks up the Jetboy idol. "You seem to have gained a new kind of immunity. It will be impossible for anyone to vote you out of American Hero."
"Does that mean I'm the winner?" He finds the thought incredibly exciting—as if he'd just been told he was going to start in the big game.
"I couldn't possibly tell you something like that." Which in no way means that he isn't the winner—the first American Hero! "It would be best for all of us, I think, if you tried very hard not to think that. To simply play the game. By the rules."
"I thought there were no rules."
"The apparent rules. The rules we make up as we go along." Berman suddenly puts his hands to his face, the gesture of a much older man. "Do I have your promise to . . . play that way?"
"Yeah. By the rules we make up as we go along." For a moment, he wishes Big Bill Norwood could be sitting in the breakfast nook. Or maybe that nasty little Nic Deladrier. How do you like Stuntman now?
Jade Blossom enters. "Oh," she says, her mouth forming that single syllable most prettily.
Berman stands, and a look passes between him and Jade. With utter certainty, Jamal realizes that Berman has been after Jade—and so far, unsuccessfully. Berman makes a grand gesture, midway between an introduction and a surrender. "You two must have a lot to talk about."
Then he leaves.
Almost instinctively, as if searching for a human touch as much as an erotic thrill, Jamal reaches for Jade.
But she raises a hand. "Wait a second."
Behind Jade, Jamal sees Art blinking sleep out of his eye, gesturing for Diaz to raise the camera.
"Now." And she takes his hand.
10. Metagames
Metagames
Caroline Spector
"YOU LOSE."
Are there worse words in the universe to hear?
Sure. "You've got cancer" tops it, but the odds are low that I've got cancer at age nineteen. Right now, though, I'm a loser.
The Diamonds are losers. And we're doing it on national television. Not to mention the coverage we're getting on YouTube.com and every freaking blog in the universe.
And now we're going to Discard. Again.
I hate Discard.
"This sucks."
That was Tiffani, and her West Virginia accent got thicker when she was mad. She was changing out of her show clothes into her sweats. I tried not to sneak a look at her, but she wasn't being shy about changing in front of me. And why would she be anyway? It was just us girls here. Her skin was the color of white oleanders, and she smelled like sweet sweat and musky roses.
"I am sick of losing challenges," she said as she hooked her bra. "We would have won if Matryoshka had kept control of his copies."
"Yeah, I hate losing, too." I didn't like the camera being on us as we changed, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was in the contract. The only time you could be alone was in the bathroom. And then you had to be alone. No one could come in with you unless there was a camera following. No wonder I felt like I was going crazy.
Of course, in my pre-wild-card life I'd been shot almost naked by some of the best photographers in the business. Not that any of them would recognize me now. I'm big as a house.
I grunted as I pulled on my pants. I was still pretty large, even after all the bubbling in the last challenge. There had been one last hard hit before we lost, and it had plumped me up.
There was a knock on the door. Ink stuck her head in the room. She was a tiny girl with spiky black hair and tattoos writhing across her body. "They're set up and ready for the Discard ceremony," she said.
Tiffani glanced in the mirror. She looked amazing—her cloud of fiery hair a sharp contrast to her milky skin.
I didn't bother to look at myself. I knew I'd be disappointed.
Jetman and Matryoshka were sitting at the table when we arrived. Matryoshka had recombined himself, so he was at his full intellect. Not that his full intellect was any great shakes, but he was a nice guy, and he made great pierogi. Not as good as the late, lamented Second Avenue Deli in New York, but damn good nonetheless. We were the same age, but I always felt as if I were older than him. Like a big sister.