Dukes.
Nathan’s longish hair is pulled into a ponytail and he’s wearing a pair of round bifocals that emphasize his sad eyes. His shirt is oddly buttoned and his tie’s on crooked.
And J.J. looks like a yeti. They glued whiskers to his tanned face and stuffed him in some furry outfit.
I’m thinking that my accouterment isn’t the worst when Dominic bursts into the room. “Is everyone—” He doesn’t finish his sentence. “Fabulous! Now hurry and eat some breakfast. Make it substantial. You’re skipping lunch.” As he heads toward Jeb—who’s practically as short as Aster’s prison warden—he calls out, “I want you all in the main hall in fifteen for the announcement of today’s episode!”
“Hey, Ivy,” comes a voice from behind.
I turn to find Brook in a black suit and black shirt opened at the collar. “And here I was afraid I wasn’t recognizable anymore.”
He chuckles, which makes him appear somewhat kinder.
“So what are we doing today?” I ask him.
“Can’t tell you.”
“Really? Not even a hint?”
“Not even a hint.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, penetrating but not as abrasive as last night.
“I should go eat something,” I say.
He gestures toward the panel of fabric delineating our quarters. “After you.”
My seven opponents are chatting while gobbling down plates piled high with slices of bread and golden pastries. Maxine and Nathan seem to be hitting it off. She’s propped up on the arm of the couch and Nathan’s standing inches away, laughing. Every so often, his eyes dart to the hem of her Daisy Dukes.
“Morning, everyone,” Brook says with a smile.
As he enquires as to how they slept, I head to the buffet to pick up a piece of toast, which I slather in cream cheese and strawberry jam. There are pieces of real fruit in this jam, unlike the dollar brand Mom used to buy that was basically red goop with strawberry extract. Quickly, I load up a second slice just as someone from the camera crew arrives and barks, “Last touch-ups and we’re a go. Come on, people.”
I gulp it down, wishing I’d had time to grab a cinnamon roll or a banana from the buffet. Food going to waste—especially such incredibly expensive food—is a pet peeve of mine. Mom was like that too, although she took it to another level. She would skim the green fluff from expired yogurts and scrape the mold off sliced Wonderbread. Aster, on the other hand, would rather starve. Mom used to think she was anorexic, but she’s just not interested in food and forgets to eat.
Once our makeup artists fix what needs fixing, we file out of the third floor and take the wide staircase down to the darkened main hall. They’ve covered all the windows—even the round ones on the ceiling—and turned off all the lights. Spotlights suddenly flare up and settle on each one of us, plunging the cavernous space beyond in total inky blackness. I blink, but avoid squinting because I’m being filmed. Instead, I call upon my other senses as though they were insect feelers. From the thundering applause resounding against the tall stone walls, I can tell that hundreds of people are gathered in the lobby, and from the heady scent of caffeine, I can tell that breakfast is in full swing down here as well.
“Today, we begin with a show,” Dominic says. “A great, great show. In our métier, we call it performance art.” He spins around to face us. “For those of you who’ve never heard of it, forfeit this instant!”
Is he serious?
Dominic guffaws. “I’m kidding. Who fell for it?” His eyes shine as they scan each of our faces. “Don’t tell me you all knew what I was talking about?” Still no one speaks. “Well then, this should be a breeze for all of you. Music, maestro.”
The orchestra plays the opening notes to the Masterpiecers’ theme song.
“Lights!” Dominic exclaims over the music.
Large spotlights blaze, illuminating seven square forms cloaked in heavy emerald velvet.
Nathan’s longish hair is pulled into a ponytail and he’s wearing a pair of round bifocals that emphasize his sad eyes. His shirt is oddly buttoned and his tie’s on crooked.
And J.J. looks like a yeti. They glued whiskers to his tanned face and stuffed him in some furry outfit.
I’m thinking that my accouterment isn’t the worst when Dominic bursts into the room. “Is everyone—” He doesn’t finish his sentence. “Fabulous! Now hurry and eat some breakfast. Make it substantial. You’re skipping lunch.” As he heads toward Jeb—who’s practically as short as Aster’s prison warden—he calls out, “I want you all in the main hall in fifteen for the announcement of today’s episode!”
“Hey, Ivy,” comes a voice from behind.
I turn to find Brook in a black suit and black shirt opened at the collar. “And here I was afraid I wasn’t recognizable anymore.”
He chuckles, which makes him appear somewhat kinder.
“So what are we doing today?” I ask him.
“Can’t tell you.”
“Really? Not even a hint?”
“Not even a hint.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, penetrating but not as abrasive as last night.
“I should go eat something,” I say.
He gestures toward the panel of fabric delineating our quarters. “After you.”
My seven opponents are chatting while gobbling down plates piled high with slices of bread and golden pastries. Maxine and Nathan seem to be hitting it off. She’s propped up on the arm of the couch and Nathan’s standing inches away, laughing. Every so often, his eyes dart to the hem of her Daisy Dukes.
“Morning, everyone,” Brook says with a smile.
As he enquires as to how they slept, I head to the buffet to pick up a piece of toast, which I slather in cream cheese and strawberry jam. There are pieces of real fruit in this jam, unlike the dollar brand Mom used to buy that was basically red goop with strawberry extract. Quickly, I load up a second slice just as someone from the camera crew arrives and barks, “Last touch-ups and we’re a go. Come on, people.”
I gulp it down, wishing I’d had time to grab a cinnamon roll or a banana from the buffet. Food going to waste—especially such incredibly expensive food—is a pet peeve of mine. Mom was like that too, although she took it to another level. She would skim the green fluff from expired yogurts and scrape the mold off sliced Wonderbread. Aster, on the other hand, would rather starve. Mom used to think she was anorexic, but she’s just not interested in food and forgets to eat.
Once our makeup artists fix what needs fixing, we file out of the third floor and take the wide staircase down to the darkened main hall. They’ve covered all the windows—even the round ones on the ceiling—and turned off all the lights. Spotlights suddenly flare up and settle on each one of us, plunging the cavernous space beyond in total inky blackness. I blink, but avoid squinting because I’m being filmed. Instead, I call upon my other senses as though they were insect feelers. From the thundering applause resounding against the tall stone walls, I can tell that hundreds of people are gathered in the lobby, and from the heady scent of caffeine, I can tell that breakfast is in full swing down here as well.
“Today, we begin with a show,” Dominic says. “A great, great show. In our métier, we call it performance art.” He spins around to face us. “For those of you who’ve never heard of it, forfeit this instant!”
Is he serious?
Dominic guffaws. “I’m kidding. Who fell for it?” His eyes shine as they scan each of our faces. “Don’t tell me you all knew what I was talking about?” Still no one speaks. “Well then, this should be a breeze for all of you. Music, maestro.”
The orchestra plays the opening notes to the Masterpiecers’ theme song.
“Lights!” Dominic exclaims over the music.
Large spotlights blaze, illuminating seven square forms cloaked in heavy emerald velvet.
Similar Books
