Sneak Peek: For Your Entertainment

With all that's happening in the world right now, I thought now was as good a time as any to share the first two chapters of my newest project, FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT -- a Squid Game x Jurassic Park YA dystopian thriller about 7 veterinary interns whose tour guide is killed on safari, turning them into the unwilling stars of a reality survival show for the ultra wealthy.

As the middle class continues to erode, tensions between groups, countries, and even our own families persist, it becomes essential to examine our own biases and confront our true selves. FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT is an examination of Us through a magnifying glass. What separates us, truly, when survival is on the line? What do we need to become in order to survive? What are we willing to become? And do all of these little things they want us to think make us different really matter? In the end, there are really only two groups of people.

Us, and them.

So make sure you drink your water. You can't eat the rich if you're thirsty.

I hope you enjoy.

“Brutality happens when survival is promised; when you hurt people because you can, not because you have to.”

PART ONE:

The Girls We Were Before

"A vulture is not a coward, as it is sometimes called, but a cautious bird, knowing its place in the grand scheme of things."

We sat in the tree for hours, waiting for them to eat us. We didn’t have any choice. We had to push someone. Even as we run, listening to the laughter of five ravenous hyenas drown out her screams, all I can think is how there will be nothing left of her. Only her little gold bracelet with colorful flowers glinting in the white hot light. The unrelenting sun bleaching what’s left of her bones. And yet, it wasn’t the hyenas we were really afraid of. We were afraid of the glossy black camera sitting in the brush.

A lot’s changed in the last few days. I’d have done anything to protect her before any of this happened. All I wanted was for all seven of us to make it out of here alive.

Now I know it don’t matter. It never did. They never intended for us to survive. It don’t matter what we want, it only matters what they want to see.

What will make them tick. What will make them laugh, or cry, or win their bets.

We’re vermin scurrying around on their big TVs. Lab rats at the center of an experiment with no thesis. We’re the subjects of late-night arguments between kids and their parents, begging to stay up just one more minute to see who will be the next to die.

In the beginning, I wouldn’t have stood for it. I’d have done something crazy. I’d have done anything to get us out of here. But there is no way out. Not for all of us. And I’ve accepted that. It ain’t gonna be all of us, and that’s alright with me.

The bones can pile up. I’ll watch the vultures come.

I’ll let them feast. Join in if I have to.

I don’t care. I’m getting out of here alive.

  1

Erica

There’s an ant farm at the Johannesburg airport. It’s labeled as an “art installation”, but there’s no explanation on the plaque. It only says “Us” with an arrow pointing to the giant glass, and beneath that: “You are Them”. The maze is impossible; the farm’s gotta be five feet tall, one side of it flat and white, the other glass. Hundreds of squiggles create obstacles for the ants; tiny holes scattered within the paths claim their victims, mini sandpits and pools of water take others.

The ones who make it to the top find themselves in a little bowl where thousands of crumbs are desperately carried up a sloped edge, all to serve a queen, who eats alone on a ledge.

I watch the ant farm for some time while I wait for my bag to come tumbling out of the luggage chute, and I find myself real enthralled by them. For once in my life, I’m one of the ants who made it to the top. I rode on an actual airplane. I even have jet lag, I think.

And most importantly, I got the hell out of Willow Lake. Away from Dad, away from all our problems, and I’m here. I was chosen out of thousands of applicants. I was good enough to study under Dr. Tahira Puja, possibly the most famous geneticist of our time, at the most exclusive, most coveted preveterinary internship program in the world. Camp PANGEA. 

And like always, my victory is short-lived, ‘cause my phone rings. CallerID says the call’s coming from the Macon County Library.

“Rikki?” It’s Lacey. She sounds all jittery. It’s a relief to hear my sister’s voice, but there’s no way there’s any good reason she could be calling me.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Daddy didn’t sign my permission slip for the LeapStart field trip and the librarian’s askin’ if you’re around. I told her you was in Africa and I didn’t want to bother you.”

Her voice is shaking like a leaf. My eyes drop to the ants at the bottom of the maze, their bodies writhing with their struggle.

“It’s alright, Lace, I just landed.” I almost don’t ask, but I can’t help it. “He passed out?”

“Mhm.”

Disappointment plants itself in the base of my stomach like the root of a weed. “Alright, then, give the phone over to Miss Hanna.”

As I’m explaining to Miss Hanna why they should let a minor give verbal permission for another minor to go on a field trip, my duffle tumbles out of the chute. It lands funny and the duct tape holding one of the bigger rips together splits open.

“Shit,” I whisper, rushing over to the carousel.

