Flash Point

  “Just a little dizzy. . . .”

  Amy helped her into bed. Pale and drawn against the pillow, Gran said, “You remind me so much of your mother.”

  She almost never mentioned Amy and Kayla’s mother. Gran didn’t believe in what she called “wallowing in grief.” Amy glanced at her mother’s picture on the wall and waited, in case there was more.

  Gran said, “Kayla looks like Carolyn, but you have her sweet and trusting nature. She would be proud of you, Amy.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t like Gran. Was it her illness that made her so emotional? At the same time, Amy sucked up the praise like a vacuum cleaner. This place was her refuge.

  But then Gran said, “Why are you lying to me about your job?”

  “I—I’m not . . .”

  “Yes, you are. You didn’t have a ‘boring but easy’ day. You had the workday from hell, and you’re trying to protect me from knowing why. Please don’t do that. It just makes me feel older, sicker, and more useless than I already am.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Amy,” Gran said, and now there was a dangerous glint in her eyes.

  “OK,” Amy said, “it wasn’t boring and it isn’t easy. I’m a . . . a contestant on a new kind of game show, and it’s nerve-racking because today we got our first set of problems and I didn’t do well.”

  “Like Jeopardy!?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Logical.” That was true, sort of. Amy was not going to worry Gran any more than she had to.

  “You should be good at logic. You are at math.”

  “I’ll do better next time.”

  “I know you will.”

  Amy could see Gran’s strength ebbing. Her eyes closed. “Maybe I’ll just sleep a little. . . . Kayla was wonderful today but it’s tiring when she’s home, sort of like inhabiting a closed space with a small tornado. Amy, why don’t you go play chess with Paul? Chess always calms you. I don’t know why, with all its mock warfare, but it does. Kayla can do the dishes after band practice. Use up some of that energy.”

  “I will,” Amy said. Suddenly chess looked as tempting as a couture dress. “But here’s your cell by the bed, and you call me if you need anything.”

  “I will,” Gran murmured, already half asleep.

  Chess did calm Amy. Paul, silent and awkward, wanted no small talk from her. Mrs. O’Malley watched TV in the shabby living room, merely fluttering into the kitchen during commercials to offer cookies, milk, water, a cushion. Twice Amy darted across the street to find Gran peacefully asleep. She beat Paul twice and he beat her once. Amy went to bed with her shoulder and neck muscles fully relaxed.

  But at four in the morning she woke, aware of emptiness beside her on the sofa bed. Kaylie had not come home.

  * * *

  Amy had to be at work at eight thirty. She hadn’t slept since discovering Kaylie was gone, instead spending her time pacing, calling Kaylie on the cell, cursing under her breath, drinking cup after cup of coffee. Kaylie hadn’t answered, the cursing hadn’t helped, and the coffee had jangled her nerves.

  She left Gran still asleep and ran to the high school. Kaylie had said she had to be in school every day this week in order to qualify for All-City. If Amy used the coins she’d been saving for Gran’s flimsies to catch the number 22 bus at Culver Avenue, she could make sure Kaylie was all right and still arrive at TLN just in time.

  Damn her sister! If only she didn’t make everything six times harder than it had to be!

  The high school looked even worse than when Amy had left it not even a year ago. There was no money to fix anything, so nothing had been fixed. Several windows had boards over them; the rest were barred. The lawn was long since trampled into bare dirt. Kids sat on the steps or milled around the street, waiting for the last bell. Kaylie wasn’t among them.

  “Student pass, please,” said the guard beside the metal detector at the front door.

  “I’m not a student. I need to see my sister, Kayla Kent. She may have gone inside already. I’m . . . I’m her guardian.”

  “Sure you are,” he said. “No student pass, no entry.”

  “But it’s really important. Our grandmother is ill, and I have to see Kaylie to—”

  “No student pass, no entry. Move off the steps, please.”

  The last bell sounded and students pushed Amy from behind. She thought of slipping inside in the crush, but a second guard grabbed her arm and firmly propelled her to the side. “Dammit, let me go!”

