“Sierra Angelos was never charged.”
“Everyone knows she did it. What does this have to do with me?”
“Maybe nothing,” said the therapist. “But I have to write something in this report.” She held up her notes. “So if you don’t want to talk about Alicia Angelos, what should we talk about?”
Adi thought about the countless auditions growing up, where he’d been paraded around like a show pony before being ultimately declared too difficult to work with.
He thought about the long nights immersed in online escape rooms, the highs of success, the joy of completion, the temporary absence of loneliness.
He thought about his mother, practically in raptures when she announced his guaranteed spot on some gaudy Hollywood version of his beloved game, her rage when he told her he wasn’t interested, and her lavish gifts when he changed his mind.
He thought about the reason he’d changed his mind in the first place. The chance to escape, so close, so unbearably close . . .
What should they talk about?
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Read any good books lately?”
Audition Video: YOU OWE ME
THE ESCAPE GAME
SEASON FIVE
A girl sits on her unmade bed, white foundation caked on, eyesrimmed with smoky smudges, lipstick as black as her hair. A painting hangs on the wall behind her of an angel kneeling in front of a tomb-stone, crying tears of blood.
Her expression is all hatred. She doesn’t try to smile. Doesn’t try to charm the viewer like the others.
She stares into the camera long enough that it becomes uncomfortable. Almost threatening.
Sierra Angelos says one thing before the footage ends.
“I want my prize money.”
Producer notes:
Over my dead body.
04
Adi
Adi dropped his duffel bag onto the marble floor of the foyer.It landed with a heavy thud, thanks to the library’s worth of books inside—and one change of clothes. He checked the time.
“Symphony!” he shouted.
No response.
Groaning, he jogged up the spiral staircase. His mother was in her silk robe at the vanity in her huge dressing room.
“Mom, we need to leave. We’re going to be late.”
Symphony leaned closer to the mirror. “What’s the hurry?” she said, swiping shimmery powder on her cheekbones. She never set foot outside without first applying sixty-two different types of skin care, makeup, and hair products. “You’re the star of the show. They can’t exactly start without you.”
“I’mnotthe star of the show. I’m one of twenty contestants, and if I’m late, they’ll call a backup and start without me.”
She snorted, closed the powder, and picked up an eyebrow pencil.
He pressed his palms together in supplication. “You look fine. Let’s go.”