“So,” Miss Hanna’s saying into the phone, “you understand we have to—”

“Wait—wait, just hold on,” I say. Sweat’s forming at the nape of my neck, and my deodorant is about to slide out of my bag.

I squish the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I try to reach for the duffle. A large, olive-toned hand beats me to it, lifting the bag off the belt and catching the deodorant before it topples onto the floor. Heart racing, I whirl around to get a visual on the thief before he dashes away with all my shit.

But he ain’t moving. The thief is a tall, handsome brunette with a silly looking smile on his face. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes catching on my backpack, which is hanging off just one shoulder.

I follow his gaze. He’s looking at my Camp PANGEA pamphlet, which is rolled up in the bottle sling of my pack. At best, he’s another intern. At worst, he’s a human trafficker. I reach for my bag, but he pulls it just out of my reach. I scowl.

“Erica?” Miss Hanna says. “Are you still there?”

“O-oh, uh,” I stutter. 

The bag thief nods to the bench a couple of feet away. Maybe he is a trafficker. Am I about to get napped? Reluctantly, though, I follow him, ‘cause there’s too much going on and I don’t have much choice. He puts my bag on the bench and sits next to it. I reach for the handles, ripping it off the bench. A pair of socks squeezes from the hole, rolling onto the dirty tile floor.

I drop the bag and try to fix the tape. The thief watches me without a word. “I—sorry, yes, I’m here. What were you saying?”

Miss Hanna continues. “Lacey hasn’t been to LeapStart in three days. Today, she told me she rode your bike over here. By herself. She’s nine. The library is almost five miles from Silverlake Trailer Park.”

My mouth dries up. My boss, Dr. Sawyer took her the first day, and my dad was supposed to take her the rest of this week. That means every day Daddy’s been responsible for getting her to LeapStart, he hasn’t. I wish I could say I was shocked, but I ain’t. I swallow hard.

“I understand that, Miss Hanna. I’m real sorry. We couldn’t make arrangements for her every single day, and you know, my daddy works a lot and sometimes he sleeps in—”

“Erica, dear…we know about your father’s alcohol problem.”

Miss Hanna means well, I know, but we never talk about the alcohol so directly. The words seem to seep through the phone, wrapping freezing tendrils around me and threatening to turn me to stone. I open my mouth but don’t speak, and the boy holding my bag hostage creases his brow.

I move away from him, leaving the bag at his feet. I don’t even care if he steals it.

“Look, I’m in South Africa right now, Miss Hanna. Can you please call Dr. Sawyer? He’s her emergency contact.”

“I’m sorry, if a child misses three consecutive days, they have to be removed from the program or CPS must be called. It’s the law.”

My heart thunders in my ears. I can’t even hear the bustling of people around me anymore. The screech of the rickety conveyor belt fades into the background. The beeps, the squeaking of wheels, the electronic voices warning people not to let strangers touch their things—they all disappear. I can only hear my own heart beating; my own shaking breath.

“Please—”

I worked so hard to get her into LeapStart. It’s a free program and only fifty kids get into it every year. Lacey gets lunch there every day. Some days, it’s probably the only meal she gets. Daddy rarely remembers to go to the store, if he even has the money for a grocery shop, and Dr. Sawyer only brings food by on Saturdays.

“So what would you like us to do?”

“Um,” I choke on my own voice as it comes out. “D-don’t remove her from the program. You can call them. Just—” I swallow. “Can I talk to her?” It comes out as a sound like an animal would make, but Miss Hanna understands it.

“Rikki?”

I try not to cry at the sound of her voice. I grip my phone so tight the edges bite into the palm of my hand. “Yeah, hi Lacey Spacey. Listen—”

Lacey giggles. “Don’t call me Lacey Spacey, Chicken Leg.”

I squeeze my eyes shut like it’ll keep her laugh on a loop playing in my head. I fake a laugh back, but it cracks.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice shrinking.

“Yeah, listen. Miss Hanna’s gonna call that lady who came by the house a few months ago. The one with the pretty beads in her hair, do you remember her?”

“Miss Hoffman? Why she gonna call her?”

I swallow and it’s like there’s a rock in my throat. “Well, since I’m not home and Daddy’s been sleeping so much, she’s gonna watch you while I’m away.”

The other end is silent for a long second. “What? You mean I can’t stay in Silverlake?”

I bite my lip, my face rushing with heat. “Not while I’m gone. It’s just, Daddy’s been real tired, right? It might be more fun to hang out with Miss Hoffman, don’t you think?”

She thinks for a second. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good,” I say. “Good, it’ll be so fun, and when I get back, you and me are gonna go on an adventure, alright?”

Lacey considers this trade off. “Okay.”

“Good girl. I love you Lacey,” I say, trying hard to sound cheery.

