Smoke rolled out of the opening I’d made. Tiff went diamond again, and then we ran into the bank with Drummer Boy behind us. A barrage of paint-balls hit us. They did nothing to me except create more fat. Unfortunately, Tiff was hit in the face and the paint coated her diamond surface, obscuring part of her vision.
I saw a group of people sitting in a circle on the floor. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Standing in front of them were six guys with paint-ball guns. I didn’t see anyone who looked like an ace, but with aces, it was hard to tell.
Another round of paint-balls were fired at me and Tiff. “Goddamn it,” I heard her say. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that she had run into one of the prop desks. Most of her face was covered in paint. She probably couldn’t see a thing.
Drummer Boy ducked behind one of the desks. If he or Jetman were hit by enough paint-balls, they’d be declared dead and out of the challenge.
I fired a barrage of bubbles at three of the henchmen who were grouped together. These were baseball-size bubbles, and I made them extra hard and dense. One guy was hit on his hand and screamed as he dropped his weapon. Another got one in the gut, and he doubled over.
I missed the third, but Jetman didn’t. He burst through the front-door transom windows and fired his “jetnet.” It whistled past my head and opened in midair, catching the lights and gleaming like a silver spiderweb. Then it wrapped around the goons and they fell to the floor.
More paint-bullets spattered me. I laughed and flung another hail of bubbles at the remaining goons. I missed one because he dropped to the floor, but the other two took direct hits to the chest. Their weapons went spinning out of their hands, and then the hostages shrieked with what sounded like real fear.
I glanced at the hostages and saw that one woman had been struck by one of the guns. She had a nasty cut on her forehead, and it looked like she would have a black eye. I knew they were extras and that they knew injuries might happen, but no one should have to bleed for a paycheck.
Jetman was hovering overhead—the ceilings were high in the bank, fifteen feet at least—and firing down at the three goons. A cloud of gas enveloped them, and moments later, they fell down unconscious. Now we could rescue the hostages. I ran to Tiff and gave her my hoodie so she could wipe the paint off her face, then I helped Drummer Boy untie the extras.
Another henchman appeared.
He was a young guy, maybe a few years older than me, maybe Jetman’s age. He was maybe six-one, six-two. His blond hair was cut short, almost military style. He was dressed like the other goons, but he was unarmed. I knew I’d seen him somewhere, but I just couldn’t place him.
“This sucker is mine!” Drummer Boy yelled, running past me toward the new henchman. DB had a good foot of height on the guy, plus the extra four arms. He cranked back the three arms on his right side and haymakered one at the guy’s head.
Blondie didn’t even flinch. As DB’s fists made contact, a beautiful yellow corona ballooned around the new guy. He reached up, clamped his left hand around Drummer Boy’s middle right fist, then grabbed DB’s belt. He lifted DB—who weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds—as if he were a toddler. Then he tossed him through the front window of the bank.
“Oh crap,” I heard Jetman say as he flew over to us.
“Who is that?” Tiff asked. Jetman had a look of awe on his face. I glanced down at Tiff and saw she had managed to wipe most of the paint from her face, but it had left her diamond skin less than sparkly.
“That’s Golden Boy,” Jetman called down. “The Judas Ace. He’s a legend. They say he’s invulnerable to harm and one of the strongest men in the world.”
My heart sank. I looked through the jagged hole where the window had been. DB was still lying in the street. One down. And Tiff would be virtually useless against Golden Boy.
That left Jetman and me.
“What about your sleeping gas?” I asked. “We get him down with that, use your net…”
“Oh dear,” said Tiff.
Golden Boy was already lunging toward us. Jetman zipped up to the ceiling. Tiff turned and ran to the front door. But I knew if he hit me, he’d only give me more power, so I stood my ground.
He dashed right past me toward Tiffani.
I ran outside in time to see him picking Tiff up and tossing her down the street. She shrieked as she sailed through the air. Then she landed hard and lay as still as Drummer Boy. Her power had protected her from most of the harm of the impact, but landing that hard had knocked her out. I was pissed. I knew she would be all right. But she was my friend and you don’t mess with my friends.
