“Vanessa, upstairs now, or we talk damage fines,” Zara said evenly. Vanessa groaned, involuntary tears tracing her face while we ushered her to the staircase. And we almost made it.
“Nowthat’sthe bitch to vote in first,” Chrissy snidely muttered to Greta, and though Vanessa was hammered, she was not deaf.
“I knew it!” Vanessa lunged at Chrissy, messy hair splayed like Medusa as I struggled to restrain her. “I knew you’d all still go after me, you redneck cunt!”
Chrissy remained as unfussed as ever. “Great, hit me. Then you can go home and finally blow your brains out in some shitty little Staten Island SRO.”
I’d heard—and said—some repulsive things on this show, but this was a new low. Even Hartt looked stunned by his girlfriend, the entire room shifting uncomfortably. Vanessa defiantly held Chrissy’s gaze, then escaped my grasp, shooting up the stairs like a lightning bolt.
“I have a self-harm concern! Security to the second floor now!” Zara screamed into her walkie as she pursued Vanessa alongside an ashen PB.
“Please, she’s too obsessed with herself to commit suicide,” Chrissy said defensively to an unusually quiet Greta. My fists clenched as she rattled on, my brain cruelly dragging me where it did any time someone mentioned suicide, like I was twenty-six again and sobbing in Barnes’ arms. I breathed through the rage boiling inside me, straining to focus on anything other than Chrissy’s ignorant rambling, but all I noticed was Imogen observing me, her face unreadable.
We both glanced away when Vanessa abruptly reappeared, elbowing past crew and cast alike, her pillowcase gripped like a sack. “Here’s what happens when you fuck me over, bitch!”
I realized then that pillowcase was not empty. She launched it, fabric unfolding in midair to reveal a knotted collection of fourverypissed snakes from the Tribulation—that landed smack on Chrissy and Greta. The entire room dissolved into madness as Vanessa cackled maniacally, the chaos queen reigning supreme.
Vanessa had smuggled the snakes from the Arena in her trench coat. Who knows how long she’d intended to keep her impromptu arsenal, but her suspicions of betrayal hadn’t been unfounded. Now all that remained was whether she’d be kicked off the show. Greta and Chrissy insisted Vanessa had broken the show’s no-violence policy, but PB fervently countered Vanessa hadn’t technically laid hands on anyone. Even the snakes were alive. Nonetheless, Vanessa had been sequestered with Zara and PB in the production office while network legal was consulted. As the cast retired, Troy stopped me, eyes bloodshot and even his energy finally fading. “Luke, it’s 8:00 p.m. in DC if you want to call home?”
I nodded, too drained to confront him about my spot on Team Devil, but then realized Vanessa’s whole face of makeup was smeared across my shirt. “Just let me change first?”
I walked into the room where I’d claimed my bed to discover most of Team Angel making a final toast. Erika, Jiamin, Royce, Camdon, Shawn, Balthazar, and (naturally) Imogen stared back. I hesitantly raised a hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Luke… if you don’t know me.”
Balthazar’s pink faux-hawk came at me like a machete. “No way! Get out, you bigot!”
“Bal, you’re drunk, it’s late,” Erika said softly.
“Erika, you owe him nothing! It’s insulting he’s even here… Imogen, back me up!”
Imogen sighed. I couldn’t tell what she resented more: my presence or getting roped into this debate. “You should probably go.”
“There weren’t any other open beds.”
“Then sleep on the ground,” Bal spat. “Like the Republican dog you are.”
“Look, my ex-husband and I are not the same—”
“Oh, do not sell methatshit, you equivocating motherfucker. I said get out!” Balthazar furiously grabbed my nearest bag, slamming it to the floor.
Glass audibly cracked inside, and I knew instantly. My spine crumbled as I crouched down, unzipping the bag to fish out the broken frame with the kids’ photo. Snapped popsicle sticks scrawled in Andie’s handwriting clattered to the tile, and I knelt to retrieve the lost pieces. Poor Erika joined me with a pained look. “Sorry, my daughter made it,” I managed to say.
“Wonder what she’ll do once she learns how many lives her fathers ruined,” Bal prodded.
“Don’t bring his kids into this!” Jiamin said from her bunk. “Kids are off the table.”
“Oh, are we protecting kids? What about protecting thetrans kidsthisasshole’s husband wants to use the wrong bathroom? I’m glad you have the privilege of not knowing what HB623 is, because that legislation is the handiwork of Barnes Appleby. So maybe think about the shit he’s made strangers’ kids endure. I can only imagine how he’s fucked up his own.”
I should have leapt at his throat. The last few weeks I’d felt so much rage—at Barnes, his lawyer, myself—but now I had nothing. Bal was right.
Sticky lukewarm liquid suddenly cascaded through my hair, lime-green rivulets slicing across my arms as Balthazar poured margarita mix over me and my open luggage. Troy and a cameraman had arrived, but I’d concede no reaction. Instead my eyes were rapt on the terra-cotta tiles where a piece of Andie’s frame still lay, the snapped stick reading “ily” in blue marker, severed from its “fam.” I grabbed it, reminding myself,This is for them.
“Put me in a Trial with him!” Bal went on. “I’ll send Uncle Tom where he belongs!”
“Okay,” Troy interrupted. “That’s enough—”
“Don’t even get me started withyou! You’re rewarding him with a platform, making us all complicit in the conservative agenda—”
“Bal, you know this won’t air.”