“I love you too, Rikki.”

Miss Hanna’s voice cuts back in. “You’ll receive an email about her status as next of kin. We’ll call James Sawyer to let him know. I’m sorry, Erica.”

I open my mouth to say something, but there’s nothing I can say. It’s like I don’t know any words at all, like they’re falling out of my ears in strings of jumbled letters. A little, desperate, animalistic sound comes out of my throat, and before embarrassment fully sets in, I hang up the phone.

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until a cold hand rests on my shoulder. I jump, inhaling sharply. The thief is looking at me blankly like he’s never formed a coherent thought.

“Can I do something for you?” I snap, my voice shaking. I push a rush of tears away from my eyes.

“Woah, I’m sorry,” he throws his giant hands into the air like I just pointed a gun at him. “I saw your pamphlet for Camp PANGEA and then I saw you were busy with all that,” he motions at…well, me, in general, “and I thought I’d just help. I’m Conway. I’m in this internship cycle with you.” 

And then he cocks his head again and smiles with just one side of his mouth. He’s got big, straight white teeth. Clear skin, no scars. He’s tan, so he probably spends the summers somewhere warm and sandy, and I find myself resenting him cause he’s beautiful and his life probably don’t suck like mine does.

“Rikki. Nice to meet you,” I say. It comes out flatter than I meant it, more honest. But I’m in no way to fake feelings right now. All I can do is wish that phone call hadn’t just happened.

I stalk back toward the bench, where Conway left my bag alone to fend for itself. “You’re a shitty babysitter, Conway.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Oh, my guitar!”

He rushes over to the belt, pulling a guitar case off the carousel and jogging back over to me. I’ll throw him a bone. He’s trying, and I shouldn’t be such an asshole because I’m off to a shit start.

“Where are you from?” I ask as I smooth the duct tape back over the hole in my bag and shove my socks and deodorant back in.

“South Carolina,” he says. The shred of interest energized him. He’s like a labrador. “I think you need a new bag, Rikki.”

“No, I like this one. The holes and duck tape give it character, you know.” I return his sarcasm.

“Yeah, actually now that I think of it, my bag is really boring in comparison.” He gestures to his plain black roller. It looks brand new, like this is the first time he’s ever left home.

“What’s with the guitar? Internship at ten, headlining a concert at twelve?” I ask, poking his guitar case.

“Some people like Duck Tape, some people like guitars.”

I make a face at him.

His face softens, like he’s had enough of teasing me. “I just like to bring a little music with me. Never know when you could use a tune.”

Daddy used to play the guitar. Used to fill up the whole house on Sunday mornings. He’d play Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd for hours, and me and Mom and Lacey would dance in a circle in the living room. But that was a long time ago.

I change the subject. “Do you know where this shuttle thing is supposed to pick us up?”

“Yeah, I think it’s just out here,” Conway gestures to the glass doors. “Come on, Duck Tape.”

“You are not allowed to call me that,” I groan, hoisting my bag over my free shoulder as Conway and I make our way outside. There are a couple of other kids standing off to the right, looking just the right amount of confused. There’s a real tall Black guy and a tiny East Asian girl standing there, but they ain’t talking.

Conway and I glance at each other. I look up at the sign. It just says “Vantablack Pickup”. There’s a Vantablack logo on the back of the pamphlet too. I noticed it when I got my acceptance in the mail four weeks ago and spent three hours studying every detail of the program. Must be a parent company of some kind.

“Hey,” Conway says to the other two people standing under the sign. “You guys here for the PANGEA internship?”

The guy nods, his black eyes cast down on us. He’s gotta be six-four, and he looks strangely familiar.

“Wait, are you—” Conway starts.

The boy was reading a book, and he drops it to his side, flicking his wired earbud out. The starts of a smile root themselves at the outer corners of his eyes. “Yeah, man, I’m here for the pre-vet internship.”

“No I mean, are you—”

His face falls.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m Xavier Holland.” When Conway’s lips part with surprise, Xavier sighs, clarifying, “Junior.”

Then it clicks. His dad is a tight end for the Raiders. Daddy used to watch them play when shit was still normal. I think about being excited for a second, but then a pit falls in my stomach. I’m here because of the scholarship awarded at the end. What the hell is a rich kid like that here for?

“Nice to meet you, bro, your dad is so good,” Conway says, not picking up on Xavier’s clear discomfort. “I’m Conway and this is Duck Tape.”

Xavier makes a face like he wants to laugh, but he’s too confused.

I swat Conway’s arm, clarifying. “My name is not Duck Tape. It’s Rikki.”

Xavier laughs then, looking slightly less uncomfortable than before. We shake hands and I peer around him at the tiny girl standing in his shadow.