I looked around for Jetman and saw him flying out of the hole DB had made. Golden Boy stood between us. I saw Jet-man pull his jetgun from its holster. I backpedaled so I wouldn’t be in range when the gas went off.
Jetman fired. I heard the shot and expected to see Golden Boy go down in a cloud of sleeping gas. Instead, the next thing I knew, he was standing there holding the gas cartridge in his hand. Jetman’s mouth dropped open. I’m pretty sure mine did, too. Then Golden Boy flung the sleeping gas cartridge back at Jetman. The pellet hit him in the chest and a blue-gray plume of gas enshrouded him. A few seconds later, he plummeted to the ground.
I winced as he landed. He was going to feel like hell when he woke up.
Golden Boy turned toward me. I knew he couldn’t be hurt by my bullet-size bubbles—his force field would just absorb them. But a bigger impact would keep him off balance. I had no hope of winning at this point, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
A bubble formed between my palms. It got bigger and heavier until it was the size of a medicine ball, and then I made it larger still. When it was the size and weight of a wrecking ball, I let it fly at Golden Boy.
It caught him in the chest. His force field bloomed, but he was knocked backward. So I powered up another bubble of that same size and weight and let it go. It staggered him as well. I could feel my clothes getting looser, but I didn’t think about that. What mattered was keeping him off balance.
Golden Boy took yet another one in the chest. I felt my pants and panties slipping, and I decided to hell with them. I let them slip down to the ground then kicked them away. Now I had only my T-shirt on. It was long enough. And Golden Boy had steadied himself again.
I powered up another bubble and flung it at him. But he was ready this time, and it only made him stagger back a little.
I cast bubble after bubble at him, each progressively bigger and heavier than the last. But he came at me inexorably, like the tide moving in, until I couldn’t make big bubbles anymore. I was almost back to my normal size. When I looked up, he was closing on me. I fired one last desperation bubble, and it popped against his chest like it was made of soap and water.
Golden Boy reached out, and I thought he was going to toss me like he’d tossed Tiff, but he just took my chin in his hand and lifted my face up.
“Nice try,” he said. Then he patted my cheek. “And you’d be real pretty if you keep that weight off.”
“You lose.”
Like I said, the worst words in the universe.
The only good thing was that Drummer Boy would be going home instead of one of the original Diamonds.
The ride back to our secret lair was silent. Tiffani seemed oddly calm, not pissed the way she usually was when we lost. Drummer Boy hadn’t even made his usual snide remarks at me. Of course, I was thin now. More to his taste, I suppose. I was still wearing just the oversize T-shirt. My hoodie was covered in paint, and my pants were way too large to bother putting on. Luckily, a size XXL tee made a perfectly fine minidress.
Ink met us at the front door. She told us we had an hour before Discard, then pulled me off to the living room. “There’s something you need to see,” she said, flipping on the TV.
She’d paused the TiVo on CNN. My heart sank when I saw the graphic. American Hero Contestant Famous Model. There were side-by-side pictures of me. One was from a Vogue cover I
’d done the year before and the other one was my American Hero headshot when I was at my most bubble-ready.
“Shit,” I said.
“Do you want to see the rest of the story?”
“Ooooo, I do!” DB grabbed the control from Ink.
“… Hero contestant, ‘The Amazing Bubbles,’ turns out to be none other than Michelle Pond, a well-known model whose private feud with her parents became tabloid fodder when she filed for emancipation at age fifteen.”
DB flopped on the couch and looked from the TV to me. “I thought you were just trying to be all Goth and spider-farmerish with that black hair.” He gave me the once-over. “So, are you a real blonde?”
I wanted to punch him.
“How on earth did this get out?” My voice quavered.
“Someone leaked it,” Ink said. “But, you know we’re going to show today’s challenge footage on the show. It would have come out then, anyway.”