  “Amy?” said a familiar voice.

  Mr. Servino! Teachers had appeared in the hallway to try to control the flow of traffic—always futile, as Amy well remembered. Mr. Servino had been Amy’s math teacher. He’d hoped she would go on to college, or at least finish long-form high school so that college could be a possibility if the economy improved, but those goals had been impossible after Gran got so sick.

  “Mr. Servino, I need to see my sister, Kayla, it’s really important! Please help me!”

  “It’s OK, Javier, I’ll escort Amy,” Mr. Servino said to the guard. And to Amy, “Do you know what class she’s in first period?”

  “No.”

  “Let me check.”

  He had student schedules on his tablet, which linked to the computer that registered student passes. Slowly the hallway emptied of students. Mr. Servino said, “Kayla’s in Ms. Renner’s history class. Do you want me to take you there? This is my free period.”

  “You’re sure she’s there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no, I don’t want to see her. Actually, I don’t have time before I go to work. I just needed to know she’s all right. She . . . she didn’t come home last night.”

  Mr. Servino nodded. Amy recognized the sadness in his eyes. She’d seen it all year when he looked at kids who were throwing away what little chance they had: getting into drugs or getting pregnant at fourteen or joining gangs. Now he was looking at her that way, and she hated it. Her chin came up.

  “Amy, you OK?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for checking on Kaylie.”

  “Wait—you can’t leave the building unless I escort you out.”

  He did. She threw him what she hoped was a confident smile—See, all good here, on my way to a normal job—thanked him again, and set off at a brisk walk, ignoring the catcalls of the guys, pathetic or dangerous, who inevitably hung around the school. She was careful to make no eye contact with anyone. Once back on a main avenue, she started to run. Already 7:40 and she’d missed the number 22 bus.

  She was out of breath when, at 8:20, she reached Lorimar Street, turned the corner, and ran into a mob.

  No, not another scenario, not now!

  People marched and chanted, carrying signs that said TIMES BE TOUGH MAN in scarlet lettering. A protest mob, right in her path when she was already late—it had to be a scenario. And there had to be more to it than Amy was seeing—what, holographic tear gas from non-real cops? She wouldn’t put it past Myra Townsend. But this time Amy knew she was on camera. She wouldn’t be caught passive or frozen or stupid-looking yet again.

  Striding up to the nearest protestor, she demanded, “What are you protesting?”

  The woman, a faded and tired actor in jeans and shapeless sweater, eyed her warily. Amy saw the moment that the woman pretended to think that Amy was just a mouthy kid. “You don’t know there’s a Collapse on? We’re protesting no jobs, no decent welfare, no hope. Also that those fat-cat bastards just laid off sixty more people with kids to feed.” She pointed at the building behind the protestors, which bore the sign LIGNON INDUSTRIES. Amy had never heard of them, but she nodded. No jobs was something she could identify with.

  But what did TLN want her to do with this protest?

  The woman resumed marching. More people crowded the street, some joining the marchers and some just watching. Amy stood irresolute, and all she could think of was, That slogan still needs a comma betwe
en TOUGH and MAN. Where was the scenario challenge?

  Then she saw him.

  He was working the crowd, slipping a deft hand into a back pocket, unfastening a purse. Amy saw him leave one wallet, evidently too hard to remove, and take another. He was about her age, dressed in completely unmemorable clothing, a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He was big, but so what? This was a setup, she was being filmed by hidden microcameras, and her job was to put on a show.

  She pushed through the crowd until she stood beside the pickpocket and said loudly, “Give that woman’s wallet back!”

  He stopped, startled, and glanced first at her and then around. People turned to look. “That woman there!” Amy said dramatically, pointing at the actress carrying an open purse—another clue that this was a scenario, since who was stupid enough to do that in the city? The woman gasped and felt around in her purse. Amy, hoping her camera angle was good, brought her foot down hard on the pickpocket’s instep while raising her knee to kick his balls.

  He was too fast for her. She got the instep but before her knee could connect, his fist had slugged her in the jaw.

