But what takes the sting away is seeing that projectile smack Drummer Boy in the forehead. All of the ace's arms flutter like tree limbs in a gentle breeze, and he sinks to the cracked pavement. Jamal retrieves Jetboy and sprints past him. Rosa Loteria has transformed back into herself and is madly shuffling her magic cards. Using Jetboy like a club, Jamal smacks the deck out of her hands, and hears her gasp as the cards go flying. Then his path is blocked by a snarling tiger. He runs right through it, knocking Wild Fox back on his shit-smeared tail.

  He can see the observatory building ahead of him. Lining the railings, half a dozen aces—Brave Hawk's pseudo wings fluttering in the breeze, Dragon Girl, Pop Tart.

  And Berman, the network guy, off to one side.

  It's as if the world is ganging up on Jamal.

  A hundred yards to go. The camera truck is behind him. The chopper above.

  For a moment, he wishes he could get to the building itself. What a perfect spot to replay the knife fight from Joker Without a Cause!

  Jamal is hit from behind. It is the most surprising blindside tackle he has ever felt. He hits the pavement hard—chin scraped, hands raw. Jetboy flies out of his hands. Rustbelt rolls past, upset by his own momentum, his bolts sparking on the pavement. Jamal scrambles after the idol.

  He and Rustbelt grab it at the same time.

  For an instant they are eye to eye. "It's mine."

  "Mine, now," Rustbelt says.

  Both of them know that Jamal can't win a tug-of-war. His wild card—never especially helpful except on a movie stage—is completely useless here. But what had Tiffani taught him? He has other weapons. Especially when he hears Rustbelt say, "That's what you get for being a—"

  The word is lost in the roar of rotor noise from the hovering chopper.

  Jamal lets go of the idol. He points at Rustbelt and screams as loudly as he can, right in front of all the cameras, "Did you hear what he called me? What kind of racist shit is that?"

  "It took you long enough."

  It is early the next morning. Clubs Lair is quiet. Jamal sees Michael Berman emerging from the breakfast nook. Astonishingly, he is still dressed in his black suit and tie. The only signs that he has been up all night are a faint beard stubble that shows a surprising amount of gray, and the loosened knot of his tie.

  "Didn't know we were meeting."

  "You're not that stupid."

  Jamal removes the carafe from the coffeemaker—still dirty. He smashes it into Berman's face, hearing the crunch of it, but it doesn't break. . . .

  No, no need for that. Hear the man out.

  He empties the old coffee into the disposal as Berman, strangely, opens the exact cabinet where the coffee is kept. "You didn't expect to drop that little bomb on us without experiencing a little fallout, did you?"

  Jamal feels a tight smile forming. Fallout. Bounceback, oh yes. The look on everyone's face when he shouted that Rustbelt had called him "nigger". The rusted Jetboy idol never made it to the finish line. The whole scene fell apart, aces herded into their vehicles like witnesses to a crime. Sullen, confused silence at the Lair that night.

  Silence, that is, except for Brave Hawk, who offered a pat on the shoulder. "Told you."

  Now Berman removes the carafe from Jamal's hands and wipes it dry with a paper towel. He goes to the Sparkletts dispenser in the corner and fills it. "What proportions do you use?"

  "Excuse me?" Jamal is still in bounceback, never his best mode, and suddenly feels unsure. What is this man doing here? What is he talking about?

  "What proportion of coffee to water?" Berman's expression suggests this is the most natural question in the world.

  "Two to one. I mean, one to two. One coffee to two water."

  "Me, too." With two quick moves, Berman gets the coffeemaker started.

  "So," Jamal says, "where's the camera crew?"

  "This conversation doesn't exist."

  "Fine."

  "Neither, I suspect, did that word. It can't be heard on the tapes."

  Jamal lets that statement hang in the air. "Which doesn't mean it wasn't said. Just like this conversation—no record, but real, right?"

  "That would be an interesting public debate, wouldn't it? Your word against Rustbelt's." Berman shakes his head. "Poor Wally. Of all the people to pick on—he's as black as you."