I nodded. I had realized when I couldn’t stop Golden Boy and had bubbled down to my real size that someone would figure it out. In a way, I guess I was relieved.
“Pond’s agency, Cavullio International, has informed CNN that Pond’s appearance on American Hero violates the terms of her contract with them and that she is no longer with the agency.”
My mouth dropped open. I’d been with Cavullio since I was eight. I’d brought them massive amounts in fees. The sons of bitches.
“Bad break,” DB said. To my amazement, he wasn’t being sarcastic. He sounded genuinely sorry.
Tiffani came in and watched some of the report. She gave me a little pat on the back. “It’s going to be okay. Aren’t there plenty of other agencies out there?”
She was right. I just couldn’t believe that my entire life was coming apart on CNN. “We’ve got Discard,” I said woodenly. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
Digger Downs was our judge for this Discard. I wished it was the Harlem Hammer again, but the judges were rotated. Downs wore a nice brown pinstripe suit that he managed to make look rumpled and seedy. The makeup department had tried to make him look less dissipated, but it hadn’t worked.
“Looks like the Diamonds lose again,” he said as we sat down. “And then there’s the drama of Bubbles here. Or should I say Michelle Pond? I see you’ve gone back to your roots.”
I gave him a look that I hoped would turn him into cinders. Unfortunately, it just made him giggle. “Yes, Mr. Downs,” I said with an insincere smile plastered on my face. “I have gone back to my natural hair color. It did take a while to wash out that spray dye. And thank you for noticing.”
It actually felt good to have that dye out of my hair, but Digger made it seem almost pornographic. What a creep.
He gave a ratty smile to Drummer Boy. “So, Drummer Boy, how do you feel about your new team?”
“They suck,” he replied. “But I didn’t exactly do great in the challenge, so I don’t want to be unfair to them.”
“Are you worried that as the newcomer to the team, you’re vulnerable?”
DB shrugged. “You never know how these things are going to work out.”
I had to admire his coolness. It was obvious that his head was on the chopping block. He’d been beyond stupid in the challenge, and he wasn’t a real Diamond.
Digger dealt out the cards. Once again, Tiff pulled her choice out immediately and laid it facedown in front of her. Drummer Boy also made his selection quickly. I pulled DB’s card out and put it face down.
Jetman was the only one who hadn’t pulled a card yet. I saw him looking at the three of us and I was baffled by why this was difficult for him—unless he was breaking the Diamonds alliance. I hated to think that. He slowly pulled a card out and slid it across to Digger.
Digger collected the rest of the cards and shuffled them. He cradled the small deck in his hand. “Time to see who stays and who goes,” he said.
He flipped the first card over and placed it on the table. The Amazing Bubbles. My pudgy face smiled up at me. Figures, I thought. No doubt, Drummer Boy would like me out.
The next card was flipped. Drummer Boy. He frowned, but what did he expect? “One-to-one so far,” Digger said.
He turned the third card. It was Tiffani. I looked at Jetman. He gave me a calm, steady look. Had he really voted for Tiffani? Or had Drummer Boy voted for her? Had he voted for me? All I knew was that Tiff and I were voting for DB. Then Digger flipped the last card.
The Amazing Bubbles.
“And the pair takes the lady out,” Digger said.
My hands began to shake, and I slipped them into my lap. I knew I must look shocked, and I was.
“Tough luck, Bubbles,” Digger said. “So, will you be going back to your modeling career now?”
I pushed away from the table and stood up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I could almost feel the cameras zooming in on my face. They would want to see the pain.
Jetman came around the table and hugged me. He whispered in my ear. “I voted for Tiffani, Bubbles. She made an alliance with DB. They wanted me with them, but I wouldn’t play ball. Screw the metagame. I won’t play like that.” He squeezed me tighter. “And I knew you wouldn’t believe she was stabbing you in the back.” He let me go then. I stood there like a deer in the headlights.
Tiffani had betrayed me.
Drummer Boy was shaking my hand. “No hard feelings, Bubbles. It’s just a game.”