  Women screamed. Amy went down, astonished at the pain. The pickpocket ran, cheetah fast, eluding the two men who chased him. Sirens screamed in the background.

  Someone bent over Amy. “Lie still, I’m a doctor.” Fingers touched her face.

  “Can . . . Myra do . . . that?” Amy gasped. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Jawbone’s not broken and your teeth seem intact. You’re very lucky, young lady, he didn’t connect square on. What a stupid thing to do.”

  “Myra . . .”

  “What’s going on here?” a cop voice asked. Black boots, blue uniform, a holstered gun looming above her. Behind him, the chants resumed: “Give us back our jobs! Times be tough, man!”

  Times be tough.

  * * *

  “I really can’t imagine why you would think that was a scenario of ours, Amy,” Myra Townsend said severely. “We don’t hurt our participants!”

  “I didn’t know I was going to be hurt,” Amy pointed out, but she knew her position was weak. The cop had taken her and the robbed woman to the precinct to file a police report, then delivered Amy, hours late, to Taunton Life Network. Amy had refused medical services, frantic to get to the station and explain in greater detail than her choked cell call had allowed. At the precinct her jaw had swollen on one side; now it was turning the colors of various types of squash. “Ms. Townsend—”

  “Call me Myra. But you know, of course, that TLN assumes no liability for your misjudgments about scenarios. That’s covered in your contract. And you weren’t even on our premises.”

  “I don’t want you to have any liability. I’m just sorry I’m so late for work. It won’t happen again, I promise you.”

  The corner of Myra’s mouth quirked. A phantom zapped into Amy’s mind: Myra looming huge over tiny circus figures at her feet, clowns and acrobats and a miniature lion tamer with roach-sized lions. Myra said, “I’m sure you won’t be late again. Look, I’m going to have a car take you home for the rest of today. Your pay won’t be docked. Just put ice on that jaw and report to work tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said. Gratitude flooded her. She’d screwed up, but she was going to get a second chance. Myra’s eyes radiated compassionate understanding.

  The phantom in her mind vanished, leaving behind an odd, nostril-tickling smell of sawdust.

  Nine

  BECAUSE OF THE SWOLLEN jaw, she had to tell Gran the truth about her job. She hadn’t lied before, but saying that as a contestant she “solved logic problems” left out a whole lot. Nothing about premises, syllogisms, or the null set usually produced a punch in the jaw.

  Sitting on Gran’s bed with an ice pack against her face, Amy explained Who Knows People, Baby—You?, cheesy title and all. Gran said nothing, her sunken eyes on Amy. When Amy finished, Gran was silent for a long moment and then said, “How edgy?”

  Amy smiled. It hurt her mouth. “Not edgy enough to be dangerous. That was just me.”

  “Amy, do you want to do this TV show?”

  She thought of Rafe Torres saying “I’m here for the money.” She tried to answer Gran frankly. “I don’t know yet. The whole thing could be interesting. At first I just went for the salary and benefits, but now . . . I don’t know.”

  “You want to win. Under that sweetness is a deep competitive streak.”

  “I don’t think there are winners or losers among the participants, only the viewers who vote.”

  “It’s television,” Gran said flatly. “Eventually there will be winners and losers.”

  Amy shrugged.

  “And when does the first show air?”

  “This Saturday, believe it or not.” Amy had only just learned this astonishing fact. How could TLN get a show ready that fast? On the other hand, what did Amy know about television production?

  Gran said, “That soon? You’ll need to tell Kayla about the show before Saturday. And I guess we need to get a TV, don’t we?”

  Amy had already considered this. Carefully she had divided up the salary she hadn’t earned yet: so much for food, so much to get the TV out of hock, so much for cabs to and from Friday night’s All-City, so much to be saved in case the whole gig disappeared overnight.

  She spent the rest of the day cooking, cleaning, caring for Gran, and playing two quick games of chess with Paul, both of which she lost. The second Paul saw her swollen jaw he opened his mouth to ask. Amy snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “OK.”