“Hi,” she says, almost a whisper. She’s hiding in the vast expanse of an oversized black hoodie, her wire-framed glasses flashing as she pulls her hood down and tucks her black hair behind her ear, revealing a tiny hearing aid.

“Hi,” I say, introducing myself and shaking her hand.

“I’m Melody.” She talks like she’s afraid her voice could shatter the world if she spoke too loudly. 

Conway and Xavier trade stories about what got them into vet med, and then their favorite sports, and then how shitty the new Drake album was. Melody doesn’t say much at all, and just as I open my mouth to speak, a sleek black van pulls up in front of us. It doesn’t have wheels though, it kinda looks like it’s floating. When I get a closer look, it’s just on a track, like a cable car.

I half-expected them to pick us up in a rusty school bus. The windows are covered with a vibrant screen print matching the image of South African landscape from our pamphlets. Camp PANGEA’s branding is overlaid on top. It reads:

“Dr. Puja’s Camp P.A.N.G.E.A”

“PROGRAM FOR ADVANCED NEXT-GEN ENVIRONMENTAL ADAPTATION”

Building the fittest future, because the fittest survive.

In the bottom corner of the window, again, that logo. Inconspicuous, small, but in all caps. VANTABLACK. We exchange somewhat apprehensive glances. None of us were expecting to be picked up in a spaceship.

Once we’ve all piled in, we slide our bags under the crisp leather seats and take it all in. The PANGEA car is the fanciest vehicle I’ve ever been in, aside from the airplane. That may not be saying much since I’ve really only ridden in Dad’s old ford ranger and Macon County school buses, but still.

The auto door slides closed and the bright lights dim, leaving only purple underglow behind. It shines from under the benches, and little reading lights fade on behind our seats. The door locks flip loudly, making me jump a little. 

The purple light is weirdly calming; borderline sleep-inducing, but that’s probably just the three hours of sleep talking. Melody sits next to me, and she seems more relaxed now. Her baggage tag says LAX.

“Do you like Los Angeles?” I ask. “I’ve never been out West.”

I’ve never been anywhere.

Melody pulls a little bible from the front pocket of her bag. The bible is littered with colorful tabs, and the pages are all kinds of beat up. 

“Sacramento, actually,” she says with a gentle smile, peeling the book open. “California is nice. The weather definitely helps when you’re sad.”

This makes my heart sink a little. I wonder if Melody is sad a lot. I catch myself staring at her hearing aid and tear my eyes away, but she saw me looking.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I can hear, just not very well.”

“Has it always been like that?” I ask.

Melody licks her lips, looking like she isn’t sure how to respond.

Suddenly, the doors open again. There’s a pretty blonde girl standing outside, looking fifty shades of disheveled. She’s on the phone yelling at someone.

“No!” she shrieks, her voice sharp and nasally. “I don’t care. There’s a rip in my suitcase. It was supposed to be individually transported, god damn it! You people are useless.”

She yanks on her bag, which refuses to follow her up into the bus. I cover my mouth, pressing my hand hard against my lips. She turns around, her big blue eyes scanning us like she’s searching for prey. I find myself shrinking into my shoulders.

“You,” she whispers to Conway, draping her hand over her phone’s receiver. “Can you help me please?”

Conway glances at me, making a face like he’s trying not to laugh. I have to suck on my cheeks to keep his smile from infecting me. He nods, standing up.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his southern accent certainly twanging a little more than it was before.

My eyebrows thread together.

“No, I can’t because it’s custom Hermés. Do you have a manager or something?” the blonde continues. “Agh, forget it!”

She pulls her hand away from her face. Her hair’s caught in her bracelet. She struggles with it for a minute before I just can’t stand it anymore. I go over to help her.

“Stop moving, girl, damn!” I say, reaching for her hair. It’s wrapped around one of the little enamel flowers. It takes me a second to untangle it, but when I do, she takes a long, deep breath.

“God,” she gasps. “Stupid bracelet.”

Wow. She’s a real joy. I don’t say a word; I go back to my seat.

As soon as Conway’s lifted her monster truck of a suitcase into the shuttle, which looks perfectly fine to me, by the way, music starts playing from speakers I can’t locate. Two big screens at the front of the bus turn on, and my gaze drifts to the driver’s seat. But there is no driver’s seat. There’s no driver at all. Goosebumps prick my arms like little needles.

“Welcome to Camp PANGEA and congratulations,” says a warm, but slightly robotic female voice. The voice talks over a fancy video with B-roll of Kruger National Park, videos of African wildlife, and clips of Dr. Puja working with students in the lab and in the bush. 

