9
I grab the card andstuff it into my pocket before Kennedy has a chance to read it, then turn my attention back toward Chase, who’s still counting.
129. 130. 131. 132.
“Chase, make him stop.” Mila swats Chase’s arm. Her usually bored, languid tone has turned tense, with an undercurrent of anxiety. Kennedy has taken up the counting in a breathless voice. I wish she would stop.
Ryan is still holding his breath, sitting stubbornly on the couch, arms and legs crossed tightly, his lips sealed, his face bright red. He stares straight up at the ceiling, concentrating, maybe counting in his head.
“You okay, Ry?” I tap his shoulder, but he doesn’t break focus.
145. 146. 147.
“You win,” Mila says. “You have all the penises. And then some.”
152. 153. 154.
His face is growing purple. It’s uncomfortable to watch. It makes me feel like I can’t breathe. I punch his arm. “Enough, Ryan.”
But Chase keeps counting, and as long as he does, Ryanwill never back down. It’s a game to them. Ryan won’t fold while Chase is timing him, and Chase won’t stop timing him while Ryan can still make it further. And I know what comes next because I know them. Next, Chase is going to be obligated to try to beat Ryan’s record.
179. 180. 181. 182. 183.
Kennedy gets up, marches over, and pinches Ryan’s nose. He gasps and collapses onto the sofa on his back, gulping in air. “Are you trying to kill me?” he wheezes.
“You need to breathe, asshole,” she says. “No more games.”
Mila looks down curiously at a card sitting in the middle of the table. “Truth,” she reads. “Which one of you is going to hell for killing your best friend?” She looks up, her face pale.
Chase takes the card from her. He is quiet for a long moment. “Obviously someone tampered with the cards.”
Ryan yawns elaborately, extending an arm toward Kennedy. Not subtly.
“Please let’s not get into this again.” Kennedy raises a hand to massage her temples. “I didn’t send the postcards, and I didn’t tamper with this stupid game.”
“So I did this?” Ryan’s face is still tinged with pink, just a shade lighter than the salmon-colored polo he’s wearing.
“Chase is the one who insisted we play the game,” I say hesitantly. “Sorry, Chase. I’m not accusing, I’m just saying it’s a weird game, and you’ve been bizarrely enthusiastic about it.”
“Don’t look at me,” Chase says. “Ryan is the one pointing fingers.”
Ryan balks. He stands abruptly and paces out of the room, then back again. “I didn’t tamper with the goddamn game,” hesays flatly. “And I didn’t invite myself or any of you, and honestly, I’m starting to wonder if any of you even want me here.”
“No one does.”
“Kennedy.” I look at her sharply, but she continues to clean up the game, tight-lipped.
“What?” She looks up innocently.
“I—” I falter. I can’t tell if she just said what I think I heard her say. I’m not sure it was her voice. Sometimes I think I hear things. Specific things. Sounds that can’t possibly have been made here or now. Distant explosions and rapid gunfire, the tinny kind you hear on TV, exceptnoton TV. Animal sounds I can’t identify. Voices speaking in languages I don’t know, footsteps passing over my head, little hands tapping in the walls. It’s usually just in the window between the time I take my sleeping pill and the time I fall asleep. Nurse Pamela warned me about it. The lucid in-between, she called it. She was one of the good ones. “I think we should give Ryan a break,” I say. Ryan touches my elbow with his and taps his palm twice with two fingers. It’s the secret language we made up in fifth grade to make the others flip out. The secret is that none of the gestures actually meananything. But it infuriated Chase, Kennedy, and especially Emily.
“A dead sister isn’t an excuse to be an asshole,” Kennedy bursts out.
We all stare at her. She claps her hand over her mouth, looking mortified.
Chase looks pointedly at Kennedy. “I think we should all go sleep this off while we still have no regrets.” He storms away to his room, and Mila chases after him.
Ryan sighs. “I’m going to get some air.”