Tiff was standing behind him, but I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to talk to her, or hear her excuses. I just turned and went to my room.
I was shoving the last of my clothes into my bag when I heard a knock on the door. “Michelle, it’s me.”
It was Tiff. A wave of nausea swept over me.
“I’m not in the mood,” I said.
“Look, I’m not going to apologize for voting you off,” she said through the door.
I jammed my last piece of clothing into my bag and yanked the zipper closed. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I replied. I felt as though I might throw up.
“It’s just… I mean… I just got your presents.”
I’d forgotten the presents. I’d taken the money the show had given me and spent it on Tiff for the things she’d wanted but hadn’t bought for herself. I’d had Bergdorf’s send the packages with the perfume and cashmere shawl around to the house. I felt like an extra-special idiot.
“You know, I never asked you to spend your money on me,” Tiff said. “And I never promised you anything.”
I went to the door and yanked it open. “I know you didn’t promise me anything. I gave you those things because I thought you would like them. Because you spent the money you could have spent on yourself on your family instead.” I took a big breath. My entire body was shaking now. “Don’t think that makes me less pissed at you. You did something rotten and underhanded.” I wanted to slap her.
“I know I let you down,” she said, giving me a pleading look. “I just didn’t have any other choice.”
I grabbed my bags off the bed. Then, as I brushed by her, I said tightly, “There are always choices, Tiff.”
She called after me, but I ignored her.
The Discard Pile was stunning. At least, if I was going to hang with the losers, it would be in top-notch style.
The living room was large—it had to be. Eleven of the discarded AH players were already living there. Twelve now, with me. And two more were on their way.
I discovered that every time there were new Discards, the house members threw a party.
A very loud, drunken party. It was just what I was in the mood for.
After several glasses of champagne, I asked the Maharajah to show me to my room. I unpacked, then went back down. The party was in full swing. Joker Plague’s new album was cranked to eleven, and everyone was dancing like it was the end of the world. I grabbed a bottle of champagne and got out in the middle of it all.
Light streamed hot and heavy through the bedroom windows. I opened one eye.
I wasn’t dead, but felt as if I could do a remarkable facsimile of it. With a groan, I rolled over. Or I tried to. Ink was asleep next to me. Naked.
I glanced down at her body. It wasn’t covered in its usual tattoos. Her skin was the color of milky tea. There was a tangle of dark hair between her legs, and her breasts were small and tipped with delicate brownish-pink nipples. I tried to remember how we had ended up in bed together. But the throbbing in my head made it impossible.
I sat up. The room tilted for a moment, then righted. Now I felt ravenously hungry, but I knew it wasn’t just for food. I needed to be fat again. I needed to be able to bubble.
“You’re awake,” Ink said, stretching.
“Uh, yeah,” I replied. I wondered if Ink would bail on me when I got back to my Bubbles size. Or if she would bail anyway. I couldn’t remember if we had professed anything other than drunken lust.
“You were pretty drunk last night,” Ink said, making her the Queen of Understatement.
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my face. “I don’t remember a lot after we all started dancing.”
Ink stretched again and I wanted to run my lips across her firm belly, then kiss and nibble in the dark thatch of hair between her legs. I had a brief memory flash of musky flesh and sweet, soft hair against my mouth.
“Well, you’d already consumed an enormous amount of champagne before I got to the Discard Pile,” Ink said. “The party was going full tilt, and you dragged me into the middle of the dancing. Then you told me I was your ‘Asian Princess.’ And after that, you carried me up here and we more or less canoodled until we both passed out.”
I moaned and hid my face in my hands. I was mortified. Why on earth had I called Ink my “Asian Princess?”
“I am so embarrassed,” I said.
“Why? I thought it was hilarious.”
“When…how…did you end up here? In Discards, I mean.”
Ink rolled over onto her stomach. Her bottom was a perfect peach shape. I dimly remembered nibbling on it.
“I’ve been lobbying to be the PA for the Discard Pile for a while. I knew you were going to be on the chopping block and I wanted to stay close to you.”