“Every year, thousands of applications flood Dr. Puja’s desk—all competing for seven spots on the most coveted, exclusive, and unique pre-veterinary and genetics internship program on earth. Dr. Puja’s revolutionary work in genetics and veterinary sciences have ushered in the opportunity of a lifetime and for the next six weeks, you will work alongside her, both in the PANGEA lab, as well as our brand new, state of the art Park PANGEA situated in the foothills of Drakensberg.”

Dr. Puja, a woman whose face we’re all familiar with, flashes onto the screen.  Dr. Puja is the genius at the helm of the Camp PANGEA program. She’s on all the program’s marketing materials, she does all the interviews—she’s who we all want to be. She graduated from Harvard at just seventeen, became a vet and got her PHd in genetics by twenty-two.

And best of all, Dr. Puja came from nothing. She grew up in Florida to immigrant parents who barely spoke English. She rose out of the ashes. She made something of herself when the cards were stacked against her. When she was set up to fail. She prevailed anyway. She’s proof that I can, too.

In the video, she’s sitting at a desk in a fancy office, her big white teeth gleaming against brown skin. “I’m so excited to have you, my lucky seven! Xavier, Phoebe, Erica, Conway, Steven, Melody, and Poppy. You were plucked from the masses. Your applications shined. And I want you to be the very first to know about the recent birth of our first de-extincted animal—the Tasmanian tiger.”

B-roll plays of Dr. Puja and other people in lab coats interacting with what is very clearly a young Tasmanian tiger; a thylacine. They went extinct in 1936, but we’re watching one on modern camera footage. A thylacine that’s alive right now—rolling around in the dirt with a laughing Dr. Puja as she rubs its belly like a puppy.

I find myself examining the animal to make sure it looks right. But it is right. It’s got that otherworldly long muzzle, the face of a dog but the body of a strange, long cat, and the stripes across its rear end, respecting its namesake.

It’s a real thyalcine, no doubt about it. This sends a wave of whispers around the shuttle, even prompting the blonde to hang up her phone. Well, shit. That explains the spaceship. Donors must be beating down her door.

“As you all know, by the end of the program, the intern with the most promise will receive a scholarship funded by PANGEA and its partners to fully support your education from undergrad through grad school. The scholarship is worth upwards of four-hundred-thousand dollars. And our partnership won’t end there.”

B-roll of Dr. Puja working with a very young lab staff plays over her continued voiceover: “PANGEA alumni are always welcome back to our facilities to continue our work in cutting-edge veterinary and genetic research. We hope you enjoy your experience at Camp PANGEA, where the fittest survive.”

The tagline sends adrenaline pulsing through my veins. My chest tightens as I look at my fellow interns. Melody clutching her bible to my left, Conway playing some stupid game on his phone to my right. And two rich kids sitting across from me. I wonder what they risked to come here. If they need that scholarship as bad as I do. It’s not just a scholarship to me. It’s a ticket to freedom. Emancipation for me and my little sister.

My stomach is like a wet rag being twisted and tied over and over again into tighter and tighter knots. CPS is probably at the library right now and there’s nothing I can do. I’m on the other side of the world, and my only consolation is that if I win this thing, me and Lacey will be together again. They won’t be able to take her away anymore, she won’t have to sleep in strange beds ever again. It’ll just be us.

The AI-sounding voice comes back on. “The Vantablack Air Shuttle is a nonstop shuttle from OR Tambo International Airport to Park PANGEA, Kwa-Zulu Natal province. The shuttle utilizes over-road rails and moves at high speeds. For your safety, do not attempt to open doors or windows while the vehicle is in motion. Please enjoy your three-hour journey to PANGEA. Thank you.”

The shuttle lurches, and a loud metal clamping noise echoes under us. The doors and windows latch, and the shuttle starts rolling. Xav’s eyes drift around, examining the shuttle like we’ve just been beamed up. Kinda feels like we have.

I start typing out a message to Dr. Sawyer, but he texts me first. Is your service working?

I reply. Yea thank you. The phones great. I appreciate yall

And then: LeapStart called CPS this morning, they call you yet?

Dr. Sawyer: talking to the caseworker right now. Don’t worry, we’ve got her

Dr. Sawyer and his wife Dr. Johnson are the closest thing I got to parents. They gave me a job at the clinic when I was fourteen and paid me under the table for a couple of years. Half the time, they were the only things keeping us fed.

Thank you, I say. I wont let yall down i promise

Dr. Sawyer: You never could :)

I gotta stop replying so I can keep a straight face around these strangers. I don’t need them thinking I’m some kind of crybaby. I glance at the blonde, who has finally stopped seething over her stupid suitcase. She introduced herself as Phoebe after her new servant, Conway, organized her things to her liking. I don’t think she’s shut up about herself since she sat down.