  "He's iron, Mr. Berman. He's not black." Jamal hears these words come out of his mouth. Where did he learn to be militant? Certainly not from Big Bill. "Is that what you want? A public argument between me and Rustbelt?"

  "We've had enough of that already." True, before the Clubs had even returned to the lair after the scavenger hunt, the blogosphere had inflated with the news of Jamal's accusation.

  "So, where does that leave us?" Jamal says. "Where does that leave me?"

  Berman picks up the Jetboy idol. "You seem to have gained a new kind of immunity. It will be impossible for anyone to vote you out of American Hero."

  "Does that mean I'm the winner?" He finds the thought incredibly exciting—as if he'd just been told he was going to start in the big game.

  "I couldn't possibly tell you something like that." Which in no way means that he isn't the winner—the first American Hero! "It would be best for all of us, I think, if you tried very hard not to think that. To simply play the game. By the rules."

  "I thought there were no rules."

  "The apparent rules. The rules we make up as we go along." Berman suddenly puts his hands to his face, the gesture of a much older man. "Do I have your promise to . . . play that way?"

  "Yeah. By the rules we make up as we go along." For a moment, he wishes Big Bill Norwood could be sitting in the breakfast nook. Or maybe that nasty little Nic Deladrier. How do you like Stuntman now?

  Jade Blossom enters. "Oh," she says, her mouth forming that single syllable most prettily.

  Berman stands, and a look passes between him and Jade. With utter certainty, Jamal realizes that Berman has been after Jade—and so far, unsuccessfully. Berman makes a grand gesture, midway between an introduction and a surrender. "You two must have a lot to talk about."

  Then he leaves.

  Almost instinctively, as if searching for a human touch as much as an erotic thrill, Jamal reaches for Jade.

  But she raises a hand. "Wait a second."

  Behind Jade, Jamal sees Art blinking sleep out of his eye, gesturing for Diaz to raise the camera.

  "Now." And she takes his hand.

  10. Metagames

  Metagames

  Caroline Spector

  "YOU LOSE."

  Are there worse words in the universe to hear?

  Sure. "You've got cancer" tops it, but the odds are low that I've got cancer at age nineteen. Right now, though, I'm a loser.

  The Diamonds are losers. And we're doing it on national television. Not to mention the coverage we're getting on YouTube.com and every freaking blog in the universe.

  And now we're going to Discard. Again.

  I hate Discard.

  "This sucks."

  That was Tiffani, and her West Virginia accent got thicker when she was mad. She was changing out of her show clothes into her sweats. I tried not to sneak a look at her, but she wasn't being shy about changing in front of me. And why would she be anyway? It was just us girls here. Her skin was the color of white oleanders, and she smelled like sweet sweat and musky roses.

  "I am sick of losing challenges," she said as she hooked her bra. "We would have won if Matryoshka had kept control of his copies."

  "Yeah, I hate losing, too." I didn't like the camera being on us as we changed, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was in the contract. The only time you could be alone was in the bathroom. And then you had to be alone. No one could come in with you unless there was a camera following. No wonder I felt like I was going crazy.

  Of course, in my pre-wild-card life I'd been shot almost naked by some of the best photographers in the business. Not that any of them would recognize me now. I'm big as a house.

  I grunted as I pulled on my pants. I was still pretty large, even after all the bubbling in the last challenge. There had been one last hard hit before we lost, and it had plumped me up.

  There was a knock on the door. Ink stuck her head in the room. She was a tiny girl with spiky black hair and tattoos writhing across her body. "They're set up and ready for the Discard ceremony," she said.

  Tiffani glanced in the mirror. She looked amazing—her cloud of fiery hair a sharp contrast to her milky skin.

  I didn't bother to look at myself. I knew I'd be disappointed.

  Jetman and Matryoshka were sitting at the table when we arrived. Matryoshka had recombined himself, so he was at his full intellect. Not that his full intellect was any great shakes, but he was a nice guy, and he made great pierogi. Not as good as the late, lamented Second Avenue Deli in New York, but damn good nonetheless. We were the same age, but I always felt as if I were older than him. Like a big sister.

  "Come along, children," said the Harlem Hammer. He was the one judge I actually liked.