  “Not ever.”

  “Fine.”

  “Anyway, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Good. King’s pawn to e4.”

  Sometimes nerds were really restful.

  WEDNESDAY

  The next scenario happened Wednesday afternoon.

  Amy had spent the morning doing exactly what Myra had said: playing and reviewing a computer game. Even she, no gamer, could do this one, since it was designed to teach four-year-olds to read. Amy used a joystick to move the cat onto the mat, the dog out of the fog, the ball into the hall, and herself into terminal boredom. She counted the minutes until the free lunch that Alex had promised in the company cafeteria but instead was brought a box lunch at her cubicle in the sub-basement. “Just for today,” the gofer said airily.

  Were the six others doing this, too? Eating a dry sandwich in a cubicle and testing childish games? Somehow Amy couldn’t see Waverly spending hours noticing problems with this bug-ridden draft of I Can Read! (there was no hall to move the ball into). Nor Rafe nor Violet. But maybe they got more advanced games. Someone should give Waverly a game based on fashion. Oh, if only Amy could afford those kinds of clothes. . . .

  “Amy Kent has not made a keystroke in two minutes,” the computer announced, and Amy hastily moved the bee into the tree.

  At one o’clock the game disappeared and the computer said, “Amy, please report to loading bay number six.” A map appeared on her screen.

  Thank heavens!

  One by one the seven show participants appeared in the loading bay. Myra, looking chic in a gray skirt and fitted Zac Posen jacket that Amy would have given a pinkie finger for, said, “No talking, please. Not just now.”

  Waverly rolled her eyes. Violet looked amused. When Cai arrived, Amy spent a lot of energy not looking at him, which amused Violet even more. Myra herded them all onto a bus, which deposited them in an alley with a small door. Myra unlocked it and ushered them inside. From the street signs, they were somewhere off Second Avenue, but nothing in the very long corridor that Myra led them through gave her any real clues. Another set of steps, steep and dim; now they were underground. Another long corridor, one more set of steps, and they ended up in a bare, windowless room with thick soundproofing on the walls and seven plastic lawn chairs.

  Amy could feel her heart thud. Whatever came next, she had to do well at it, because she certainly hadn’t distinguished h
erself so far.

  Myra said, “This scenario you will each do separately. Amy, you’re first. Go back through the door we just entered and Alex will escort you. The rest of you, no talking, please.”

  Violet said, “And I thought I was through with school detention.”

  Myra said, “Violet—”

  Violet shrugged and grinned at Amy. But Amy saw the skin pulsing at Violet’s temple; she was just as nervous as the rest.

  “Amy, go,” Myra said.

  Alex Everett appeared at the door. He said nothing to Amy as he led her to yet another small door. Now she could hear the muffled noise of people talking loudly. Alex turned to her. “I’m going to open that door, and you’re going through it. Whatever happens, you have to last ten minutes. Or else that’s it for you on this show.”

  “Last ten minutes at what?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he put his ear to the door, listened for a long, agonizing two minutes, then jerked the door open.

  “‘Now, by my maidenhead,’” a woman’s voice said, “‘at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird! God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!’”

  Alex pushed her through the door and said, “Go.”

  An old woman bustled across the stage to meet her. The stage. Amy was on a stage.

  It was everyone’s nightmare: being suddenly thrust into a play, the whole matinee audience watching her—she could see them clearly, filling the small theater. Amy had actually been in this theater once, pre-Collapse, when Gran had taken her to see a production of Death of a Salesman. Now the audience watched her and waited for her next line, and she had absolutely no idea what it was. She could feel the blood rush to her face, turning her crimson with panic and embarrassment. Sweat slimed her forehead.

  “‘What, Juliet!’” the old woman said again, more loudly. A few titters arose from the audience.

  Juliet. This was a modern-clothes production of Romeo and Juliet. This woman was the nurse, and the woman standing across the stage was—who? Amy had read the play in short-form high school, but she remembered only the story and not any lines. Wait—“To be or not to be?” No, that was Hamlet. Oh, shit—