She’s from Connecticut, her father is a professional golfer or something, and she works for a veterinary dental specialist in Greenwich Village. It takes everything in my body not to scrunch my face up and mock her. I shrink into my seat, flipping my book open.

“Sorry, I didn’t get your name?” Phoebe says to me, leaning across the middle aisle.

“Erica. But everyone just calls me Rikki.” I don’t look up for very long. Just enough to make polite eye contact.

“Oh.” The word comes out high pitched, like how you might react when someone gives you a gift you didn’t ask for. “Well, nice to meet you, Erica.”

My mouth burns with venom at the blatant disrespect ignoring my preferred nickname, but I don’t say anything. I just nod and let her gaze burn a hole in the top of my forehead. 

“She’s pleasant,” she whispers, not quietly, to Xav, who lets a little extra air out of his nose.

I narrow my eyes, but don’t pay her any mind. Conway, Xavier, and Phoebe resume their conversation, the boys desperately trying to move the topic from Phoebe to literally anything else.

Melody squeezes my arm. “Have you been away from home before?”

I swallow. Poor Melody, she looks afraid. I have to remind myself she’s probably my age. She looks so much younger. I haven’t even had time to be afraid. 

“No,” I breathe, “I haven’t.”

Melody nods. “Are you scared?”

I am a little, but more because I can’t do anything to control anything going on back home. I decide not to say that. She looks desperate for consolation. I smile at her. “Nah, I’m not scared at all. You shouldn’t be either, this is gonna be so fun.”

She smiles, folding her legs up by her chin and leaning against the side of her seat. The shuttle’s moving quick now, and the lights are low. Conway’s got his arms crossed, his head titled into his shoulder. Xav has his reading light on, sucked back into his book, and across the aisle, Phoebe’s eyes are hidden under a silk eye mask. Her arms are folded neatly in her lap like a doll’s.

I lean back on the bench with my head against the padded window sill. My gaze drifts up to the ceiling, which has a night sky scene projected on it. A red blinking light in the upper corner of the van grabs my attention, and I sit up quickly, squinting at it.

But my eyes must’ve been playing tricks on me.

There’s nothing up there. It’s just the stars.

 2

Phoebe

The others are asleep. I did try, but sleep never comes easily to me because of the nightmares. After thumbing through notifications; Dad profusely apologizing for missing my going away party, Mom trying to smooth it over, my golf team telling me how much they miss me and begging for photos, I find myself just staring out the tinted window.

Outside Johannesburg, there’s a ring of shantytowns. They push up against the city, and they’re a stark contrast to the tall glass buildings and business people in sharp suits.

The shanty houses are made of lots of things; rusty old storage containers, train boxes, plastic, and even cardboard. Most of the little houses have a brightly colored tarp as a roof, and they tug around in the wind as the cars whir by on the freeway. As the railcar dips lower, down by the street now instead of floating over the city like a bird, we pass the last of them. The car slows slightly as we get closer to the ground.

My eyes snag on a little girl playing in front of one of the houses. She looks up from her toy; a woven doll made of the tall grass surrounding the box she lives in. Her black eyes flash up to me. 

That look steals the air out of my lungs, drying my mouth out like she’s just given me a spoonful of cinnamon. The exchange only lasts a split second, but I feel like she just read my soul for some reason. Suddenly, I feel naked and vulnerable, and I look away from the window, sliding my mask back over my eyes.

Eventually, I nod off to sleep, but as usual, my sleep is not peaceful.

Even short naps aren’t safe for me.

I always have nightmares.

Always.

# # # # #

All of them start the same. On the golf course.

Dad is never there.

Mom wears a crisp white visor. It’s so white, it hurts my eyes to look at it. Her blond hair is slicked back into a ponytail, wispy bangs hanging over her eyes. I’m nervous because it’s my turn, and our best player, Jensen Crow, didn’t show up.

It’s so unlike her to not show up.

Everyone knows Jensen would never miss a tournament.

Coach isn’t that worried, but she should be.

They should all be worried. We should all be worried. She hasn’t answered anyone’s texts all day.

“Phoebe, are you going to go or not?” Mom asks, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Coach looks stressed. I’m carrying the whole team right now, with Jensen out. I’d never admit it to her, but she’s better than me. She always was.

I take a shaky breath. I know I’m in a dream, and it always ends the same way, so I don’t want to go. I take my driver anyway because I don’t have a choice. I hold the grip so tightly my hand stings as I approach the ball.

As always, it’s dirty.

It’s stained green and brown. It’s a practice ball.

And it has a very small crack in it, revealing the tiniest black hole.