  Tiffani and I took our seats. The Hammer had a deck of cards in front of him. The Discard deck. Blarg.

  I glanced at Tiffani. Her mouth was pulled in a tight line. Losing that last challenge had been horrible. We all hated losing.

  "I think we did okay, until the end," said Matryoshka.

  Tiff shot him a look that could have melted glass. "Well, it doesn't matter how we did up until the part where we lost, does it?" she snapped.

  Matryoshka looked at her like a wounded puppy. I felt bad for him.

  "I think you're being too harsh on Ivan," Jetman said. He was slightly older than the rest of us and, because of his obsession with Jetboy, he tended to have old-fashioned notions about things. "He can't help getting kind of, well, er, uhm . . ."

  "Stupid?" I said and immediately hated myself. It was true, but . . .

  "I'm sorry, Ivan."

  Matryoshka shrugged. He was stoic, I'll say that for him. The Harlem Hammer tried to get us talking about the challenge, but we weren't much help. We'd lost every one thus far. Our team was pretty much decimated. And now we had to throw another person under the bus.

  The cards were dealt and I slowly picked up my hand. Tiffani, Jetman, Matryoshka, and my own face stared back at me. Tiffani had plucked her card out, and it was already lying facedown on the table. She looked calm and cool, and I wished I felt as certain about whom to choose.

  I doubted I would be chosen. I was the only one who had performed well on all the challenges. I figured, if the Diamonds ever hoped to win one, they needed to keep me.

  Jetman had a way with gadgets and he always managed to come up with the right gizmo during challenges. And he could fly with his jetpack, which came in handy. Oh, and his guns were good, too. One shot sleeping gas and the other a net.

  I fiddled with the edge of Matryoshka's card. Despite the fact that his Mini-Me's got dumber and dumber as he divided, they could be effective at overwhelming opponents. I looked at Tiffani's card. There was a slight smile on her face in the photo. It made the corners of her aquamarine eyes crinkle. She was pretty much impervious to harm, and that was great except . . . well, she sucked in a fight.

  I pushed that thought away. It wasn't really fair. She didn't choose to have a power with no real offensive capabilities. And Tiffani and I had been together since the Atlanta tryouts. We were the only two who had made the show from Atlanta. She'd never voted against me, and I'd never voted against her. I guess we had a sort of unspoken alliance.

  I glanced up and caught Jetman looking at me. I felt a stab of fear in my stomach. Maybe he was thinking of putting me in the Discards.

  "You need to make your selections," the Harlem Hammer said. His voice was deep and reminded me of the Barry White albums my parents used to play. I shoved that away, too. I tried not to think about my parents anymore.

  Matryoshka pulled a card from his hand and placed it facedown on the table. Jetman followed.

  "What's it going to be, Bubbles?" the Hammer asked me.

  I couldn't put it off any longer. I sighed and picked a card. The Harlem Hammer gathered our discards, shuffled them, and made a small deck.

  He turned the first card over. Tiffani's face stared up at us. I glanced at her. She gave me a tight smile, then looked back at the board.

  The next card was Matryoshka. He frowned and shook his head slightly. Another card turned. Matryoshka again.

  "One vote left. Is it going to be two pair or a set?"

  With quick efficiency, The Hammer dealt the last card.

  Matryoshka.

  Tiffani breathed a sigh of relief. So did I.

  Matryoshka and Jetman were already standing, shaking hands, and doing that back-slapping thing guys did to prove that they liked each other, but not in a "gay" way. I stood and walked around the table. Matryoshka and I hugged. He was a big guy, but his arms barely made it around my girth. I felt terrible that I had chosen him, but I had to think of the team—and who would be the best American Hero.

  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection, depressed about voting Matryoshka off. I started thinking about all the other nice people I'd voted to discard. Blrr and the Maharajah were both really decent. Joe Twitch had some issues, though, and I knew he had pissed Tiff off.

  "Michelle, you know you can't be in there for too long." It was Ink—again.

  I glowered at my reflection. I'd been using a colored hair spray to change my platinum hair to black. The shade did nothing for me—turning my skin sallow rather than the pale olive luminescence which had earned me hundreds of thousands of dollars in modeling contracts. But no one had recognized me thus far. The dark hair alone wouldn't have masked my identity—but my wild card did.