My breath is bated, because I know what’s going to happen. My heart drums, my skin crawling like I’ve just stepped into a cold night. I watch the ball, blinking several times as the little hole begins to squirm like it’s alive. A clump of brown hair pushes out of the hole. The color starts to change from muddy-greenish to flesh-toned. The ball grows, the texture smoothing out. More brown hair sprouts from other places as the ball continues to expand.

As always, I want to turn away. To close my eyes. To run.

But I can’t.

The greenway has grown. The lawn is no longer lush and trimmed. It doesn’t smell like freshly cut grass. The air is stale now, and the tall, yellowed grass below my feet curls like a living thing. It wraps around my white golf shoes and yanks me toward the muddy, sodden soil beneath me.

I want to scream, but I can’t.

The golf ball is now a head. 

Jensen’s head.

Her brown hair is matted and coated in blood. Sullen skin clings to bone, bruised, dirty, and grass-stained. Her irises aren’t blue like they were once. They’re a milky, cloudy white.

Her mouth falls open, her jaw twisting at a grotesque angle. Lips that were once full and pink are now blue and shrunken.

“Hit the ball, Phoebe!” Coach calls.

“What are you waiting for?” Mom asks.

I glance at them over my shoulder, sweat dripping from my hairline. My feet have sunken completely beneath the dirt. Their disapproving looks force me to look back at my driver, and slowly, back at Jensen’s head.

“Hit me,” she crows from a broken mouth. Her lips tear as she speaks, her unblinking, blinded eyes boring into my face.

I start to cry. “No, I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do.” The voice comes from behind me.

That’s new.

Goosebumps race up the side of my neck following the cool breeze that accompanied the voice. Slowly, my eyes follow the sound.

Jensen.

Beautiful as ever, standing over my shoulder.

“Your form sucks.”

“You’re dead,” I retort. I’m not actually saying it to her. I’m saying it to me.

She laughs. “Touché.”

I suck my cheeks in. The presence of her zombielike head at my feet seems to grow, even though I’m not looking at it. I can feel it staring at me.

“It’s sad, the way I went out,” sighs the phantom Jensen. Her eyes have yet to leave her own disfigured head on the ground.

I nod, almost on instinct. “I know.”

Finally, her gaze flashes up at me and she snickers. “Are you sad, Phoebe?”

My ribs clutch my lungs and my heart pumps faster, warming my cheeks and my fingertips. “Of course I am, Jensen. You’re my teammate. My best friend.” I pause, and quietly, I correct myself. “You were.”

“I was better than you.”

I grip my driver tighter.

She laughs. The sound of it irks me. It sounds so real. Just like her laugh. Sometimes, I hear it even when I’m not sleeping.

“And now, I’m dead, so I always will be. Frozen in my power. Better, prettier, smarter. Beloved by every person at Brashton High. I’m pretty sure your parents even love me more than they love you.”

I shrink a little. The words burn so badly because they’re true. “You…you wouldn’t say something like that. Why are you saying these things, Jensen?”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t say something like that.”

I blink, and I’m not talking to Jensen anymore.

I’m staring back at my own face.

“Hit her, Phoebe,” the person next to me, who looks like me, but isn’t me, says.

I wrestle against the mud, but the dead grass squeezes tighter, coiling around my ankles like a python. “No. I don’t want to.”

“Stop lying!” the phantom says, the voice bringing with it a gust of wind so cold it leaves a layer of frost on my skin.

“Hit. Me,” Jensen’s decaying head writhes, her jaw clicking and cracking with each syllable.

“Hit the damn ball, Turner!” my teammate Rhonda yells.

“Hit the ball,” the phantom says. It grows, slowly turning colors, until it’s nothing more than an evil, formless presence like a cloud of smoke hovering over me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, grip my driver, and swing.

# # # # #

I jolt awake. My body thinks I’m falling from a very high cliff. I rip my eye mask off, wiping the sweat from my hairline. I focus on my breathing. In through the mouth, out through the nose. The dreams have been getting more visceral lately. I check the time before I dip into my bag and take out the little orange bottle labeled PRAZOSIN. It helped with the dreams at first, but maybe it’s not as effective for me anymore. That scares me. I read the label. Once every 24 hours. It’s only been 12. Pissed, I shove the stupid bottle back into my bag.

My phone vibrates, startling me. It’s Dad again.

Do any digging on your competition yet?

This is his fourth attempt at getting a response. Unfortunately, he knows my weaknesses. I can’t resist a little dig.

I glance around the car. They’re all still dead asleep, so I mustn’t have been out long. It’s so dark in here, except for the nauseatingly purple underglow lighting everyone’s faces up at unflattering angles. I’ll start with Erica since she’s the most pleasant. I noticed she had a library book earlier. Eyes dropping beneath her seat, I see the corner of it peeking out.

I sneak across the aisle and snake the book out of her duffle bag, opening the front cover and sliding the checkout card from the little yellow pocket.

Erica Calder. It even sounds poor.

I type her name into Google, slipping her library book behind me on its spine. She was the valedictorian of her class of three-hundred. Not very impressive. She was recently featured in the local newspaper in Willow Lake, Georgia for her contributions to River Crossing Animal Hospital’s new equine program. She’s pictured between a tall, lanky white man with dark hair and a large nose, and a petite Black lady with a high ponytail and a big, toothy smile. The way they’re standing, it almost looks like they could be a family. The article mentions that she lives with her father and sister.

But where’s Mommy?

I bite my lip, swiping away from the news article. I scroll until I get bored; she won awards for her papers at school, she was published in the school magazine for her poetry, boring, boring.

I text Dad her name. I’m still mad at him, but maybe he can make himself useful.

He pings me back within a couple of minutes with a link from Pierre, our PI.

“You good over there?” Erica’s voice startles me.

My heart drums in my fingertips, and I quickly slide her book behind my back, praying it’s too dark for her to really see anything. She’s leaned against the window sill, using a bleach-stained hoodie as a pillow. It’s hard to gauge her expression in the dark, and I’m not sure how long she was watching me.

I put on a big smile. “Oh, just my mom being annoying as usual, her million texts woke me up. Stupid stuff going on back home. I’m just ready to get to the park and chill for five minutes.”

Erica laughs a little, but it almost sounds like a scoff. My brows draw together automatically, but she wipes the look off her face so quickly I question my observation.

“I feel that,” Erica says. “I’m worried about stuff at home, too…if it makes you feel better.”

I have no idea why she’s trying to be nice to me, even though it looks like she’s doing it at gunpoint. It’s clear she doesn’t like me, just from the dirty looks she’s been giving me since I got on the shuttle. My stomach turns a little. Her eyes are wide, inviting. Inviting me to share the reason I just turned off my phone instead of responding to a text from my mother. She must think I take advantage of it; having a mother around. One who loves me. A seed of pity plants itself deep in my stomach. She has a kind face. Slightly worn, maybe. She has dark bags under her eyes; the precursors of worry lines have already started etching themselves between her eyebrows and under her chin.

I push the pity feeling deeper.

“I’m not worried about stuff back home,” I say, placing my tote bag by my feet. “Things at home are great.”

“No offense, but why are you here if things are so great at home? Can’t imagine you need the scholarship money.” God, that twang is unbearable. I can’t see her face, so it’s impossible to tell if she’s asking this because she’s that ignorant, or if she’s trying to be funny.

“There’s more to life than money, Erica,” I say.

Accolades. The accolades alone are enough. The program is different this year; I found out about the Thylacine two days ago. The stakes are way up. So many eyes are on this program, and the publicity is going to blow up over the course of this week. Whoever wins the scholarship at the end of this thing will probably be on national news, articles will be written about them, schools will be begging the winner to attend. The scholarship is just the beginning of it all. She can’t even see past it, it’s sad.

“Easy for you to say when you’ve always had it,” she grumbles.

She’s trying to make me feel guilty because my parents have money, but it's not working. If she’s poor or whatever, it’s her own fault. My parents worked hard for everything they have. Hers didn’t. That’s the difference between us.

“It’s not my money,” I say. “It’s my parents’.”

That usually shuts people up.

“Sure,” she says. “Sure makes your life easier though, don’t it?”

Her words are sharp, and it’s pissing me off. “You know, Erica, just because my family is wealthy doesn’t mean my life is easy. I don’t even know you, so I don’t know why you’re coming for me like I did something to you.”

She’s quiet for a second. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I hold my breath. I wasn’t expecting that. “It’s fine,” I say.

“I hope whatever’s going on back home turns out okay, then,” she says, refluffing her hoodie and wedging it into the windowsill behind her.

My heart drums a little faster, and for a second, I wonder if she started sniffing around on me, too. Maybe I’m not the only clever one in this car.

I lean back into the seat and wait for what feels like forever until she falls asleep again. I sneak her book back into her duffle bag. Finally, they’re all asleep again and I’m alone with my phone. I open the link Pierre sent.

Dad always taught me secrets are worth more than money. You have more power over someone if you know their darkest secret than you do if you have a million dollars to offer them. As I read the article, which had been nearly scrubbed from the internet, it seemed, I feel myself smirking. It’s almost guilt-inducing, because what I’m seeing is really no laughing matter. But I’ve gotten this far treating secrets like currency, and it certainly looks like this is something Erica Calder wants to keep hidden.