  The face staring back wasn't the one I knew. The upward-slashing cheekbones, so beloved by photographers, were buried under chubby pink flesh. The sculpted jaw line that had once made my neck look even more swanlike was obscured by a roll of fat. Only my eyes were unchanged. I called them dog-shit brown. They were fringed with one of my genetic quirks—a double row of long black lashes.

  I was a freak of nature long before my card turned. I'm taller than average, and my legs and arms are abnormally long for my body. In short, I was a photographer's dream. I'd been modeling since I was a child. My parents had leased me out to the highest bidder and exploited me like carnival barkers peddling Siamese twins.

  But then my card had turned.

  Things were different now. People didn't stare at me in the same way. And when I did catch someone's eye, now there was usually a breathtaking look of pity there.

  Ink banged on the door again. "Michelle, you have a contract. Everyone else has already done their Confessional."

  "Can't I go to the bathroom in peace?" I put the toilet lid up and let a small bubble rise on my fingertip, then let it drop into the water with a satisfying plop. It looked pretty until it hit—as iridescent and apparently insubstantial as any soap bubble. But I'd given it plenty of density, and it sounded convincingly turdlike. Unfortunately, it was heavy enough that it chipped the porcelain, but I decided that no one would be likely to notice. That should keep Ink from bugging me for a few minutes.

  Then I felt crummy. Ink had been nice to me.

  At least it still felt good to bubble. It tingled and sang in my bones and skin. Bubbling pulsed through my blood and throbbed like another heartbeat. Sometimes I thought I'd go crazy if I didn't get to bubble more often—but the bubbling made me skinnier, and I couldn't afford to be recognized.

  "Are you okay?" Ink sounded worried.

  "What's going on?" I heard Tiffani ask.

  I flushed the toilet and opened the door.

  "You're supposed to do a Confessional after Discard," Ink said. She had changed her tattoos, and they scrolled across her arms like a crazy Mayan tally board.

  "Are you okay?" Tiffani asked. She gave Ink a pleading look. "Can you guys give us a just few minutes?" If she had looked at me the way she was looking at Ink, I'd've agreed to anything. "Just have them turn on the shower cam. We'll keep in range. I mean, it's the bathroom. How far are we going to go?"

  Ink snorted. "Fine. You have five minutes, and then I'm coming in with the whole crew."

  Tiffani and I went back into the bathroom and closed the door. The light on the shower cam blinked on.

  "Okay, so why are you so depressed?" Tiff asked.

  I sighed. "I guess it's mostly getting rid of Matryoshka. He was a great guy. He didn't deserve to go."

  Tiffani glanced in the mirror, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. "I hate the way I look," she said, then turned back to me. "Listen, this is a competition. There are rules, and we have to play by them. If we lose challenges, we lose teammates."

  There was a towel on the floor, and I picked it up and began folding it. "I know, I know. I just don't get why we've been losing every challenge. I mean, we all try so hard. I just hate that we have to vote people off."

  Tiff grabbed a brush from my basket of toiletries on the counter. She closed the toilet lid, then sat me down and started working on my hair. "I don't understand why you keep making your hair black with that crappy spray dye. You've got nice hair under this mess." She sectioned off a chunk and started to braid it. It felt good to have her hands on me, even if she was just doing it out of habit. She had a bunch of sisters, and she'd told me they'd always braided each other's hair.

  The braiding was relaxing. "I've been feeling bad since Blrr," I said. "Joe Twitch was . . . well, after he stripped you naked in like five seconds, I wasn't going to have him in the house anymore, but Blrr was a good kid and a great housemate."

  "Her power was useless without the right conditions," Tiffani said as she started braiding the other section of my hair. "The other teams are all thinking the same way. Who's good in challenges, and who you can't stand to live with. Though how any one could live with Stuntman is beyond me. He's such a jerk."

  Tiff tied off my braid. I stood up and looked in the mirror. I used to love the way I looked in braids, but not now. They just made my face look rounder.

  "You don't like them," Tiff said sadly.

  "It's not them. It's my face."